It's only when I get within a few feet of his table that I slow down and wonder what I'm actually going to say to him.
Well… I'll just be polite. Say hello and – ah, genius! I can thank him again for his kind loan of twenty quid.
Shit, I did pay him back, didn't I?
Yes. Yes, I sent him that nice recycled card with poppies on it and a cheque. That's right. Now don't panic, just be cool and It.
'Hi!' I say as soon as I get within earshot of his table, but the hubbub around us is so loud, he doesn't hear me. No wonder all Fenella's friends have got such screechy voices. You need about sixty-five decibels, just to be heard. 'Hi!' I try again, louder, but still no response. Luke is talking earnestly to the older man, and the woman's listening intently. None of them even glances up.
This is getting a bit embarrassing. I'm standing, marooned, being utterly ignored by the person I want to table-hop with. Nobody else ever seems to have this problem. Why isn't he leaping up, shrieking, 'Have you heard about Foreland Investments?' It's not fair. What shall I do? Shall I just creep away? Shall I pretend I was heading towards the Ladies?
A waiter barges past me with a tray, and I'm pushed helplessly forward, towards Luke's table – and at that moment, he looks up. He stares at me blankly as though he doesn't even know who I am, and I feel my stomach give a little flip of dismay. But I've got to go through with it now.
'Hi, Luke!' I say brightly. 'I just thought I'd say… hello!'
'Well, hello,' he says after a pause. 'Mum, Dad, this is Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca – my parents.'
Oh God. What have I done? I've table-hopped an intimate family gathering. Leave, quick.
'Hello,' I say, and give a feeble smile. 'Well, I won't keep you from-'
'So how do you know Luke?' enquires Mrs Brandon.
'Rebecca is a leading financial journalist,' says Luke, taking a sip of wine. (Is that really what he thinks? Cor, I must drop that into a conversation with Clare Edwards. And Philip, come to that.)
I grin confidently at Mr Brandon, feeling like a mover and a shaker. I'm a leading financial journalist hobnobbing with a leading entrepreneur at a leading London restaurant. How cool is that?
'Financial journalist, eh?' grunts Mr Brandon, and lowers his reading glasses to have a better look at me. 'So what do you think of the Chancellor's announcement?'
I'm never going to table-hop again. Never.
'Well,' I begin confidently, wondering if I could suddenly pretend to spot an old friend across the room.
'Dad, I'm sure Rebecca doesn't want to talk shop,' says Luke, frowning slightly.
'Quite right!' says Mrs Brandon, and smiles at me.
'That's a lovely scarf, Rebecca. Is it Denny and George?'
'Yes, it is!' I say brightly, full of relief at escaping the Chancellor's announcement. (What announcement?) 'I was so pleased, I got it last week in the sale!'
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Luke Brandon is staring at me with an odd expression. Why? Why is he looking sore.
Oh fuck. How can I be so stupid?
'In the sale… for my aunt,' I continue, trying to think as quickly as I can. 'I bought it for my aunt, as a present. But she… died.'
There's a shocked silence and I look down. I can't quite believe what I've just said.
'Oh dear,' says Mr Brandon gruffly.
'Aunt Ermintrude died?' says Luke in a strange voice.
'Yes,' I reply, forcing myself to look up. 'It was terribly sad.'
'How awful!' says Mrs Brandon sympathetically.
'She was in hospital, wasn't she?' says Luke, pouring himself a glass of water. 'What was wrong with her?'
For an instant I'm silenced.
'It was… her leg,' I hear myself say.
'Her leg?' Mrs Brandon's staring at me anxiously. 'What was wrong with her leg?'
'It… swelled up and got septic,' I say after a pause. 'And they had to amputate it and then she died.'
'Christ,' says Mr Brandon, shaking his head. 'Bloody doctors.' He gives me a suddenly fierce look. 'Did she go private?'
'Ummm… I'm not sure,' I say, starting to back away. I can't take any more of this. Why didn't I just say she gave me the bloody scarf? 'Anyway, lovely to see you, Luke. Must dash, my friends will be missing me!'
I give a nonchalant kind of wave without quite looking Luke in the eye and then quickly turn round and walk back to Suze, my heart beating fast and my face flaming red. God, what a fiasco.
But I've managed to recompose myself by the time our food arrives. The food! I've ordered grilled scallops and as I take my first bite, I nearly swoon. After so many torturous days of cheap, functional food, this is like going to heaven. I feel almost tearful – like a prisoner returning to the real world, or children after the war, when rationing stopped. After my scallops I have steak barnaise and chips – and when all the others say 'no thanks' to the pudding menu, I order chocolate mousse. Because who knows when I'm next going to be in a restaurant like this? There could be months ahead of cheese sandwiches and homemade coffee in a flask, with nothing to relieve the monotony. It's a hard road, the one I've chosen. But it'll be worth it in the end.
While I'm waiting for my chocolate mousse, Suze and Fenella decide they simply must go and talk to Benjy, on the other side of the room. So they leap up, both lighting cigarettes as they do so, and Tarquin stays behind to keep me company. He doesn't seem quite as into table-hopping as the others. In fact, he's been pretty quiet all evening. I've also noticed that he's drunk more than any of us. Any moment I'm expecting his head to land on the table. Which would be fine by me.
For a while there's silence between us. To be honest, Tarquin is so weird, I don't feel any duty to talk to him.
Then, suddenly, he says,
'Do you like Wagner?'
'Oh yes,' I say at once. I'm not sure I've ever heard any Wagner, but I don't want to sound uncultured, even in front of Tarquin. And I have been to the opera before – though I think that was Mozart.
'The Liebestod from Tristan,' he says, and shakes his head. 'The Liebestod.'
'Mmm,' I say, and nod in what I hope is an intelligent manner, I pour myself some wine, fill his glass up too, and look around to see where Suze has got to. Typical of her just to disappear off and leave me with her drunken cousin.
'Dah-dah-dah-dah, daaaah dah dah…'
Oh my God, he's singing. Not loudly, admittedly – but really intensely. And he's staring into my eyes as though he expects me to join in.
'Dah-dah-dah,dah…'
Now he's closed his eyes and is swaying. This is getting embarrassing.
'Da diddle-idy da-a-da-a daaaah dab…'
'Lovely,' I say brightly. 'You can't beat Wagner, can you?'
'Tristan,' he says. 'Und Isolde.' He opens his eyes. 'You'd make a beautiful Isolde.'
I'd make a what? While I'm still staring at him, he lifts my hand to his lips and starts kissing it. For a few seconds I'm too shocked to move.
'Tarquin,' I say as firmly as I can, trying to pull my hand away. 'Tarquin, please…' I look up and desperately scan the room for Suze – and as I do so, meet the eye of Luke Brandon, making his way out of the restaurant. He frowns slightly, lifts his hand in farewell, then disappears out of the door.
'Your skin smells like roses,' murmurs Tarquin against my skin.
'Oh shut up!' I say crossly, and yank my hand out of his grasp so hard I get a row of teeth marks on my skin. 'Just leave me alone!'
I would slap him, but he'd probably take it as a come-on.
Just then, Suze and Fenella arrive back at the table, full of news about Binky and Minky – and Tarquin relapses into silence. For the rest of the evening, even when we say goodbye, he barely looks at me. Thank God. He must have got the message.
Seven
It doesn't seem he has, though, because on Saturday I receive a card of a Pre-Raphaelite girl looking coyly over her shoulder. Inside, Tarquin has written:
Many apologies for my
uncouth behaviour. I hope to make it up to you. Tickets to Bayreuth – or, failing that, dinner?
Tarquin
Dinner with Tarquin. Can you imagine? Sitting opposite that stoaty head all evening. And what's he going on about, anyway? I've never heard of Bayreuth. Is it a new show or something? Or does he mean Beirut? Why would we want to go to Beirut, for God's sake?
Anyway, never mind, forget Tarquin. I've got more important things o think about today. This is my sixth day of Cutting Back – and, crucially, my first weekend. David E. Barton says this is often when one's frugal regime cracks, as the office routine is no longer there as a distraction and the day stretches empty, waiting to be filled with the familiar comfort of shopping.
But I'm too strong-willed to crack. I've got my day completely sussed – and I'm not going near any shops. This morning I'm going to visit a museum and then tonight, instead of wasting lots of money on an expensive takeaway, I'm cooking a home-made curry for me and Suze. I'm actually quite excited about it.
My entire budget for today is as follows:
Travel to museum: free (I already have a travel card)
Museum: free
Curry: ?2.50. (David E.Barton says you can make a wonderful curry for four people for less than ?5.00 – and there are only two of us).
Total daily expenditure: ?2.50
That's more like it. Plus I get to experience Culture instead of mindless materialism. I have chosen the Victoria and Albert Museum because I have never been to it before. In fact, I'm not even sure what they have in it. Statues of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, or something?
Anyway whatever they have, it will be very interesting and stimulating, I'm sure. And above all, free! As I come out of South Kensington tube, the sun's shining brightly and I stride along, feeling pleased with myself. Normally I waste my Saturday mornings watching Live and Kicking and getting ready to go to the shops. But look at this! I suddenly feel very grownup and metropolitan, like someone in a Woody Allen film. I just need a long woolly scarf and some sunglasses and I'll look like Diane Keaton. (A young Diane Keaton, obviously, but without the seventies clothes.)
And on Monday, when people ask me how my weekend was, I'll be able to say, 'Actually, I went to the V and A.' No, what I'll say is, 'I caught an exhibition.' That sounds much cooler. (Why do people say they 'caught' an exhibition, by the way? It's not as though all the paintings were thundering past like bulls at Pamplona.) Then they'll say, 'Really? I didn't know you were into art, Rebecca.' And I'll say, smugly, 'Oh yes. I spend most of my free time at museums.' And they'll give me an impressed look and say…
Come to think of it, I've walked straight past the entrance. Silly me. Too busy thinking about the conversation between me and… actually, the person I realize I've pictured in this little scene is Luke Brandon. How weird. Why should that be? Because I table-hopped with him, I suppose. Anyway. Concentrate. Museum.
Quickly I retrace my steps and walk nonchalantly into the entrance hall, trying to look as though I come here all the time. Not like that bunch of Japanese tourists clustering round their guide. Ha! I think proudly, I'm no tourist. This is my heritage. My culture. I pick up a map carelessly as though I don't really need it, and look at a list of talks on things like 'Ceramics of the Yuan and Early Ming Dynasties.' Then, casually, I begin to walk through to the first gallery.
'Excuse me?' A woman at a desk is calling to me. 'Have you paid?'
Have I what? You don't have to pay to get into museums! Oh of course – she's just joking with me. I give a friendly little laugh, and carry on.
'Excuse me!' she says, in a sharper voice, and a bloke in security uniform appears out of nowhere. 'Have you paid for admission?'
'It's free!' I say in surprise.
'I'm afraid not,' she says, and points to a sign behind me. I turn to read it, and nearly keel over in astonishment.
Admission ?5.00.
I feel quite faint with shock. What's happened to the world? They're charging for admission to a museum. This is outrageous. Everyone knows museums are supposed to be free. If you start charging for museums, no-one will ever go! Our cultural heritage will be lost to a whole generation, excluded by a punitive financial barrier. The nation will be dumbed down still further, and civilized society will face the very brink of collapse.
Is that what you want, Tony Blair?
Plus, I don't have ?5. I deliberately came out with no cash except ?2.50 for my curry ingredients. Oh God, this is annoying. I mean, here I am, all ready for some culture. I want to go in and look at… well, whatever's in there – and I can't!
Now all the Japanese tourists are staring at me, as if I'm some sort of criminal. Go away! I think crossly. Go and look at some art.
'We take credit cards,' says the woman. 'VISA, Switch, American Express.'
'Oh,' I say. 'Well…OK.'
'The season ticket is ?15,' she says, as I reach for my purse, 'but it gives you unlimited access for a year.'
Unlimited access for a year! Now wait just a minute. David E. Barton says what you're supposed to do, when you make any purchase, is estimate the 'cost per use', which you get by dividing the price by the number of times you use it. Let's suppose that from now on I come to the V and A once a month. (I should think that's quite realistic.)'If I buy a season ticket, that's only… ?1.25 a visit.
Well, that's a bargain, isn't it? It's actually a very good investment, when you come to think of it.
'OK, I'll have the season ticket,' I say, and hand over my VISA card. Hah! Culture, here I come.
I start off really well. I look at my little map, and peer at each exhibit, and carefully read all the little cards.
Chalice made from silver, Dutch, 16th century
Plaque depicting Holy Trinity. Italian mid-15th century
Blue and white earthenware bowl, early 17th century
That bowl's really nice, I find myself thinking in sudden interest, and wonder how much it is. It looks quite expensive… I'm just peering to see if there's a price tag when I remember where I am. Of course. This isn't a shop. There aren't any prices here.
Which is a bit of a mistake, I think. Because it kind of takes the fun out of it, doesn't it? You wander round, just looking at things, and it all gets a bit boring after a while. Whereas if they put price tags on, you'd be far more interested. In fact, I think all museums should put prices on their exhibits. You'd look at a silver chalice or a marble statue or the Mona Lisa or whatever, and admire it for its beauty and historical importance and everything – and then you'd reach for the price tag and gasp, 'Hey, look how much this one is!' It would really liven things up.
I might write to the Victoria and Albert and suggest this to them. I am a season-ticket holder after all. They should listen to my opinion.
In the meantime, let's move on to the next glass case.
Carved goblet English, mid-15th century
God, I could die for a cup of coffee. How long have I been here? It must be…
Oh. Only fifteen minutes.
When I get to the gallery showing a history of fashion, I become quite rigorous and scholarly. In fact I spend longer there than' anywhere else. But then the dresses and shoes come to an end and it's back to more statues and little fiddly things in cases. I keep looking at my watch, and my feet hurt… and in the end I sink down onto a sofa.
Don't get me wrong, I like museums. I do. And I'm really interested in Korean art. It's just that the floors are really hard, and I'm wearing quite tight boots, and it's hot so I've taken off my jacket but now it keeps slithering around in my arms. And it's weird, but I keep thinking I can hear the sound of a cash till. It must be in my imagination.
I'm sitting blankly, wondering if I can summon the energy to stand up again – when the group of Japanese tourists comes into the gallery, and I feel compelled to get to my feet and pretend I'm looking at something. I peer vaguely at a piece of tapestry, then stride off down a corridor lined with exhibits of old Indian tiles. I'm just thinking that
maybe we should get the Fired Earth catalogue and re-tile the bathroom, when I glimpse something through a metal grille and stop dead with shock.
Am I dreaming? Is it a mirage? I can see a cash register, and a queue of people, and a display cabinet with price tags…
Oh my God, I was right! It's a shop! There's a shop, right here in front of me!
Suddenly my steps have more spring in them; my energy has miraculously returned. Following the bleeping sound of the cash register, I hurry round the corner to the shop entrance, and pause on the threshold, telling myself not to raise my hopes; not to be disappointed if it's just bookmarks and tea towels. But it's not. It's bloody fantastic! Why isn't this place better known? There's a whole range of gorgeous jewellery, and loads of really interesting books on art, and there's all this amazing pottery, and greetings cards, and…
Oh. But I'm not supposed to be buying anything today, am I? Damn.
This is awful. What's the point of discovering a new shop and then not being able to buy anything in it? It's not fair. Everyone else is buying stuff, everyone else is having fun. For a while I hover disconsolately beside a display of mugs, watching as an Australian woman buys a pile of books on sculpture. She's chatting away to the sales assistant, and suddenly I hear her say something about Christmas. And then I have a flash of pure genius.
Christmas shopping! I can do all my Christmas shopping here! I know March is a bit early – but why not be organized? And then when Christmas arrives I won't have to go near the horrible Christmas crowds. I can't believe I haven't thought of doing this before. And it's not breaking the rules – because I'd have to buy Christmas presents some time, wouldn't I? All I'm doing is shifting the buying process forward a bit. It makes perfect sense.
And so, about an hour later, I emerge happily with two carrier bags. I've bought a photograph album covered in William Morris print, an old-fashioned wooden jigsaw puzzle, a book of fashion photographs and a fantastic ceramic teapot. God, I love Christmas shopping. I'm not sure what I'll give to who – but the point is, these are all timeless and unique items that would enhance any home. (Or at least the ceramic teapot is, because that's what it said on the little leaflet.) So I reckon I've done really well.
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic Page 8