There’s a line, I suddenly notice, of very fine white powder scattered over the marble surface of the vanity unit beneath this mirror.
For a moment I think it’s the crystalline stuff you mix in when you’re using Jolen facial hair bleach.
But pretty quickly – because I’m not a total idiot – I realize that it’s nothing to do with Jolen at all.
Well, it’s the guest bathroom, isn’t it? I’m sure Dillon’s held some pretty wild parties here, some of them fairly recently. The white powder doesn’t necessarily have to be anything he’s shoving up his nose, does it?
I clear my throat and carry on, hastily, talking to Audrey. Not mentioning a word about the white powder, because I don’t think Audrey would approve, for one thing, and I’d just rather forget all about it, for another.
‘Do you think he just wants to talk? Do you think maybe he’s lonely?’
But Imaginary Audrey has nothing to say on the subject. At least, nothing important enough to say that she’s prepared to shimmer into view and tell me so.
‘Well, thanks a fucking bunch,’ I whisper, huffily, already walking to the door, because I’ve already been in here slightly longer than what I’d consider to be an average peeing time. (I don’t want Dillon to think I’m the kind of guest to vanish to the loo and shovel suspicious white powder into my nostrils. Just in case, you know, he suggests doing it with me, or something.) ‘You’re oh-so-present when I’m quite looking forward to a quiet evening on the sofa, but when it actually comes to needing some serious advice, you’re not around for dust! And, by the way,’ I add, pulling the door open, ‘I’ve been perfectly comfortable in these shoes all night. And I haven’t broken my ankle, so put that in your cigarette holder and smoke it!’
This might have been a bit soon to boast, though, because I stumble on my way out of the guest loo, turn my ankle on one side, and feel a sharp, painful click that doesn’t, fortunately, become a crack.
‘Are you sure you’ve got that right, Mum …?’ Dillon is saying into the phone as I limp, slightly, back towards him. ‘It’s just that I don’t see how they can have the entire episode devoted to flapjacks next week … OK, well, look Mum, I’m actually just calling with a quick question. I just wanted to ask what you’d do to treat someone who’d been hit in the eye by flying chunks of ice.’
Ohhhhh. I get it now.
He’s calling his mum for advice about my eye.
That’s actually ridiculously sweet.
And makes me want him, at this very moment, more than ever.
‘From a cocktail shaker,’ he says into the phone again. ‘No, Mum, it wasn’t me … yes, I know I promised you I wouldn’t get involved in any more fights … it’s a girl … no, Mum, don’t worry, it’s not her … I know … I know … yes, I know … I didn’t promise you that, actually … her name’s Libby … no, not at all …’
Not at all what? I’m not at all what?
Something good (not at all fat and ugly?) or something very, very bad (not at all attractive?)
‘Right … right … even though it was ice that hit her in the eye in the first place? … All right … we’ll talk in the morning, Mum. Love you. Yeah,’ he says, reaching for the fridge-freezer again. ‘I was right first time. She says we have to put ice on it.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘And she’s the woman to listen to,’ he adds, pressing a button on the outside of the fridge-freezer, putting his hand underneath the ice dispenser and catching a handful of ice as it tumbles out. ‘Seeing as she successfully brought me and all nineteen of my brothers through adolescence without visible or lasting damage to any of our major organs.’
‘I thought it was eleven brothers.’
‘Oh, no, I assure you, it was nineteen. I might have forgotten to mention Brendan, and Lorcan, and Cormac …’
He puts his handful of ice into a nearby tea towel, wraps it tightly, and then lifts it up to the side of my face.
He holds it there.
Neither of us says anything for a moment.
My heart is pounding.
Not only this, but it seems to have climbed upwards, into my throat, and is doing a pretty decent job of hampering my breathing.
‘I love your eyebrows,’ Dillon says, suddenly.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your eyebrows.’ He clears his throat; it makes me wonder if he’s having a bit of trouble breathing easily, too. ‘I really like them. They’re different from everyone else’s.’
‘Thanks. I haven’t had them waxed in a while.’
Dear Lord, why? Why, why, why have I tainted this moment with the image of me head-to-toe in verdantly sprouting eyebrow, like Captain Caveman after an unusually long time between grooming sessions?
‘Not that I need them waxed!’ I practically yell, before he can say anything. ‘I only meant … the reason for all the pencil … we were just trying to make a positive out of the situation.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, me and Audrey. She’s my …’ What is an acceptable end to this sentence? ‘Eyebrow technician.’
Which is sort of true, if you think about it.
‘Well, they’re certainly eyebrows well worthy of their very own technician. Does it hurt?’
‘Er – using eyebrow pencil? It might if it were really sharp, I suppose …’
‘I meant the ice,’ he clarifies. ‘The cold. Is it hurting?’
It’s only now that I realize the ice is, in fact, making my eye area hurt quite a lot. It’s been so nice having his hand there that I hadn’t noticed.
‘It is hurting a bit.’
‘I guess I should start calling you Ice Girl now,’ he says, taking away the tea towel and, regrettably, his hand, and reaching for his shot glass. He chinks it against mine. ‘So … here’s to Audrey.’
‘Huh?’
‘Your eyebrow technician.’
‘Oh. Right. Yes. Here’s to … um … Audrey.’
Even if she did let me down in the guest loo just now.
‘It’s not just your eyebrows, though,’ Dillon adds.
‘What’s not just my eyebrows?’
‘Whatever it is about you that’s different this evening.’
‘Am I different this evening?’
‘Mm. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I thought you were cute the first time I met you …’
He puts down his shot glass and takes a small step closer.
‘… but right now … I don’t know what to tell you, except … well, you’re really, really sexy, Fire Girl.’
I just about manage to stop the word seriously? coming out of my mouth.
But to be fair, even if I hadn’t been able to do anything of the sort, it would have been stopped by Dillon’s lips. Because, quite out of the blue, he’s pressed me back against the fridge-freezer and started to kiss me.
As Walks of Shame go, this is a pretty bad one.
It’s eight in the morning, the height of the rush hour, and I’ve just endured a tube ride all the way from Angel to Kennington, still wearing my little black dress, cocktail-smelling trench, pearl necklace, can’t-walk-in-them heels and smudged eye make-up from last night.
Oh, and a pair of Ray-Bans I grabbed from Dillon’s bedside table before I left, because my left eye, courtesy of Cass, now looks as if I’ve gone a couple of rounds with a world champion heavyweight boxer. Or, more likely, that I got myself into a horribly messy situation with whatever random man I went home with last night, showing poor judgement as well as some seriously loose morals. And the sidelong glances from my fellow Northern Line passengers have been quite judgey and pitying enough as it is, thank you very much.
(Well, the female passengers’ sidelong glances have been judgey and pitying; the pinstriped City Boys, on their way in to testosterone-fuelled jobs, yelling at each other across the trading floor, are giving me longer, more lingering looks from behind their copies of the Financial Times, presumably spicing up their morning commute with fetid imaginings of exactly what I
might have got up to before the Walk of Shame.)
I’ve never been more relieved to get off a tube train, let me tell you. Even the agonizing totter from the station to Olly’s flat is a picnic in comparison, no matter how much the soles of my feet are burning, or my ankle aching, or how furiously my toes are screaming at me to put on a pair of sheepskin moccasins and give them a break.
I didn’t actually plan to head to Olly’s flat, by the way, when I got on the tube back at Angel. I just realized (whilst staring very intently at the tube map on the wall of the train in an attempt to ignore all the staring) that my route back home was about to take me through Kennington station, only a five-minute walk (or ten-minute agonizing totter) from Olly’s place just off Kennington Park Road. And once I’d twigged that, I also twigged that there’s nothing, right now, that I want to do more than sit at Olly’s kitchen table, drink a nice, hot cup of tea, and try to let the cosiness wash over me.
Besides, I hate leaving things the way they are between us, and I’ll feel even shittier all day unless I can actually speak to him face to face and apologize, again, for lying to him last night.
As I head round the corner to the side-street his flat is on, I finally give up torturing myself and stop to take off my shoes for the last few steps along the pavement.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
It’s bliss. Sheer, mind-blowing bliss.
Almost as blissful as the things I was doing with Dillon in that rumpled, enormous bed, until the wee small hours of this morning.
Oh dear God, it was good.
No, it was more than good. It was incredible. He was incredible. I, for the first time in my life, was incredible. I don’t know whether it was the vodka, or the game-raising effect of having sex with a man who is a) very, very, very good at it and b) accustomed to being very, very, very good at it with lithe, lissom lingerie models. Either way, I pulled out all the stops last night. There seemed to be nothing I couldn’t (and, admittedly, wouldn’t) do. I mean, seriously. I was athletic, I was resourceful, I was intrepid …
And yet, despite it all, I was alone in the bed when I woke up this morning.
I don’t know what feels worst this morning, actually: the hangover, the burning feet or the humiliation.
Actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly what’s worst.
It only occurs to me that Olly might not be in – that he’s surely already headed off to work, given the hours he generally keeps – about three seconds after I buzz up to his flat. So I’m pretty amazed when I hear, just before I’m about to slink away again, a slightly bleary, ‘Hello?’
‘God, Olly, I’m so sorry, it sounds like I’ve woken you up.’
‘Libby? Are you … what time is it?’
‘Um, eight fifteen.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Yes …’ Oh, God, please don’t tell me I’m about to discover that Olly’s a casual coke user too – he sounds completely out of it. ‘Look, it was stupid of me to stop off without warning you, I’ll just head home and—’
‘No, no, absolutely not. Sorry, I’m just a bit … things are a bit chaotic.’
A disturbing thought – even more disturbing than the coke thing – has suddenly occurred to me.
‘Oh! You’ve got a girl here! Shit, sorry, let me leave you to it …’
‘No, no, Lib, I haven’t got a girl here! Just … just give me a couple of minutes and I’ll come down and let you in.’
Which is a major relief.
Not that there would be anything at all wrong with him having a girl here. In fact, I’m not sure why I even used the word disturbing, because obviously it would be lovely if he were to get himself a girlfriend. Heaven knows, he deserves someone amazing in his life. It’s been years since he split up with Alison, and … well, I just meant, really, that it would be awkward if I’d accidentally interrupted … whatever he might have been doing, if he’d had a girl here.
But I don’t want to think about it in practice, lovely though it would be in theory. I don’t know why, exactly, but the mere thought is giving me this sort of uncomfortable, gritty feeling, as if I’ve got a pebble in my shoe. At the same time as a grain of sand has flown into my eye.
Now Olly is opening the door, looking as bleary as he sounded. He’s obviously hastily thrown on a T-shirt and a pair of trackie bottoms, because the T-shirt is on back to front and the trackie bottoms are inside out.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks, having the nerve to look at me as if I’m the one who looks a total wreck.
Oh. To be fair, he’s got a point on that one.
‘Yes. Well, yes and no. It’s just been a—’
‘Fucking hell. Your eye.’
‘What? Oh, God, my eye, yes … can you still see the bruising behind the sunglasses, because I was hoping …’
‘Was it him? Was it Dillon O’Hara? Because I swear to God, Libby, I’ll smash his fucking skull to pieces with … with the biggest Le Creuset pan I own …’
‘Olly, Olly, calm down.’ I sort of bustle him backwards into the communal hallway of his flat before any passing stranger should overhear this worryingly specific threat to beat in somebody’s head with a large piece of cast-iron kitchenware, then I take off my Ray-Bans. ‘This wasn’t Dillon. It was my sister.’
‘Cass thumped you?’
‘No, she didn’t thump me, nobody thumped me, she just threw a drink with a load of ice-cubes in my face. Now, look, I think both of us are in need of a strong cup of tea, so shall we go up and put the kettle on?’
Looking fractionally mollified (and, I suspect, a little bit embarrassed about the whole Le Creuset thing), Olly nods and leads the way up the stairs to his front door, on the first landing.
‘Wow,’ I say, as soon as we get inside, because his flat, which is usually cosy and pretty tidy, looks as if a small bomb’s gone off in it. A small bomb containing Chinese takeaway boxes, a few dozen Stella Artois cans, and … oh! two large and rather hairy-looking men, sleeping in their boxers and T-shirts on the sofa and the armchair, respectively.
Definitely not an evening a deux with a girl, then.
‘Better come in here. I don’t want to wake Charlie and Adam,’ Olly says, pulling me in the direction of the kitchen and pulling to the sliding door that separates it off from the sitting room.
‘Oh, that’s Charlie and Adam.’ These are old friends of Olly’s, one from school and one from catering college. I sink into one of the kitchen chairs and start massaging my bruised and battered feet. ‘I didn’t recognize them in their … er … pants.’
‘Yeah. Sorry about that. Bit of a heavy night last night.’ Olly is putting the kettle on and reaching up to a high shelf – just above a shelf of Le Creuset pans, I can’t help noticing – for a teapot. ‘Charlie’s just split up with his girlfriend, so he’s sleeping on the sofa for a while, and then Adam dropped round and we all ended up having a few too many beers …’
‘So I see.’
‘Come on, Lib, you sound like my mum.’
‘How?’
‘Disapproving.’
‘I’m not disapproving! It’s just … not like you.’ I mean, bleary-eyed hangovers and a late start to work sounds a lot more like a Dillon O’Hara start to the day than an Olly Walker one. Except in Dillon’s case, the people sleeping on the sofa would be girls. Lingerie-clad, blonde ones, I have no doubt.
‘Well, everyone does something they don’t usually do once in a while.’ His voice is muffled and slightly echoey for a moment, as he reaches far back into his fridge. ‘Like getting so annoyed with you last night,’ he adds, as he emerges. ‘I shouldn’t have been like that. I’m really sorry, Lib. Peace offering?’
He puts a waxed-paper packet down on the wooden table.
‘I can’t be sure,’ he says, ‘so don’t get your hopes up. But I think … drum roll, and all that … it might just be the mystery cheese.’
‘From Le Grand Fromage? I bought one there the other day, too! It was meant to be a surprise for you, but the
n I forgot about it and left it out of the fridge and had to chuck the whole thing away.’
‘Oh.’ He looks a bit crushed. ‘So you know about it already, then.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t get around to actually trying it, or anything … shall we have a taste now? If you can face it before you’ve even had a cup of tea, that is.’
‘Actually, cheese is a pretty good hangover cure, I always find. Nice and savoury and salty … Wait a minute and I’ll toast a bit of walnut bread – we can have it with that.’
I already feel about fifty times better than I did ten minutes ago. It’s so reassuringly homely here in Olly’s kitchen, just like it always is, with the kettle on, and him bustling around with loaves of bread and the toaster, that all the unpleasantness of the morning is receding. Well, most of the unpleasantness. I still feel a bit queasy every time I remember lifting my head up off the pillow to see the other side of the bed empty beside me … but maybe it’s just as much vodka-related queasiness as anything else.
‘So what happened with your sister?’ Olly asks, as he starts getting knives and plates from a cupboard. ‘Throwing a drink in your face is a new one, even for her, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, it was just some silly misunderstanding about this man she’s seeing. She thought I was chatting him up … you know how dramatic she likes to make everything.’
Olly pulls a surprised face. ‘She thought you were chatting up her bloke, threw a drink at you, but still let you stay the night at her place? I’ll never understand your sister and her moods, Lib, I have to say.’
‘God, no, I didn’t stay the night at her place! Are you crazy?’
‘Oh, right …’ Now he just looks a bit confused. ‘Then where did you stay? I mean, I’m assuming you didn’t go home last night, unless you got up this morning and put on an identical version of what you were wearing last night!’
A Night In With Audrey Hepburn Page 16