He had this spiky blond hair that stood up but one bit defied the gel and drooped over his left eye. I had to stop myself from leaning over the table and pushing it back tenderly. Did you ever feel like that about someone: that you can’t help wanting to touch them? He must have felt the same, I thought ecstatically, because he stroked my hand across the pristine tablecloth with his long, guitar-player’s fingers. We’d gone through a bottle of wine and four brandies and were thinking about wandering off to a little pub somewhere to actually do some interviewing when it happened.
This blonde woman marched into the restaurant and, after a consultation with the maitre d’, marched over to our table. She looked vaguely familiar and because she was one of those elegant women who shop in Jaeger and have diamond rings the size of gobstoppers, I assumed she was somebody semi-famous whom I had written about in our gossip pages.
‘Are you Molly O’Rourke?’ she said between clenched, beautifully-polished teeth.
Despite having the best part of three glasses of wine and two giant brandies inside me, I instinctively knew something was wrong. So did Neil. He leaned towards me protectively, but wasn’t fast enough for Ms Jaeger.
‘You bitch!’ she howled. ‘You’ve been having an affair with my husband and you don’t even have the shame to pretend to be someone else when you ring up. I’ll see you out of your job, you cow! The magazine belongs to me, not Tony Milano. And he’s out on his ear, too!’
With that, Mrs Milano leaned over and belted me. Thank God she got me with the hand without the diamond rings or I’d be in serious trouble, I can tell you. Not that a black eye isn’t serious trouble, but it’s marginally better than having your eyebrow painfully removed by a massive diamond with no anaesthetic. Luckily, the maitre d’ calmly escorted her out before she could black the other eye and before Neil could throw our untouched glasses of water over her. He was white with rage.
‘It’s Cassandra,’ I managed to say in shock. ‘My flatmate Cassandra is having an affair and it must be with that woman’s husband. Mrs Milano.’ I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘I can’t imagine why she thought it was me.’
With Neil hugging me and petting my battered face, we made it home to my apartment, where he put ice on my eye and fed me hot chocolate all afternoon. I explained a bit about Cassandra and Neil became quite grim the more I explained. It did make sense of what Madeleine had been trying to tell me. And when I rang Madeleine she explained in greater detail.
‘Tony Milano’ – she said his name as if she was spitting simultaneously – ‘talked to me about firing you to give Cassandra your job. She’s using him to crawl up the career ladder and she doesn’t care who she walks over to get to the top, including you, Molly. I’m sorry. I know you think she’s your friend, but she isn’t. She’s also wrong about Tony. His wife’s family own the magazines and without her, he’s got nothing. I can’t imagine how she thought Tony was having an affair with you, though.’
Neil was in the kitchen draining pasta when Cassandra walked in, wearing my new cashmere cardigan and with a self-satisfied expression on her beautiful face. She got a fit of the giggles when she saw me with my rapidly blackening eye. ‘You poor thing,’ she said, stuffing a tissue into her mouth to stop herself laughing.
She did a double take when Neil came out of the kitchen with the pasta in one hand. He really was amazing-looking, and famous too. Cassandra’s expression changed in deference to both his fame and his gorgeous-ness. Off went her giggly face and on went the Athena the Huntress expression she adopts when she sees a man she likes: her mouth curves up into this wicked smile and her eyes glint with an arch look that says, ‘You’d never believe how sexy I am, much sexier than the lump of a girl you’re with now.’ It always worked. Until this occasion. Neil didn’t look impressed.
In fact, he looked angry and contemptuous.
‘Molly has a black eye because your lover’s wife hit her in The Ivy.’
‘I rather thought she’d been hit in the eye,’ quipped Cassandra, obviously wrong-footed about the way this conversation was going. Under normal circumstances, the object of her affection would be gazing mistily at her, not staring at her harshly and being nasty.
‘Why do you think this man’s wife thought Molly was having an affair with him?’ Neil asked coldly.
Cassandra tittered, a sound which had never sounded irritating to me until that precise moment. ‘It’s silly,’ she said, turning to me. ‘Sorry, old thing, but when I rang his house looking for Tony and he wasn’t there, I said I was you.’ She must have noticed my eyes widen so she rushed on. ‘Their housekeeper is some stupid Puerto Rican or something and she can barely speak English, so I didn’t think it’d matter. It was like our code. You do understand, Moll, don’t you?’ she wheedled.
‘Could it be that this mistaken-identity prank was part of a plot to help you get Molly sacked so that you could get her job?’ Neil asked.
He’d grasped the whole idea so quickly. No wonder he was a multi-millionaire songwriter. Brains as well as beauty.
‘Don’t be silly. That was nothing to do with it,’ Cassandra said crossly. ‘Tony would give me a job anytime I wanted. I said I was Molly because if his wife ever met her, there’s no way she’d think Tony was seriously contemplating an affair with her. She’s far too dull for him. It was the perfect alibi.’
‘I happen to think Molly’s very beautiful,’ Neil said softly, looking at me. ‘I like the natural look as opposed to the done-up-like-a-dog’s-dinner look.’ He cast those Pernod-with-water eyes over Cassandra in a manner which left her in no doubt that she was the dog’s dinner in question.
She quivered indignantly. ‘It hardly matters any more.’
‘Just one thing, Cassandra,’ I said, speaking for the first time. ‘I’m afraid you miscalculated with Tony. He can’t give you a job. In fact, I daresay he’ll be looking for the Rolex back when his wife throws him out. You see,’ I paused, amazed to find that I was enjoying this, ‘he’s not the real boss of the magazine. His wife is. The publishing empire belongs to her family and Tony is utterly replaceable. I’ve told Madeleine the whole story and she’s told his wife. Mrs Soon-To-Be-Ex-Milano was most apologetic about the black eye. But I rather think you’ve lost your job. You and Tony can visit the job centre together.’
Cassandra’s mouth hung open, giving both of us a good view of her expensive dental work. ‘You’re joking,’ she gasped. ‘He promised …’
She babbled away to herself in shock and I looked at her, wondering how I could have possibly spent twenty-three years of my life standing up for a woman who rode roughshod over me in her stilettos. She stole my men, my ideas, my self-confidence and had tried to steal my job. The real Cassandra was revealed to me after years of blinding myself to her true character. It was like scales falling from my eyes, which is how Neil puts it. The true Cassandra was a nasty piece of work and it must have been some flaw in my own character that kept me in thrall to her for so long. Perhaps I needed her in my life for contrast, a contrast between the difficult times (the Cassandra years) and the wonderful years (right now with Neil).
I haven’t seen Cassandra for months. She keeps phoning me at work but I don’t return her calls very often. Not surprisingly, she got fired from YKOW and she’s now freelancing for the Tree Surgeon’s Gazette, desperately trying to get a foot in the door of women’s magazine journalism again. Mind you, Tony Milano’s wife has put the word out on Cassandra, so it’s doubtful she’ll ever get another job in our tight-knit little industry. She’s also desperate to get invited to our house. Neil and I are living in a lovely old townhouse in Islington and despite having the builders in all the time, building the recording studio downstairs and renovating the nursery upstairs – yes, you’ve guessed it: the baby’s due in March and Neil is over the moon – we’re getting a reputation for throwing wonderful parties. The Daily Mail called us London’s newest power couple. That’s because I’ve been made editor of Uber-Babe, the latest magazine in our publi
shing empire. Between that and the parties with the rock-star guest list, we’re embarrassingly trendy. Cassandra is hysterical to come to one of our parties but Neil refuses to have her in the house. I do feel sorry for her. Sort of.
Jane Owen
Jane Owen's first novel, Camden Girls, was an international cult bestseller. She then took a break from writing, quite a long one as it turns out. She now lives is on the Sussex coast with her husband, two horses and a dog and has recently published her second book, Caballo.
Access All Areas
Jane Owen
Thursday morning
36 Marlboro Lights, 9 Becks, 12 vodka and Red Bull, half an E, countless spliffs and two illicit snogs with stripper dressed (originally) as traffic warden. V. good.
Woke up in position of prayer by bed. Had momentary, and horrible, thought: could be end result of some dreadful sex game with Him (of all people) but deduce from tights still twisted round ankles and three-inch Manolo spike heel pressed into left buttock, that probably passed out in this position whilst trying to get undressed. Face glued to duvet at strange and uncomfortable angle. Seems slept with mouth open and dribbled a lot.
Staggered downstairs to get coffee and dirty looks from extremely displeased Him. Can’t remember exactly what happened last night but am in no doubt that He will remind me, many, many times, before day is over. Something to do with partially clothed traffic warden and bottle of olive oil, the fancy stuff with the leaves and twigs etc if memory can be relied upon at all. Probably wouldn’t have been so bad if had actually been part of birthday group, not just unknown couple at next table, but didn’t ask the Himbo to put Self on table and simulate oral sex. Well, not in so many words. Just seemed much better idea (at time) than dinner with Him and discussion of Lycos versus Alta Vista. Especially as spent first fifteen minutes of that particular conversation thinking we were talking about obscure Greek islands and next year’s holiday and trying to prepare excuse not to go well in advance.
Thursday night
2 bottles Chardonnay, 15 Marlboro Lights, several spliffs, two Caramacs and a Toblerone. Not v. good.
Oh God. Having cooked, actually cooked, not even gone to M&S, and done best Stepford Wife impression all night, just as He’s beginning to take stupid disapproving look off His stupid face, phone rings. ‘Ignore it,’ he says. Tried but then Best Friend starts babbling into ansafone about access all areas and aftershow end-of-tour party for some band on Friday night. Lunge for phone to shut Best Friend up before smoke starts coming out of His ears and nearly break big toe by stubbing it, hard, on stupid coffee table as Best Friend witters on and on about drop-dead gorgeous singers in leather trousers. It’s not fair! Want to go! But already had two nights out with girls this week and suspect one more would come under ‘pushing my luck’. Still, at least it’s exercise.
Sneak upstairs early and pretend to fall into deep sleep bordering on unconsciousness moment head hits pillow.
Friday morning
Woke up with His face inches away. Thought He was having nasty stroke and screamed but apparently was supposed to be sexy smile. After breakfast (coffee and cigarette), check e-mail. Best Friend has e-mailed all details of tonight’s shindig and whilst pretending to sleep last night, devised cunning plan which intend to put into action soon as possible. Best Friend No. 2 has also e-mailed. She’s being sorely tempted by some young stud and at same time is convinced her Significant Other is already shagging some other bird. Or is she just doing that to justify her own lustful thoughts? Personal opinion is that once you start screwing around, relationship’s all over bar the shouting and lord knows there’ll probably be a shit load of that hitting the fan. If you love someone, you don’t want to sleep with anyone else. Don’t suppose it’s much help but e-mail it anyway.
Make more coffee and initiate plan. Suggest we invite all His boring friends round tonight for Trivial Pursuits which is about their level. He leaps at chance. Phase One completed. Now must go round Safeways buying crips and disps. Please God He doesn’t want to come. People might think we’re a couple.
Friday evening
So far, plan running like clockwork. Whilst smoking spliff in bath, Best Friend phoned dead on cue, in floods of tears and spoke to Him, begging for Self to go over and offer comfort and consolation. He, of course, couldn’t possibly refuse a maiden in such distress but has consolation prize of party with His own friends. How fortuitous. Meanwhile, got changed in bedroom and if all goes well, alleged minicab should arrive at same moment oven timer rings in exactly forty-two seconds, thereby allowing mad dash out of front door before anyone notices short sparkly dress with all the accessories and comments on its inappropriateness for consoling broken hearted Best Friend.
Saturday evening
47 Marlboro Lights, 7½ bottles champagne, 6 large tequila slammers, gramme and a half cocaine (approx), one popstar. VVV GOOD!
Oh my God! OH MY GOD! Can’t believe it happened! Can’t believe did that! Never mind got away with it! Oh my God!
Escape plan worked a treat. Best Friend nearly blew it by arriving in stretched black Mercedes with tinted windows rather than usual dodgy Toyota minicab with fake fur seat covers but Him so busy retrieving assorted vol au vents from oven, didn’t notice as whisked off to Wembley Arena in such decadent style. Limo, and champagne therein, provided by Best Friend’s latest squeeze along with shiny laminate passes to hang round neck allowing Access All Areas. Now there’s a thing. Still not entirely sure who band is but never really had finger on pulse of rock and roll world. Assuming it’s got one.
Decided to pass on support band and avail Self of free champers in hostility, sorry, hospitality, while Best Friend simpered and batted eyelashes at new squeeze. And she’s not even a natural blonde! Sneaked off to loo for quick snort. Whilst in cubicle, hear someone next door doing exactly same thing and leave cubicle just in time to see legendary rock and roll DJ wiping evidence from under her nose. Well well. DJ hurriedly replaces mirrored sunglasses (can see why she wears them) and exits with embarrassed smile. Upon leaving, think must’ve turned left instead of right cos got completely bloody lost. Endless tunnels with door after identical bloody door. Panic starts rising as starting to realize could be lost walking the tunnels of Wembley for years, a waif-like wraith doomed to such eternity for an exit. Start walking as fast as heels will allow, teeter round corner and walk straight into best looking man ever seen in life. Drop handbag, spill contents, and watch speechless as he drops to knees to pick it all up for me.
Can’t speak in presence of such beauty. Tall, sexy, longish black hair, blue blue blue eyes and that mouth oh God that mouth. While you’re down there …
Adonis called away by some bloke with clipboard and am alone in corridor again. Find way back to hostility room just in time. Band about to go on and guests being escorted to Press pit in front of stage. Darkened arena hot and sweaty and packed full of long haired people in denim and tour T-shirts dating back to the eighties. Still have slight feeling that most of audience need to get out more and then bang! Lights go up, sound roars out, energy level surges and wham bam thank you ma’am, there in the follow spot it’s the man on his knees! Can’t believe made such crass remark to such famous Rock God and mentally kick Self, hard, on both shins. Watch spellbound as Rock God struts, rocks, snakes hips and then swaggers down catwalk towards Press pit and winks at Self. Best Friend insane with jealousy. Band quite probably brilliant but could only watch while Rock God strutted his funky stuff, gleaming with sweat which found strangely attractive, and eight thousand punters cheered and screamed. Seemed to be over much too soon even with three encores. Could’ve sworn Rock God winked again but decide not to make too much of it.
Start to make way backstage again and, as house lights come up, am amazed to see floor littered with notes, phone numbers, hotel room keys and underwear, all hurled at Rock God. Personally can’t see him coming out to pick up all these offers but suppose a girl can dream. On to party. By now, high as kite. More
champagne in limo accompanied by non-stop lecture from Best Friend on the art of pulling pop stars. Party all set down Mexico way, somewhere in W9. Tequila slammer girls, Mariachi bands, enchiladas, whole crates of Dos Equis and a llama all squashed into a large courtyard and two rehearsal rooms. Rock God arrives with band and entourage and is immediately swamped by people including hundreds and hundreds of absolutely gorgeous girls. Soon realized hopelessness of Best Friend’s plan. Just catch his eye, she said. Yeah right. Only if he plucks it out and throws it to me. Don’t feel can compete with such well made-up determination and all that silicone and hit tequila slammers with vengeance. Best Friend said he kept looking over but doubted it personally and then he was gone. Bugger. Where’s that tequila-girl?
Left party around half-two. Decided to leave Best Friend dirty dancing with new squeeze and find taxi. I wish she’d wear underwear if she’s going to dance like that. As left building, immediately set upon by two brick shithouse-type males with ear pieces who picked Self up and started carrying Self towards large black coach despite loud protestations and before know it, am inside with Rock God himself. Told him what thought of being kidnapped in this undignified fashion in no uncertain terms. Well, should’ve done. Actually just stood there with mouth open wondering how long before knees gave out while Rock God apologized for the indignity inflicted on Self and pointed out that he had in fact been waiting out here for Self for nearly two hours and how about some champagne? V. hard to resist. Would’ve been churlish, nay rude, to refuse. Desperately want to say something witty, sexy, cool but can hardly pronounce own name when he asks. Just stand there like an idiot and stare at what is quite possibly most beautiful man ever met. Ever. World starts to swirl and for one awful moment think might be falling in love but turns out to be bus leaving car park. Hardly time to finish champagne before arrive at posh hotel in Holland Park.
Girls' Night In Page 13