The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  I ended up finding something in the posh boutique too. It’s a pale grey silk jumpsuit with tiny little metal studs dotted round the halter-neck. It’s a bit smarter than I’d usually wear, but the store assistant insisted that I couldn’t go to a fancy book launch wearing H&M, and the jumpsuit was on sale so it didn’t completely ransack my overdraft. Well, maybe a tiny bit, but a book deal means money, therefore the jumpsuit is really just an investment in my career. As are the metallic purple high heels I bought to go with it.

  I plug my iPhone into the hotel-room speakers, crank up a bit of Britpop and throw some shapes. Summer pours two glasses of Merlot from the minibar and we sit side by side, companionably finishing off our make-up. As Summer rustles around in her tote in search of her favourite mascara, an envelope falls out of the bag and onto the carpet. It’s thick and seashell-coloured, with Summer’s name written on it in gold-embossed script. A wedding invitation.

  ‘Ooh, who’s getting mawwied?’ I lean over to get a better look. Summer snatches the envelope up and holds it to her chest.

  ‘Oh, no one you know,’ she says nonchalantly.

  ‘Sum, we know all the same people.’

  ‘Um . . . ’ She starts to shove the envelope back into her bag.

  A secret wedding!

  ‘Oi! What the bloody hell are you hiding?’ I rugby-tackle her and grab the envelope from her manicured hands. ‘Let me see it!’

  ‘Jess, you freak! You’ll mess up my hair. Give me that back.’

  I chuckle and open the envelope. ‘Now, now, let me see, who is Summer’s new friend? Summer’s special secret wedding friend!’

  I pull out the creamy invitation and unfold the stiff paper. It’s an invite for Amy Keyplass’s wedding to Mark Chunder. Old friends of ours from uni.

  ‘Oh, it’s just Amy and Mark. Should be a good knees-up. Why wouldn’t you show me this? Is there an RSVP date?’ I scan the text. ‘Remind me to find my invite when we get back – must be somewhere in the post pile. Actually, have you got a pen? I’ll write it on my hand. RSVP Amy and Mark.’

  ‘You haven’t got one.’ Summer coughs.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘An invitation. You haven’t got an invitation. You’re kind of not invited to the wedding.’

  ‘Oh . . . just the reception bit then?’

  ‘Yeeeaaah . . . no. You’re not invited to any of it.’

  ‘Just like Amy, forgetting. She’d forget her own head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ I roll my eyes. ‘They must be dead busy with all the planning. I’ll give her a ring over the weekend!’

  Summer puts down her mascara and sighs. ‘You’re not getting it, petal. Amy hasn’t forgotten. They . . . just don’t want you there.’

  I frown, confused. ‘Whaaat? Why on earth wouldn’t they want me there? I’m the life of the party. A wedding isn’t a proper wedding until I’ve cha-cha slid solo on the dance floor. Everyone knows that. Amy and me are top mates! I introduced her to Mark!’

  ‘You got her arrested, Jess.’

  ‘Er, that was a year ago. And it’s not like I lifted her top up and flashed her boobs at the cast of Corrie on their Christmas meal out. She did that all by herself. Tyrone loved it, but Rita had to go and call the police, didn’t she? Typical fucking Rita.’

  ‘You provided the tequila and double-dared Amy to do it. Mark thinks you’re a bad influence.’

  ‘Mark Chunder’s a ginormous dork. Just because I haven’t got a stick lodged up my bum like he has. Jeez. Amy was such a good giggle at uni.’ I sigh nostalgically at the lovely fun times Amy and I once had.

  Summer shakes her head delicately. ‘We’re not at university any more though, Jess. They’re, like, getting married. They’re renovating a town house in Surrey. You know – growing up, committing, being responsible. You might want to try it sometime.’

  I feel the familiar uncomfortable itch spread across my body. Renovating a town house in Surrey? Gross.

  I think of Amy and what fun she was back in the day. Totally mental and giggly and up for anything. And now she’s just like the rest of them. It’s like The Walking Dead, but instead of a zombie apocalypse, it’s a boring person apocalypse. Everybody’s changing.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I say breezily, feeling an odd lurch in my stomach, ‘weddings suck anyway. I’m glad I’m not invited. It’ll probably be full of shithead couply couples talking about babies and stamp duty and the garden centre. Chuh. Pledging to spend your entire life with one boring person for ever and ever? It’s so daft, when you think about it. You never know what’s going to happen. How do you know that you won’t get fed up of them? That they won’t leave you? That you won’t get shafted? It’s absurd.’

  Summer rolls her eyes at me in the mirror. ‘It’s not absurd, Jess. Most people don’t get “shafted” by falling in love. Most people don’t . . . well, they don’t end up like your mum.’

  I tut. Summer reckons that every bloody thing I think or do has some woo-woo subconscious connection to my mum. Which is blatantly daft and annoying, not to mention downright untrue. I wouldn’t mind, but the extent of Summer’s psychological knowledge is that she once saw Dr Linda Papadopoulos off This Morning in M&S Food.

  I swallow, and it feels like there’s an annoying little splinter stuck in my throat. ‘Pass us my wine, will you, Sum. What time is it? We should probably get a move on. We can’t be late for Davis Arthur Montblanc! Ooh, wonder if they’ll have a posh buffet on . . . ’

  I spend ages restraightening my hair extensions before backcombing extensively at the top and pulling it all into a tight, high ponytail. Then I attach two pairs of fake eyelashes and do some glittery gold eyeliner so that my eyes stand out behind my specs.

  In the bathroom, I change into my new silky jumpsuit, feeling a little flutter of pleasure as the cold, smooth material skims its way across my body. I’m quite short at five foot three, but it makes me look at least an inch taller. I spin round in the mirror. All the running and partying I’ve been doing recently has eradicated the little beer belly I’ve been carrying around for the past few years. I look pretty good, actually – I think the word is lithe. And I reckon jumpsuits suit me! Maybe when I move to some exotic country I’ll buy more silk jumpsuits in all different colours. Summer is always going on about ‘signature looks’. Could jumpsuits be my signature look? Jumpsuit Jess? ‘Here comes Jumpsuit Jess,’ people would say. ‘Now the party can really start.’

  ‘Ta-da!’ I sing as I leave the bathroom. ‘I’m blummin’ uncomfortable because my thong keeps riding up my arse, but . . . ’ I twirl round and do jazz hands in the mirror.

  ‘Oh! You look different. Yay!’ Summer scoops the wine glasses up from the bedside table. ‘Super awesome. Let’s finish this wine – we need to get going.’ She strides forward on her high heels and holds one glass-carrying hand out to me. I reach to take it from her when somehow, suddenly, the wine glass is out of her hands –

  ‘Fuuuuck!’

  And its contents are on my brand-new jumpsuit.

  Shit! Did Summer trip up? No. She’s perfectly upright. How did . . . ?

  ‘Oh dear!’ Summer says, carefully putting down the other wine glass on the coffee table and grabbing a facial wipe from her make-up bag. ‘I’m such a klutz!’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re the least klutzy person on earth. What the heck?’

  ‘I think there was something on the carpet. I totally stumbled over something. Sorreeeee!’

  Summer dabs frantically at the wine now dripping off my arm and spreading into a violent-looking stain across my silk-covered abdomen. I look like an extra in a prom-based horror movie.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Summer repeats. ‘It’s not coming out. Red wine just does not come out. Soooo annoying.’

  Shit!

  I jog to the bathroom, strip off the jumpsuit and run it under the tap, rubbing furiously at the fabric with a towel. Nothing happens. The stain sits there stubbornly.

  ‘I need to call the taxi now!’ Summer informs me
worriedly. ‘You’re going to have to put something else on quickly or we’ll be late. I’m really sorry, sweetpea.’

  I feel a lurch in my stomach. I don’t know why I’m even bothered about it. It’s just clothes, after all.

  I pick up today’s floral 90s dress from the corner of the bedroom where I flung it earlier. This will have to do.

  ‘You can’t wear that again!’ Summer barks, tapping the cab number into her mobile. ‘Valentina already saw it!’

  ‘She seemed to like it before.’ I yank it over my head. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  Summer stalks over and tugs on it with a grimace. ‘It smells a bit, J.’

  I give it a sniff. She’s right. The Febreze has worn off and the original damp mothbally smell is now evident. It stinks.

  ‘But I have nothing else!’

  Summer frowns and squints her eyes like she’s thinking really hard. I don’t know what genius plan she thinks she’s going to come up with. The only other choice of outfit I have is—

  ‘Onesie!’ Summer breathes as if it’s the most obvious idea ever to generate in a brain. ‘You could wear one of your new onesies.’

  ‘A onesie?’ I screw my face up. I know bugger all about clothes, and I do love onesies, obviously, but I’m pretty sure that they’re not suitable garb for posh literary bashes. ‘Nah. I don’t think so, Summer . . . ’

  ‘Just hear me out!’ she urges. ‘It’ll be so cool. A onesie is kind of like a jumpsuit when you really think about it. You can roll up the legs and still wear your new high heels. With all your hair and make-up, so . . . glam, it’ll look super fresh. Totally.’

  Hmmm. I suppose they are really nice onesies . . . and really very comfortable . . .

  ‘Ooh, ooh,’ Summer continues, opening the Primark bag by my bed. ‘You could wear those new spangly pink feather earrings too!’

  ‘You didn’t like those when we were in the shop.’

  ‘I do like them! I was just pissed off that you saw them first. Trust me – you’ll look amazing.’

  The front desk calls to let us know that our cab is here. Crap.

  ‘Erm . . . ’

  I guess I did see someone from Geordie Shore wearing a onesie at a product launch in Manchester, and I do love that show. But that was a lad. Would it work on a woman?

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ Summer says, hurt pooling in her large brown eyes. ‘After everything we’ve been through? Look, maybe you should just stay here while I go . . . I don’t mind.’

  Hmm. Summer does know everything about fashion. And she is my best friend. She wouldn’t make me look stupid.

  ‘Course I trust you, you big geek,’ I say, pulling the furry leopard-skin onesie with the neon-pink zip out of the carrier bag. ‘Summer and Jess take on the world, right?’

  Summer grins in recognition of our university motto. ‘Oh, totes.’

  Chapter Six

  A well-mixed manhattan at a social gathering is one of life’s pleasures. But know your alcohol limits, ladies. No Good Man ever wanted to marry a wild girl!

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  I’m not entirely sure a onesie was the right move.

  Summer and I strut through the discreetly glamorous Berkeley Rooms in Soho; her on the hunt for Valentina Smith, me on the hunt for someone else rocking leisurewear to make friends with. As we push through the impeccably dressed and intelligently talkative crowds, I notice eyes bulging in horror as I pass by. Shitballs. Is that Benedict Cumberbatch? And there’s Helena Bonham Carter chatting away to Davis Arthur Montblanc. Damn. This do is way, way too fancy for my onesie. As I make my way through the room, a lofty ginger guy in a sharp suit drawls, ‘Looks like the entertainment has arrived, folks.’

  I throw him my very best withering glance, but he’s already turned back to his cronies and doesn’t get the benefit.

  Gad. Why the blazing arse did I agree to wear this?

  ‘I’m starting to think this onesie was a really fucking shitty idea!’ I hiss at Summer as she accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  ‘You look great, Jess. Honestly. These people wouldn’t know a bold fashion choice if it stabbed them in the back.’

  I look around distractedly for the bar, but I can’t see one. I could really do with a drink. A big important party can often be a bit daunting, and especially so if you’ve arrived wearing your pyjamas.

  ‘I’m going to have one drink,’ I say firmly to Summer. ‘We need to keep a clear head, so just the one. No Jessica Beam adventures tonight. I promise.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ Summer scoffs. I smile sadly. There was a time when it was Summer and Jess adventures. Where did she go? And why oh why did I agree to wear the onesie? Did that man over there just point at me and laugh? Oh Christ. He is laughing at me, he’s clutching his belly and full-on crying with laughter. Wait, why is he pointing his phone in my direction? Is he filming me?

  God.

  I half jog after the retreating waiter and tap him on the shoulder.

  ‘Yo, you got any pear cider?’ I ask him frantically.

  He smirks and looks pointedly at his tray of tall champagne flutes glistening snootily beneath the lit-up chandelier.

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘Any blue Wickeds in the back?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. But I’m sure this 1995 vintage Bollinger will suffice?’

  I sigh. Vintage shit. What’s the obsession with old stuff? It’s 2014, people!

  ‘Fine. Don’t worry. I’ll take a fizz, then. Only the one, though. If I come back to you for another glass, tell me to just fuck off, OK?’

  The waiter smiles politely and hands me a glass of champagne. ‘Enjoy your evening, miss.’

  ‘Thank you. Just don’t let me have any more after this one. Promise me, OK? Promise.’

  But the waiter is already zooming back off through the crowds, glancing back at me with a frightened expression on his young face.

  Damn.

  I take a teeny sip of the champagne. Blerg. I’ll never understand why people go so nuts over champagne. It’s so self-satisfied and way too gassy, and you’re expected to act all excited about drinking it for the whole time you’re drinking it. It’s such a lot of pressure. Plus everyone knows that champagne causes a hangover worse than any of the other boozes, but still, the facade continues. Maybe if the Summer in the City book goes well they will commission me for another? The Champagne Conspiracy: An Exposé by Jessica Beam.

  I miss you, pear cider.

  Finding my way back to Summer, I discover her deep in conversation with Valentina Smith, who is wearing a silk wrap dress the colour of mustard.

  ‘Hey,’ I say brightly. ‘Lovely do, isn’t it?’

  Valentina’s mouth drops open as she takes in my get-up. Squirming under her overt scrutiny, I smile widely and nod, confidently trying to own it. I bet she thinks I’m a real chump.

  ‘That’s quite an ensemble, Jess,’ she says, studying my feather earrings.

  Is it my imagination, or is Summer smirking?

  ‘Yeah, we had a massive disaster with my other outfit,’ I explain with an apologetic cringe.

  Valentina takes a sip of her champagne, sighing with immense pleasure (a potential interviewee for The Champagne Conspiracy?). She narrows her eyes and looks me up and down for what seems like ages.

  Shit. She’s going to kick me out of the party. I clearly don’t belong here.

  ‘It’s so . . . on the money,’ she eventually declares, shaking her head in wonder. ‘All of us in dull black tie and here you are, vibrant like a beautiful fashionista parrot. Or should I say leopard! Bold move, lady. I respect it.’ Is she kidding? ‘Yes, I get it,’ she goes on, tilting her head to the side, a finger to her chin, examining me like I’m a work of art. ‘I really do. Pseudo-chav. Ironic. Northern, yes?’

  ‘Er . . . ’

  ‘I like you, Jessica Beam,’ she says. ‘You’re very current.’

  ‘Cheers.’ I wonder what on e
arth she’s talking about. ‘It was a last-minute decision, to be honest.’

  ‘Modest, too.’ She grins warmly as if I am the cleverest, most interesting person to walk the earth. I give Summer a discreet thumbs-up, which she returns with a lukewarm smile.

  ‘So, Valentina.’ Summer stands slightly in front of me. ‘Do I see Leo Frost over there talking to Davis Arthur Montblanc?’

  ‘What? Leo Frost? Where?’ Valentina’s voice has gone all weird and strangled.

  Valentina and I peer over to where Summer is looking and spot Davis Arthur Montblanc himself in conversation with the tall red-headed twonk who nastily called me the entertainment. The twonk is stroking his chin and nursing a glass of whisky. I wonder how that idiot got hold of a non-champagne-based beverage?

  ‘Must be someone important,’ I mutter, resentfully taking another sip of champagne.

  ‘Oh, of course you know who Leo Frost is, Jess?’ Summer says, gathering her hair up and letting it fall back over her shoulders. ‘Artistic Director at Woolf Frost?’

  I give her a blank look. ‘Nope. Never heard of the guy.’

  ‘Leo Frost, advertising wunderkind?’ She says it slowly, like I’m being thick. When I give no reaction, she goes on, ‘His dad owns the famous ad agency? Montblanc’s nephew? Broke Kate Middleton’s heart at St Andrews before she rebounded to Wills?’

  I shrug and wonder how the hell he got that whisky. I wonder if he’ll get me some, because this champagne really sucks.

  ‘He’s the man of the moment, super enigmatic and mysterious.’ Summer’s eyes light up. ‘Anderson knows him quite well, actually. I once met him at this amazing party in Brooklyn. I am – was – totally in love with Anderson, but Leo Frost . . . well, I could have been tempted. He has this power, this magnetic power, you know, like Alexa Chung has. But he totally abuses it. He’s a real womanizer.’ She gazes over at him with blatant admiration.

  ‘Leo Frost is a vindictive, arrogant shit!’ Valentina suddenly spits, her face flushing cherry red to match her lipstick. She sucks in a huge lungful of breath and exhales, her mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape. ‘Apologies. I shouldn’t have said that.’