by Lynda Renham
‘What about that black shirty wots-it-thing that you wore for your parents thingy? You know, what I call an all-rounder.’
Christ, was that English? I fly upstairs and scramble through my wardrobe punctuating the air with ‘bollocks’ and ‘balls’. Finally, I pull out the black shirty wots-it-thing. Actually, it’s not too bad. I check the clock. I had whipped myself up into such a state of panic that I am now exhausted. Two hours to go.
‘Calm down and get ready, slowly. I’ll see you later,’ says Issy mildly.
Thank God she is coming. Every year we get to invite one guest, and this year Issy is mine. Toby gets an automatic invite as a local reporter. I get the best of both worlds. I let out a long breath, flop onto the couch and plug in the heated rollers. There is a loud crack, a blue spark and the little red power light goes out. I begin to sob and dab at my tears with a reindeer tea towel. It isn’t mine you understand. That is I didn’t buy it. I wouldn’t be seen dead with a reindeer tea towel. Mother bought it when she went to Eastbourne with the WI and palmed it off onto me. Ten minutes later with red-rimmed eyes, I pop the kettle on and grab a cupcake scoffing the whole thing in one go. Well, that’s the diet buggered. Still, I wasn’t really starting it properly until after the party. It has been impossible to start the diet this week. I can start seriously dieting tomorrow once the Hobnobs party is over. I grab some kitchen towel and find myself staring at the cooker. For goodness sake, what am I thinking of? I can’t gas myself for Christ’s sake. Sylvia Plath, I certainly am not. Her death might have been somewhat macabre, romantic enough for a film, but mine would just be plain macabre and wouldn’t even make the local paper. I sigh and decide that gas would be very unfair on the cat. Not that I have a cat of course, but there is a stray that comes in sometimes and it would be just awful to gas the poor thing. No, I can’t do that, most certainly not. Besides, things aren’t that bad are they? So, all thoughts of suicide put to one side I attempt to make myself look as glamorous as possible. It doesn’t help, of course, that I have wild crazy hair and red swollen eyes, and feel ancient. I grab another cupcake, as I really need a sugar rush, and trundle upstairs to dress my ample frame. Well, my even more ample frame now that I have eaten the cupcake. I will soon be shopping for clothes in ‘Big Girls Only’. I want to weep.
***
Toby is pacing up and down outside the hotel when I pull up in the taxi. He is wearing a big, heavy coat, but I spy his bow tie and feel my knees go all wobbly. There is something about a bow tie, don’t you think? Well, it certainly does something to my loins. Not just the bow tie, obviously. It has to be wrapped around someone’s throat. Of course, in my case, the preferable someone has to be Toby. I picture his starched white shirt and feel myself go all weak. It will, of course, be a new shirt. Toby is very fussy about shirts. They always have to be crisp and expertly ironed. In fact, he is so fussy about his clothes that I very much doubt he will let me get up close and personal tonight just in case my lipstick should land on his shirt. Did I mention that Toby is ultra-pernickety when it comes to his appearance? I probably didn’t. It drives me mad some days. He never dresses casually. Issy once joked that he puts on a tie to take a dump. He even wears his suit to take me to the cinema, I mean, how embarrassing is that? But tonight, he really does look gorgeous. His hair is freshly washed and his deep green eyes twinkle at me from under their heavy lids. I almost wish we didn’t have to go in and could just go back to his place, or my place come to that. Actually come to think of it any place would do. God, how powerful is a bow tie. He is smiling at me, and I feel sure that everything that took place last night outside the sex shop was perfectly innocent.
‘I’m not late am I?’ I ask, knowing full well that we are both early.
He appraises me and then says we should go inside in a tone that sounds like he is not happy. Obviously, the smile I thought I saw must have been wind or something because he certainly doesn’t have it now. I follow miserably feeling pathetic, all sexual longing driven from my loins. It doesn’t help that my new corset is cracking my ribs with my every breath. Honestly, all the trouble I went to and he can’t even tell me that I look nice.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.
‘Nothing, I just thought you were going to wear that new dress.’
Oh dear. Best not to tell him it doesn’t quite fit. An usher requests our invitations and, with a sinking stomach, I remember mine is still stuck to the fridge door. I fumble busily in my handbag in the vain hope he will wave us through. Toby fidgets as people bustle past us.
‘Now what’s wrong?’ he asks irritably.
I am saved from answering by my boss, Jamie. A nice guy, thirty-something and a queer of course. He stands camp as Christmas and throws one arm around Toby. Toby hates gays. I mean, seriously. He is as homophobic as they come and Jamie knows it and is outrageously flamboyant whenever Toby is around.
‘Toby, darling, you look gorgeous. Libby sweetie, why are you fumbling around?’
I open my mouth to explain.
‘Come on, darlings, let’s go in and get a drink. I could murder a champagne cocktail.’
He takes my arm and leads me into the functions room without a murmur from the usher or Toby. What a great entrance, gliding in without showing the invitation. Except of course, I am so busy looking around at everybody that I don’t notice the step and trip, falling flat onto my face. Toby gasps and Jamie laughs while helping me up. Why is it that everyone else helps me up except Toby? He shakes his head despairingly, and I fight back my tears. Why does everything go wrong when I am with him? I feel like a thousand eyes are on me and excuse myself to find the loo to tidy myself up. God, how embarrassing was that. I give myself a quick face check, spray some Rive Gauche onto my neck and brush my hair before walking out of the loo and would you believe it, straight into Alex Bryant. Is this déjà vu or does Alex Bryant spent a lot of time loitering outside women’s loos?
‘Well, hello again,’ he says with a wink.
‘Hi,’ I say, forcing a smile.
I should be banned from black-tie dos. I could easily rip the shirt off him too. I’m either seriously sex-starved, or my hormones have gone crazy. I assure you that I don’t normally spend my life wanting to rip shirts off men.
‘We must find somewhere less salubrious to meet,’ he jokes and my heart flutters, much against my will. What is he doing here? I then remember that he is a client and what’s worse, one of mine it seems.
This time he is with what is obviously the blancmange to his jelly. She is exactly how I would have imagined. A size ten and with legs up to her armpits, blonde hair, flawless porcelain skin, and wearing a backless little black dress that clings to her shapely hips. Clearly, no corset needed here. Smokey grey eyes lock onto mine for a second and then travel critically over my black shirty wots-it. I feel like I must be wearing sackcloth and ashes. She goes to smile, but her thin lips seem to struggle.
‘Penny, let me introduce you to Libby, my agent,’ he says, raising his eyebrows at me.
‘Hello, Libby, nice to meet you,’ she says in a stiff voice and reluctantly holds out a limp hand. I go to take it but she moves away leaving my hand hovering in the air. I look like the Queen waving to the nation.
‘Gerald, how are you?’ she calls and dismisses me with a half-hearted wave. I find myself walking backwards nodding stupidly. It’s a wonder I don’t curtsey. Alex Bryant gives an apologetic smile. I take a final step and bump into Miles, Hobnobs accountant.
‘Throwing yourself at me, are you old girl? I say, you are looking sophisticated tonight.’ He burps, and champagne fumes waft into my face.
‘Less of the old girl please, Miles,’ I say, wrinkling my nose.
I try to see Toby amidst the throng, but he is nowhere to be seen.
‘What, no drink? Good heavens girl it’s bloody Christmas. If you can’t get off your face tonight then when can you?’
I am dragged to the bar to join the others who are determined to get off their f
aces. Miles reluctantly orders me an orange juice, attempts to make me laugh with his jokes, fails miserably and finally directs me to our table. I spot Issy, gesturing with her head to the seat next to her. I gasp. Oh no, not Alex Bryant. I see Toby approaching, aka my fiancé, at least, that is what I had said. He reaches the table and leans towards me. I think it is for a kiss but instead his lips whisper into my ear.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been lumbered with that bloody shirt-lifter for the past fifteen minutes.’
Is that the distinctive smell of Trésor that is wafting up my nostrils? I turn to Toby and see he is staring at Bryant.
‘Oh for God’s sake, what is he doing here? Did you arrange the seating?’
Before I can answer Jamie glides up and drapes an arm around Alex.
‘Let me introduce you,’ he says gaily, oblivious to our shocked faces. I spin round to grab a glass of champagne from the waiter. I do believe now is the time to get off my face.
‘Thanks very much Libby,’ mumbles Toby.
Why is he blaming me? Christ, this is turning into a fun evening. I should have gassed myself while I had the chance. Anyway, the introductions that followed should have gone something like this…
‘Libby, this is Alex Bryant. You’ve heard of Alex, of course?’
‘Yes, of course. What an honour to meet you Mr Bryant.’
‘Alex, this is my fab assistant Libby and her lovely, soon to be fiancé Toby, whose work you have read of course.’
‘Of course. I found your article on the Cambodian revolt fascinating Toby.’
Then there are lots of cheek kisses that aren’t quite kisses, and we all sit down and smile at each other.
It actually went like this:
‘Libby, this is Alex Bryant, the famous war correspondent who you’ve heard about of course, and this is his lovely fiancée Penny. Alex has recently joined Randal and Hobson.’
Now Jamie tells me. So, she’s his fiancée. I should have known someone like him would have been taken. Not that I care of course. I avoid eye contact and clasp Toby’s hand under the table. He squeezes it gently and I feel a little bit better.
‘Hello,’ I respond nonchalantly and blow my nose noisily to release the Trésor odour.
There is a tiny cough from Jamie and he continues,
‘Of course, you know of Toby Mitchell don’t you Alex?’
An uncomfortable silence follows. Issy burps and I respond with,
‘Bless you.’
Alex Bryant, who shall be known as The Bastard from here on in, looks only slightly embarrassed.
‘And this is Issy,’ I throw in casually. ‘Writes for the agony column and burps for England but not necessarily in that order. You’ve heard of her surely?’
Issy drops the olive that she was about to pop into her mouth. The olive rolls towards Blonde Blancmange who stands up haughtily, swings her shoulder-length bob over her shoulder, sighs heavily and declares,
‘How rude, I don’t have to listen to this.’ She makes to leave the table. Bryant gently takes her hand and pulls her back down.
Toby looks thunderous, and with knuckles clenched he gives Jamie a disparaging look while Issy stares wide-eyed. Alex Bryant, correction, The Bastard is the only cool one amongst us and why am I not surprised. Issy hands me another glass of champagne which I knock back in one hit. The only way to be in difficult social situations is drunk.
‘Libby, what is wrong with you?’ whispers Issy.
Alex leans across the table with an outstretched hand.
‘Nice to meet you Libby,’ he says softly. I ignore the little flutter in my stomach and put it down to flatulence. Why isn’t he mentioning that we have met already? I touch his hand and a tingle runs through my body. Toby snatches my hand roughly.
‘Right, that’s enough. You have already tarnished my name, so keep your hands off my girlfriend,’ he snaps.
I’m quite impressed. Shame his voice has a shake though. Although after reading what the bastard Bryant has done to some people, armed with only a cheese grater, it is enough to make anyone shake.
‘Blimey,’ says an astonished and rather tipsy Miles.
‘Criticism should always be taken in a constructive manner Toby, that was exactly how I meant it,’ croons The Bastard.
What a patronising sod, I think. Oh no, I didn’t think it, I actually said it. There is silence. Alex Bryant and I lock eyes across the table.
‘I can see it is going to be quite a challenge working with you Libby,’ he says finally.
I look at Jamie with daggers in my eyes.
‘Don’t do anything rash,’ hisses Issy as I stand up.
Why does she always think I am going to do something rash?
‘Jamie…’ I begin.
‘Constructive,’ explodes Toby, making me jump as I reach for an olive and accidentally knock over Blancmange’s champagne glass. A foaming tsunami rushes towards her and spills onto her legs. Oh shit. She lets out a squeal and Issy quickly dabs at her with a serviette. It is quite gross to watch. I am relieved when Jamie pulls her off. There is a loud screeching sound from the PA and a booming voice silences us all.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is about to be served.’
‘Bloody marvellous,’ groans Toby, elbowing me in the ribs as he shuffles in his seat. Great, food is all I bloody need right now. I always eat more when I am angry or upset. Just as well I am starting my diet properly on Monday. Miles squeezes himself into the seat the other side of me.
‘That was bloody exciting,’ he whispers. ‘I wouldn’t fancy taking on old Bryant myself, what? He’d slice your tongue out before you could say Bruce Lee.’
Why do these things happen to me? And who does this Alex Bryant think he is that he can go around patronising everyone? Okay, not everyone, but he did patronise Toby. I see him burst out laughing at something Jamie has said. Blancmange follows suit, and I feel dead miserable.
‘Bloody poof,’ says Toby sulkily. ‘And I can’t believe you are going to work with that arrogant prick.’
‘It’s the first I have heard of it,’ I protest feebly and hate myself for thinking what nice even teeth Alex Bryant is displaying.
‘It feels like treachery,’ moans Toby in a pained voice.
‘Treachery,’ I echo.
‘Salmon with salad madam, or turkey with roast potatoes?’ trills the waiter hovering beside me with a plate of each. I suppose I had better have the salmon and salad. I watch enviously as skinny Blonde Blancmange accepts only the salad. Show off.
‘You and Jamie conspiring against me, that’s what it is.’
‘Conspiring?’
Christ, I’m turning into a parrot.
‘Why do you keep repeating everything I say?’ he snaps.
‘Everything you say?’ I question.
I find I am pointing to the turkey. This is so wrong. Redirect finger Libby, redirect. But it is too late. Four lovely, crispy roast potatoes are placed in front of me and then covered with lovely fragrant gravy. Oh, heaven.
‘That looks good,’ comments Bryant with a smile that both Toby and I return with icy stares. Blancmange looks at my plate in distaste, while Issy points greedily at it and requests the same.
‘I couldn’t possibly eat a dead bird,’ says Blancmange pompously.
I stab the turkey viciously with my knife.
‘Just checking,’ I smile. ‘Yes, it’s definitely dead. I couldn’t possibly eat a live one.’
Issy giggles and good Lord, is that a sly grin on Bryant’s face? He catches my eye, and I quickly turn away. He leans across Blancmange and her slim arm with its row of silver bracelets jangles around his neck. Why is it that I now feel fat, clumsy and ugly in my black shirty wots-it thing?
‘Why, it’s Alex Bryant, how wonderful,’ bellows a high-pitched voice followed by a highly fragrant, over made-up woman who is wearing what appears to be my mother’s living room curtains. She leans across and plonks a wet kiss on Alex Bryant’s cheek.
; ‘Lucy Parker-Smythe, thrilled to meet you,’ she says, wiping the lipstick stain from his cheek with her thumb.
‘Oh, may I join you,’ she squeals excitedly.
Before any of us has the chance to object she has plonked her wobbly bum onto a chair and begins spouting a load of bollocks.
‘I mean, this situation in Cambodia is just dire isn’t it? Personally I think we should round up all those rebels and be done with it. Give the peasants more rice and everyone will be happy. Our WI is going to be doing something on it this month.’
Oh well, that’s the Cambodian problem solved then. Maybe the WI after bringing world peace can help me with my weight problem.
‘I’m afraid it is a little more complicated than that. The rebels aren’t all bad actually. The politics are very confusing,’ says Alex Bryant with that irritating smile.
‘Well, that is certainly a matter of opinion,’ argues Toby. ‘I would say rounding up the rebels is not such a bad idea. They are clearly thugs.’
Oh dear, not again.
‘Actually, it was quite clear from your article that you wrote it with the minimum of research. You haven’t been to Cambodia have you?’ replies Bryant, calmly.
‘These things are black and white if you ask me.’
I roll my eyes, tuck into my roast potatoes and nod at Issy who is replenishing everyone’s glasses.
‘I wonder Alex,’ coos Lucy Parker-Smythe, leaning closer to him so that her breast wobbles very near to his nose. ‘If you could come and have a little chat with our ladies and advise them what to put in their shoe boxes.’
‘Nothing in Cambodia right now is black and white Toby,’ responds Alex Bryant, manoeuvring his nostrils from Lucy Parker Smyth’s nipple and depositing her into a chair in one motion.
‘Smooth,’ I remark to Issy.
‘Oh, he is that,’ she replies, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
‘I thought Toby’s piece had some interesting points,’ butts in Jamie, pouring gravy onto his turkey.