by Zoe May
‘As are you!’ Daniel concurs, eyeing her up and down. She’s wearing a sleeveless brown suede mini dress which must be a size 8, teamed with a brown leather Birkin and neat brown ankle boots. In fact, she’s a vision of varying hues of brown, from her glossy mahogany mane to her tanned caramel skin.
‘Where’ve you been hiding?’ Daniel asks.
‘Didn’t I tell you? I’ve been in the Bahamas, painting!’ Cleo, or whoever she is, tells him. ‘Just got back a few weeks ago.’
‘Ah, well that explains the glorious tan!’ Daniel comments.
I pointedly clear my throat, reminding Daniel of my existence.
‘Cleo, this is Sophia, my girlfriend,’ he says.
I stand up and shake her hand.
‘Sophia!’ She plunges towards me for some air kissing. I awkwardly place my outstretched hand on her hip as she gets close and keep my head weirdly still while she pecks around it. If there’s one thing I hate about West London, it’s air-kissing.
‘Lovely to meet you!’ she insists amid ‘mwah’ noises.
She gives me a quick once-over too as we finally pull apart.
‘Daniel’s girlfriend!’ she says, squeezing my arm, almost patronisingly.
‘Yep!’ I smile tightly. ‘So how do you two know each other?’
‘Oh! Daniel and I go waaaaay back,’ Cleo tells me. ‘We used to play together when we were kids. Our families holidayed together in St Barts. Such fun! Although Daniel was ever such a naughty little boy! Do you remember that time you pulled all the stuffing out of my teddy bear?’ she asks Daniel, pouting and placing a hand on her skinny hip.
‘Umm…’ Daniel frowns hard, as if he’s trying to remember. ‘I’m going to pretend I’ve forgotten.’
‘My poor Teddy-kins!’ she tuts, pouting harder.
I laugh awkwardly. This is mortifying. Teddy-kins and Fluffy Bear – no wonder these two were childhood friends.
‘So, Cleo, how’s the painting? How’s life?’ Daniel asks, changing the subject. ‘Find a chair! Join us! Wait, who are you here with?’
‘Oh, I’m with De Santford,’ she says, dropping her hand from her hip and slipping into a flatter voice. ‘You know, my boyfriend.’
She gestures flippantly towards the corner of the restaurant, where an overweight older guy is sitting looking uncomfortable with two plates of food in front of him. He looks nothing like the kind of guy I’d imagine a girl as annoyingly good-looking as Cleo to go for.
‘You two are still together then?’ Daniel asks.
‘Oh yes, going strong!’ Cleo trills.
For a second, we’re all silent.
‘I’d better get back to him before he starts complaining that my salad’s going cold or something.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘But Daniel, darling, we must catch up! Grab a coffee or something?’
‘Definitely!’ Daniel agrees.
‘Fabulous!’ Cleo showers him with a few more air kisses.
‘Call me, darling,’ she insists, finally pulling away.
‘Oh.’ She glances over at me. ‘And lovely to meet you, Sophia,’ she adds, leaning in for another air kiss. ‘Ciao!’
‘Ciao.’ I echo, as she waves over her shoulder and teeters across the restaurant back to De Santford.
‘Wow!’ I pick up my wine glass. ‘She’s umm…’ Annoying. Posh. Skinny. I trail off and take a sip of wine instead.
‘It’s been such a long time since we saw each other,’ Daniel says, looking affectionately across the restaurant at Cleo, who is now sitting down at her table. ‘It’s so good to see her.’
‘Mmmm…’ I murmur, taking another sip of wine. ‘So, what’s the deal with her and “De Santford”?’ I ask, hoping to remind Daniel that we’re a couple and they’re a couple.
Daniel tears his gaze away. ‘De Santford… He’s some hedge fund manager, multi-millionaire. Or billionaire, possibly.’ Daniel shrugs, as if it’s nothing, and reaches for a piece of bread.
‘Oh, right.’ I steal another glance at their table. De Santford doesn’t look like a millionaire or a billionaire for that matter; he just looks like any other overweight bald guy in a suit. Although I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see, he’s hardly going to be dripping in solid gold chains.
‘It’s just this thing she’s had going for a while. He flies her around the world, she stays in his mansions, she paints.’
‘Right… So she’s an artist?’ I ask, though she sounds like more of a high-class escort to me.
‘Yeah, she is. I’ve used a lot of her pieces in my work actually,’ Daniel tells me. ‘She’s very conceptual. Very bold.’
I nod blankly.
‘Wait, I probably have a picture…’ Daniel picks up his phone and starts scrolling through his photos.
‘Here’s one.’ He hands it to me. ‘Cleo did the painting above the sofa.’
I take his phone and peer at the photo of a fancy minimalist sitting room with an uncomfortable-looking boxy couch, above which is an ugly painting. It’s a big grey canvas with some pretentious abstract squares painted in the middle. It looks like one of those tacky ‘arty’ canvases you get from homeware stores, except I guess this is the high-end, ridiculously overpriced version.
‘Lovely.’ I hand the phone back to him, just as my own starts to ring. It’s Tom.
‘Oh… Let me get this quickly. Tom’s probably worrying about the party on Friday. I’ll tell him to call back later.’
Daniel nods, a little stiffly.
‘Hi Tom,’ I answer.
‘Hi Sophia, how’s it going?’
‘Good, good. I’m just in Windsor Gatehouse, actually,’ I tell him debonairly, trying not to sound too smug.
‘What are you doing in Windsor?’ Tom balks.
‘I’m not in Windsor, Tom,’ I mutter.
‘But you just said you’re in Windsor,’ he points out.
‘No!’ I tut. ‘I’m in the restaurant. Windsor Gatehouse? In Belgravia.’
‘What? Why’s it called Windsor Gatehouse if it’s in Belgravia?’
‘I don’t know, okay!’
A couple on the table next to ours smirk. God, this is embarrassing.
‘Never mind. What’s up?’ I ask in a lower voice.
‘Right, well, I was just on parties4u.com, looking at stuff for Friday and I just had an amazing idea. How about we do our own makeshift photo booth? With props, like empty picture frames and glasses and wigs and stuff? Everyone can take selfies. What do you think?’
‘Oh my God, that’s the best idea!’ I gush. ‘Definitely. Let’s do it.’
Tom lets out an excited squeal. ‘I knew it was genius!’
‘So, shall I buy the props or do you want to?’ I ask.
‘I’m buying them now. Next day delivery,’ Tom says in a slightly distracted voice as he no doubt tends to his online purchase. I glance over at Daniel, who’s looking a bit put out.
‘Okay, cool. Well, I’d better go.’
‘Wait!’ Tom pipes up. ‘Have you bought serviettes yet? Because you can get really cool shiny ones with polka dots, you know.’
‘Mm-hmm,’ I murmur. Much as I love Tom and want this party to be a success, I’m not sure I can be bothered to order shiny polka dot serviettes online.
‘And also, are you getting jellied eels because you know Mum loves them?’
‘Yes, of course I’m getting them,’ I tell him in a hushed voice.
‘What? The serviettes or the jellied eels.’
‘The jellied eels.’
‘The what? Sorry, Hamish was just barking.’
‘The jellied eels!’ I tell him, louder.
The couple me a snooty look. I plaster a blasé smile onto my face as if jellied eels are the next ironic hipster food, like Shoreditch’s obsession with cereal cafes, and they’re just not as up-to-the-minute as me.
‘But what about the serviettes? Will you get them? Because I’m not sure if we should go for them or ones with Happy Birthday written on them. What do you think?’ Tom
asks.
‘Errr…’ I want to answer him, but that snooty couple are still glancing over and somehow, I doubt I can pass off polka dot serviettes as the latest in ironic party cool. ‘Tom, can I call you back?’
‘Oh…’ he sounds disappointed. ‘But we’ve got so much to plan…’
‘I know but I’m on it, don’t worry. I’ll call you after dinner, okay?’
‘Okay, Soph. Speak in a bit,’ Tom says, sounding deflated.
I promise to call him soon and hang up.
‘What was that all about?’ Daniel raises an eyebrow. ‘Jellied eels?’
‘Just preparation for Lyn’s party,’ I tell him.
‘Oh… That.’ He picks up his glass of wine and takes a sip.
‘He just wanted to know if I’d got jellied eels. Of course, I’ve got jellied eels! They’re Lyn’s favourite. If I’m in charge of catering I’m hardly going to leave out Lyn’s favourite food. She bangs on about jellied eels all the time. Jellied eels with chilli vinegar, jellied eels with mash, jellied eels with—’
‘Okay, Sophia,’ Daniel cuts me off. ‘I get it. She likes jellied eels.’
He places his hand over mine. ‘But maybe you could pipe down about them in a Michelin star restaurant?’
‘Oh…’ I look over to see the snooty couple still smirking. ‘Sorry.’
Daniel pulls his hand away and wrinkles his nose.
‘Do you know what? I think this wine has been corked. It doesn’t taste quite right. I’m going to have a word with the bar man. One moment,’ he says, before getting up and carrying his glass of wine over to the bar.
I sigh and pick at my bread, shooting a few sneaky glares at the stuck-up couple. Why is it that all I need to do is mention something like jellied eels and people automatically start smirking and treating me like a commoner? I bet if Cleo talked about jellied eels in her la-di-da voice, people would start requesting them from the waiter and then in a week’s time, they’d be added to the Windsor Gatehouse’s menu and an article would run in the London Evening Standard hailing them as a ‘traditional but timeless, quintessential London dish’ or some crap like that.
The waiter interrupts my thoughts as he places a steaming bowl of some sort of complimentary broth on the table. He puts it between mine and Daniel’s place settings, smiles politely and walks away. I eye it curiously, observing a few wilting flowers floating on the surface. I guess it must be some sort of soup to go with the focaccia. Or maybe it’s some kind of trendy detox concoction or some sort of transparent Japanese thing. I pluck out one of the flowers and bring it up to my nose to sniff, but it doesn’t really smell of anything. I pick up the bowl and place it in front of me, before dunking a piece of focaccia in it and bringing it to my lips. It doesn’t taste of much. I pick up my spoon and try a few more mouthfuls without the focaccia, and sure enough, without the bread overpowering the soup, you can actually detect some subtle floral flavours. Ha! Perhaps all this fine dining is paying off and my palette is becoming more refined. From jellied eels to crystal clear Japanese soup! How far I’ve come! I gulp down a few more mouthfuls. It’s actually delicious, such a gentle and yet unique flavour. The waiter passes, en route to the kitchen.
‘Excuse me?’ I beckon him over and point towards the soup with my spoon. ‘This is great! What exactly is it?’
‘Err…’ he looks completely taken aback. ‘Umm…’
‘Do you have the recipe?’ I ask, but instead of responding, he just stands there, wrenching a tea towel between his hands.
Perhaps he’s a bit slow, or maybe his English isn’t that great.
‘It’s delicious,’ I enunciate slowly and loudly, pointing towards the soup. ‘Very. Nice. Do. You. Have. The. Recipe?’
‘It’s… er…’ The waiter’s eyes dart around uncomfortably. ‘Umm… Err…’ he stammers.
What’s up with him? It’s just a simple question.
Daniel appears at our table, with a barman in tow carrying a bottle of red wine and two sparkling glasses on a tray. He glances between me and the waiter, who still looks completely lost; I’m beginning to suspect he might have some sort of cognitive issue.
‘Everything okay?’ Daniel asks as he sits down.
‘What are you doing with that?’ He gestures at my soup.
‘Oh, you can have some too if you want.’ I place the bowl between us. ‘It’s delicious. I was just asking the waiter for the recipe but he doesn’t seem to know.’
Daniel glances up at the waiter and they exchange an awkward, almost pained look I can’t quite read. Inexplicably, Daniel starts to blush and the waiter smiles tightly.
‘Sophia, that’s not soup,’ Daniel says in a low voice. ‘It’s a finger dipping bowl. It’s for me to clean my fingers while I eat my lobster.’
My eyes widen in alarm. A finger dipping bowl. A fucking finger dipping bowl. Heat rises slowly but surely to my cheeks.
‘I’ll just get you another one,’ the waiter tells Daniel, before picking up the half-eaten flipping finger dipping bowl and carrying it back to the kitchen.
Daniel gives me a withering look as the barman places the bottle of wine and glasses down, acting deliberately polite and aloof, as if nothing’s happened. As if I’m not about to become the laughing stock of all the restaurant’s staff the moment he walks away, which he eventually does.
‘I thought it was…’ I squirm, my cheeks blazing.
‘I know,’ Daniel mutters.
Still blushing, I look down and focus on tearing off another piece of focaccia. I place it in my mouth, chew and swallow, but it slides down my throat like a lump of lead. For someone who thought they were detecting subtle floral hints two minutes ago, my taste buds are now completely dead.
‘I’m just going to go to the loo,’ I say, grabbing my bag and scarpering across the restaurant, my face burning and no doubt, bright red.
I make it to the bathroom and breathe a sigh of relief that it’s empty. I can’t deal with any more eyes on me, any more humiliating faux pas. Clutching the sides of the sink, I force myself to take a deep breath before looking up at my reflection in the mirror. As expected, my cheeks are bright red, I look a little sweaty and my hair has gone a bit frizzy. I look like an idiot. The kind of idiot who just ate finger dipping water. The kind of idiot who not only mistook a finger dipping bowl for Japanese soup, but requested the recipe. I hate myself. I actually hate myself.
‘Sophia! Dahhling!’ Cleo cries, barging into the toilet in a clatter of high heels and giddiness. Great. Just great.
She gives me a once over, taking in my blazing, mortified face.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply through gritted teeth.
‘Okay…’ She tilts her head to the side, unconvinced. ‘We didn’t really get a chance to chat out there. Wait for me, okay?’ she says, somehow making her suggestion sound like an order as she dashes inside one of the cubicles.
I stand there, begrudgingly waiting for her. If I’d wanted a moment alone, I should have hidden in one of the cubicles, rather than standing here, contemplating my bedraggled appearance. I sigh over the tinkling sound of Cleo peeing. She flushes the loo and emerges, straightening the hem of her dress.
She squirts some soap onto her palm.
‘So, Sophia, tell me about yourself… It’s such a thrill to meet Daniel’s new girlfriend,’ she comments as she washes her hands.
Something about the way she says ‘new’ girlfriend and not just ‘girlfriend’ jars with me and I smile tightly.
‘Well, err… I work at a medical research centre. As a copywriter. I’m trying to be a real writer though.’
She looks at me dumbly.
‘No, but where are you from?’ she asks.
‘Oh, umm… I’m from Worcester. That’s where I grew up, but now I live in, umm…’ I glance down at the sink and then reluctantly back up at Cleo, whose eyes are fixed on me, awaiting my response.
‘Lewisham,’ I mutter.
‘Where?!’ Cleo cranes closer to me, looking completely lost.
‘Umm… Just Lewisham, you know…’ I let out a high-pitched laugh. Next time I’m going to lie, I tell myself. Next time one of Daniel’s posh upper-class friends asks me where I’m from, I’m just going to tell them I’m from Chelsea or the Home Counties or something. Admitting the truth is just too embarrassing.
‘Lew-ish-ham?’ Cleo scrunches up her nose. ‘Where is that?’
‘It’s…er…just southeast London, you know…’ I let out another laugh, wishing the ground would swallow me up.
‘Ohhh…’ Cleo nods slowly as if something profound has dawned on her. ‘I get it. You’re one of them.’
She reaches inside her Birkin and pulls out a Chanel make-up bag, from which she takes out Chanel face powder to dab at her already blemish-free nose.
‘Sorry, what? I’m one of what?’ I ask, taken aback.
It’s one thing that this spoilt hedge fund sugar baby forces me to spell out which insalubrious borough of London I live in just so she can calibrate my social status, but to be so explicit about it and to palm me off as ‘one of them’ is taking it too far. Cleo tears her gaze away from her reflection and gives me a once over, realising that I’m pretty pissed off.
‘Look, darling, I’m not judging you. It’s just Daniel’s thing,’ she says, smiling awkwardly. ‘Never mind…’ She bats the thought away. ‘Note to self, think before you speak, Cleo!’ She lets out a shrill laugh and tries to teeter past me towards the door.
‘Wait.’ I side-step into her path, blocking her way. I’ve got to understand what she means.
‘I need to get back to Simon,’ she sighs as she tries to pass me. I stand in front of the door, refusing to budge.
‘Wait a minute. I need you to explain. What’s Daniel’s thing?’
Cleo rolls her eyes dramatically and lets out a long, huffy sigh.
‘You,’ she says, doing a sweeping gesture over me.
She takes a step back and regards me with a cold expression, her fake bubbliness wearing thin.
‘Daniel goes for girls like you,’ she says. ‘Some of us give to charity, some of us are even trustees on their boards, but Daniel prefers to do his acts of goodwill…’ she pauses, searching for the right words. ‘…A little closer to home. I mean, personally, I donate to an orphanage in Bangladesh, and Simon, well he supports a whole raft of causes, but Daniel, well Daniel just sort of adopts girls like you. I suppose he gets a kick out of it.’