Revelry

by Lucy Lord

  ‘No, I didn’t know, although I probably should.’ I smile at Andy and Alison, willing them not to realize how comprehensively I switched off whenever Alison started boring on in Ibiza. ‘Why don’t you join us once you’ve finished eating? There’s plenty of room at our table.’

  ‘Thanks, but we haven’t finalized the catering arrangements,’ begins Alison, when Andy cuts her off. ‘We’d love to,’ he says firmly, smiling at me. ‘I’m sure we can wind this up in the next five minutes or so while we finish our food.’

  ‘Great,’ says Max. ‘We’ll be over soon.’ He rolls his eyes at me again. ‘Right, back to business …’

  We order our food and settle down convivially with the wine and breadbasket.

  ‘Why the fuck did you ask them to join us, Bella?’ says Mark, as everyone shushes him.

  ‘Max is her brother, Mark,’ says Poppy quietly. ‘Why the fuck do you think?’

  ‘I don’t care about the shirt-lifter,’ says Mark. ‘But that bird. Jeeezus, she could wipe the hard-on off Hugh Heffner in a Jacuzzi full of Playmates. Does she ever smile?’

  ‘Sssh, sssh, sssh,’ we say, trying not to giggle.

  ‘Andy’s the one I object to,’ says Damian, dropping his guard momentarily. ‘Fucking do-gooder with his “insightful and intelligent” pieces.’ His voice is sounding more Welsh by the second.

  ‘You sound like you’re quoting,’ says Poppy.

  ‘I am,’ says Damian morosely. ‘The National Press Awards.’

  Poppy laughs. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, you could have gone down that route if you wanted. You chose the sex, drugs and rock-’n’-roll path of no-resistance journalism instead, and you love it.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. He doesn’t have to be such a fucking smug prick about it, though …’

  At this inauspicious juncture, the three of them join us, and we all shift around to make space.

  ‘So did you finalize the catering arrangements?’ I ask Alison, as Poppy kicks me under the table. Alison is looking quite the elegant solicitor tonight, in a beautifully tailored white cotton shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves and oversized, pushed-back cuffs. Narrow black 7/8 trousers show off her slim thighs and bony ankles. Her shoes and Mulberry handbag have been expertly and expensively crafted from the same soft tan leather, while a touch of turquoise jewellery lifts the outfit from classic boredom. Yup, the bitch looks good.

  ‘No, not really,’ she sighs. ‘Nobody seems to understand how stressful it is, planning a wedding. There are so many things to consider.’

  ‘Erm, maybe I’m being stupid, babe, but why don’t you just choose some grub you like and lay on plenty of booze?’ asks Mark, shoving half a bread roll into his mouth.

  ‘People have different dietary requirements,’ explains Alison patiently, as if to a five-year-old. ‘Half of my friends are gluten-free, about a third don’t eat dairy, loads are vegetarian and most won’t countenance intensive farming, so knowing the food’s provenance is vital.’

  ‘Fucking Stoke Newington lesbians,’ grunts Mark, and I try not to laugh again as I recall that Andy and Alison live in Crouch End, North London’s liberal enclave, barely a stone’s throw from Stoke Newington.

  ‘Then there are the favours,’ she continues earnestly. ‘We can’t decide whether edible favours are the way to go – and, if so, should they come out of the catering budget?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Poppy. ‘But I think favours are utterly preposterous for adults.’

  ‘What are favours?’ asks Damian, speaking for the rest of us.

  ‘Oh, ridiculous twee little gifts – sugared almonds, or packets of seeds, or horrid little gift soaps that most people will only throw away anyway and end up costing you a fortune. Honestly, Alison, save yourself the bother and expense.’

  ‘I have to say I’m inclined to agree,’ says Andy. ‘If we’re averaging three quid each and two hundred people, that’s six hundred pounds on stuff that’s only going to get chucked.’ He takes a swig of his red wine.

  ‘He can do mental arithmetic too,’ says Damian, just a tad too loudly.

  ‘I told you, money is no object,’ says Alison. ‘All the weddings I’ve been to over the last five years have had favours, and I will NOT have a second-rate, budget version.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ says Poppy equably.

  ‘I’m sure whatever Alison chooses will be perfectly delightful,’ says Ben, smiling at her. ‘And I for one won’t be throwing mine away.’ As far as I’m aware, he hasn’t been invited, but nobody points this out.

  For the first time since we arrived (I suspect the first time all evening), Alison smiles. It sits uneasily on her long face, the scarlet lips parting to show both top and bottom teeth. In fact, it doesn’t suit her at all, and I wonder if this is partly why, like Posh Spice, she has perfected the art of looking miserable.

  ‘Well, the jury’s still out on whether we’re getting them or not,’ says Andy, and Alison’s features revert to their habitual scowl. Thank Christ for that. Andy turns to Poppy. ‘How’s your father getting on?’

  I had no idea Andy knew about Ken. Poppy must have confided in him in Ibiza. I can understand why – with his height, specs and obvious intelligence, Andy must remind her to an extent of her beloved daddy, the daddy she used to know.

  ‘Bloody awfully, but thanks for asking. Last weekend was the worst so far.’

  ‘You poor thing,’ says Andy seriously. ‘I don’t have any personal experience of it, but I wrote a piece about dementia a few months ago and it does seem to hit the family very hard, from what all the people I interviewed told me.’

  Alison is looking daggers at Pops.

  ‘And so does cancer, and heart disease, and diabetes, all of which can be prevented with a little more self-restraint in one’s life,’ she says, taking a tiny sip of her red wine. I can hardly believe my ears at her insensitivity.

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Al …’ starts Andy, and Poppy smiles at him.

  ‘Thanks, you nice man, but I can fend for myself.’ She turns to Alison, and hisses, ‘I suppose you also think that if he’d done the fucking crossword or Sudoku or something more often, he’d still be right as rain. My dad is a doctor, who knows all about prevention and cure, thank you very much. Can you imagine what it felt like for him to diagnose himself? He has more intelligence in his little toe, even with his illness, than you’ll ever have in your whole body, you cow.’

  Alison puts up her hands in mock surrender.

  ‘No need to get personal. I didn’t realize he was a doctor. I apologize. It’s just that people who don’t look after themselves cost the state so much money, don’t you think?’

  ‘The tax on smoking practically pays for the NHS,’ says Mark, who’s enjoying this exchange thoroughly. ‘More wine, anyone?’ With a flourish of his huge arm, he summons the waiter and asks for four more bottles.

  ‘Four? Are you insane?’ asks Alison, askance.

  ‘You don’t have to drink them babe, do ya?’ Mark turns his back on her and starts chatting to me again.

  ‘What the fuck is her problem?’ I whisper.

  ‘She doesn’t like Andy talking to Pops, is all. Stupid bitch.’

  ‘But that’s absurd. He was only being nice about her father. And anyway, even though Pops is more gorgeous than that bitch could hope to be in a million years, she’s not exactly what you’d call a threat. She and Damian are devoted to each other.’

  ‘We know that, gorgeous, but she doesn’t.’ Mark and I clink glasses and down them in one in a moment of complete solidarity. I think I might love him, despite the Brazilian twins and the intern with the pierced nipple.

  After a bit, Alison turns to me.

  ‘Remind me what is it that you do again, Bella? Isn’t it something secretarial?’ Her pale blue eyes bore into me. Her colouring is really quite striking, I find myself thinking irrelevantly, the black hair and precisely plucked brows a vivid contrast to her pale skin and eyes.

  ‘Erm no … I’m
an artist, but sometimes I have to do a bit of temping to help pay the bills.’

  ‘And you really think that’s any way for an adult to earn a living? Don’t you think it’s time you got a proper job and left the painting as a hobby? I mean, frankly, if you haven’t made any money out of it now, I can’t imagine you ever will. You’re what? Thirty-two?’

  I am stunned into silence. Not only because Alison thinks she has the right to speak to me with such vitriol, but also because she has pinpointed my Achilles heel with painful accuracy. She is beyond poisonous.

  ‘I don’t know how you can say that when you haven’t seen Bella’s work,’ says Damian loyally. The others are all laughing loudly at something Ben’s just said, so only he and Mark have heard this delightful exchange. ‘She’s extremely talented and I know her big break is just around the corner.’

  I flash him a grateful smile. Luckily our food chooses this moment to arrive and I am spared having to defend myself further to the witch. We eat our food, and drink all the wine that Mark ordered. Then we order brandies.

  ‘Andy,’ says Alison. ‘We really should be getting home. I’ve an early start tomorrow and I’m working on a very important case.’

  ‘Oh yes, your job’s so grown-up and important, isn’t it?’ I slur, completely pissed by now. ‘It must be a total nightmare for you having to hang out with plebs like us.’

  ‘Oh, I think most people around this table have pretty important jobs, Bella,’ says Alison nastily. ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Al.’ Andy looks and sounds deeply pissed off, even more than when she was going on about Poppy’s dad. ‘I’m sorry, Bella. Sorry Poppy, too, for earlier.’

  He pulls an apologetic face at us both, but I take no notice. It’s too much. After my shitty day in the office and gallons of booze, this sniping at both Poppy’s deepest sadness and my deepest insecurities makes my reaction just a smidgeon over the top.

  ‘You fucking bitch.’ I chuck the remains of Alison’s drink at her. ‘At least I’m not a dried-up old hag who can’t speak without hurting people or even smile without looking like a fucking gargoyle.’ I am mesmerized by the red wine dripping down her pristine white shirt. Then I come to my senses and burst into tears.

  Getting up with as much dignity as I can muster, I say, ‘Max, could you cover my share of the bill, please? I’ll sort it out with you tomorrow.’

  And I stagger upstairs, sobbing. I am halfway down Kensington Park Road when I hear footsteps behind me.

  ‘You left your jacket behind,’ says Ben, holding it out to me with a smile.

  ‘Oh, thanks so much, I’m such a twat. My keys and wallet are in the pocket.’ And I cry some more, as Ben strokes my hair, standing there in the street, going, ‘Sssh, sssh, it’s going to be OK, everything’s OK.’

  After a bit he laughs. ‘You certainly told Alison where to go.’

  ‘I’m already regretting it.’ I look up at him through teary eyes. ‘I seem to have sobered up in the last couple of minutes.’

  ‘Silly bitch deserved it, going on at you and Pops like that. Oh, I know I was nice about her stupid favours, but I was bored shitless by the conversation and it seemed the only way to bring it to a close.’ We both laugh.

  ‘Well, goodnight then,’ I say reluctantly.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’m walking you home,’ says Ben, and my heart starts to beat alarmingly fast. Don’t be silly, Bella, he’s just being nice. Remember what a gentleman he is.

  He lights us each a fag. We turn right into Portobello Road and continue down through the market-stall debris, under the Westway and finally into my street. Ben is talking easily about Poppy’s promotion, laughing about Mark’s appalling behaviour, bitching about Alison. I am tongue-tied, but happy to listen, nod and laugh when required.

  ‘Well, here I am then,’ I say stupidly. ‘Thanks for looking after me.’

  ‘It was my pleasure, darling.’ Ben smiles that knee-trembling smile again. And very slowly, bends his head to kiss me. His lips are soft yet insistent. Involuntarily my own mouth opens just a fraction and he lingers a moment longer, running his tongue ever so lightly against my trembling bottom lip. Reluctantly, it seems, he pulls away, holding me in his electric blue gaze.

  ‘You looked very pretty tonight, you know.’ Then he turns on his heel and walks back down the street, turning once to blow me another kiss.

  Bugger me.

  Chapter 6

  Remember waking up on Christmas morning when you were a kid? That manic overexcitement that got you out of your own bed and into your parents’ at 5 a.m., only to be told to go back to sleep for a couple of hours? Well, that had nothing on the hyperactive frenzy I seem to have worked myself up into this morning. I am a Ritalin-dependent attention-seeking seven-year-old, without the compensating cuteness.

  For today we are going to Glastonbury. It is a glorious, glorious sunshiny day, I’ve been packed since 8 a.m. and Poppy and Damian are picking me up in half an hour. I always get excited about Glastonbury, even when it’s raining, but this year is different. This year I have been kissed by Ben, and the next four days stretch out in front of me, reverberating with romantic opportunity.

  I haven’t seen or spoken to Ben since he walked me home the other night, and neither have I told anyone about the kiss. I don’t know why. Normally I’d be straight on the phone to Poppy, but she is so much closer to Ben than I am because of Damian that I’ve never really confided in her about my feelings for him, though I imagine she has a pretty shrewd inkling. No fool, our Pops.

  It’s my wonderful little secret. Again and again I play over those few seconds. ‘It was my pleasure, darling.’ … Smile. Kiss. ‘You looked very pretty tonight, you know.’ He called me pretty! He kissed me! I realize I’m possibly reading too much into what was most likely just a drunken flirty moment, but I don’t care. I’ve been on Cloud Nine for the past week and am full of joyous optimism for what the next few days may bring.

  Unable to sit still for a second, I go over my packing for the twentieth time to see what I’ve forgotten. Three bikinis (did I mention the joyous optimism?), four pairs of knickers, three vest tops, two miniskirts, black leggings in case it gets cold, black polo-neck jumper ditto, yoga pants, T-shirt and hoodie for sleeping in if I get the chance, waterproof jacket and trousers, wellies, which take up far too much room in the rucksack but I’m not taking any chances after last year, flip-flops. I am wearing ancient cowboy boots and a white sundress printed with red cherries.

  Satisfied that my clothing covers every eventuality, I turn my attention to sundries. Wipes, wipes and more wipes; toothbrush and toothpaste; moisturizer; sun block that I’ll forget to use; dry shampoo that after a couple of days my greasy barnet won’t allow me to forget to use; deodorant; make-up. Come on, I’m hardly going to be slumming it to that extent, especially with Ben around. Strapped to the outside of my rucksack are my sleeping bag and pillow. Yes, a real one. I don’t care if I look a pillock, it makes the biggest difference in the world to comfort. Oooh, bin bags and loo paper! I suddenly remember and dash to the kitchen and bathroom. I’m out of both. I’ll have to remember to get some from the Tesco megastore we always stop at on the final leg of the journey. A 1.5-litre bottle of Evian and 1.5-litre Evian bottle filled with vodka as glass isn’t allowed on site; 3 grams of coke and 12 pills secured inside my bra, the only place security won’t look if I’m unlucky enough to be stopped; 60 Marlboro Lights.

  I look at the time on my phone. Still twenty minutes until they’re due, and Poppy and Damian aren’t the most punctual of couples at the best of times. I pick up an old copy of Stadium, Damian’s magazine, and go out onto the balcony to kill some time. The cloudless sky is already a medium denim hue and it’s only ten past ten. Feeling the sun warm on my shoulders, I heave a deep sigh of satisfaction. The next few days are going to be fabulous. Trying to quell my impatience, I flip through Stadium. It falls open randomly at 17 things you should have grown out of by now. Hmmm, let�
�s see. No. 3. Pretending to find older women attractive. Let’s face it, nineteen is their optimum age. Saggy tits and wrinkles are never a good look. Oh charming. No wonder Mark’s like he is. I have a look at the tiny by-line to see if Damian’s responsible. No, not this time. I’m sure Poppy would have something to say if he were.

  Slightly depressed now, I shut Stadium and gaze out over the leafy view for a bit, before going back inside to pick up the card I’ve made to thank Poppy for offering me her spare room as a studio. On the front is a highly stylized pen and ink illustration of Pops herself, hair in a ponytail, jaunty scarf around her neck in the manner of a 1950s fashion drawing, heading towards an old-fashioned aeroplane, an old-fashioned suitcase with labels spelling out Paris, Barcelona, Milan and Capri swinging from her hand. On the back, in the same style, is a drawing of me standing at my easel, wearing a checked artist’s smock and a headscarf around my head like a turban. Inside, in large, glittery writing, I simply wrote, Thanks, dear friend xxx.

  I love making cards for people. I like making presents too. Last Christmas I found an old dolls’ house in a junk shop, which, I decided, with a bit of TLC, would make a perfect present for Milly, my Goldsmiths chum Emma’s five-year-old daughter. I painted it white, with a pink roof, and big, blousy cabbage roses around the door, getting carried away with a riot of hearts and flowers on the shutters and climbing up the side of the house. After spending a happy afternoon seeking out remnants in the fabrics and wallpaper departments of Peter Jones, I hung pretty pink and white gingham curtains at the windows, and had a real blast with the interior, wallpapering each room in different shades and patterns of pink and even laying tiny bits of cream carpet. The pièce de résistance was the installation of battery-operated fairy lights throughout, so that the house lit up when you pressed the switch on the back. Of course it was beyond kitsch, but Milly absolutely adored it, and the delight on her face when she opened it was worth every penny I’d spent on it (in the end, it worked out significantly more expensive than it would have done just to have bought her a new dolls’ house).