by Lucy Lord
‘What were they like?’ I ask.
‘What’s anyone like? They were my parents. I loved them. Sorry, that’s not a very satisfactory answer, is it?’ He smiles briefly. ‘Well, Mum was a music teacher; Dad was a history teacher. They were both very keen on education. They seemed to have fun a lot too, though. We had a lot of fun, the three of us. I think they really loved each other. You take all that stuff for granted, when it’s all you’ve ever known, but knowing what I know now of the world, I think my parents probably had an exceptional relationship.’ A lump comes into my throat.
‘What a horrible waste,’ I say quietly.
‘Yes.’
We drive on in silence for a few minutes, then Andy says,
‘When it happened it felt like my world had come to an end. But now I am just grateful that for seventeen years I was so happy. I’m grateful every day that they gave me that. Which isn’t to say that I don’t still miss them, of course.’ He stares steadily at the road.
‘No, of course not.’ The lump is getting bigger and I can sense that his is too. We are both silent again.
His hands on the steering wheel look male and capable. I look around the car. Neither horribly neat nor as messy as mine would doubtless be if I could a) drive and b) afford a car, it has a comfortable, lived-in feel about it. The back seat is strewn with newspapers – The Times, Telegraph, Guardian, FT, New York Times and International Herald Tribune. Some crosswords look as if they’re completed, which impresses me. The open glove compartment is stuffed with maps, pens and unopened letters – bills by the look of them. A well-thumbed Penguin paperback of Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop lies at my feet. I pick it up.
‘I must re-read this,’ I say. ‘One of the funniest books ever.’
‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘And a must-read for all journalists. Borrow it if you want, I’ve just finished it.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, surprised. ‘I’m pretty sure my copy is at Mum’s.’ I put it in my handbag.
Eventually, after some piss-poor map reading on my part, we reach the turn-off for the wood.
‘Look, this is where it says we need to get out,’ I say, pointing at the big red cross on the map Max gave to Andy.
‘So it is. Well, Bella, time to put your best foot forward, old girl.’
‘Good luck,’ I say in my best Agatha Christie heroine voice, leaning over to shake his hand.
We sneak through the wood as quietly as we can, every twig breaking sounding like gunshot. I am such a private investigator. When Poppy and I were thirteen, a careers counsellor came to our school and, immersed at the time in Agatha and Dorothy L. Sayers, we both told her we wanted to be private detectives; we were given pretty short shrift. As the memories hit me, I find myself hoping that Pops is coping OK with her father’s decline without Damian’s support. I swiftly put the thought out of my head.
Soon, sounds come floating through the air, faintly at first, then gradually louder and louder. Pan pipes, a fiddle, drums, chanting … oooh, how exciting. I grin at Andy, and he grins back, also caught up in the excitement, by the look on his face, as he treads carefully through the undergrowth.
He stops abruptly, with his finger to his lips. Gesturing to me to hide behind the trees, he points into a large clearing.
A motley crew of face-painted tree-people and creatures that probably think they are druids or shamans are sitting cross-legged in a circle. I spot Kimberly among them, her red ringlets loose around her face, eyes closed, face lifted up to the sky. I’d forgotten how young she is – twenty-five at the very most. And how exquisitely pretty. God, I hate the self-centred moron. How dare she sit here, serenely sucking up whatever mindless bollocks this is, while my father is enduring a living hell?
Andy nudges me, whispering, ‘I think we’ve gate-crashed a wedding.’
Oh for fuck’s sake, Max.
The bride and groom are kneeling at the centre of the human circle, palm-to-palm, smiling beatifically, eyes half shut. The groom is wearing a kilt and a grubby brown shirt; the bride, faintly Grecian robes the colour of snot, with a headdress that looks like something a Red Indian squaw might sport. Statues of Ganesh, pagan effigies, Egyptian cats and Buddhas form an inner circle between the happy couple and the ersatz congregation.
A man in purple robes with a blond goatee and sideburns is saying,
‘You, gentle people, were all asked to bring a stone with you, a special stone, for this very special day. The day that our good fellow planet-dwellers, Jed and Bethany, become one, with each other, and with the earth.’ The crowd hollers and cheers. ‘I would now like to ask you, one by one, what your stone means to you.’
A chap with a greasy grey ponytail stands up and says, ‘So this pebble, this little anti-capitalist pebble – or should I say, little Rock of Ages that says FUCK YOU, TORIES …’ There are appreciative sniggers all round at the profundity. He puts up a grubby hand so he can continue. ‘Symbolizes to me – and I think I can speak for all of us …’ He smiles around smugly. ‘Unity, harmony, peace – and above all, anarchy! Oh pebble of the people, I kiss you.’
Andy nudges me again and I bite my lip, trying to keep a straight face as the crowd erupts into cheers. Next up is an earnest-looking woman sporting frizzy, centre-parted hair, calf-length tie-dye and friendship bracelets. I imagine her shagging opportunities are few and far between.
‘I didn’t so much find this stone as …’ There is a pregnant pause. Andy whispers in my ear, ‘Please God, don’t let her say “It found me”.’
‘… As … It. Found. Me.’
It’s the knowing smiles and sincere nods from the other guests that finally do it for us. Heaving and spluttering, we run out of the forest, trying to contain our giggles until we reach a place of safety.
‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ I say, clutching my tummy as we reach the car. ‘I can’t believe Max sent us all this way for that!’
‘Perhaps we should go back into the fray,’ says Andy gravely. ‘I’d like to see what Kimberly has to say about her stone. You never know, it could be a clue … Or at least give us a link to the Universe.’
‘Stop it, stop it,’ I plead, weak with laughter now.
‘We might be missing the live sacrifice AS WE SPEAK …’
‘STOP IT!’ I turn away from him as the very sight of him is cracking me up now and I can’t breathe I’m laughing so much. Once I’ve regained my breath, I say,
‘Good job I wore my camouflage gear, though. And if I’d done my face painting I might even have been able to infiltrate the enemy …’
‘You weren’t going to paint your face?’ It’s Andy’s turn to laugh his bollocks off.
‘Oh yes. Stripes. Only stopped myself at the last minute.’
‘Well, what are we going to do now?’ says Andy once he’s stopped laughing. ‘It seems silly to have come all this way for nothing – though I have to admit that ceremony alone was worth the drive. It’s very pretty round here. Do you want to try and find a pub with a beer garden?’
‘That’s a brilliant idea, if you’re sure you’ve got the time …’
‘Thanks to that brother of yours, this afternoon’s already a write-off work-wise. Let’s make the most of it.’ He smiles and we get back in the car. Ensconced, I call Max.
‘Well? What’ve you got?’
‘Maxy, for a very clever man you can be very stupid sometimes!’ I can hardly get the words out I’m laughing so much again. ‘Talk to Andy, he’ll tell you.’ Andy gestures to me that he can’t take both hands off the wheel, so I put the phone on monitor, and soon the three of us are laughing fit to explode.
‘OK, sorry,’ says Max. ‘I suppose she can’t be done for stupidity. But it was worth a try, surely?’
Andy smiles at me and says, ‘Yes, Max, it was certainly worth a try. And we now think that the excruciatingly long journey is worth a drink. A pint with your lovely sister is just what I could do with.’
Did he just say lovely?
Outside The Old Swan T
avern, I gulp my large Magners as Andy sips his pint of Pride.
‘Sorry again for such a waste of your afternoon,’ I say.
‘You can hardly call it a waste,’ he says, gesturing around at the pretty beer garden, all wooden tables and colourful hanging baskets. England is in full bloom. ‘Actually, I haven’t laughed so much for ages.’
Suddenly selfconscious, I remove my shades and baseball cap, glad again that I don’t have to wipe greasepaint off my face.
‘Should I take these ridiculous mutton as lamb things out too?’ I tug at my plaits.
‘No, keep them in. You look cute.’
‘Thanks.’ Something is going on inside me every time he looks at me like that. I have to kill it.
‘So how’s it going with the wedding? It’s less than a month now, isn’t it?’
‘Thanks for asking. Everything’s going really well now. Al has stopped being so weird …’ I try to look as if I don’t know what he’s on about and he laughs.
‘You’re so transparent. Al has been horrible, especially in front of my friends, ever since we got engaged, and it’s been a real struggle. Mainly defending her to my friends, actually, as we hardly ever see one another alone with so much work on both our plates, but over the last couple of weeks she’s really lightened up. It’s such a relief.’
‘Do you think it’s to do with that awful case she’s working on?’ No point in telling him what the bitch said to me at Charlie and Ali’s.
‘Probably. And also the pressure from her horrible, religious nutter parents. Christ, why should hers be alive and mine be dead?’ He laughs slightly shamefacedly. ‘Not an honourable sentiment, I know.’
‘But entirely understandable. There’s no rhyme nor reason.’ I wish I could say something more profound. ‘I’m so sorry, Andy. The idea of my parents dying is just too horrific to contemplate, and I’ve no idea how I’ll cope when the time comes. You’re awfully brave.’
‘What a man’s gotta do, a man’s gotta do.’ He puts on a John Wayne voice and I laugh.
‘Seriously though, it was years ago. I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it,’ he says, taking a sip of his Pride and noticing my Magners is nearly empty. ‘D’you want another one?’
‘Oh yes please.’ Despite the grim topic of conversation, I am enjoying talking to him enormously. Surely one more drink won’t hurt?
He comes back with my bottle and its ice-filled glass and all I can think, as I look at him with the sun behind him, is how tall he is, how incredibly nice he is, how shaggable he is …
For Christ’s sake, you absolute bloody fool. He is getting MARRIED next month.
‘You look ever so handsome.’ Oh Christ, I didn’t just say that, did I?
He does, though. Some people look bloody awful in bright sunshine. With his high cheekbones, strong jaw and just a hint of black stubble on his clear male skin, Andy looks fantastic, even though the sun glinting off his specs means I can’t see his dark eyes properly.
‘And you look ever so pretty …’ He stops himself. ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ he laughs and starts again.
‘Bella …’ Someone is shaking my shoulder, disturbing me from a wonderful dream, during which Andy was kissing every inch of my body, while telling me how much he loved me.
‘Huh?’ I say drowsily and unattractively.
‘You’re home,’ says Andy, smiling at me. I’m still in the passenger seat of his car. Must have been out for the count since we left the pub.
‘Oh fuck, I wasn’t snoring, was I?’ Such an elegant way with words.
‘Like a trooper.’ Great.
‘Well, thanks so much for everything today, and sorry for passing out. It has to be too much sun – two bottles of Magners wouldn’t get a gnat pissed, after all!’
Andy laughs as I get out of the door. ‘It was quite sweet actually. You were snoring in time to Rodrigo.’ And he buggers off into the warm summer evening.
Chapter 17
It’s the night of the Stadium summer party and I’m twitchy with excitement. It’s been bloody ages since I had a proper night out, and Simon issued me with an invite a couple of days ago. Somebody probably dropped out at the last moment.
‘Well, you’re a contributor now,’ he said, generously referring to my measly set of illustrations. The party is being held in conjunction with Agent Provocateur to coincide with the magazine’s porn supplement, and will feature Dita Von Teese and various other sex workers – sorry, ‘burlesque dancers’ – taking their clothes off on stage. Appropriately, the venue is the Windmill Club in Soho.
The night should be a hoot. The Stadium boys do know how to party, and it’s bound to be a glam do, with minor celebs and narcotics a-plenty. For the first time since the Ben debacle I am making a real effort with my appearance. Fuck it, I deserve a bit of fun.
‘Because I’m worth it,’ I mouth at myself in the mirror, striking a pose. I have blown my Stadium fee on a new dress from Preen (size 10 – yay!). My dress makes me drool. In the palest of shell-pink silk crêpe, it is strapless and body skimming with a subtle bubble hemline where the skirt finishes at mid-thigh. The effect is simultaneously elegant and sexy, showing off my nice brown legs and shoulders, which are satisfyingly slim after the requisite post-trauma weight loss, and all my recent running. Classy, not tarty, I think, taking an enormous swig of wine, hiking up the hem and applying yet more eyeliner.
I try not to think about Dad. Since the ridiculous excursion in the woods, Andy, Max and I seem to have drawn a blank on Kimbo muck-raking. Dad could easily still be acquitted, I’ve been telling myself. The jury has to believe he’s guilty beyond reasonable doubt, and surely my testimony will be enough to cast some doubt in their minds. But not in the minds of the Great British Public, says a niggling voice in my head. No smoke without fire …
I honestly think that if we don’t stop the case coming to court my father’s life will be irreparably damaged, even if he’s found not guilty. I can imagine him becoming a virtual recluse in his hermitage in Mallorca, hating the idea of the constant whispering and speculation, his irrepressible joie de vivre gone forever. There is a permanent tight knot of worry in my heart at the prospect.
I turn my attention back to my appearance. I haven’t bothered to get my hair cut for months, and it currently reaches halfway down my back. On a bad day this can make me look like a witch, but tonight I have blown it dry straight and trimmed my fringe, mussing it with my fingers to sex it up a bit. I’ve piled on the smoky eye make-up and added some pink blusher to what women’s magazines insist on referring to as the apples of my cheeks for that essential just-been-fucked look.
I’m meeting Max and Andy for a drink in Soho before hitting the party and don’t need to leave for another quarter of an hour or so. I pour myself another drink, light a fag and go out onto the balcony with the Evening Standard. It’s another balmy evening and the air throbs with excitement. All around preparations are being made for the Notting Hill Carnival, which is this coming weekend. My neighbours seem to be having a loudest music competition – reggae on one side, samba on the other. The faint strains of jungle can be heard from way down the road. You keep reading in the papers that the (white) locals hate Carnival, but I love the whole colourful, musical, messy, crowded, noisy, dirty, joyous, celebratory Caribbean shebang.
Opening the paper, I am confronted by yet another photo of Poppy and Ben. Yes, in the last couple of weeks, my two former favourite people have become permanent fixtures in the tabloids, though the last few pictures haven’t exactly done either of them any favours. In this photo, they are falling out of another club, Poppy looking even more dishevelled (OK, off her head) than she did in yesterday’s Metro. I peer at the photo with satisfaction. Yes, she really does look awful. Nothing could make that pretty little face look ugly, or that neat little body look fat, but her eyes are wide and mad, her eyeliner somewhere around her chin, hair all over the place, skirt tucked into her knickers. Ben looks as if he’s having trouble holdi
ng her up. Excellent. Even better, she’s flipping a V at the cameras. Oh goody, the tabs won’t like that. Tall Poppy syndrome time.
Will P***ed Poppy Pack a Punch? says the headline. The blurb continues, Ben ‘opening of an envelope’ Jones and his tired and emotional partner Poppy Wallace were pictured leaving The Ivy last night looking somewhat worse for wear. A word of advice, Poppy love. If you don’t like being photographed, there are plenty of other places to dine in the capital. And just what ARE you famous for, anyway?
Poppy’s father was always so proud that she’d used her brains to get on in life, rather than her looks. I suppose it’s a tiny silver lining on an enormous black cloud that he’s been spared her transformation from high-flying TV producer to C-list tabloid fodder. No, fuck it, it’s not a silver lining at all. What in God’s name am I thinking? Far better he was still able to read – he’d probably just laugh it off as the idiocy of the Press. Just for a moment a wave of sympathy for Pops washes over me, but then I force the image of her straddling Ben back into my mind and the familiar bile rises in my gorge.
I harden my heart, shut the paper and go inside to finish getting ready. I clip on some dangly silver and diamanté vintage earrings, then sit down to strap on a pair of vertiginous silver strappy platforms that add at least five inches to my legs. I stand up again to look in the mirror, wobbling slightly. A vision stares back at me, dark-eyed and slim and exotic in her fabulous dress. Yes, I am gorgeous. Eat your heart out, Poppy Wino Wallace.
As I wobble down Ladbroke Grove in search of a taxi, cars hoot, men on the street do double takes and one even wolf whistles. It’s all I can do not to punch the air. Such is my momentary joy of being ME ME ME that I don’t notice the blessed orange light of a black cab until it speeds right past me. I hail it frantically and it screeches to a halt.
‘Where to, love?’
‘Old Compton Street, please.’