by Lotte Daley
‘Excuse me, Madame, but are we at an agreement?’ he said, looking at Danielle. He only briefly glanced at me, even though the question was directed at me. God, maybe I am invisible, so insignificant, that when any major decision about my appearance or my love life arises, it is glibly passed over my head to the most attractive or competent-looking person there, which evidently isn’t me.
‘I,’ I said, loudly, very much in his direction and with what I hoped was an air of authority in my voice, stuff Bailey, Jack, even Hanna, stuff them all, I’m going to this dinner at The Dorchester no less, and I’m going to have a bloody jamming time and, best of all, I will wear my new Nicole Farhi dress!
‘I,’ I continued, pointing at no one in particular, ‘am most definitely going to accept the dinner and also – OW!’ I said and shot daggers at Danielle, whose long red fingernail had left an indentation mark on the top of my arm. The penguin-suited waiter looked surprised and his eyes darted between us.
‘Don’t look desperate, for heaven’s sake!’ Danielle hissed.
‘Gah!’ I said, rubbing my arm. I curled my lips before turning to penguin waiter. ‘I would like to accept, ahem, Mr Matravers’ invitation, and thank him also, for his hospitality.’
‘Very well,’ he said, as he bowed politely, turned on his heels and made off towards wherever it was he came from.
‘Sorry, babe, I just didn’t want you to be too eager, give the impression you’re easily caught,’ Danielle half smiled apologetically at me.
‘What are you, Richard?’
‘What?’
‘The love guru with a manual of dating tips at your disposal.’
‘Funny … no, I just, well, actually, we’ve got about ten single girls in the office who rabbit on about rules of dating, what to say, stuff that I have no clue about, seeing as the last date I went on before Stewart made himself a fixture in my life again, wanted me to have his children and live alone with him, tied to the kitchen sink in the Scottish Highlands.’
‘HAH!’ I laughed, picturing Danielle without her power suits and six-inch heels, no pillarbox-red lippy to match her hair, no more Gucci sunglasses, manicures or Pucci maxi dresses. Nope. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t imagine Danielle tending to flocks of sheep or, indeed, flocks of babies.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘My sentiments exactly. Anyway, I didn’t mean to be trite, Katie, it’s just, well, sometimes you can come across as, well, as a bit needy.’ She took another swig of champagne. I felt as though she’d smashed the glass and stuck a shard of it in my heart.
‘Ouch,’ I said, swigging from my own glass and reaching for more. ‘That hurt.’
‘Sorry … think I’ve had too much bubbly. I mean everything I say, with love, you know, lots of love,’ she grinned.
I knew she meant it with love, but did she really honestly think I was a loser in romance? I wasn’t that bad, was I?
‘Am I that bad?’ I blurted out.
‘No, no, babe, I just think, sometimes you should hold back, like, just be a bit more, self-assured, a bit more like …’
‘Hanna,’ I said, suddenly. Hanna doesn’t take shit, I bet Hanna doesn’t glue herself to her BlackBerry for it to beep with a message from the man she’s currently in love with, or in lust with at the very least, waiting to see if it’s him and questioning, wondering, hankering, obsessing over where he is, what he’s doing. I bet in Hanna’s world, he’s the one who’s playing the waiting game. In Hanna’s world, the men are as disposable as her Wilkinson Swords. I bet Hanna, if she’s not a lesbian, commands and dictates and expects the absolute best or else … or else she’ll make like one of those bitchy spiders that kill their mates after sex. Yeah, that’s what Hanna’s like, a black widow spider.
‘I suppose so …’ Danielle mused. ‘Hanna’s not a bad person to mould yourself on, babe, she’s smart, cool, successful and I bet she sets the rules in any of her love games.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ I agreed. ‘I doubt she plays any games with boys,’ I added.
‘She doesn’t play with boys, Katie,’ Danielle sniggered.
‘So, you think she’s a lesbian?’
‘No, God, no, just because she’s a successful ball-breaking bitch doesn’t mean she’s into women. No, good Lord, I meant, she doesn’t play games with boys – she plays them with men.’
The rest of the morning, Danielle and I talked about anything other than men. OK, that’s not true, we talked of nothing else, but we didn’t talk about Bailey. I wanted to talk about Bailey until the cows came home, but Danielle successfully steered the conversation away from Bailey, and barely involved herself when I attempted to talk Jack. She droned on and on and on about Fabio, to the point where I suggested she give Stewart-small-penis the heave-ho and go on this date herself. An hour after swimming, we lay side-by-side in a dimly lit room whilst two massage therapists pounded our shoulder blades with large oval stones. The heat from them was delicious, my eyes were glazed over and it was all I could do not to fall asleep.
‘Mmmm,’ I murmured to Danielle, as she continued to babble on about various different things in her life, specifically, her work.
‘And so really, I want to get rid of the intern, she’s just a little too close for comfort when it comes to making tea for Stewart and he assures me that there is nothing to worry about but, Katie, she’s, like, nineteen, boobs like traffic cones, ass like a walnut. I’m jealous. She’s blonde too, blue eyes … I hate her.’
‘Oh, babe, she sounds like a troll. Sod that she’s got traffic-cone tits, you have wonderful breasts, the best ones I’ve ever seen. In fact, let’s get a picture of them so I can take them in to show the surgeon when I’ve made my millions for my boob … oh … oh …’
‘Your what?’ Danielle is suddenly awake and as she turns to me, the masseuse stumbles backwards. A stone slips off and cracks against the floor tiles.
‘My, um, please don’t kill me, I was going to have a boob job on Monday.’ The room is silent for a minute.
‘I see,’ she says, before lying back in her previous position.
‘Um, I had this consultation and I was going to have the operation, it’s in my contract to, um, go with any improvements for the good of my image, but it’s OK, no need for shoutage, I’m having Macrolane jabs instead.’
‘So, you think if you change yourself, poison yourself even, to become another Jessica Hilson, your life will become amazing and your boyfriends will never ever leave you again?’
‘I guess so,’ I say quietly. ‘Well, it worked for Jessica …’
‘I beg of you, think some more, buy a Wonderbra, anything, just please don’t mutilate yourself, pump your body with chemicals. What would your mother say?’
‘She wouldn’t know.’
‘Katie, don’t be a wally, she’ll see them! How big were you going to go?’
‘I wanted to go to a C or maybe a D with the implants … If I go for the jabs they aren’t permanent, you can go up two cup sizes … Aubrey wants me to be an F!’ I attempt to lighten the mood.
‘He wants to F-off more like, I mean, who do they think they are? These media types, it’s like, fuck off, seriously fuck right off, how dare they think they can mutilate you like this and then tell you it’s what you need to be having done in order to “make it” in this world. Please, Katie, think again.’
‘I will,’ I lied. But I knew that I wanted those boobs, because all the celebrities had big boobs. No one famous had little B cups. No. And I would totally die of embarrassment if I ended up wearing those chicken fillets and they fell out in front of the whole entire world, which they would of course, because this is me, and stupid things happen to me all the time. And I bet you another thing, that stupid, frizzy-haired, big-nosed journalist from London Lowdown, Pippa Strong, she’d be there with her long lens, getting the best shot of it and plastering it all over her rubbish magazine.
I hated it when there was tension between Danielle and me and I was struggling, truth be told,
to understand what was bugging her. Ever since Friday night when she almost caught me having it off with Bailey, post-coital, alone, and a little bit wobbly, she had something to tell me and she’d been touchy, and a heck of a lot more vocal about her feelings to do with everything from the men in my life, to the bits of me I wanted enlarged. I had to get to the bottom of this.
‘Danielle, what on earth is eating you?’ I blurt out.
She sighs heavily.
‘Nothing is eating me,’ she says defensively.
God, it feels like I’m talking to Janice.
‘I’m just, I don’t want to see you get hurt by these pricks and I don’t want to see you go through a very painful operation to change a part of your body that is perfectly fine the way it is. If I can’t tell you this as your best friend and as someone who loves you dearly, and cares about your welfare, then so what? Hate me if you like, I’m not going to stand by and watch this. I’ll say what I like, and just hope some of it sinks in.’
‘Jeez, Louise. I’m not having a boob job right now. I may change my mind in the future and you will just have to lump it either way. I’d rather you at least try to respect me. I have a brain of my own!’ I squeal.
‘Oh, really? Well, do you want to try using it sometime, Katie?’ Danielle shot up off the couch. ‘I’m done here, thanks,’ she said to the masseuse.
‘Danielle,’ I called out after her, but she was moving fast towards the door.
‘Danielle!’ I yelled, as the therapists looked on in vague amusement at the mini drama being played out in front of them.
‘I can’t talk to you right now, Katie, because if I do, I’ll say something I’ll regret. It’s better we just walk away from each other now, and cool down.’
‘I’m cool!’ I screeched at her, ‘You’re the one who’s trying to police my life, what with your phone-checking rules and your stupid opinions and your bloody infuriating reluctance to tell me what’s really making you act like the PMT bitch from hell!’
‘OOOOH, blame it on the period you know I’m having!’ she screamed back at me, holding her robe with one hand and pointing at me furiously with the other.
‘Need I say more?’ I said glibly.
‘You know what, Katie, or should that be Jessica mark two? You go desecrate your body, you go moulding yourself on a jumped-up little tart who steals your boyfriend if that’s all you think you’re worth, but I tell you something, it won’t make him love you, and you’ll be the one in tears!’
‘Like I have any left after all this shit!’ I screamed, more hot tears welling up in my eyes. ‘What is it?’ I screamed some more, ‘What is it you can’t tell me! This isn’t about my boobs, is it!?’ I looked at her, exhausted from screaming so hard. My throat tickled and I nervously coughed.
‘No, Katie, it’s not just about your boobs, it’s … It’s me, it’s all my issues, just, I need to go, I’m sorry, this conversation needs to close now, I’m going home, please don’t come after me, and you go on this date tonight. Don’t wear the Nicole Farhi dress, take it back, you’re not a middle-aged Sloaney pony, OK, you need something more hip, go shopping, do what you like, I’ll call you.’ And she just waved her hands in the air dismissively and padded off down the dimly lit hallway towards our hotel room.
‘May I finish the massage, Madam?’ the therapist questioned.
‘I guess,’ I said, as I slumped forward, my face through the hole in the bed, and thought about what had just gone down. What was Danielle’s problem? Specifically, why did she hate my dress?
Chapter 12
6.30pm
Brush teeth, spray Impulse body spray all over self and pull up sheer stockings. Do not, I repeat, do not snag them on your costume ring that looks like it’s worth a zillion pounds but actually cost £4.99 from Portobello Road market.
6.35pm
Check reflection of hairdo in the mirror. Get vanity mirror to check left, right and back side (of head not bottom).
6.40pm
Peer out of window. Maid comes to the door to collect overnight bag. Can’t have overnight bag cramping Nicole Farhi (hah! Danielle) very expensive, camel, knee-length dress.
6.45pm
Check reflection in mirror. Powder nose with Rimmel bronzer and apply pastel-pink MAC lipstick in St Germain. Too bright, so slick a bit of Dior neutral with sparkles on and smack lips on tissue to avoid lipstick-on-teeth disaster.
6.50pm
I wish I had my cigarettes on me. Need to calm nerves. Whiskey shots from minibar will do.
6.55pm
Check phone for texts. No texts. Bah. No missed calls. Bah. No one loves me. Gutted. Check reflection. Looking good, Katie!
6.57pm
Car is here, impressed, he’s early. One last check in mirror, looking sophisticated, hair in chignon, teeth free from any macrobiotic seaweed, check.
7.00pm
‘Katie,’ Fabio growls from the car. ‘How wonderful to see you, I trust you have enjoyed your stay, no?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I say, as I stumble into the car, somewhat akin to a baby giraffe taking its first steps. Not very elegant at all. What was I thinking, wearing six-inch heels? I am used to going down The Dolphin in Hackney with Jack in my plimsolls, not the bloomin’ Dorchester with Italian shipping heirs. He takes my hand in his gently and pulls me close for a continental kiss.
‘Mwah, mwah,’ he says, moving from my right cheek to my left. I sit down on the plush leather seats, which start to warm up my bottom.
‘This is nice,’ I say, gingerly. I don’t want to talk arse with him when we’re barely two minutes into the date.
‘The seats, they are body reactive, don’t be alarmed, my darling,’ he winks at me. All of Fabio’s bodily actions and face contortions should be screaming out ‘creepy pervert scale ten’ but they somehow add to his charm. He was a looker, he was smouldering and I could almost smell the money emanating from his person.
‘We go to The Dorchester, you like?’ he queried.
‘Mmm, yes very much so.’ I pretended that I had been before. Of course I’d been before, hadn’t everyone? No! Of course I didn’t frequent Carolina’s Pizzas on Mare Street after my Saturday night binge-drinking escapades in my favourite East End boozer. Nah, I was a seasoned professional food connoisseur.
‘So, you go there often?’
‘All the time …’ I said.
‘Then you will know that the filet de blaireau is the finest around, no?’
‘Exquisite,’ I agreed, not having a clue what he was talking about. It sounded yummy, though!
Fabio began to laugh. A small chortle, but before long, he was howling.
‘What is it?’ I said, feeling a bit out of the loop. ‘Something funny?’
‘Yes, sorry, Katie, I’m sorry, I must not make joke with you.’
‘What joke?’
‘Shh, darling, no matter.’
‘What!’ I said, feeling perturbed by him laughing at me.
I felt my cheeks flush red and my body temperature was rising uncomfortably, making my calves stick to the leather seating.
‘OK, I tell you, but please, don’t take it the wrong way, I was making joke, light-hearted, fun, see?’
‘I’ll see, when you tell me,’ I laughed nervously.
‘I asked you, Katie, if you had tried the fillet of badger.’
Oh sweet Jesus …
‘It’s OK that you’re new to The Dorchester,’ he continued, ‘I didn’t expect you to be a seasoned veteran.’
‘Oh,’ I said, squirming on the inside. He’d totally rumbled me. Fillet of bloody badger! I just, oh God, I just embarrass myself 24/7 in Kate Lewis world, oh God, how am I going to claw back some kudos now? Must tell Danielle, I thought, reaching for my handbag. Then it hit me, a bit painfully, that I couldn’t text Danielle. She wouldn’t want to know. After her huff earlier, she told me not to contact her, she’s on a cool-down, she’d be in touch. I couldn’t tell Richard that I’d told Fabio Matravers I enjoyed eating badger f
illets because then he’d tell Hanna and she’d tell Frenella and my life totally wouldn’t be worth living. This sucked, being stupid. I must make myself more clever, somehow. Need another stupid boyfriend. Jack made me feel like Einstein.
Eventually, we rolled up to The Dorchester. The driver opened the door for me, I stepped out and Fabio took hold of my hand and led me up to the entrance. Wordlessly, the maître d’ led us to a secluded candlelit booth at the back of the restaurant.
‘Madam,’ a waiter said, as he placed a menu entirely in another language in front of me. It was full of ‘Poissons’ and such like. I daren’t ask what it all meant, no need for further food humiliation. As long as I could work out what was and what wasn’t fish we’d be fine. I would vomit on him if I ate any fish.
‘Katie, what food do you like the most?’ Fabio spoke gently to me, it was clear that he didn’t want me to feel awkward, a touching, sweet gesture.
‘I like chicken, and um, I like potatoes,’ I said, smiling.
His face contorted with surprise and delight. ‘You eat the potatoes?’
‘Well, yes, if they were here right now, I would eat them, very, um, nutritious,’ I say, fumbling with my words.
‘Hmm, I see,’ he said, still smiling.
‘What? Potatoes aren’t another word for badgers or poo or something?’ Oh God, I’d said poo, this is not good, people don’t say poo in The Dorchester, or anywhere else for that fact, especially not out on a date with an Italian studmuffin like Fabio Matravers.
‘Heh heh,’ he laughed. ‘I love your humour, you are so, refreshing, so funny, light, vibrant, you really glow!’ he said, gazing at me all starry-eyed.
‘It’s the excitement of meeting you,’ I said, even though I’m positive he was commenting on my Rimmel bronzing glow. Good make-up choice, I thought to myself. Must wear again.
‘Potatoes are like, how shall I put it, like, akin to eating poo, I suppose, from recent experiences of dining out with beautiful women,’ he mused.