Rubber Gloves or Jimmy Choos?

by Faith Bleasdale

  ***

  If I hear Robbie Williams’ ‘Millennium’ one more time I am going to scream and throw something. Every single radio station in the country seems to be stuck on this one song. Even my parents had been walking around the house humming it, and I’m sure my father doesn’t even know who Robbie Williams is. I used to like it before it was rammed down my throat billions of times a day. Now it just annoys me, which is sad because I fancy Robbie in a taking-care-of-him sort of way. Anyway this song was bugging me for a reason. You see, it’s nearly the new Millennium, only days away. And this is the only change of Millennium I’m ever going to see, and I guess I’m lucky because not everyone gets to live through one. And I wonder if things will change hugely now that there’s a new thousand years. Or will the world end, as so many predict? Oh, there’s just so much to think about. I blame Robbie Williams. In fact, Robbie has become the new target for my obsessions.

  You see, he wrote a song that is played and played and played and what it represents for me is the fact that not only is the year and the century ending and the new thousand years coming, but also that I have to go to Jess’s PR party and I don’t want to.

  The four glamorous options I had for this most important occasion were: Edinburgh with Julian and his tossy friends; Pat and Ken’s fancy-dress party with my parents; staying in on my own, by invitation of myself, or going to the PR party of the year with Jess, Sarah and lots of PR people. Jess made her invitation compulsory so, had I been tempted by any of the other options, I wouldn’t have been allowed to take them up. I was resigned to a night with the Ab Fab brigade and I couldn’t help but worry how many times they’d play Robbie. And I only had a couple of days to go.

  When I arrived at the house it was quiet and dark. I wasn’t really scared of staying there on my own, but I don’t like being on my own for too long. When I opened the front door the smell of pine hit me, or the musty smell of pine, anyway, and it was so cold. Ice cold. I rushed to put the heating on before I did anything, pushing the thermostat as high as possible. Then I dragged my belongings into the sitting room. I faced one of those depressing post-Christmas scenes. The tree stood bare, its needles decorating the carpet; the baubles that had looked so shiny now looked sad and lonely. The lights seemed out of place and even the bows drooped. The rest of the room had lost its festiveness – even the piece of tinsel that Sophie and I had insisted on hanging on the mantelpiece was shedding. Still cold, I decided to make a cup of tea. I switched on the TV and felt weird at being on my own so I decided to make a start on the cleaning. I took the tree out, put away the decorations, Hoovered the carpet thousands of times and dusted. I stopped briefly to watch EastEnders and to take a phone call from Julian, which I kept brief and to the point.

  ‘I miss you,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘It’s the Millennium, Ru, we should be together.’

  ‘Yup, but we can’t be.’

  ‘Are you busy, sweetie?’

  ‘Yes, a bit. I ought to go now. Happy New Year.’ Bless him, he really wasn’t very bright. I’d already slept with him and he still thought he had to be nice to me.

  By ten o’clock I was bored. I had run out of cleaning, good TV and trying to think of Julian’s good points. I thought it might be interesting to visit my friends’ rooms, because I missed them. First I went into Jess’s where I admired her huge shoe collection and counted her lipsticks. When I got to a hundred I gave up. She had a great room: pencil drawings in wooden frames scattered the walls, shoes were lined up along one side, her huge bed was filled with bright orange and green cushions. It looked as if it was out of an interior-design magazine and it probably was. She had four shelves full of make-up and her lipsticks were organised by colour, starting with the palest and finishing with the brightest, I wondered how she had found time to do that. I opened her wardrobe and laughed at how she had organised that’ too: suits first, then shirts, then single skirts, trousers, then her party clothes. All of her fashion disasters were there too: the hot pants she had bought at university, which made her look huge, the fake Gucci flower-print dress that made her look like your great-aunt Ada, her Utility-chic outfit, which made her look like a cross between a Boy Scout and a mercenary, the boob tube that didn’t even cover her boobs. I said a little prayer to the fashion god not to let them bring back anything short in the next millennium, then Jess might stand a chance.

  I reluctantly left Jess’s room and crossed the hall to Sarah’s. I opened the door and gasped at how tidy it was. Sarah was the true Wonder Woman. Her walls were decorated with Matisse and Monet prints, the same ones she had had at university. A couple of old teddy bears were propped up on her pillows and her stripy pyjamas were neatly laid out. Under the bed were a few shoe-boxes full of letters and postcards but I knew better than to look through them. I’m not a terrible friend, you know. Instead I decided to hunt for her vibrators, of which I was sure she had many. I’d eliminated under the bed so that left the underwear drawer. I opened her drawer and found than even her knickers were neatly folded, as were her socks and T-shirts. And not a vibrator in sight.

  The one part of Sarah’s room I always loved was her pinboard, which she had filled with pictures of us from when we were at university. I was always sneaking in to take a look. There we were, Sophie, Jess and Sarah and me, at our first toga party, the house we’d lived in, Thomas and Johnny, me and Ben looking lovingly at each other, or me looking lovingly at him anyway, and our graduation photos. There was a new addition: us in our Clapham home. Sarah might be totally anal but she has a good sentimental side too. I closed her door and opened it to check that I hadn’t left anything out of place. That’s the trouble with snooping: you get paranoid about getting caught. I climbed the stairs to Sophie’s attic room. I just loved it – it was so messy, clothes strewn everywhere, her dressing-table sprayed haphazardly with makeup, more perfume than I had ever seen. She had a bean-bag on the floor – of which little was visible – with all her nail varnishes arranged around it, and lots of brightly coloured sarongs on her walls. It was the coolest room. I lay on her bed and looked up at the skylight. It was romantic watching the sky from your bed. On the table next to the bed was an alarm clock and a picture of her and the Porsche. She looked gorgeous and flushed, with her hair hanging loose, and he looked smug. I decided against looking in Sophie’s wardrobe as she kept most of her clothes on the floor, so I ran down the stairs and into my bedroom. I smiled to myself as I went to sleep that night.

  Work was quiet, and the only reason I had been asked to come in was in case the phone rang, which it only did when my boss asked me if anyone had called. I read my book and wished that work was always like that. It wasn’t like working. Anyway, it passed quickly and before I knew it was New Year’s Eve.

  ***

  New Year’s Eve. One year ends and another begins, just like that. I didn’t want 1999 to end, but also I did. I mean, I was scared that somehow it made Ben seem even further away. Part of me didn’t want it to be a new year because the old one hadn’t ended satisfactorily, and ends and beginnings should be just that. I didn’t want an end and I didn’t want a new beginning. And it was such a big ending and beginning; never again would I refer to the year as nineteen something, and that felt weird. On the eve of the Millennium, the last-ever day of 1999, I decided to do something to mark the occasion. Memorable, anyway. I bought a newspaper, The Times, read it from cover to cover, wrote a diary type thing of my life so far (well, it was the brief version on three sheets of A4) and went to the hairdresser. One thing I knew for sure was that Jess would be disappointed if I did not have very big hair on this very big New Year’s Eve. Armed with my big hair I was almost convinced that I’d have a good time. And Jess and Sarah were returning, so I would have my playmates back. I painted my toenails, chilled the champagne, painted my fingernails and all by half past two when the door opened and Jess burst in.

  ‘Happy Millennium, Ru.’ She hugged me. ‘God, you look sensational.’


  Sarah followed Jess in. ‘Christ, Ru, she’s unbelievable. I think she’s caught what is known as the Millennium bug.’

  As Jess and Sarah got showered, I remembered last New Year’s Eve, when I had gone to stay with Ben at his parents’ house in Oxford. We had gone to a horribly crowded pub, got drunk on pints and snogged at twelve thirty because Ben went to the loo at midnight and fell asleep. One of his friends woke him up and he stumbled back, looking sleepy and gorgeous, and I gave him his first kiss of 1999. I could still picture him. I formulated a survival plan. I would go to the party and pretend to have fun and at midnight when everyone says, ‘Happy New Year,’ I’d just pretend to say that. For me this would just be a normal night. I wouldn’t let this year end until I was good and ready.

  We changed into our dresses and drank the champagne, Jess amuses us with about a hundred resolutions that all seemed to be about losing weight. Sarah was talking about her new-year career plan, and I just smiled and kept quiet. I have to admit we looked gorgeous: my mother had given me a short purple silk dress from her shop, which was beautiful, and with my strappy black shoes I had an outfit fit for any Millennium celebration. Jess was wearing a long, straight, Audrey Hepburn-type black dress with a feather boa, and Sarah had opted for a cream shift dress, which would have been more appropriate for a wedding than the Millennium, but she looked nice anyway. We went to the party – funnily enough it was in Fulham. Jess had booked a taxi before she left for Christmas – and she had even booked one home. I guess her foresight was the reason she was so good in PR. Taxis in London at the turn of the millennium were like gold dust.

  The party was in a huge club-type place. When we walked in, it took my breath away: it was decorated in gold and the theme was a Roman orgy – well, that was what it was supposed to be. Banners saying, ‘Welcome 2000’, adorned every wall, which was the main unRoman thing about it, but the ice statues were Roman-like so that made up for it. Instead of chairs, chaise-longues were scattered about the place and the dance floor was huge, lit with gold. ‘Dan’s Disco’ was also a little unRoman but there you go. I guess Roman discos don’t exist anymore. Waiters and waitresses dressed in togas handed out champagne and canapés, and it was a pretty good show. Sarah and I, hungry because we hadn’t eaten, followed them about, taking as many canapés as we could. We also had a fair few glasses of champagne. Then they seemed to disappear, leaving us with the huge gold bar, which was sort of half Roman.

  ‘Ru, I’m not snogging anyone at midnight, and as you’re seeing Julian, though God knows why, I don’t think you are either, so if we lose each other we’ll just find each other again,’ Sarah ordered. Then she changed her mind. ‘On second thoughts, don’t leave my side.’

  ‘Fine, although I’d forgotten about Julian.’ I really had.

  Jess found us again as Fennula walked in. She looked more of an Ugly Sister than ever in a puffy pink dress – well, I think it was a dress.

  ‘Fennula, you look wonderful, darling,’ Jess gushed.

  ‘Oh, thank you, darling, so do you.’ Fennula looked us up and down.

  ‘Henrietta, you look divine,’ Jess gushed, which was a blatant lie because Henrietta was wearing what looked like a hessian sack.

  ‘You look fab,’ Henrietta gushed. And they all cheek-kissed.

  ‘How was the hols?’ Off they went playing Who Had the Best Christmas. Sarah and I exchanged glances. Jess, Fennula and Henrietta the Horrible were all caught up with gossip, bitching, gushing and seeing who could make themselves heard the most. Sarah and I went to get drunk.

  ‘Let’s drink doubles.’ Sarah looked quite scared. I raised a questioning eyebrow at her. ‘Ru, I just need to survive this evening. It’s going to be a nightmare. I could have gone to a party with Thomas but, no, Jess made me come here. Come on, let’s get drunk.’

  I ordered double vodka-and-limes. ‘What party with Thomas? Why wasn’t I invited?’

  ‘Thomas was going to some party full of lawyers and friends of lawyers. He said there’d be loads of men and they needed more girls. I guess he didn’t invite you because of Julian. He probably thought you’d be with him.’

  I scowled. ‘Why does Julian seem to be ruining my life?’

  ‘You know you’re going out with him because he reminds you of Ben and, yes, he does look like him; but you’re never going to get over Ben by sleeping with Julian. Ru, I know I already told you I disapproved but, well, I really do.’

  I ordered more drinks. ‘For your information, I’ve only slept with him once.’

  Sarah’s jaw dropped. ‘But, Ru, you’ve seen him loads in the last month.’

  ‘I’m not a total slut, you know. Anyway, I thought that sleeping with him would be like sleeping with Ben, which would be really weird, and then when I gave in and slept with him it wasn’t like sleeping with Ben at all. It was really crap.’

  ‘Another drink?’ And another and another, and then I stopped counting.

  When Jess found us we were laughing at a group of men on the dance-floor, who shouldn’t have been on it. ‘What the hell are you two doing? Come and meet some people.’

  We followed her. We met Fiona, who was big in PR – actually, she was big full stop, and Sarah nearly exploded trying not to laugh because she kept saying, ‘One day you, too, can be as successful as me,’ and she was serious. Then we met Harvey, who wore a cravat, and Sarah said he was a closet gay even though he tried to kiss her. Then we met Dave and no one knew who he was but he was on drugs. We met loads of people. Jess pulled a photographer called Ollie, who was really tasty, and Fennula fancied him, which was why Jess did it. Ollie didn’t really have a choice. We chatted, we danced, I even danced to Robbie’s ‘Millennium’, which they must have played a thousand times. At midnight, I told Dave the druggie to piss off when he tried to kiss me and Sarah and I toasted the event with another double vodka.

  Sarah doesn’t often let herself get very drunk, but when she does she gets really sentimental. At midnight on New Year’s Eve, as the new millennium began, Sarah was plastered.

  ‘Do you remember when we first met? Oh, I do, like it was yesterday. In the kitchen, you and Jess, me and Sophie. I bet you didn’t know then what great, great friends we’d become.’ I nodded. ‘You, Sophie and Jess, you’re my best friends. I love you and Thomas. I love Thomas. This year is going to be better, Ru, I promise it will be better.’ Sarah hugged me and I felt like a selfish witch.

  Jess, with Ollie in tow, came and rescued me from being told any more how much I was loved, and we all got our cab home. As soon as we got in Sarah passed out. It was the first time in living memory that I had known her to go to bed in her make-up. Jess dragged Ollie straight into her bedroom and I sat up alone, thinking about the good old days and Ben, of course – well, it was a special occasion. Perhaps it was time for me to move on properly, make it my New Year resolution. But somehow I couldn’t. On the first day of the year 2000, months after Ben had left, I still wasn’t quite ready to face the truth. I wasn’t ready to face the thought of life without Ben.

  Chapter Eight

  The big fat frog was sitting on a lilypad near the side of the pond. ‘Hey, you,’ he croaked, as I passed by. I stopped to look: after all, it wasn’t every day that a frog spoke to me.

  ‘Who? Me?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, you. I’m really the prince of a vast kingdom,’ he said. ‘An evil witch put a curse on me and now I’m destined to remain a frog unless a beautiful girl kisses me.’

  I looked a bit horrified. ‘With tongues?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. If you do this for me I will marry you and make you my princess.’ The thought of kissing a frog was revolting, but the thought of marrying a handsome rich prince was not.

  ‘OK,’ I said, and I kissed him. Nothing happened. As I kissed him he remained a horrible fat frog. I felt like I’d failed. He needed to be kissed by a beautiful woman; I was not beautiful enough.

  I turned to walk away in shame, but I heard the frog giggle. ‘Works every
time,’ he croaked. I vowed that would be the last time I ever kissed a frog.

  ***

  January was the month of bleak. I was bleak, my job was bleak, Julian was bleak and my friends were bleak. A scene of us looking bleak greeted everyone who came our way. It wasn’t pleasant. If I had accepted that it was a new year, I would have observed that we couldn’t have got off to a worse start.

  Jess was close to a nervous breakdown. Her six-month review was coming up and if she didn’t get a glowing report or a pay rise or promotion and anyone else from her company in the same position did, she was planning murder. She had worked her heart out for the past six months and she had seemed to love every minute of it. But now she was so stressed. And she was hell to live with. She shouted at everyone, even Sophie, and no one shouts at Sophie. She accused me of stealing her clothes, Sarah of stealing her cigarettes and Sophie of generally being in her way. We realised how important this was for her so we put up with it, but she had become even worse than me to live with. Poor Jess was going through hell. So was Julian, although he never let on. But all the people on the graduate-trainee scheme were constantly calling her to discuss the imminent reviews. I don’t know what they said, but after she came off the phone from any of them she would go to her room and throw things around. It was carnage.

  Sophie was having a really bad time with the Porsche. She spent most of the time either in tears because he hadn’t called her or they’d rowed, or elated because he sent her flowers or turned up unexpectedly. The tragedy was that he was a wanker and she wasn’t. There should be a law against it. Jess told Sophie to dump him, she had her own problems, which upset Sophie even more. Sarah agreed with Jess, which left me to be nice and sympathetic. Not the easiest job, I can assure you.

  We were not sure what was wrong with Sarah. She didn’t say anything, she just looked miserable and didn’t want to talk to anyone. She had taken to spending hours alone in her room and she never seemed to go out. I suggested that her vibrator had run out of batteries, but then I was accused of being a heartless bitch. To stop being a bitch, I braved the closed door of Sarah’s room. She was sitting on her bed reading. I sat down, but she ignored me.