Ralph's Party

by Lisa Jewell

  And, then, one day the previous week, she’d had a sudden revelation. She’d been watching something on the telly, about a woman who regretted her part in breaking up some relationship or other, so had plotted and planned and brought them back together, and then everyone thought she was wonderful. She could do that! Of course she could. And then she would be famous. And famous for being good, not for being a bitch, famous for bringing Karl and Siobhan back together. She’d be a heroine, everyone would love her. She could already imagine the stories in the newspapers: ‘34–24–34 beauty Cheri said she could bear the guilt no longer. “I never meant to hurt anyone, “she said today from her Battersea penthouse, “I was just lonely. All I want now is for Karl and Siobhan to be happy.” ’ Cheri knew how the media worked – a griefstricken DJ publicly emptying his soul over the airwaves was great, great press; the unnamed ex-lover suddenly emerging from the woodwork to mend his heart was pure media nectar.

  Cheri felt a small shiver of excitement fizz down her spine – this might just work! All she had to do was work out the logistics. Where was Siobhan? How could she contact her? How would she convince her that she had her best interests at heart? It would mean playing the ‘nice girl’, she realized that, but she reckoned she could pull it off.

  Cheri let the curtain drop and curled herself up on the sofa with a mug of fragrant peppermint tea and a bottle of pale-oyster nail polish. She had some thinking to do.

  Siobhan had been a wreck when she and Karl had first split up, as the full realization of what had happened began to sink in. It was over, she and Karl were over, and for the first week she’d done nothing but pull Rosanne to her and cry into her fur. Karl had kept phoning and kept phoning and she’d resolutely refused to take his calls even though a soft, aching part of her heart was desperate to talk to him, to hear his gentle voice and make him feel better. She’d heard his radio show and listened to every single song he’d played for her, sat and hugged her knees in her old bedroom while Karl shared their most intimate memories with half of London. She’d talked to his voice on the radio, hoping that he’d answer back, and when he hadn’t she’d cried and cried.

  Her mother had tried to reason with her, tried to persuade her to take Karl’s calls. It was a mistake, darling, she’d said to her, that boy really loves you, you know that, why can’t you give him a second chance? Siobhan knew that part of her mother’s wish for a reconciliation was an instinctive maternal fear that her daughter would be left on the shelf, that she was thirty-six years old and Karl might be her last chance, but she also knew that her mother was talking sense. After the horror of discovering Karl’s secret had faded away and she was left, alone, in her draughty old bedroom in her mother’s house in Potters Bar, it did occur to Siobhan that Karl should be forgiven, that she could, probably, learn to trust him again, that he did love her as much as she deserved to be loved and that the two of them could repair the damage and still make a beautiful life for themselves in the flat in Battersea. But something stopped her thought processes from advancing beyond these vague notions, something stopped her from taking his phonecalls or picking up the phone or packing her bags and driving back to the flat and saying ‘Darling, I’m home.’

  She was haunted, haunted by images of Karl, naked and sweating, pumping up and down and in and out of Cheri. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined it, Karl’s rump clenching and unclenching, quivering and wobbling, ramming and pounding, driving himself in and out of Cheri, deeper and harder and faster. It made her feel sick. It disgusted her. And try as she might, she couldn’t exorcise the image. It was with her every moment of the day, inexorably linked with her thoughts of Karl, tainting every attempt she made to be reasonable about the whole sorry situation. It was like someone had spilt a bottle of ink over all the wonderful memories she had of Karl and their life together.

  So she didn’t call and she didn’t go back and she stayed in her room in Potters Bar growing more and more unhappy, waiting, she supposed when she thought about it later, like a princess at the top of the tower, for Karl to come and rescue her. But he didn’t. He talked about her to half the entire population of London, about them and their relationship, he tried to talk to her on the telephone. But he didn’t come for her.

  Then, one Sunday evening, at the end of January, she picked up the phone in her mother’s hallway and she called Rick. It was a most unexpected thing to have done. She hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t given herself a chance to feel nervous about what she was doing, she’d just picked up the phone and dialled. She supposed, in retrospect, that she’d needed a lift, an ego boost. Her confidence levels had never been so low, and the only thing that lifted her spirits was the memory of that night in Scotland and the way Rick had looked at her, touched her, made her feel.

  She and Rick chatted for half an hour, about how cold it was, about how dreary Potters Bar was, about Christmas and New Year, family and friends, Fulham and food. It was an ordinary conversation, it was full of small talk and inconsequentialities, but it was warm and bound together with unspoken words of friendship and caring, and after Siobhan had put the phone down she’d felt better than she’d felt for weeks.

  They’d chatted a few more times after that and then, one day in mid–February, Rick had suggested she get out of Potters Bar for a night, come for a night out in Fulham; he’d take her to the Blue Elephant because she’d mentioned that it was her favourite restaurant, and she could stay at his, in the spare room, of course.

  It hadn’t sounded like a date when he’d suggested it, just an invitation from a friend, worried that another friend was about to die of boredom. He’d come in for a cup of tea and utterly charmed Siobhan’s mother. ‘What a delightful, delightful young man,’ she’d said, with a slightly girlish tone to her voice, ‘and so handsome. And fancy driving all the way from Fulham to Potters Bar to pick you up. Not many men would do that, you know.’

  Rick had raved about how much weight Siobhan had lost – which she had; she couldn’t eat when she was unhappy and had gone down to a healthy size fourteen. ‘Not that you weren’t gorgeous before, of course!’ he’d smiled. They hadn’t talked much in the car on the way into London, just listened to music and grinned at each other a lot. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ Rick kept saying, ‘so good.’

  And Siobhan had smiled and told him how good it was to see him, too. Which it was. Absolutely wonderful, in fact. He’d put his hand over hers and squeezed it, beaming at her and then beaming to himself.

  In retrospect, Siobhan could see that it was really quite strange. After all, they didn’t really know each other, had only actually met once before, but there had just been so much warmth between them, they were like old friends. It had felt so comfortable sitting there in the passenger seat of Rick’s new BMW, not talking, just listening to music and smiling at each other. It was as if they’d known then that they had all the time in the world, that this was just the beginning.

  Rick had parked outside his house and then they’d walked, arms around each other and terribly slowly, like new lovers do, down Fulham Broadway, towards the Blue Elephant. It’s easy to gauge the newness of a relationship by how slowly a couple walk together. Siobhan and Karl had reached the medium canter of the established couple years earlier, their motivation for walking becoming a desire to get from A to B rather than a chance to spend time together.

  But even though any passing stranger might have assumed that they were brand-new lovers in the first blissful throes of romance, as far as Siobhan was concerned, they weren’t on a date. They just weren’t. She was still raw and in pain, and the idea of a date, of getting involved in another relationship was quite out of the question. She was enjoying Rick’s company more than she could possibly have imagined, but she was still in love with Karl.

  Which is why, after the tiny little Thai waitress had taken their order and removed their menus, the first question Siobhan had asked Rick was, ‘So, how’s Karl?’

  Rick had shrugged, wryly. ‘You
tell me.’

  ‘What – haven’t you spoken to him?’

  Rick shook his head.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course not. He blames me, doesn’t he?’

  ‘What for?’ Siobhan was confused.

  ‘For you finding out about his affair. Because it was me who gave him that tape recorder.’

  ‘What?! God, that’s so pathetic! So unfair. You didn’t make him take it home with him, you didn’t make me press the Play button and you certainly didn’t shove his dick into that slag!’ Siobhan looked around her as she realized that she’d started shouting. ‘Sorry,’ she said. And then she’d started crying. I’m sorry. It’s just … it just hurts so much.’

  Rick had passed her a tissue, made a joke, made her smile through her tears. He’d ordered champagne and they’d talked all night, about Karl, about Tamsin, about love, about life, about everything. It was the first chance she’d had to really talk about her feelings, to put into words the disgust that she felt about what Karl had done with Cheri. None of her female friends were single and they were all Karl’s friends, too. She hadn’t wanted to put them in an awkward position. But it was different with Rick. He was different.

  ‘OK,’ Rick had said as they left the restaurant three hours and two bottles of champagne later, ‘enough talk-therapy – you need some fun. You need to drink a lot more champagne and get horribly drunk.’

  ‘Oh, Rick, I don’t know,’ Siobhan had laughed. ‘Look what happened last time you and I drank too much champagne together.’

  They’d both giggled, but then Rick had turned and held Siobhan’s hands in his and looked into her eyes. ‘Siobhan,’ he’d said, ‘you know how I feel about you. And I have to say that nothing’s changed. I still think you’re the most amazing woman. You’re … you’re … well, you know. But right now you don’t need that of me. You need a friend. And I really, really want to be your friend. Hey!’ he smiled, ‘I’ll be your girlfriend, if you like! I can do that!’

  ‘What?’ Siobhan had laughed.

  ‘Yeah! Come on. Let’s go back to mine, have a couple of Sea Breezes and get tarted up, and then we’ll go to a club and see who can pull the ugliest person, and then we can come home, put on our dressing-gowns and moan about men over a cup of decaff! It’ll be excellent!’

  So they had. Rick had put on a Boyzone CD, they’d drunk more than a couple of lurid-pink Sea Breezes and danced around his flat together while they got ready, Rick camping it up ridiculously: ‘What do you think – does this make my bum look fat? Beige chinos or the khaki chinos – or do they clash with my hair?’

  They’d caught a cab to a dive of a club off the New King’s Road, full of foreign-language students, Australians and South Africans, and Rick had ordered them white-wine spritzers at the bar. ‘Mmmmmm,’ he’d said, ‘I’ve never had one of these before, they’re quite nice, aren’t they!’

  They’d danced for ages, to Oasis and Counting Crows and REM, chatting and laughing and eyeing up everyone on the dance floor. ‘See that guy over there,’ Rick had said, ‘he’s looking at you.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That tall one, with the white T-shirt on – brown hair – over there.’ He’d indicated with his eyebrows.

  ‘No, he’s not – don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Yes he is! Look – he can’t take his eyes off you. D’you want me to go and say something to him?’

  ‘No!’ Siobhan had grabbed his arm. ‘No! Don’t you dare! Please – don’t!’

  But it was too late. Rick was already winding his way across the dance floor. Siobhan had turned away in horror and stood rooted to the spot, hoping that the flashing plastic tiles would open up and swallow her until, a few minutes later, she’d felt Rick’s hand on her shoulder.

  ‘His name’s Mike, he’s American, he’s an engineering student, he’s nineteen and he thinks you’re gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not! Look! He’s waving at you.’

  And sure as could be – he was. Siobhan had waved back, a feeble little gesture and turned away again.

  ‘Aren’t you going to talk to him?’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Oh, go on!’

  ‘No. Really. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I don’t even fancy him.’

  ‘What! How can you not fancy him? Look at him. He’s handsome, he’s clever and he’s only nineteen!’

  ‘Exactly! What the hell am I going to have in common with someone who’s probably never seen a black-and-white television, who’s never owned a vinyl record and who thinks that all-night TV is a God-given right?’

  They’d both dissolved into hysterical laughter then, and Rick hadn’t pushed it. ‘Fair enough,’ he’d said, ‘fair enough!’

  By the time she and Rick got back to his flat, at three o’clock in the morning, they’d drunk another five spritzers, chatted to dozens of people, all young enough to conceivably be their children, had two phone numbers a piece, Rick had been thrown out of the ladies’ toilets twice and Siobhan was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

  ‘Oh, Rick,’ she’d giggled, ‘you really are the best friend a girl could possibly ask for!’ Siobhan hadn’t had so much fun since Brighton, before she’d met Karl. She’d never been a single girl around town. She and Karl had moved to London together and made all their friends together, and because she’d never worked in an office she’d never really had ‘girlfriends’ as such, just couple friends. And even though tonight had just been a joke, a piss take, it had given her an idea of what she might have been missing out on for the last fifteen years. Fun. Spontaneity. Childishness. Silliness. It had been brilliant.

  ‘Feeling a bit happier now?’ he’d asked, handing her her coffee and joining her, dressing-gowned, on the sofa.

  Well, let’s see. I’ve been taken out to dinner to my favourite restaurant, I’ve drunk champagne, vodka and white wine spritzers, I’ve been lusted over by a nineteen-year-old American, a twenty-year-old South African and a twenty-two-year-old Estonian, I’ve danced myself silly for three hours, I’ve walked home in the rain singing motown and now I’m wrapped up in an airing-cupboard-warm dressing-gown on a squidgy sofa in a beautiful flat, drinking real Colombian coffee. Yes, I’d say I’m feeling a bit happier now.’

  ‘Glad to be of service,’ he’d said.

  They’d fallen silent for a moment then and stared awkwardly into their coffee cups feeling that something more should be said, that this was a special moment. Siobhan had been the first to look up and had been suddenly startled by the blue of Rick’s eyes, by the softness of his skin, the sincerity of his expression, the kindness of his mouth and the warmth of his smile.

  ‘Oh, Rick,’ she’d said, ‘who are you? You always seem to be in the right place at the right time, saying the right things. You always make me feel so much better, so much like I want to feel.’ She’d looked deep into his eyes. ‘Are you an angel?’

  He’d smiled and put down his cup, taking Siobhan’s hands in his. ‘No,’ he’d said, ‘no, I’m not an angel.’ And then they’d instinctively moved towards each other, across the ivory damask skin of the sofa, and grabbed hold of each other in a deep, warm embrace.

  She’d clasped him to her and rested her head against his, breathing him in, breathing through the layers, the slightly herbal aroma of his hair gel, the fruity tang of his shampoo, the oily pungency of his warm scalp and, underneath it all, the base notes that words couldn’t describe – the smell of him. It seeped through her nostrils, down the back of her throat and rushed into her heart. She caught her breath and held him tighter.

  Siobhan really hadn’t expected to fall in love with Rick. She’d thought she was still getting over Karl. And maybe she was. But she was unable to control the feelings that swept through her like a magical hurricane whenever she was with him. He made her feel as special as Karl had always told her she was, he made her feel beautiful and secure and brand-spanking-new, like she’d just been take
n out of the box.

  She truly felt that Rick was an angel. They were two angels together and she had never felt so serenely, perfectly happy in her whole life as she had in the last month, since she’d been going out with Rick. This was as good as it got, as it could ever possibly get.

  And one day soon, she didn’t know when, she was going to have to tell Karl all about it …

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The Evening Standard 27 February 1997

  A Star is Reborn

  In today’s faddish, fickle world, in which fashion, fame, opinion and favour are fleeting and so dependent on the vagaries of the media and its self-appointed pundits (and I include myself in this possibly quite disagreeable fraternity), it is gratifying to discover that from time to time a talent can emerge that is so unquestionable, so prodigious, so undeniably brilliant, that it can survive a backlash from even the most vicious hack’s keyboard. I stand humbled.

  The name on the invitation sounded familiar. Ralph McLeary. Those of you with elephantine memories may well recall the artist – I certainly didn’t. The accompanying press release filled in the gaps for me. Ralph McLeary was a Royal College luminary back in 1986, whom I, in this very column, once described in a glowing, almost embarrassingly gushing manner as ‘a young man with an incestuous relationship with his medium, a young man who has created, at the tender age of twenty-one years, works in oil on canvas of such magnitude and importance, of such precocious maturity that I am obliged to employ the word “genius” to describe him.’ I was not alone at the time. The press was united in a froth-mouthed frenzy. It all came flooding back to me.

  However, I have no recollection of his works, not one brushstroke or colour or shape; the detail has been cleared from my ageing and ragged memory to make room for the proliferation of fresh young painters paraded before my jaded eyes in the intervening years, whose works I am contractually bound to find words, daily, to describe.