by Isabel Wolff
‘Oh, so what?’ she said, crossly.
‘Aren’t you afraid of looking a little …hypocritical here?’
‘Not really,’ she said.
‘And do you know why our post is now arriving an hour and a half earlier than normal?’ I enquired.
‘No,’ she said with a sniff.
‘Because the postman is sick of you hijacking him every morning and bending his ear about Charlie. He’s changed his shift so that he now delivers our mail before you’re up.’
‘Oh.’
‘And have you forgotten the number of times you’ve called the phone-ins at London FM?’
‘Oh, well …that …’
‘Amber, you have slagged off Charlie to a minimum of five million people across London. The only thing you haven’t done is to berate him from a soapbox on Speakers’ Corner. And now you say you want him back?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’
‘WHY? Why do you want him back?’
‘Because …because …I haven’t got over him.’
‘Well, he’s got over you!’
‘That’s not true!’ she exclaimed. ‘He probably wants me just as much as I want him.’
‘Amber, if he did, he’d have asked you. But he hasn’t. Get real, you idiot! Get a LIFE!’
Yup, I think the Nice Factor’s definitely starting to work now, I thought to myself, as Amber and I made our way back to the flat. They said it would take a while to kick in, and they were right. I’d stuck it up Melinda. And I’d enjoyed an uncharacteristically frank exchange with Amber. She was still snivelling as I opened the front door. But at least she could see my point of view.
‘OK, OK, so I may have been a little …hard on him,’ she acknowledged as we unpacked the shopping. She went over to her dartboard, and took down the heavily punctured photo of Charlie. ‘But that’s only because I was so upset. Because I love him so much. But I do want the bastard back, Minty …’
‘I say!’ screeched Pedro. And then he laughed.
‘ …and I’ve thought of a way to do it. But I’ll need your help,’ she added.
She needed my help??
‘NO!’ I said. There, I’d said it. And I was sticking to it. ‘NO,’ I said again.
‘Pleeeease, Minteeeeee,’ she whined.
‘No. Absolutely not. No way.’
‘Oh, go on.’
‘Nein. Non. Negative.’
‘You see, I’ve got this brilliant plan …’
‘Niet. Ochi. Nej.’
‘Let me tell you about it …’
‘NonononononononoNO!’
‘I want to go to the Anti-Slavery International Gala Ball,’ she said. Oh.
‘That charity do you went to with Charlie last year?’
‘Yes. His father’s on the board, so I know that Charlie will be there too. He always goes. It’s in ten days. At the Savoy. Will you come with me, Minty? Please. Please.’
Oh God. Oh God.
‘N-o,’ I said.
‘Go on.’
‘No. No. No.’
‘Ple-ea-ea-ea-ease,’ she bleated.
‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘It is a good idea,’ she said.
‘Look, if you want him back, why don’t you just ring him up?’
‘Well, because it wouldn’t work. But if he saw me,’ she said, suddenly brightening, ‘wearing some fantastic ballgown, then it might.’
‘Look, I …’
‘Please, Minty,’ she said. She put her arm round me. ‘I’m sorry I was beastly. I really am. But I need your support.’ Damn. I’m a pushover when people apologise. However horrid they were before.
‘Please,’ she implored me again.
‘Oh …oh …all right,’ I said, crossly. ‘But we don’t have partners,’ I pointed out. However much I wanted to, I could hardly invite Joe. ‘Who on earth could we go with?’ I said.
‘Ah. I’ve thought of that,’ she replied.
When Amber said that she wanted us to hire men for the evening from a new escort agency called Boys’R’Us, I nearly backed out of the whole thing.
‘It sounds absolutely hideous!’ I said.
‘No, it’s not. It’s very sensible,’ Amber insisted. ‘It’s a new agency which enables successful independent women like you and me to hire a bloke for the evening. Everyone does it in the States.’
‘But it sounds appalling,’ I said. ‘Hiring men?’
‘No,’ said Amber. ‘We’re not “hiring men”. That makes it sound sordid. We’re engaging the services of a walker. And a walker is the ultimate accessory for the successful single woman. Choosing him should be as simple as selecting a frock off a rack …’
‘ …I think you need someone who’s entertaining and a bit trendy, Amber,’ said Shirley Birley, the woman who ran Boys’R’Us. ‘Vivienne Westwood, I’d say, rather than Norman Hartnell.’ We were sitting in her tiny office in Oxford Street three days later. I’d rushed up there in my lunch hour.
‘How many men have you got for us to choose from?’ I enquired.
‘Three hundred,’ she replied. Mmm, not bad. I thought again of Joe. But I couldn’t invite him. It was just too awkward. Amber was flicking through Shirley Birley’s bulging files.
‘Now, he’s good-looking,’ she said, as she gazed at a photo of a dark-haired man called Dustin.
‘He’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Shirley agreed. ‘He’s a model. But the problem with him,’ she added judiciously, ‘is that he’s stupendously boring.’
‘Oh,’ said Amber. ‘Well, I don’t want that. I mean, why would I pay £200 for a man to bore me, when I already know several men who’d do it free of charge? What about this one?’
‘Oh, that’s Jez,’ said Shirley. I craned to look at the photo of a pleasant-looking man in a sports car. ‘He’s currently studying to be a hypnotherapist and amateur mystic,’ Shirley explained. ‘But I think his adenoidal voice would get you down.’
‘Hhmmmm,’ Amber said, thoughtfully. ‘Him!’ she said excitedly. ‘That one!’ She scanned his profile. ‘He fits the bill.’
‘Yes,’ said Shirley, with a funny little smile. ‘That’s Laurie. Yes …I think he’ll do very nicely for you.’
Laurie was six foot two – he had to be tall, of course, for Amber – with dark brown hair and blue eyes, and he was thirty-six. I decided to go for someone slightly older. Someone with a bit of savoir-faire, who might be able to talk about opera, theatre and art. If I had to go through with this, then I was determined to have a reasonably entertaining man on my arm. My walker was called Hugo and he was forty-two. He looked as though he knew how to dress and he claimed to have a ‘lively interest in the performing arts’.
‘Book him,’ I said, to Shirley. Then Amber paid the bill.
‘I think this is very empowering,’ she said afterwards, as we walked down the stairs.
‘I just hope it’s all worth it,’ I said. After all, it was going to be incredibly expensive. The hire of the two men was £400, and we had to pay their expenses on top. Even their cabs home. With the tickets for the ball selling at £100 each, Amber’s total bill was going to be over nine hundred pounds.
‘I don’t mind the cost, Mint,’ she said. ‘Anyway,’ she added with a smile, ‘I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be money well spent.’
I certainly hope she’s right, I thought as I sat in the office two days later, editing a feature on the Child Support Agency. I considered Amber’s strategy risky and misguided, but she was not to be deterred. Once she decides on a course of action, that’s it. She’s just like Dom in that way. I sat, hunched over my tape recorder, spooling my material back and forth. By now I’d been editing for three hours without a break and my headphones were giving me hell. So I stopped to rub my ears and uncrick my neck and, as I straightened up, I glanced into the car park. And I saw an old Ford Escort pull up in the space now designated exclusively for Melinda’s Porsche. Out got Deirdre – she was collecting Wesley – and there was n
othing odd about this. Deirdre often fetches Wesley. Except that today she looked different. Her straggly brown hair had been cut into a glossy bob which swung about her flamboyantly bejewelled ears. She was wearing a short, chic suit, rather than her usual cheap separates, and for the first time, I could see her legs. And I realised that she had very good legs, and they were encased in glossy tights. And on her feet were heels, rather than her normal, dreary, flat lace-ups. She looked transformed. Her face was nicely made-up, she was clutching a smart matching bag, and as she bounced into Reception, she glowed as if lit by an inner flame. And I thought, I know why she looks like this. Her fertility treatment has worked. She’s pregnant. And now she’s happy. That’s why she’s taking more care of herself. So this morning, when I was chatting to Wesley about a piece I was doing for his programme, I casually tried to find out.
‘I, er, saw Deirdre in the car park last night. She looks so well.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘She looks great.’
‘She really seems to be …’ How could I put this politely? ‘ …making the most of herself.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘She’s so attractive, Wesley.’
‘Yes,’ he said wonderingly. ‘She’s really smartened up recently. Even her underwear. She used to be perfectly happy with Marks and Spencer’s cotton knickers, and now she keeps buying all this, you know, sexy stuff.’
‘Sexy stuff?’
‘Yeah, lingerie. I keep finding little bags of it. She can’t seem to get enough. She’s asked me to get her some for Christmas. What’s it called? Oh yeah, La Perla. Still,’ he added with a shrug, ‘as long as she’s happy.’
‘She certainly looks it,’ I said. In fact, Deirdre had never looked happier.
‘Let’s hear the news,’ said Wesley. He turned on the speaker, and there was Barry, pissed as a newt, as usual.
‘ …company cars …air-strikes …United Nations …Blair …and some news just in,’ he added, audibly rustling his script. ‘It’s been reported at Westminster that the Minister for Family Values has resigned. Rumours have been circulating all day that Michael Hunt would quit, after it was revealed that his Commons secretary is expecting his child.’
‘I feel really nervous,’ said Amber as we got ready for the Anti-Slavery International ball the following Saturday.
‘Well, at least you look fantastic,’ I said. And it was true. In fact, she looked traffic-stoppingly beautiful. She was wearing a new ballgown from Thomasz Starzewski. It was in pale green satin with a bottle-green velvet bodice, and she had accessorised it with Granny’s diamond earrings. I settled for a black velvet dress, size ten, ballerina-length, which I dressed up with a silver devoré shawl. To my surprise, I found myself feeling quite excited, though I wished that it was Joe who was going to partner me. But there’d been no contact at all. I resolved to send him a friendly Christmas card, in the hope that he’d start to soften. His coldness was getting me down. But as we set off in the cab for the Savoy I felt my mood begin to lift. It was an adventure, after all, though I thought Amber was mad to expose herself to the possibility of being rejected by Charlie again.
‘Well, if that happens, it’s my funeral,’ she said, with a shrug of her lovely powdered bare shoulders. ‘But at least then I’ll know.’
When we arrived at the hotel, our walkers were already there, waiting, by the reception. They seemed genial, polite and friendly, and they both looked good in their DJs. As we walked downstairs to the Champagne Reception in the Lincoln Room I felt my spirits lift.
‘A writer, eh?’ said Laurie to Amber. ‘So you’re one of these Ladies who Launch.’ She gave him a weak, disinterested smile, but I thought he was quite amusing. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be too bad. It might even be fun. The room was packed, making it hard to spot Charlie amongst the throng.
‘– fabulous dress, Cressida.’
‘– the merger’s been sheer bloody hell.’
‘– more champers, Peregrine?’
‘– the Red Cross Ball was fab.’
‘– where are you going for Christmas?’
‘– super stuff in the tombola.’
‘– LADIES AND GENTLEMEN – DINNER IS SERVED!’
The gilded, mirrored Lancaster Room looked lovely. Silver cutlery gleamed on damask cloths, flowers bedecked every table. Candles flickered romantically in the half-light, and expensive scents perfumed the air. So far our walkers had impressed us with their attentiveness and finesse. I was confident that, were I a smoker, Hugo would light my cigarette for me, and that if a bread roll were to fly my way he would gallantly intercept it. As for Amber, she was already bickering with Laurie as though he were one of her oldest friends.
‘You put your knife in your mouth and you’re in big trouble,’ I heard her hiss as the starter arrived.
‘Is it OK if I lick my plate?’ he shot back with a smile, as he poured her a glass of Chablis. She gave him an evil look. Then she removed a pair of tiny, mother-of-pearl opera glasses from her evening bag and began to survey the huge room. Where was Charlie? I glanced at the souvenir programme. There was his father, Lord Edworthy, in the list of the Charity’s board of governors. But no sign of Charlie himself. We were on a mixed table with an assortment of other ‘odd’ couples. There was a thin, bald, bespectacled man in his mid fifties who said he was the City Editor of a broadsheet. I looked at his ratty, calculating face and felt sorry for his partner, a rather large brunette called Cindy. Next to them was a couple in their mid forties, who said they dealt in antique silver. And opposite us was a retired industrialist, who I thought I vaguely recognised. He was accompanied by a blonde less than half his age and about twice his height. We all began to make polite small talk as we tucked into our vegetable terrine.
‘So, how do you two know each other?’ Mrs Antique Dealer asked Amber and Laurie. Ah. Oh dear. We’d all forgotten to do what clients and walkers should: concoct a convincing little story.
‘Amber and I were at school together,’ said Laurie, with a smile.
‘Where was that?’ the woman persisted, and I hoped that Amber would have the presence of mind not to say ‘Cheltenham Ladies College’. But Laurie had got there first.
‘Stowe,’ he said. Amber’s eyes opened just a little wider than normal.
‘Yes, we were in the same A-level physics set,’ said Laurie, warming to his theme. ‘Amber got a C,’ he confided. ‘You didn’t work hard enough, did you, darling?’
‘Er …no, um, I suppose I didn’t,’ she replied with careful brightness.
‘She was awfully naughty at school, weren’t you, poppet?’
‘Ha ha ha!’
‘But I got an A,’ he said.
‘Oh, congratulations!’ said the woman. ‘I was always useless at Science.’
Amber’s face was reddening with her burgeoning wrath. She’d have Laurie’s bollocks for breakfast. I couldn’t bear to watch. In any case, Hugo was chatting to me now.
‘So, do tell me about your work,’ he said with studied politeness. ‘Working in radio must be absolutely fascinating.’
‘Oh, it is. Most of the time,’ I said. ‘It has its ups and downs, though,’ I added ruefully. ‘What do you do?’
‘Well, I was an estate agent, but I had to retire early on account of my poor health.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said.
‘Yes, it was awful.’
‘Oh, bad luck.’ Whatever it was, I didn’t want to know.
‘You see, it all started with a bout of what I thought was indigestion,’ he explained, as the waiters cleared away our first course. ‘I had a lot of discomfort here –’ he tapped his sternum.
‘Really?’ I thought he was going to talk about art.
‘And my doctor insisted it was indigestion, but I was convinced it was an ulcer.’
‘Isn’t that easy to find out?’ I asked as the grilled chicken breast stuffed with pistachio mousse arrived.
‘Yes, but my symptoms were quite complex …’
‘Well …’
‘And then I began to have …’ he lowered his voice ‘ …terrible wind.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes, it was appalling. Beans?’
‘Er, no thanks.’
‘And I thought maybe I had bowel problems.’
‘I see.’
‘I mean, I was spending a long time in the loo …’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. I was in there for hours.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘I was convinced I had trouble with my colon.’
‘What lovely flowers!’ I exclaimed. And they were. On each table was an informal, Christmassy arrangement of yew, variegated holly and white anemones, loosely tied with a red tartan ribbon – just the kind of thing that Helen might have done.
‘Anyway, so I went back to the doc and insisted on a scan …’
God, this man was awful. And to think he was being charged out at two hundred quid a go! I’d get Amber to insist on a refund. But then, to my joy, Hugo began chatting to Cindy and established that she was a GP. Now he was boring her instead of me, which gave me an opportunity to scan the room for Charlie, of whom there was still no sign. What a waste of a grand if he wasn’t even here! I glanced at Amber, she was evidently trying to extricate herself from Laurie, but with limited success.
‘I don’t want to talk to you all evening,’ I heard her say. ‘I’ve got to find someone.’
‘That’s fine,’ he said, soothingly, as she picked up her opera glasses again. ‘And if you see someone you fancy just go straight ahead,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, we’ll have an arrangement. If you’re having a nice time being chatted up, you just pull on your left ear, like this, to indicate that you’re fine.’ She lowered her glasses and stared at him. ‘BUT,’ he went on with mock earnestness, ‘if you get stuck with a bore, just touch the end of your nose, like this –’ he touched her nose – ‘and I’ll come running over and rescue you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Amber uncertainly. Her sharp tongue seemed to have deserted her. She was clearly slightly unnerved. Oh God, this really wasn’t going well.