by Lesley Lokko
She lay in bed, trying not to think. Where was Jeremy at that very moment? She didn’t have his telephone number. He always rang her. She didn’t even know where he lived. Somewhere near Belsize Park, he’d said once. She’d tried to ask something further, a little more detail, but he’d neatly side-stepped the question by opening a book, deftly steering the conversation elsewhere. She pulled her duvet cover up to her chin and stifled an involuntary sob. There were times when the longing just to be near him overwhelmed her. Up until that point, it seemed to her, her life had been ordered, predictable, everything planned. Now, for the first time she was confronted with something she couldn’t control and certainly couldn’t predict and if there was one thing she’d learned about Jeremy Garrick, it was that he was unpredictable. She never knew what to expect. She was a postgraduate student, not an undergraduate, which meant that any relationship they might have was at least permissible. But he’d made it perfectly clear that open acknowledgement of what was happening between them was not an option. It wasn’t anything he’d ever said. No, that would have been to talk about ‘it’, about his feelings for her. It was simply clear in the way he behaved towards her in public as if he didn’t know her, or if he did, only distantly, as one student amongst many. She understood that. From the outset, he set boundaries that she had no option but to keep, which she did, willingly. Until tonight, when Tash, typically, asked her the most obvious question of all, one she should have asked him herself in the beginning . . . but didn’t.
And now she couldn’t. She lay in the dark, the horrible realisation slowly breaking over her that even if he were married, it would make little difference to the way she felt. It was too late. He’d got her, right where he wanted her. At a distance.
35
TASH
‘Gels, gels, gels!’ Lady Davenport’s voice rose above the cacophony in the office. ‘Please! I’m looking for something constructive, gels. A constructive suggestion, not just noise.’
‘But everything’s already been done before,’ Tiggy wailed.
Lady Davenport only just managed to hold on to her eyeballs. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Tiggy! How can you even think that? What on earth do I pay you for?’
Tiggy turned bright red and looked imploringly at the other two. Tash looked from one to the other. Her heart was thumping. She rarely got involved in client discussions. For three months she’d kept herself to herself, certainly making no friends but not making enemies either. She tried to stick to Rebecca’s mantra: if you can’t be nice, be quiet. Well, she was certainly quiet. She answered the phones, made coffee, did the photocopying when asked and, when there was absolutely nothing to do, flicked through the endless copies of Hello! magazine that the ‘gels’ dropped into the pile every Tuesday morning. Lady Davenport was rarely in the office and when she was, she breezed in with a distracted air and breezed out again. She did most of the actual day-to-day work of the agency. The ‘gels’, as she called them, aside from answering the phone, were expected every now and then to come up with new ‘ideas’. Like now.
PINK, the breast cancer charity, was LDPR’s biggest and most lucrative client. In fact, PINK more or less paid everyone’s salaries. Tash knew because the bookkeeper that came in once a month had asked her to photocopy the accounts and she’d subsequently spent an hour in the photocopy room reading them. She’d been pleasantly surprised to see that Priscilla, Tiggy, and Tilly earned little more than she did, despite their superior airs. Now, looking at their blank, terrified faces as Lady Davenport tried to extract an original thought from each, she understood why. Her mouth opened of its own accord. ‘How about doing it a bit differently,’ she asked, as nonchalantly as she could.
All four heads swivelled round to look at her. ‘Differently? What d’you mean?’ Lady Davenport frowned.
‘Well, I don’t know much about it but it seems to me that all the fundraising stuff to do with cancer’s terribly depressing. Worthy, but depressing. It’s all about gloomy statistics and suffering and running marathons – why not do something a bit more glamorous? Get celebrities involved – everyone knows someone who’s been touched by cancer, even famous people. Get someone like Elton John to host a dinner each year . . . one year it’d be fancy dress, the next a masked ball, the next a pink ball . . . that sort of thing. We could get Anouschka Malaquais to be the official “face” of the ball . . . tickets at five hundred pounds a pop . . . why not?’
Tiggy’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. ‘Look, thanks for the suggestion,’ she began in a tone of voice that suggested anything but gratitude. ‘But really, this is a bit out of your league—’
‘No, no, let her finish.’ Lady Davenport cut Tiggy off and turned to Tash. ‘Anouschka Malaquais? Now, that’s not a bad suggestion. I’m not sure I’ve got her number, though . . .’
Tash’s heart was beating fast. ‘I do.’
All four of them looked at Tash. ‘You do?’ Lady Davenport asked.
Tash nodded firmly. No point in telling them how.
Lady Davenport smiled at her. ‘Why don’t you and I have a little talk?’ she asked, getting up from her chair and indicating her office.
‘But—’ Tiggy turned a desperate face towards her. ‘But it’s my—’
‘Tiggs, darling, won’t you bring two coffees in?’
There was a sudden shocked silence as yet another penny made its way to the floor. Bring two coffees in? It was a demotion. ‘What a bitch!’ she heard Tilly whisper loyally as the door closed. ‘She practically stole your job!’
‘Take no notice,’ Lady Davenport said briskly, sitting down behind her desk. ‘If there’s one thing you’ll learn in this business it’s to pay attention to the things that really matter. Now, where were we? Do sit down, darling. You make me nervous standing there like that. How tall are you, anyway?’
Tash sat down hurriedly, wondering if the question were rhetorical. Lady Davenport pulled out a notepad from the drawer and plucked a pen from the delicate ceramic pot, which was practically the only item on her glass desk. Tash looked at it closely. It was beautiful.
‘Billy Lloyd,’ Lady Davenport murmured without looking up. ‘I’ve been collecting him since I was in my twenties. Lovely use of colour, don’t you think?’
‘Er, yes,’ Tash nodded. You had to hand it to her, she thought to herself as she waited for Lady Davenport to finish scribbling. She had an eye for detail. Although her style wasn’t exactly to Tash’s taste, she liked the way she put things together. The other day she’d come into the office wearing a tan trenchcoat, the sort of coat practically every man, woman and teenager in Chelsea wore; she’d tied a leopard-print scarf around her neck, but not in the usual black-and-tan colour combination – deep pinks and purples instead. Against her bright orange bob, the colours could have seemed garish but they didn’t. As she waited, it occurred to Tash that she would do well to take note of the woman’s style.
‘So, tell me, how do you come to have Anouschka Malaquais’s phone number?’ Lady Davenport asked.
Tash blushed. She sensed it would be better to tell Lady Davenport the truth. At all times. ‘I’m best friends with her daughter,’ she said reluctantly. ‘We were at school together.’
‘Ah. Two things I like. Honesty and directness. Don’t waste your time telling people what you don’t want to do – like that lot out there. Forever complaining, never proposing. Tell people what you do want to do, as clearly and quickly as possible. And then just get on with it. A masked ball. Lovely. Let’s get started.’
A week later, everything had changed. Tash was now sitting where Tiggy had once sat, up front, just outside Lady Davenport’s office. Tiggy had been relegated to the back room alongside Priscilla and Tilly. They no longer spoke to her; just threw her bitter looks every morning as she came in, but Tash could have cared less. In under a week, she’d gone from office dogsbody to being in charge of the PINK masked ball. Now, instead of arriving in the office every morning half an hour before everyone else, she generally
started her days with a quick meeting at Lady Davenport’s home, a few streets away from the office.
‘It’s the only place I can think,’ Lady Davenport explained, throwing open the doors to the dining room. ‘I can’t hear myself think with all that chatter going on around me in the office. The girls drive me to distraction, I promise you.’ A tray of coffee and miniature croissants had silently appeared. Lady Davenport led the way to the polished mahogany dining table, yellow lined notepad in hand. ‘Venue’s been sorted.’ she continued, clearly eager to get down to business. She swallowed a croissant whole. Tash watched, fascinated, as it disappeared down her throat. ‘Lord Hetherington’s lending us his pad. It’s in Hampshire. Divine. Everyone’ll want to come now. And we’ve got a date. The sixth of May. If we’re lucky, the weather’ll be good. That gives us four months. Where are we with the guest list, darling?’ She reached for another croissant. ‘Has Anouschka Malaquais confirmed yet?’
‘Yes,’ Tash nodded firmly – a tad too firmly perhaps.
‘Oh, fabulous. Well done, darling. Let’s get cracking, shall we? Ooh, this is exciting!’
‘What you mean?’ Her mother looked at her suspiciously. ‘Who? Which stars?’
‘Well, people like . . . like Emma Thompson.’
‘Who?’
‘Emma Thompson. You know, the actress . . . she was in that film you liked so much, Remains of the Day. The one with Anthony Hopkins.’
‘Oh. You think she gonna come?’ Lyudmila’s expression softened suddenly.
‘I think so. I’m going to ask Annick’s mum, too. It’ll be ever so glamorous.’
‘Hmm. If you say so.’ As Tash passed by, she reached out and took hold of her arm, pulling her towards her.
‘Is good project you have, darling,’ she said, hugging Tash, much to her surprise. ‘Is very good project. You see . . . I told you. Is all my idea.’
‘What’s all your idea, Ma?’ Tash asked, her face pressed against Lyudmila’s shoulder. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been that close to her mother.
‘Work for Lady Davenport, of course. I knew you gonna be big success.’
Tash was too astonished to reply.
‘I think so,’ Annick said, sounding rather doubtful. ‘I mean, if I tell her there’ll be lots of other famous people there. So what is it? A party?’
‘No, not exactly. Well, of course there’ll be a party. We want to get people to pay for a table, but it’s a masked ball,’ Tash said, warming to her theme. ‘The thing is, it won’t be a one-off. We’ll do it again next year, with a different theme, and the year after that. If you could get your mum to agree to be one of PINK’s ambassadors, that’ll practically guarantee the glamour bit.’
‘Will it be sad?’
‘No, no, that’s the whole point. It’s about surviving cancer, beating it. Gloria Gaynor’s agreed to headline. I Will Survive . . . get it?’
‘Of course I get it. I’m not that stupid.’
‘It’s for a really good cause. Just ask your mum, please?’
‘Course I will. Can we come? Me and Rebecca?’
‘Of course you’re coming. There’s no way I’m organising this without you two there.’
‘I can’t believe you thought this up on your own,’ Annick said admiringly. ‘It’s fantastic. Okay, I’ll speak to my mum tonight and let you know what she says. What’re you going to wear, by the way?’
‘Annick, it’s four months away,’ Tash laughed. ‘Let’s get your mum on board first. Then I’ll start thinking about what to wear.’
‘Not a moment too soon. That’s what Maman always says. She plans her outfits a year in advance.’
‘That’s why she’s the movie star and I’m not,’ Tash said drily. ‘Just make sure she comes, won’t you?’ She put down the phone before Annick could ask anything further.
ANNICK
‘A charity ball?’ Her mother made the pairing of the two words sound not only incongruous but absurd.
‘No, no . . . it’s a masked ball. It’ll be ever so glamorous, Maman. Lots of people are coming.’
‘Like who?’
‘Oh, Elton John and . . . and Elizabeth Hurley. It’s for a really good cause and—’
‘Elton? That’s odd. I saw him last week and he didn’t say anything about a charity ball.’
‘That’s because it’s still all completely under wraps,’ Annick said quickly. ‘Tash said they had a . . . what d’you call it? A press embargo,’ she lied, hoping it would impress her mother. It did.
‘Oh. A press embargo. Well, they must be expecting lots of important people. When did you say it was?’
‘Sixth of May. It’s ages away. Besides, I haven’t seen you or Papa for ages.’
‘Of course you have. Weren’t you here at Christmas?’
‘No, Maman, I wasn’t.’
‘Oh. Well, we’ll see you soon,’ Anouschka said cheerfully. ‘May, you said? And Elton’s definitely coming?’
‘Oui, Maman.’ There was a lump in Annick’s throat. It was time to get off the phone. Anouschka positively hated what she called ‘a scene’. It was Tash who’d pointed out once, long ago, that one reason they all got along so well, especially in the beginning, was because they were all only children. But for all Tash’s complaints about her mother and for all Rebecca’s moaning that she wasn’t at the centre of her parents’ lives in the way she wanted to be, at least they were there. Annick wasn’t even on the periphery of her parents’ attention, never mind its centre.
‘Well, bye then, Maman,’ she said finally, hoping she sounded more cheerful than she felt. ‘See you in May.’ She put the phone down, swallowed hard and picked up a book. She knew the drill.
36
REBECCA
She ought to have seen it coming. It happened on a Thursday afternoon, wet and windy, as it had been all week. She and Jeremy had had dinner on Friday but he’d declined her invitation to come back to her flat that night, claiming he had papers to mark. He’d jumped in a taxi as soon as dinner was over, leaving her standing on the pavement in an agony of doubt. Had she said, or done, something wrong? Was she the cause of his bad mood? She took a taxi back to her own empty flat, drank half a bottle of wine on her own and cried herself to sleep.
He wasn’t at work on Monday or on Tuesday, and didn’t respond to either of the two messages she left on his office answering machine. Pride kept her from making another call, but by Thursday she was desperate.
She was hurrying down the corridor, on her way to the phone box, when she saw him coming out of his office. Her heart missed a beat. There was someone with him. A young blonde girl, whom she dimly recognised, followed him out of his office. Rebecca promptly dropped her pile of books. She bent down to pick them up and the girl rushed off in the opposite direction. Jeremy stopped and looked at her for a second, then turned and walked off without saying a thing. Rebecca straightened up slowly. A cold sweat broke out across her face. Why had he ignored her? Who was the girl? And what was she doing in his office?
She shoved her books into her bag and rushed upstairs to the library. Pinned to the wall just before the librarian’s desk were thumbnail portraits of all the students at the Courtauld. She scanned the rows anxiously, her heart beating fast. There she was. She peered at the picture. Lucy Creswell. She was also a postgraduate student. She felt sick. There was no way she could face her two o’clock seminar. She blinked back her tears and rushed from the building.
As soon as she got home, she yanked open the fridge door and grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine left over from the other night. She didn’t even bother with a glass. She took it straight into her bedroom, sat down heavily on the edge of her bed and took a long, hard swig, trying to calm herself down. She had to talk to Jeremy. She had to find out what was going on. But how? She had absolutely no way of contacting him. Suddenly something occurred to her. He’d stopped by her flat the previous week on his way home from college. He’d been carrying a stack of letters in his hand
. . . she’d poured him a glass of wine in the kitchen as he opened them and, if she remembered correctly, he’d chucked the envelopes in her bin. She’d emptied the bin at the weekend, she remembered, but with any luck they would still be there. She jumped up and galloped downstairs. She pushed open the back door and ran into the small yard at the rear of the flats. It took her a couple of minutes to find the black bin that belonged to her flat. She dragged it out, squealing aloud at the bits of potato peel and soggy banana skins that fell out as she rummaged through it. She pulled out half a dozen envelopes, still folded together, several of them stuck together with damp. Her heart hammering, she flattened them out carefully on the ground. There it was! Dr Jeremy Garrick. Flat 1, 44 Howitt Road, London NW3. She had his address! She raced back up the stairs, yanked her coat off the door and grabbed her purse.