by Jane Green
“Nice pajamas,” he says, as I flush with embarrassment and tuck my legs underneath me to hide the faded knees (I told you they were old).
“Oh shut up and leave me alone,” I harrumph. “Are you going to sit down or what?”
He sits. “So,” he says, drumming on his knees, “how are you? You don’t look ill, but”—and he peers at me closely—“you do look a little bit awful.”
“Did you come here specifically to insult me or was there another reason?” I say, forgetting quite how terrible I look because quite frankly I no longer give a damn.
“Sorry, sorry. Anyway. I bought you a present.” He fishes around in the pocket of his overcoat and, with a flourish, brings out a jar of Nutella.
“Nick! That’s my favorite!” I’m already salivating as I reach out and grab it from him.
“I didn’t want to bring you flowers,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “That would be far too predictable. Anyway, that’s my apology for the other day. I really am sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.”
“S’okay,” I say, already undoing the cap and digging my index finger into the Nutella, sucking it clean, making noises of ecstasy.
“That’s disgusting,” Nick says, watching me. “Can’t you use a spoon or something?”
I hold the jar out to him. “Want some?” And he grins as he digs his index finger into the jar too.
“So,” he says eventually, “everything okay with Ed?”
“What do you mean?” I ask slowly.
“Well, it’s just . . . after Saturday . . . I . . . well. I just wondered if everything was okay.”
I sit for a few seconds debating whether or not to tell him, but I know he’ll find out sooner or later, so he may as well hear it from me.
I take a deep breath. “Actually, no. It’s not.”
Nick raises an eyebrow questioningly.
“It’s over.”
“Oh my God,” he says, genuinely shocked. “Not because of me? Not because of what I said?”
“No, you arrogant bastard, not because of you. Well, maybe a bit because of you, because I realized that you were right. Everything you said was true. He isn’t what I want and in the long term I don’t think it would work out.”
“Jesus, Libby. I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, you look it.”
“No, really. I am. I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just one of those things.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing really to say. I kind of got swept away in a fantasy without thinking about what the implications were, and luckily I realized in time.”
“Is Ed okay?”
“I don’t know. I told him last night and he didn’t say anything.”
“What? Nothing?”
“Nope. Just sat there not saying a word all evening.”
“Jesus,” Nick exhales loudly. “Poor bastard.”
“I know. I feel like a total bitch.”
“No, you’re not a bitch, Libby. At the end of the day you were just being cruel to be kind.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what Jules said.”
“But it’s true, and he’ll get over it, he’ll find someone else. You will too, you know.”
“Forget it.” I shake my head vehemently. “That’s it. I’m taking a vow of celibacy. The last thing in the world I need right now is men.”
“Even me?” I look up, and even though Nick is gorgeous, even though I do fancy him, I’ll probably always fancy him, I know that I can’t deal with this right now, that the last thing I need is to get involved with Nick on the rebound, so I shake my head sadly as I look him in the eye and try to smile.
“No,” I say softly. “Even you.”
Olly phones the next day.
“I heard,” he says. “Mum called me this morning to tell me how upset she is. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Oll,” I say. “I still feel a bit bruised, but actually I’m starting to feel relief.”
Olly starts laughing. “I didn’t want to say anything at the time but he was awful, you know.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on. I can say it now, but he was a pompous old fart.”
I can’t handle hearing this from someone else I love. Sorry, not that I love Nick, but this is all a bit much for me. “Oll! Don’t be so nasty. He wasn’t that bad. Jesus, we only broke up a few days ago.”
“Libby, I’ve never said this about any of your boyfriends in the past, but if you’d have married him I think I would have disowned you.”
I’m truly, truly shocked. “Did you really feel that strongly?”
“Sorry, Libby, but not only was he fuck ugly, he was arrogant too. His only saving grace, as far as I can see, is his money. Oh, and the fact that he adored you.”
I wince as the reality hits home. “Do you think everyone felt the same way?”
“I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess. Look, I’m sorry if you’re upset by this, but it’s over now, I didn’t think you’d mind me being honest.”
“No,” I sigh. “I don’t. I just feel really stupid, but you know, Oll, he really wasn’t a bad guy.”
“Okay, fine. But he wasn’t for you.”
“No. I know that now. So has Mum forgiven me yet?”
“Nah. You know Mum. It’ll take her about ten years to stop blaming you for finishing with Ed McMann.”
“God, she’s annoying. You’d think she’d have a bit of sympathy.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation she did say that she understood how you felt.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I know. I was as surprised as you. I think she’s dreading telling the neighbors, but from what she was saying, I think she knows that it wasn’t really right. She started banging on about her and Dad, and how in love they were. The woman’s finally gone completely round the bend.”
“Oh, Oll,” I laugh. “You will never know how relieved I am.”
It’s been a month, and I really feel fine now. I’ve rediscovered my career, and no one at work can believe quite how hard I’ve been working, or quite how much I’ve achieved, but Jesus, isn’t that the best way of getting over being single again?
And okay, so my evenings are slightly harder. Not that I want to be with Ed, it’s just that I find myself at a loss for things to do, although my friends have been fantastic, and everyone’s been inviting me to everything, and the best thing about going out with my friends again is that I know there’s absolutely no possibility of me bumping into Ed. Ever.
Because now that I’m single again I’ve realized that I was living a total fantasy with Ed. I was wearing clothes I never thought I’d wear, going to places I never thought I’d go, and generally behaving in a way that absolutely, one hundred percent, was not me. You see, although I always thought that was the lifestyle I wanted, now that I’ve had a taste I know that I never again want to pretend to be something I’m not.
It is, however, a bit weird having to readjust to being single. Having to plan my diary meticulously so I’m not sitting at home every night eating takeaways, but I’d much rather be making the effort than be with Ed.
Although I’m still slightly thrown when Amanda rings me at work one day and out of the blue asks me if I’d mind if she went out with Ed.
“No, no,” I say, in a falsely enthusiastic voice. “That’s fine.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” she says, and I know that, even if I did, it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to her. They’re probably perfectly suited, and Amanda’s a far better social climber than I’ll ever be, although my social aspirations seem to have gone down a peg or five.
“I’m delighted,” I say, wondering whether they’ve already gone out, but I don’t have to wonder very long, because later that afternoon Jo runs in brandishing the Daily Express and the late edition of the Standard.
“Okay,” she says, perching her long legs on the edge of my d
esk. “Take a deep breath. Are you ready?”
I nod, and Jo opens the Express first and places it on my desk in front of me, and there, in Features, is a piece on London’s new It couples. And taking pride of place with a large color photograph are Amanda Baker and Ed McMann. The picture is obviously from a paparazzo, and I note with interest how Amanda has perfected the pissed-off look and the pose of holding her hand in front of her face to pretend she doesn’t want to be photographed.
“Jesus,” I gasp. “That was quick work.”
“Wait,” laughs Jo. “It gets better,” and with that she flings the Standard on top of the Express and opens it to the front page of the Homes and Property section, and in the Homes Gossip section is another picture of Amanda.
“ ‘Breakfast Break presenter Amanda Baker,‘ “ Jo reads out loud, “ ‘is selling her interior designed one-bedroom flat in Primrose Hill, where near neighbors include Liam Gallagher and Patsy Kensit and Harry Enfield. The estate agent has revealed she is moving to Hanover Terrace to be with her new love, Ed McMann. The flat has a picturesque roof terrace, and a beautifully presented aspect, and is now on the market at 185,000 through agents blah blah blah.’ ” Jo stops and checks to see how I’m taking it.
“Fucking hell,” I splutter. “When the fuck did all this happen?”
Jo shrugs. “Dunno, but thank God you got out of it when you did. I mean, please. Look at that picture of Ed. Look at that ’tache. How could you?” And I examine the picture in the Express again and start to laugh. “I know.” I shrug my shoulders. “What the hell was I thinking?”
Joe Cooper comes out of his office and sees us laughing, and he walks over to see what all the fuss is about.
“Are you okay with this?” he says, looking at me intently. “If there’s any problem I’ll put someone else on her account.”
“No,” I laugh. “I’m fine. I’m just bloody relieved it’s not me in there.”
“What are you doing on Saturday night?” Sal sounds excited.
“Noth-ing,” I say slowly, always wary of committing myself before I know what I’m committing myself to. “Why?”
“We’re having a party and you must come. Paul and I were talking the other night about how nobody has house parties anymore, in fact nobody even has parties.”
“You’re right. Weird, isn’t it.”
“Yup, so we’ve decided to have one. The biggest, loudest, fuck-off party you’ve ever been to.”
I can already feel my own excitement rising at the prospect of a proper party, something to dress up for, something to look forward to.
“Are you having it in your place?” I’m picturing Sal’s house in Clapham, her double reception room, the french doors opening on to a large garden.
“Yup, of course. Paul spent last weekend building a barbecue, and we’re going to have a bar with sea breezes and martinis, and I’ve got to go out this afternoon and buy a load of fairy lights to string up in the trees.”
I squeal with excitement. “Who’s coming? Who’s coming?”
“Everyone!” she shrieks. “No, but wait. I haven’t finished. Paul’s got a friend who’s a DJ, and he’s coming and bringing his recordy deck thingy to do all the music properly.”
“Not techno rubbish?”
“Nah, for us old things? Nope, he says it’s serious funk with a strong seventies flavor.”
“Excellent, my favorite. What time will it start?”
“We thought around eight, and most people probably won’t turn up until later, but I definitely want the hard core of close friends there early. Seriously, Libby, there’ll be so much food and drink, and so many people, we think we’re on to a bit of a winner.”
“How many people?”
“We’ve got about eighty on the list, but everyone wants to bring friends because they’re all saying the same thing, that no one has parties anymore.”
“Sal, I cannot even begin to tell you how excited I am.” And it’s true. I am.
On Saturday afternoon I do something I haven’t done for ages: I start getting ready for the party at three in the afternoon, and even though it brings back shades of my teenage years, I’m loving every minute of it.
I wash my hair in the shower, then smear a hot wax treatment all over it, cover it in a hot towel and spend the next hour chatting to Jules while it does its stuff.
I use an apricot facial scrub, then three different face packs, all of which I leave on for twenty minutes, and by the time I’ve finished my face is so tight and shiny you can almost see your reflection in it.
I dash out to the newsagent’s and return with an armful of glossy magazines, because, chameleon woman that Jules so rightly once said I am, I haven’t yet decided who I’m going to be tonight. Am I going to be sophisticated, trendy, funky or aloof? Do I slick back my hair, wear it in a spiky ponytail or have it loose and tousled around my shoulders? Should I stagger in heels, glide in pumps or stomp in sneakers?
Flicking through the magazines, I have a wild impulse to pluck my eyebrows into perfect, sardonic arches, so, grabbing the tweezers, I do just that, marveling at the difference it makes to my face, and wondering what else I can do to achieve model perfection.
At last, at precisely half past seven, I’m done. I survey myself in the mirror, in my floaty chiffon floor-length dress covered in a dusky flower print, demure until I walk, when the front slit sweeps aside revealing my newly tanned legs (I bought the fake stuff this morning and much to my amazement it left me with smooth brown legs, and no orange stripes). Flat strappy sandals complete the look, and I scoop my hair up into a messy ponytail, figuring I can always loosen it later, should I find someone to loosen it for.
I’m tempted to drive, but I’m planning to really let my hair down this evening (excuse the pun), and call a minicab instead. I make him stop outside the off-license so I can run in and get beer. I would normally have brought wine, but Sal warned me off, saying they were stuffing three huge dustbins with ice, and beer would be more appropriate.
There are only a handful of other people there when I arrive, and no one I recognize, but there’s a buzz of excitement in the air already, and we all grin at each other and shake hands, chattering about how wonderful the weather is, and what a beautiful evening to have a party.
And the garden looks spectacular. Paul waves to me from behind the barbecue, the coals still jet-black, and behind him are makeshift wooden shelves, lined with what I can only assume must be Jell-O shots.
The trees surrounding the garden are all covered with tiny white fairy lights, but as Sal says as she shows me what they’ve done, we won’t get the full effect until later. I say hi to Jools, the DJ, a scarily trendy and rather gorgeous bloke who’s testing his system, too caught up in his music to notice the guests, other than to wave hello.
“I can’t believe what you’ve done,” I say, after Sal and I have knocked back a delicious lime Jell-O shot together. “This is amazing.”
“Do you think everyone will turn up?” She shoots me a worried glance before looking around the garden. “I mean, hardly anyone’s here yet.”
“Don’t worry.” I check my watch. “It’s only eight forty-five. People will start rolling in any minute now.”
And sure enough, as if by magic, people do start arriving, and within an hour the garden is heaving, literally heaving, and the nicest thing about it is that, even though I don’t know more than a handful of people, everyone feels like my closest friend, and I’m having a whale of a time dancing with some guy called Dave who isn’t really my type but who’s a bloody good dancer, and I know that I haven’t had this much fun in ages.
And then Sal runs in and switches on the lights, and Paul moves around the garden, lighting the torches that have been strategically placed in the flower beds around the edge, and the whole night seems to take on a magical quality, and it does feel like the kind of night when anything could happen.
Soon there are crowds of people dancing, and although we’re outside there’s
no breeze, and it’s so hot I can feel beads of perspiration dotted on my forehead, and eventually I shout to Dave that I’m going to get a drink, and he nods, grins and turns to dance with the girl behind him.
The only drink to quench my thirst right now is good old tap water, so I push through the partygoers until I’m in Sal’s tiny kitchen, and, leaning panting against the sink, I reach for a glass and gulp it down in about two seconds.
“John Travolta has nothing on you.” I jump and with my hand on my heart I turn to see Nick lounging in the doorway with a big grin on his face.
“I hope you’re not still in insulting mode,” I say suspiciously.
“No!” He looks aghast. “I was serious. I never realized you were such a good dancer.”
I shrug, secretly flattered. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long. We got here about fifteen minutes ago. Just in time to see those hips move.”
I laugh self-consciously before asking, “We?” And then I notice her. Tall, skinny, cropped dark hair in that perfect gamine cut that you can only have when you are tremendously beautiful and live in Notting Hill, and of course she is tremendously beautiful, and I hate her. Instantly. Not that I’m jealous, in fact I’m happy that Nick has found someone. Well, okay. Maybe happy would be a bit of an overexaggeration, and why does she have to be so bloody beautiful?
“Hi.” She smiles, and fuck. Her teeth are perfect. If I didn’t know better I’d think she stepped straight out of an American advert for toothpaste. “I’m Cat.” Great. This gets better. I shake her hand warily, and trying to be polite ask, “Is that your real name?”
“No.” She shakes her head and laughs. “My real name’s Sophie, but everyone used to tell me I looked like a cat at school and the name stuck.” As I take in her catlike almond-shaped eyes, I note that her voice is immaculately polished, that lazy insouciant tone that immediately marks her out as a member of the upper classes. Or, at the very least, upper middle. I don’t feel good enough, and I can’t believe a friend of Nick is making me feel inadequate. Not that she’s unfriendly, but she’s so gorgeous I feel like a dumpy fraud, and I wish, instantly, that I had worn something more like her, a plain tank with baggy combat trousers and sneakers.