Revelry

‘Well, apart from this Neanderthal seriously compromising my street cred, I’m fine,’ says Poppy equably as she gives her boyfriend a hug.

‘Just you wait,’ says Mark.

‘Actually, I think it’s hilarious,’ says a voice, and my heart jumps into my throat. It’s Ben, looking like a film star. ‘I especially like number six – a beer still looks as good in the morning as it did when the bar closed.’

‘All right, mate,’ says Damian, as they high-five each other.

‘What’s this in aid of?’ Ben picks up the nearly empty champagne bottle.

‘Poppy’s been promoted,’ I say, as she doffs her trilby and says ‘Deputy Head of Production for Europe to you, sir.’

Ben breaks out in a big grin and lifts her off the ground in a great bear hug. ‘Oi, put my missus down,’ says Damian, as I try to ignore the brief stab of jealousy in my heart. I’d die for Poppy’s casual flirtiness with Ben. It’s easier when you’re already taken, I suppose.

‘Aren’t you going to congratulate her?’ he asks Damian, who laughs.

‘She actually found out a couple of days ago. We celebrated then, didn’t we, sweet thing?’

‘Oh, we most certainly did.’ Poppy smiles and puts a finger to her lips. Even after five years, the chemistry between them is obvious.

‘Enough, enough – I so don’t want the sordid details,’ says Ben camply. ‘Who’s up for beers?’

He goes to the bar and returns minutes later with three pints of Stella.

‘That was quick. It took me bloody ages to get served,’ I say.

‘I think the barman took a shine to me,’ Ben smiles, and he’s probably right. He’s looking absurdly handsome in a slim-fitting navy blue suit with an open-collared white shirt that shows off his tan and incredible blue eyes. The narrow lapels and old-skool Adidas trainers neatly sidestep any suggestion of banker wanker.

‘What’s with the whistle, mate?’ asks Damian.

Poppy groans, ‘Get him with the Mockney.’ Damian’s Welsh lilt has just about had all its curves sanded down to standard men’s magazine estuary, which is a shame. Occasionally it resurfaces when he’s tired or upset. I imagine Ben’s accent disappeared the moment he walked through RADA’s doors (though he can apply it on demand, just as he can Scouse, or Geordie, or Glaswegian).

‘Audition. A new BBC sitcom – it’s being touted in the biz as the This Life of the new decade, and I haven’t a hope in hell of landing a part. But it would be churlish not to try.’ His boyish modesty is so endearing it makes me want to race right over to White City and shake the execs by the scruffs of their stupid necks. How can they be so blind not to realize what delicious gold dust they’re in danger of letting slip through their fingers? But he’s probably got it down to a fine art.

‘Don’t be a cunt,’ says Mark. ‘You know you’re in with a chance with your big blue eyes.’ He tries to widen his little brown ones to illustrate. ‘Talking of big blue eyes, I shagged the work experience girl last night.’

‘Poor little thing,’ is my immediate response, and he grins. ‘Yeah, I gave her a fucking nosebag full, put on some porn and soon she was letting me piss on her.’

‘What?’ Even Damian looks shocked. ‘Sweet little Amy?’

‘Not so sweet, mate.’

‘But why did you want to piss on her?’ I ask.

‘Never heard of golden showers, darlin’?’

‘Good God almighty, you really are a wanker, aren’t you?’ says Poppy.

‘Not really. I made her laugh.’

‘Yeah right.’

‘No really, I did. I couldn’t piss because of the coke, so she had to put the bath taps on full flow to encourage my full flow. She was giggling all over the place, little minx.’

‘I hope you were nice to her in the office today,’ I say sternly.

‘She called in sick.’ Then, seeing our combined horror and amusement, he adds, ‘C’mon, it’s not like she’s a kid or anything. She knew what she was letting herself in for. She probably just had a hangover.’

‘I’m just wondering how much lower you can sink,’ says Poppy. ‘Never mind, let’s at least give the poor girl the dignity of not being discussed like this any more.’

‘But tell us what her tits were like first?’ says Damian, leaning back nonchalantly in his chair, one foot crossed in his lap. Poppy slaps his leg, laughing.

‘Fucking gorgeous.’ Mark makes melon-squeezing gestures with both hands. ‘Pierced nipple too. See, I rest my case for the defence – not so sweet.’ Everyone laughs and I have a hideous moment of clarity.

Is this what we have come to?

I am actually quite shocked by Mark’s revelation, and feel hugely sympathetic towards the work experience girl. I remember myself at that age, vulnerable and desperate to please, and can only imagine how ghastly she must be feeling today, to the extent that she couldn’t face going into the office at all. Being peed on, for God’s sake?

‘Oooh Ben, loved the Ibiza Facebook pics,’ says Poppy, snapping me back into reality.

‘Except I had to detag myself in that one of us at Sa Trinxa,’ I say grumpily. ‘That was possibly the worst photo I’ve ever seen of myself.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad,’ says Ben, laughing.

‘You know which one I mean, then?’

‘Well, I know which one you detagged …’

‘Ben, it was an awful photo,’ says Poppy. ‘Don’t worry, Belles, you look nothing like that in real life.’

‘Thank you.’ I smile at her. ‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’

‘Talking of Ibiza, mate, did you ever hear from Kimberly again?’ Damian asks Ben.

The day after my encounter with the dwarf, Kimbo and my dad said their goodbyes and left the island, leaving me hot with vicarious shame.

‘Nope,’ says Ben, grinning.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I say, ad nauseam. ‘I can’t believe Dad did that. No, scrub that. I can perfectly believe Dad did that, but I really can’t believe that Kim did.’

‘Listen Bella.’ Ben looks into my eyes with such sincerity I could melt. I wish I’d bothered to pluck my eyebrows before I came out. ‘It’s not your fault your father’s a randy old goat. And it’s certainly not your fault the bird I was shagging turned out to be such a gold-digging slag. So, for the last time, stop apologizing.’

‘OK,’ I smile.

‘In fact he did me a favour. Veronique was hot as fuck,’ he goes on, and my heart sinks again.

‘Have you kept in touch with her?’ asks Damian, taking a swig of his pint.

‘Well, let’s just say she has an interesting interpretation of the text medium.’

‘Meaning?’ asks Mark. ‘Photos? Videos?’

‘Both,’ says Ben smugly.

‘Go on, show us,’ pants Mark.

‘Shall we just leave them to it?’ Poppy says to me, but Ben surprises us, saying, ‘No, it wouldn’t be right. She sent them for my eyes only.’ Drop-dead gorgeous and an old-fashioned gentleman to boot. Could this man be any more perfect?

‘Spoilsport,’ sulks Mark, and Ben laughs.

‘Surely you get to see enough of that sort of thing at work anyway?’

‘No such thing as enough, mate.’ Not for the first time, I thank the Brazilian twins for my lucky escape.

‘Yeah yeah, you boys and your ludicrous conquests,’ says Poppy. ‘Can we talk about something a tad more interesting for all of us? Like a certain festival that’s happening next week, perhaps?’

‘Yay, Glastonbury!’ I shout happily, more than a little pissed by now.

The Daddy of all festivals is next weekend and I’m looking forward to it enormously, despite vowing ‘never again’ after last year’s washout. It really was repulsive, with constant, relentless rain, and mud so deep it came over the top of your wellies, which made every step a Herculean effort. Some people had their tents washed away, and were left standing in their knickers: no possessions, no money, no nothing. None of us fared that badly, but my tent was not waterproof in the slightest (not least because I kept getting too wasted to remember to zip it up properly), and I had to sleep inside a bin liner inside my sleeping bag. The irony of a bunch of middle-class twits with lovely warm homes paying through the nose to endure such miserable, Somme-like conditions was lost on none of us. Still, with that uniquely British triumph of hope over experience, we duly paid through the nose again this year. And at the beginning of April it’s a gamble, as you have no idea how the summer’s going to pan out. So far it’s been an absolute scorcher, so fingers crossed.

‘Remember Mark’s trench foot last year,’ laughs Damian. Mark had refused to buy wellies, claiming they were for poofs.

‘Fuck me, that was painful. It took about a week to unmesh my trainers from the flesh of my feet. And another week to dry off.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t all bad,’ says Ben. ‘That first night, before the rain had really set in, was a hoot. Remember we found that random field with the tiny sound system playing some banging house? And Bella said something funny about sinking literally and metaphorically into the quagmire.’

I look up, shocked that he remembers something I said in a drug-fuelled moment nearly a year ago. I have a distinct recollection of him looking like a rock star in a fake fur coat, cowboy hat and shades, his long legs in mud-spattered jeans tucked into long black wellies. Film star, rock star, whatever …

‘We had a laugh all right,’ says Poppy. ‘It just wasn’t terribly comfortable. But this year is going to be beautiful, isn’t it? Come on, let’s all just will this gorgeous sunshine to continue.’

‘What day are you all going down?’ I ask.

‘I’m shooting next Friday so can’t get there till Friday night, which is a pain in the arse,’ says Ben. ‘I don’t suppose any of you could reserve a place and set up my tent for me? All the spaces will be gone otherwise …’

‘You lazy cunt,’ says Damian. ‘Course we will, mate. Mark and I have Press passes anyway, so I’ll see what privileges we’re entitled to this year.’

‘We’ll probably drive down on Thursday if you need a lift, Belles,’ says Poppy.

‘Thanks, Pops. Where would I be without you?’

Chapter 5

‘Bella Bella, che bella,’ says the head waiter as, an hour or so later, we walk into Osteria Basilico, the much-loved Italian on Kensington Park Road. It’s a longstanding joke he’s kept up ever since I first moved to the area. ‘And the beautiful Poppy. Why should we be so honoured tonight?’

Poppy and I grin at each other, aware that it’s pathetic to be flattered by the blandishments of Italian waiting staff, yet enjoying the compliments nonetheless.

‘Hi Giovanni,’ I say. ‘Any tables downstairs?’ Of course, all the tables outside are already taken.

‘For you, anything!’ He kisses his fingers. We follow him down the stairs.

Osteria Basilico is a proper old-fashioned phallic pepper mill Italian eaterie, serving classic stalwarts in lively, cavernous surroundings. The free-flowing wine and candlelit gloom encourage you to let your hair down. Not that we are in need of much encouragement.

It’s pretty full but, true to his word, Giovanni finds us a table for five in the furthest corner from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Shall we order some wine before we start?’ asks Damian, and as we all nod our assent, ‘A white and a red to kick off with?’

He selects a Chianti and an Orvieto without bothering to look at the list. We’ve been here enough times by now to know it pretty comprehensively. I pay lip service to the menu, despite knowing I’ll be going for the melt-in-the-mouth carpaccio and sublimely garlicky spaghetti vongole.

‘Don’t you understand, Max, that money is no object when it comes to making my day absolutely perfect?’ comes a strident voice from the next table.

‘OK OK, I was only offering you a couple of options,’ retorts a laid-back and wonderfully familiar voice. ‘Jesus, woman, take a chill pill.’

‘Max!’ I cry, jumping out of my chair. I hadn’t noticed in the gloom, but sitting right next to us in this subterranean corner of West London is my resolutely East London brother, dining with Andy and Skinny Alison.

‘Bella!’ He rises languidly to his feet and gives me a hug. ‘What a coincidence.’

‘Why didn’t you let me know you were in my neck of the woods? We could have hooked up for a drink.’

‘You must know I never mix business with pleasure, sis.’ Then, seeing the look on Alison’s face, he adds, ‘Just kidding. Did you know I’m sorting out the catering for Andy and Alison’s wedding? As I’m Andy’s best man? We thought we’d discuss it over a nice, relaxed dinner.’ He rolls his eyes at me and I try not to laugh.

I know I’m biased, but Max is gorgeous. His curly blond hair used to be the bane of his life. He looked like a cherub when we were kids and spent years trying to tame it – tying it back, slicking it down, shearing it into brutal military-style No. 1s – but always the curls sprang back, a life unto themselves. Now he’s come to accept them and wears them in a kind of honky afro/golden halo. He’s very tall (six feet four), broad shouldered, and keeps himself in shape, but without Mark’s ridiculously pumped-up look. His big long-lashed brown eyes, so similar to mine, give his face a sweetness that reflects his personality probably a lot more accurately than he would like.

‘No, I didn’t know, although I probably should.’ I smile at Andy and Alison, willing them not to realize how comprehensively I switched off whenever Alison started boring on in Ibiza. ‘Why don’t you join us once you’ve finished eating? There’s plenty of room at our table.’

‘Thanks, but we haven’t finalized the catering arrangements,’ begins Alison, when Andy cuts her off. ‘We’d love to,’ he says firmly, smiling at me. ‘I’m sure we can wind this up in the next five minutes or so while we finish our food.’

‘Great,’ says Max. ‘We’ll be over soon.’ He rolls his eyes at me again. ‘Right, back to business …’

We order our food and settle down convivially with the wine and breadbasket.

‘Why the fuck did you ask them to join us, Bella?’ says Mark, as everyone shushes him.

‘Max is her brother, Mark,’ says Poppy quietly. ‘Why the fuck do you think?’

‘I don’t care about the shirt-lifter,’ says Mark. ‘But that bird. Jeeezus, she could wipe the hard-on off Hugh Heffner in a Jacuzzi full of Playmates. Does she ever smile?’

‘Sssh, sssh, sssh,’ we say, trying not to giggle.

‘Andy’s the one I object to,’ says Damian, dropping his guard momentarily. ‘Fucking do-gooder with his “insightful and intelligent” pieces.’ His voice is sounding more Welsh by the second.

‘You sound like you’re quoting,’ says Poppy.

‘I am,’ says Damian morosely. ‘The National Press Awards.’

Poppy laughs. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, you could have gone down that route if you wanted. You chose the sex, drugs and rock-’n’-roll path of no-resistance journalism instead, and you love it.’

‘Yeah, I suppose. He doesn’t have to be such a fucking smug prick about it, though …’

At this inauspicious juncture, the three of them join us, and we all shift around to make space.

‘So did you finalize the catering arrangements?’ I ask Alison, as Poppy kicks me under the table. Alison is looking quite the elegant solicitor tonight, in a beautifully tailored white cotton shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves and oversized, pushed-back cuffs. Narrow black 7/8 trousers show off her slim thighs and bony ankles. Her shoes and Mulberry handbag have been expertly and expensively crafted from the same soft tan leather, while a touch of turquoise jewellery lifts the outfit from classic boredom. Yup, the bitch looks good.

‘No, not really,’ she sighs. ‘Nobody seems to understand how stressful it is, planning a wedding. There are so many things to consider.’

‘Erm, maybe I’m being stupid, babe, but why don’t you just choose some grub you like and lay on plenty of booze?’ asks Mark, shoving half a bread roll into his mouth.

‘People have different dietary requirements,’ explains Alison patiently, as if to a five-year-old. ‘Half of my friends are gluten-free, about a third don’t eat dairy, loads are vegetarian and most won’t countenance intensive farming, so knowing the food’s provenance is vital.’

‘Fucking Stoke Newington lesbians,’ grunts Mark, and I try not to laugh again as I recall that Andy and Alison live in Crouch End, North London’s liberal enclave, barely a stone’s throw from Stoke Newington.

‘Then there are the favours,’ she continues earnestly. ‘We can’t decide whether edible favours are the way to go – and, if so, should they come out of the catering budget?’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Poppy. ‘But I think favours are utterly preposterous for adults.’

‘What are favours?’ asks Damian, speaking for the rest of us.

‘Oh, ridiculous twee little gifts – sugared almonds, or packets of seeds, or horrid little gift soaps that most people will only throw away anyway and end up costing you a fortune. Honestly, Alison, save yourself the bother and expense.’

‘I have to say I’m inclined to agree,’ says Andy. ‘If we’re averaging three quid each and two hundred people, that’s six hundred pounds on stuff that’s only going to get chucked.’ He takes a swig of his red wine.

‘He can do mental arithmetic too,’ says Damian, just a tad too loudly.

‘I told you, money is no object,’ says Alison. ‘All the weddings I’ve been to over the last five years have had favours, and I will NOT have a second-rate, budget version.’

‘Suit yourself,’ says Poppy equably.

‘I’m sure whatever Alison chooses will be perfectly delightful,’ says Ben, smiling at her. ‘And I for one won’t be throwing mine away.’ As far as I’m aware, he hasn’t been invited, but nobody points this out.

For the first time since we arrived (I suspect the first time all evening), Alison smiles. It sits uneasily on her long face, the scarlet lips parting to show both top and bottom teeth. In fact, it doesn’t suit her at all, and I wonder if this is partly why, like Posh Spice, she has perfected the art of looking miserable.

‘Well, the jury’s still out on whether we’re getting them or not,’ says Andy, and Alison’s features revert to their habitual scowl. Thank Christ for that. Andy turns to Poppy. ‘How’s your father getting on?’

I had no idea Andy knew about Ken. Poppy must have confided in him in Ibiza. I can understand why – with his height, specs and obvious intelligence, Andy must remind her to an extent of her beloved daddy, the daddy she used to know.

‘Bloody awfully, but thanks for asking. Last weekend was the worst so far.’

‘You poor thing,’ says Andy seriously. ‘I don’t have any personal experience of it, but I wrote a piece about dementia a few months ago and it does seem to hit the family very hard, from what all the people I interviewed told me.’

Alison is looking daggers at Pops.

‘And so does cancer, and heart disease, and diabetes, all of which can be prevented with a little more self-restraint in one’s life,’ she says, taking a tiny sip of her red wine. I can hardly believe my ears at her insensitivity.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Al …’ starts Andy, and Poppy smiles at him.

‘Thanks, you nice man, but I can fend for myself.’ She turns to Alison, and hisses, ‘I suppose you also think that if he’d done the fucking crossword or Sudoku or something more often, he’d still be right as rain. My dad is a doctor, who knows all about prevention and cure, thank you very much. Can you imagine what it felt like for him to diagnose himself? He has more intelligence in his little toe, even with his illness, than you’ll ever have in your whole body, you cow.’

Alison puts up her hands in mock surrender.

‘No need to get personal. I didn’t realize he was a doctor. I apologize. It’s just that people who don’t look after themselves cost the state so much money, don’t you think?’

‘The tax on smoking practically pays for the NHS,’ says Mark, who’s enjoying this exchange thoroughly. ‘More wine, anyone?’ With a flourish of his huge arm, he summons the waiter and asks for four more bottles.

‘Four? Are you insane?’ asks Alison, askance.

‘You don’t have to drink them babe, do ya?’ Mark turns his back on her and starts chatting to me again.

‘What the fuck is her problem?’ I whisper.

‘She doesn’t like Andy talking to Pops, is all. Stupid bitch.’

‘But that’s absurd. He was only being nice about her father. And anyway, even though Pops is more gorgeous than that bitch could hope to be in a million years, she’s not exactly what you’d call a threat. She and Damian are devoted to each other.’

‘We know that, gorgeous, but she doesn’t.’ Mark and I clink glasses and down them in one in a moment of complete solidarity. I think I might love him, despite the Brazilian twins and the intern with the pierced nipple.

After a bit, Alison turns to me.

‘Remind me what is it that you do again, Bella? Isn’t it something secretarial?’ Her pale blue eyes bore into me. Her colouring is really quite striking, I find myself thinking irrelevantly, the black hair and precisely plucked brows a vivid contrast to her pale skin and eyes.

‘Erm no … I’m an artist, but sometimes I have to do a bit of temping to help pay the bills.’

‘And you really think that’s any way for an adult to earn a living? Don’t you think it’s time you got a proper job and left the painting as a hobby? I mean, frankly, if you haven’t made any money out of it now, I can’t imagine you ever will. You’re what? Thirty-two?’

I am stunned into silence. Not only because Alison thinks she has the right to speak to me with such vitriol, but also because she has pinpointed my Achilles heel with painful accuracy. She is beyond poisonous.

‘I don’t know how you can say that when you haven’t seen Bella’s work,’ says Damian loyally. The others are all laughing loudly at something Ben’s just said, so only he and Mark have heard this delightful exchange. ‘She’s extremely talented and I know her big break is just around the corner.’

I flash him a grateful smile. Luckily our food chooses this moment to arrive and I am spared having to defend myself further to the witch. We eat our food, and drink all the wine that Mark ordered. Then we order brandies.

‘Andy,’ says Alison. ‘We really should be getting home. I’ve an early start tomorrow and I’m working on a very important case.’

‘Oh yes, your job’s so grown-up and important, isn’t it?’ I slur, completely pissed by now. ‘It must be a total nightmare for you having to hang out with plebs like us.’

‘Oh, I think most people around this table have pretty important jobs, Bella,’ says Alison nastily. ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

‘For God’s sake, Al.’ Andy looks and sounds deeply pissed off, even more than when she was going on about Poppy’s dad. ‘I’m sorry, Bella. Sorry Poppy, too, for earlier.’

He pulls an apologetic face at us both, but I take no notice. It’s too much. After my shitty day in the office and gallons of booze, this sniping at both Poppy’s deepest sadness and my deepest insecurities makes my reaction just a smidgeon over the top.

‘You fucking bitch.’ I chuck the remains of Alison’s drink at her. ‘At least I’m not a dried-up old hag who can’t speak without hurting people or even smile without looking like a fucking gargoyle.’ I am mesmerized by the red wine dripping down her pristine white shirt. Then I come to my senses and burst into tears.

Getting up with as much dignity as I can muster, I say, ‘Max, could you cover my share of the bill, please? I’ll sort it out with you tomorrow.’

And I stagger upstairs, sobbing. I am halfway down Kensington Park Road when I hear footsteps behind me.

‘You left your jacket behind,’ says Ben, holding it out to me with a smile.

‘Oh, thanks so much, I’m such a twat. My keys and wallet are in the pocket.’ And I cry some more, as Ben strokes my hair, standing there in the street, going, ‘Sssh, sssh, it’s going to be OK, everything’s OK.’

After a bit he laughs. ‘You certainly told Alison where to go.’