by Adele Parks
"Fancy a quick one?"
Debate ensues. Monday choices are: visit the gym for a quick thirty-minute bums and turns punishment class or go for a cool glass of Chardonnay in the bar next door. Calories on or off. Fat on or off. Not so tough a decision. I grab my purse and kick my gym bag just a little bit further under my desk. I am a big advocate of "out of sight out of mind." Wine it is. Then the phone rings. It's Daisy. I gesture wildly to Sue and my other workmates, who have congregated around my desk, mouthing at them to Get a round in, I'll pay. They trudge off sulkily, sure that I've somehow tricked them. That I'd planned the phone call and that I'll now slip off to the gym, having persuaded them to consume more calories. God if I was as bright as that I'd be working for MI5, not this shower. They leave with resentful looks.
"It's me," says Daisy.
"Hi, me, what's up?"
"Just rang to say thank you for the party, it was brilliant fun."
"Yup, quite successful I thought. However, I'm paying fork."
"Oh, was it expensive? I suppose it was, all that champagne and caterers and everything. Would you like a contribution?"
"I don't mean that type of paying, I mean with my hangover."
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"Oh, of course. I can't very well contribute to that, can I?"
"Are you all right, Daisy?" Is she still drunk? If so I'm a really irresponsible friend. Daisy is a schoolteacher and I shouldn't be encouraging her in this excessive debauchery. I'm perturbed because Daisy is normally so bright and this conversation is labored. Also there is only one telephone that she has access to, which is in the staff room and is treated with the height of respect, a mix between the Tardis and the Bat Phone. For emergency use only. There are no calls to Daisy asking her what color nail varnish she is planning to wear with her open-toed shoes that night. I often indulge in these calls with our other friends. Come to think of it Daisy was acting a bit weird yesterday, too, all sort of spaced out.
"You're not ill are you?" I ask, concerned.
"Hmmm?" Vague.
"Ill, you know." Anxious.
"I need help." Unspecific.
"What is it? Are you in trouble?" Deeply worried.
There is no real reason for me to assume that Daisy is in trouble. She doesn't have a dark side, no criminal record. She was once late paying her television license because she was on holiday. She was a wreck, I thought we'd have to fly home. No drug abuse. No bigamy. No husband at all. Is she going to announce that she's a lesbian?
"You know Luke's friend Simon—"
Oh, so it's the usual, some bloke. Momentarily I'm disappointed. I mean there's not much kudos in a friend having a fling with your husband's friend, is there? It's commonplace. I settle down and try to concentrate on what Daisy is saying to me.
"Yep?"
"What's he like?"
"What do you mean what's he like? You met him yester-
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day. He's about five feet eleven, brown hair, brown eyes, trendy."
"Noooo," she interrupts, now she's thinking I'm sick. "I mean what's he like!"
I have, of course, immediately caught on to exactly what she is asking but think it's funny to wind her up—what are friends for?
"Oh, I understand. What does he like? Well I don't know him that well, not all his tastes and everything, but I understand that he's partial to the odd Budvar and more strangely, scotch eggs."
"Connie!" Sense of humor failure from Daisy.
I cave in. "OK. He's great. Really good bloke. Luke has worked on a couple of projects with him and speaks really highly of him. He is single, as far as I know. He's honest, a laugh, reliable, clever."
"Oh, he's gay." Resigned.
"No, no he's not." Reassuring.
"So what's the catch?" Suspicious.
"You know what? I don't think there is one. Surprising as it may sound. He's been working abroad and so hasn't wanted to get tied—settled (quick change of word choice)— but I understand he's back in London permanently now, and up for it."
"Up for it?" Daisy's old insecurities are never far from the surface. "What does that mean, is he shagging around?"
"Daisy," I say becoming exasperated, "I don't know. I don't usually get my guests to complete a questionnaire on moral criteria and recent sexual behavior before they attend our parties. If I did that, who would I see?"
Daisy giggles at this and relaxes for the first time in the call.
"I'm sorry, Connie. It's just that he asked me out."
"That's good, isn't it?" Nothing I like more than being responsible for the pairing of a couple of friends. Even though,
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strictly speaking, I hadn't specifically brought them together and I hadn't actually noticed that they were getting along. But thinking about it now, it's obvious. It's great, they are a perfect couple.
"Yes, it is good. It's marvelous. It's bloody marvelous. I think he's wonderful. He's so clever and funny and interested and interesting. Oh, Connie, thanks for saying that he is single. Thanks for saying that he's honest, a laugh, reliable, clever. Thanks for having the party."
She's gushing. I wait for her to thank me for getting married so that I could have an anniversary or thank someone for inventing scotch eggs so that Simon was able to grow into such a wonderful specimen. She swings back to her world-weary self.
"Up for it? Is he a tart?"
Oh, what an age we live in.
"No, really, I think he is genuinely a decent person. When I said 'up for it' I meant that he was keen to find someone special. Up for commitment."
Understandably, Daisy doesn't buy this immediately. I mean she is a single girl living in London at the close of the twentieth century.
"I hope you're right." Tentative.
"So how can I help?" I try to move her on.
"I was ringing to ask what I should wear."
Good solid ground this. The battle cry for centuries of women all over the earth—"But what should I wear?" We like this one—Sam, Daisy, Lucy, Rose and I. We've grown up with this one. And although we can rarely answer the question for ourselves we can always advise each other. Telephone companies are very grateful. A small fortune has been invested on a regular and frequent basis as we solicit advice.
"When are you seeing him?"
"Tonight."
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"Keen. Where are you meeting?"
"I'm coming into town as soon as he has finished work. Meeting him at a bar near his office."
"Well, won't you have to wear what you've got on?"
"Err, yes, I suppose." The hesitation in her voice fills in the background for me. I imagine her scanning the wardrobe that she has hauled into work. She'll have carried everything she owns, except her Laura Ashley dress which she bought for the twins' christening. Now she is gazing at the enormous array of clothes, thinking that nothing is suitable except the Laura Ashley.
"Where are you ringing from?"
"The staff room," says an urgent whisper.
"Not from the phone?"
"Yes."
"But it's against the rules?"
"Yes."
"And you've brought spare clothes with you?"
"Yes."
It is the staff break. I imagine the other teachers weaving in and out of Kookai' and French Connection, as they make their instant coffee, open their tinfoil-wrapped sandwiches and squabble over custard creams and the best seat. The older men on the staff will be tutting dismissively at Daisy, who by introducing her wardrobe to the staff room, is fulfilling every deep-seated stereotype they have of the young girls on the staff. The women will be divided; casting grim, jealous scowls or excited, conspiratorial grins. They have the sum of her. I know this is occurring as Daisy often amuses us with stories of the staff-room Parliament.
"They'll know you are hoping for a lay. Where are the clothes now? Are they hung up? If they get creased they'll be no good to anyone."
"I've hung them all round the staff r
oom."
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I giggle. Pleased that I've got the scene so spot on. Mis-judgment. Daisy snaps.
"Stop laughing and stop being motherly, Help me, what should I wear?"
She's got this bad.
"Sorry, really sorry." Even I know I didn't sound it. I try to concentrate. I know this is important to her. It's just been a while for me. I guess I've forgotten just how important.
"Well, not your Little Black Dress, you don't want to look vampy."
"Agreed."
We all have one. It may not be little, it may not be black, it doesn't necessarily even have to be a dress but we all have one. That cert, garment. That hundred percent seduction approved, come-fuck-me outfit. Mine is a sheer black trouser suit, Daisy's is a classic LBD, Sam's is a long black dress with thigh-high split. Lucy's is just about every garment she owns. Come to think of it, I'm not sure if Rose does have a LBD equivalent. I make a mental note to ask her next time I see her. The seduction cert, is as easily identifiable as a teetotaler on St. Patrick's day, and for this reason Daisy and I agree that it is unsuitable for a first date. OBVIOUSLY.
"What are you doing?"
"Supper."
"Supper . . . very clever, not quite as formal as dinner but more investment than a drink. Sounds promising. You don't want to look as though you've tried too hard but you do want to look as though you are always immaculately turned out and bang up to vogue."
"Exactly," says Daisy who no doubt is looking at her paint-stained jeans and Sloppy Jo T-shirt, painfully aware of how far away that description is to her current sartorial state.
"Blue Jigsaw trousers, cotton V neck from Next?"
"Too school uniform, I've tried it."
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"Silky black French Connection trousers, cream, slash-neck jumper?"
"Which trousers? Silky?"
"You know the ones Lucy persuaded you to buy. Not so much silky as with a sheen . . . they make you look very
leggy."
"Do they?"
And so it goes on, until the girls from my office return from their quick one (two or three, by the look of it). They look relieved to see that I am still attached to the telephone and haven't had the opportunity to sneak to the gym. We are debating round versus V neck when Sam swings by my desk and drops off a cheese sandwich. The love.
"What is wrong with you?" I ask Daisy, exasperated because my idea of white, linen trousers and black crop-top had been rejected as "too juvenile." "It's not juvenile, it's very 'All Saints.'"
"Exactly, and I'm closer to the age of the Archangel Gabriel. I don't know. I like him. I've got a good feeling about him. Shit, that's the bell. I've got to go to class. Give it some more thought and call me if you come up with the answer."
"On the emergency phone?"
"Yes, it is an emergency. See ya."
"Bye."
I put the phone down.
"Who was it?" asks Sam.
"Daisy. She's in love."
"Nooooooo." Sam's eyes widen. "Who, who, who? Tell."
"Simon, from my party yesterday."
"He was cute."
"Was he? I never notice now I have Luke."
"I am so pleased for her," says Sam. Then her smile crumbles, "When will I meet someone?"
Christ.
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* <* *
Obligatory debriefing takes place on Wednesday evening in All Bar One Covent Garden. Sam and I arrive first, after another hectic day sending rude e-mails. Rose is next, excited to be out for the night, then Daisy (tonight's special guest) and finally, Lucy, who is, as ever, fashionably late.
"Did you shag?" greets Lucy.
Fair, I think. Succinct, to the point. The others scowl at her. Unperturbed, Lucy pushes her way on to the wooden bench which is like glass it has been so worn by denim-clad bums. She lights a cigarette and shrugs.
"Oh, spare me the prudery, gals, you are all dying to know. Why else would Rose have got a baby-sitter? I rush away from work and you two"—she casually waves her hand in the direction of Sam and me—"canceled your chummy client dinners, or whatever it is you get up to?" She has a point. This is exciting stuff. Daisy has met someone ELIGIBLE.
"I didn't shag."
"But you wanted to, didn't you?" Sam sounds alarmed. Perhaps she thinks Daisy is gay, too. Or more likely she is obsessively comparing her reactions and actions to other people's. Her incessant search for the right response.
"Well, yes, obviously. But I stopped myself."
"Very wise," Rose and I chorus. Neither of us believe her.
"It was a lovely evening though."
"Go on," we urge, pouring generous glasses of Chablis to loosen her tongue.
"We out-sat, out-talked and out-drank everyone else at the restaurant. The waiters had long since stacked the chairs on to the tables and swept the floor around us before we even thought of leaving. They were huddled in a tired, hostile group near the bar intermittently tutting at us, continually glancing at their watches. It took us ages to realize that they wanted to be rid of us. We were just chatting and laughing and time flew by.
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Realizing how unwelcome we were we apologetically left an overgenerous tip and hurried out of the door."
"You are so soft," Lucy leaps in with her dollop of disapproval. She never over- or undertips. She is never embarrassed or bullied by the waiter who hovers inappropriately after appalling service. She never stumbles out of a hotel rummaging in her purse. She seems to have an endless supply of "just the correct amount." The rest of us always wildly overtip or stubbornly refuse to leave anything at all. Both systems leave an overwhelming sense of social failure.
"Shush, Lucy," we silence her. "A few quid here or there isn't the point now, is it? We want her to get to the tongues bit."
Lucy huffily sits back, but at least she stops going on about fifteen and seventeen and a half percent and stuff.
"He was so sweet. He held my hand in public."
We nod our approval. This usually means that they are officially single.
"We had a sort of half-plan to catch a cab so we started heading up Piccadilly. The streets were heaving with tourists and locals spilling out of pubs and bars. We both kept commenting to each other how happy and fit everyone looked."
Rose asks, "So you thought everyone looked tanned and well dressed and content?"
"Yes." Daisy pounces on the idea enthusiastically. The rest of us exchange glances.
"Tell me," asks Sam, "would it be fair to say that although you and Simon both agreed that everyone looked happy, fit, tanned, well dressed and content et cetera none of them were glowing quite as much as the two of you?"
"Yes. That's just it!" laughs Daisy, "do you think it is strange?"
"No. I think it is the alcohol," says Lucy.
"Soon we were at Regent's Park. He suggested taking a shortcut."
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"That sounds a bit dodgy," comments Rose, looking perturbed.
"Thank God. I was beginning to think we'd never get to the action," I add.
"Well, he must have been worried that I'd think he was dodgy 'cos he started going on about how safe it was and assuring me that he often takes this shortcut in summer. He said that at this time of night they would have just wrapped up A Midsummer Night's Dream."
We look at her quizzically.
"You know Shakespeare."
We look at her insulted. She rushes on justifying her lust.
"Anyway, I decided that as Simon is a friend of yours, Connie, it was unlikely that he was trying anything really odd and that, as we couldn't see an available cab anywhere, the shortcut did make sense. It could have been the two bottles of white wine that we'd drunk, or the surreal situation of walking through a London park, inhabited by imps and fairies, but it was so romantic."
We're impressed. Impressed and pleased. For all our piss-taking we adore each other. A romantic story is always good, but one with our bes
t friends in the starring role is brill. We each relate this to our own "romantic" experiences.
"Let's get this very clear," I say, "romantic with a capital R, I take it? Not the romantic felt in countless hot and sticky bars, with countless drop-dead-gorgeous men, feeding predictable but indistinguishable lines slash lies?"
"No, better than that." Daisy shakes her head shyly.
"Not the romantic where you close your eyes willing them to get your name right so you can believe that you are different and important?" asks Sam.
"Not that," smiles Daisy, self-satisfied.
"Not the romantic of a summer holiday fling? Deeply intense by its very brevity," Lucy throws in.
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"No." She confidently shakes her head.
"Was it the romantic that is sort of breathtaking, rather peculiar, real romantic?" asks Rose fondly.
Daisy nods. We're mesmerized and silently down our wine.
Lucy goes to the bar for another bottle. When she comes back we are all still sitting quietly respecting Daisy's really romantic story.
"Go on," says Lucy, grudgingly.
"Well, we'd been getting on so well in the restaurant but I seemed to have used up all my quota of witty and entertaining things. He squeezed my hand. It was sticky and I was embarrassed so I said, 'It's a really hot night.'"
We stare at her, amazed and disappointed, how could she have resorted to something so perfunctory? The weather, for God's sake. We don't say this, we don't have to.
"I don't know why I said something so inane. I was disgusted with myself, disbelieving that I could be so dull."
"Oh, I don't know," says Lucy. I'm not sure she's being kind. I also hope Daisy's story is going to get a little bit more exciting, I have a pension to draw when I'm sixty.
"To compensate for my unimaginative conversation starter .. ." Daisy hesitates and waits for one of us to correct her.
Sam does. "Non-starter, more like."
I don't think that this is what Daisy was looking for. She hurries on, aware she is losing her audience.
