by Jenny Colgan
“Because we’re Berrys,” said Lizzie. “Nothing good can happen to us, remember?”
“So how are you, Grainne?” said Penny after she got back from the bar.
“Good,” said Grainne. “I slept with an Australian at the Walkabout bar.”
“Well done,” said Penny. “I’ve heard that’s really difficult to do.”
Grainne looked pleased.
“So, how’s the party going?” said Lizzie.
“A party?” said Grainne. “Can I come? Will there be Australians there?”
“Not just Australians,” said Penny. “We’re also having crisps.”
Grainne looked even more pleased. Lizzie couldn’t believe Penny was inviting Grainne. Six months ago she pretended she could never remember her name, even though Lizzie had known her for years.
“It’s a shame,” Grainne said finally. “About you having to lose your big London flat and your dad turning out to be a bastard and that,” she said.
Lizzie nodded in agreement. “I know.” She looked around. Maybe she could work here. No, she couldn’t do that. But she knew, now, for absolutely certain, that she couldn’t carry on working for Georges. It wasn’t just the commute, although that was impossible; it cost her about ten percent of her wages as it was, and they put the bloody fares up once a fortnight. It was the thought of seeing Chelsea, and everyone they’d met there, drift further and further away from her. Georges and Maria-Elena would get married, and either move back to Portugal or stay away from the shop and have beautiful, chubby, dark-eyed babies and laugh a lot and things, and Penny . . .
Lizzie regarded her sister with a wry smile, watching Penny as she tried to be polite and listen to a confusing story Grainne was telling her about a dog taking a poo in her communal hallway. Penny would make it out of here. Not this time, but one of these days, with one bound she’d be free. Parkend Close was just too small for her. Lizzie had no doubt she’d keep working for Sloan, and she’d meet someone, or one of Minty’s crazy friends would turn up, or . . . well, something would happen. But for her, well. Maybe not.
Lizzie smiled at Grainne when Penny went to the bathroom.
“Penny’s changed a lot, hasn’t she?” she said.
Grainne shrugged. “Hmm. A bit maybe. She’s still the same underneath.”
Lizzie wondered if this was true, watching Penny catching the eyes of several men lined up against the bar. Oh well. And she was back to being dependable old Lizzie.
“Actually,” said Grainne suddenly, “the one who’s really changed is you.”
Later, when they were getting ready for bed, Lizzie told Penny that she thought Penny would escape, that she would still be a Chelsea girl.
Penny stopped brushing her teeth for a moment.
“Do you really think so?” she asked.
“I don’t think it’s possible that you won’t,” said Lizzie. “You’ll probably meet someone at the party and you’ll be away.”
Penny grimaced and put the toothbrush down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really sorry. About Georges, I mean. You know, it was . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Lizzie. “I was kidding myself anyway.”
“No, you weren’t,” said Penny, fiercely. “Stop underestimating yourself. You look brilliant, you’re, you know, great. I know I cock things up but I just never want to . . . you know, get chucked out of my house again. I want security. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Lizzie. “But it still seems high risk to me. Money over love and all that.”
“I had love, though,” said Penny. “And look where that got me.”
“You had it once,” said Lizzie. “You’ll get it again. And it made you so happy.”
“A car service would make me happy,” said Penny, spitting. “Liz, you were great to me all through my . . . well, my little difficulties. And you looked after Gran and everything, even though she’s a vindictive old bitch.”
“Who’s looking after her family,” pointed out Lizzie.
“Yeah, the evil bit of it anyway,” snarled Penny. “Stop bloody underestimating yourself. I bet Georges is kicking himself. With his big, hairy podgy feet.”
“Stop it,” said Lizzie, but without rancor.
“You’ve changed, Liz. You really have. For the better, with or without Ape Face.”
They headed into the lounge and turned in. Lizzie was so knackered she was about to fall asleep despite the pounding Snoop Dogg coming from upstairs and the musty smell of the carpets. Just as she was nodding off, she heard Penny say, very quietly, “When he came into the café . . .”
Lizzie didn’t have to ask who she meant.
“Did he . . . I mean, how was he, Liz?”
“Shocking,” said Lizzie.
There was a silence.
“Good,” said Penny. “He deserves to be. Doesn’t he?” She didn’t sound entirely convinced.
But Lizzie had already fallen asleep.
“You would never think I was from Brandford, would you, Sloan?” said Penny, at four-thirty on the day of the party. She had been bouncing about on nervous energy all day, fiddling with the tiger lilies that had been delivered, on Tabitha’s instructions, at eleven on the dot so they would be opening perfectly by seven.
Revved up by Lizzie’s belief that she’d have another chance, Penny had gone to town with her outfit. She was wearing a gray tweed dress she’d found in a charity shop, which fitted her like a dream, and looked like something out of the forties. She’d applied bright red lipstick and, as a finishing touch, the beret. She looked marvelous.
Sloan regarded her through half-closed eyes. He’d tutted over the wine Penny had ordered in (“Well, you did set me a budget of two ninety-nine,” she’d pointed out. “And when I asked you if Chateau Loup was OK you snored at me”), and popped out to get his own, just to get them in the mood.
Penny had one glass but no more. She’d learned her lesson. Plus the last thing she needed was to do something really atrocious and lose this job. Mind you, she wondered what she could do that was so awful Sloan would sack her. It would really have to be pretty bad.
“Crisps?” said Sloan suddenly, noticing a pile of garishly colored packets piled up in the back room. “What on earth are they doing there?”
“Well, you said we couldn’t have any food,” said Penny.
“Yes.”
“But I thought, if people can have a little snack they’re more likely to stay longer.”
“Crisps, though.”
“Well.”
“Penelope, having crisps in this shop is a sackable offense. Get rid of them, you guttersnipe.”
“Sloan,” said Penny. “What am I meant to do with two hundred packets of crisps?”
“Feed some of your illegitimate children by different fathers, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Sloan.
Penny tutted and threw a bag of Skips at him. They hit his wig and knocked it slightly askew.
“Cannot get the staff these days,” said Sloan. “Now, pour me another glass and get the music sorted out. The music has to be loud. Then people lean over to shout in each other’s ears and sometimes they end up accidentally snogging, which is always good for a party. And also, if some fartypants critic turns up and starts bellowing about how shit they think the artwork is, no one can hear them.”
“Can do,” said Penny. “I’ve put together a compilation. Of cat-themed songs.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sloan raised a skeptical eyebrow as Penny brought out the CD.
“Here we go . . . ‘Lion Sleeps Tonight,’ ‘Lovecats,’ ‘Tiger Feet’ . . .”
Sloan snatched the plastic box out of her hands.
“I’ll handle the music,” he said. “God, I really do have to do everything myself around here.”
By seven, people were already gathering outside the doors, and by five past, the place was filling up, buzzing merrily.
“That was fast,” said Sloan. “Even for Rentamob.”
Penny was standing
next to the door, greeting people with a big smile. She looked fabulous, she knew, partly because people kept telling her so, and partly because she was standing next to Tabitha, who was wearing a lime green muumuu with a yellow feather in her hair.
“Namaste,” Tabitha was saying to everyone as they walked in the door. Most people said “bless you,” thinking she’d sneezed.
Lizzie arrived at seven-thirty, nervous but excited. She was wearing a simple, belted dress she’d found in the Jigsaw sale, which she knew looked good on her, and she’d used Penny’s lipstick. It was far bolder than she was used to, but as soon as she’d put it on she’d realized it suited her perfectly.
“Hey, look at you two,” said Rob and Sven, who’d just arrived. “You look like twins.”
“We are twins,” said Penny. “We’ve met before, remember?”
“I’m sure I’d remember you,” said Sven to Lizzie’s breasts. Lizzie and Penny looked at each other and grinned.
Grainne sidled in looking nervous. She was wearing a black skirt and a white shirt, out of which her breasts spilled alarmingly.
“Hey, there,” said Lizzie. “How are you?”
“Terrible,” said Grainne. “I wore this just in case I’d misheard you and you actually wanted me to be a waitress.”
“No,” said Lizzie patiently. “And here. These two men are desperate to meet charming young ladies.”
“They don’t really have to be charming,” said Rob. “Just handy.”
“Are you Australian?” asked Grainne.
“Nope.”
Grainne thought for a moment. “Ah, that doesn’t matter. Do you like crisps?”
“Who doesn’t?”
By eight the party was really starting to move. Tabitha was standing in the center, letting people come to her and allowing copious amounts of raw red wine to be poured into her glass. Sloan was sitting behind the desk, deep in conversation with several young men who appeared to be models of some sort. Penny had been grabbed by a bunch of enthusiastic young money men from a Mayfair office who were asking her to explain the history of art while attempting to pinch her bum. Normally this would have been a perfect state of affairs, Penny was thinking. Why did it feel so hollow?
Lizzie was nursing a glass of wine, happy to survey the clearly successful party—there were already red stickers on the smaller pieces, and Tabitha was gaily instructing people to buy immediately, otherwise she would do a large tiger roar at them.
Minty and Brooke had arrived with some of their louche friends, and despite spending at least twenty minutes explaining how they couldn’t possibly stay long, they had much more exciting plans elsewhere, they were still here, listening to the ridiculous pop music Penny had finally managed to get on the stereo, and clearly enjoying themselves. Minty was in a corner with Sven, tossing her shiny blond hair meaningfully and giving him a slightly unhinged wide-eyed smile. Lizzie wondered how on earth she could ever have been scared of her. Even Krystanza had turned up, with a photographer in tow so he could get pictures showing how cultured she was. Unfortunately her bosoms were obscuring the view for the other punters, but it couldn’t be helped.
Then a sleek black car drew up. Of course. Lizzie nodded her head. If it was up to her, Georges would walk everywhere, not sit in the back of a big car, getting podgy.
But it wasn’t, of course.
The doors of the car opened and Georges and Maria-Elena got out from opposite sides. It was odd, mused Lizzie, eyeing them from her vantage point at the window, that they didn’t talk to each other at all. Their body language was extremely frosty. Maybe they’d had a row about something. She didn’t think it would be difficult for Maria-Elena to pick a fight with someone. Probably didn’t want to come to evil Penny’s party, and she supposed she couldn’t blame her, after the terrible display Penny had put on.
Nonetheless, Georges, courteous as ever, stood on the outside edge of the pavement, and made sure he opened the gallery door for his future bride. Of course he would, thought Lizzie, going forward to say hello. She was going to have to tell him she was leaving. In fact, she should tell him sooner rather than later. The faster she stopped having to pay these ridiculous bus fares the better, and he had plenty to do with organizing the wedding and whatnot.
“Lizzie,” he said, his face, as always, bursting with warmth. “You get more . . . well.” He stopped himself. “What a lovely party.”
“Hello, Maria-Elena,” said Lizzie. Maria-Elena raised her eyebrows and handed her coat to Georges without looking at him. She grabbed a glass of wine and went off to look at the paintings.
“Actually, I have to talk to you,” said Lizzie.
“Oh, yes?” said Georges.
“It’s about . . . well, I have to . . .”
Just then, Tabitha Angelbrain Dawson rang her fork sharply against her glass and made a loud “huhhummm.”
Sloan, who’d looked to be dropping off to sleep, raised his head. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “What is this, a fucking Cheshire wedding?”
“I just wanted to say, thank you all so much for coming to my party,” began Tabitha in very loud, imperious tones.
“Who’s that?” Sven could be heard asking plaintively over the crowd.
“Well, of course, I say my party, but I like to think it’s really the spirits’ party. They have guided me—I am merely the vessel. A toast. To the gods of creativity, of animalistic spirit, and of course, to the inner-leonine passion that has guided us all here today.”
She raised her glass impressively.
“To the gods of creativity . . . animal blah blah, spirit, blah blah, mmm mmm,” said the rest of the crowd, raising their glasses too.
“And buy lots of the damn things,” said Tabitha. “There’s a free packet of crisps with each one.”
There was a huge round of applause at this, then everyone went back to quaffing their wine, throwing it back quickly before it peeled the enamel off their teeth. The chat level increased commensurately.
“What?” said Georges urgently.
“Sorry?” said Lizzie, who’d got slightly sidetracked by trying to work out what exactly Tabitha had stenciled in gold on her fingernails. They looked like claws. Also, the woman with the Nicole Kidman nose from her first day at the gallery had just walked in, and had bypassed Lizzie without a second glance. Lizzie wasn’t certain whether to be pleased or slightly annoyed by this. Even Sloan hadn’t insulted her or anything. She supposed she was fitting in around these parts, just as she was about to head on the long way home. And there, she reflected, wherever she ended up, she was going to be completely out of place again. God, life was annoying. She sighed.
“Lizzie,” said Georges, snapping his fingers. “You are in a dream.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Lizzie. She swallowed hard. She wasn’t looking forward to doing this, but there was no way around it. She had to be brave, and upfront, and all the things Georges and her gran kept telling her to be. Get it over with.
“Georges,” she said. “I have to . . . I mean. I resign.”
There. She’d said it now. It was out of her mouth and out of her hands.
“No,” said Georges. “No, you cannot! I need you, Lizzie.”
“Of course you don’t,” spluttered Lizzie. “I think you’re doing OK, don’t you?”
She looked meaningfully at his expensive watch.
Georges blinked rapidly.
“But . . . you know, I say already, I can help find you somewhere to live and . . .”
“Georges, I’m not an abandoned dog. I can look after myself.”
“I know that, Lizzie, but . . .”
His face was stricken. “But . . .” He seemed to be searching for the words.
Penny had been listening to a monopolies manager trying to explain to her what his job entailed. He’d lost her about ten minutes ago, but she was nodding politely and trying to look alert and interested. She glanced sideways; Lizzie and Georges seemed deep in conversation.
“Excuse me,”
she said with her most professional smile. “I have to go and look after all my clients.”
“Of course,” said the man charmingly. “I’m sorry to have monopolized you. Ha, ha, get it?”
Penny composed her features into a look of surprise. “Oh! Aha! You’re so funny! Now, excuse me.”
And she sidled up to Maria-Elena to size her up.
“Hello,” she said coolly. “Having a good time?”
“What do you expect?” said Maria-Elena. “This town is no good for Georges. Is full of whores who want his money.”
“You think?” said Penny.
“The women here . . . they are tarts, they drink, they cannot dress. I heard Chelsea was a smart part of town. Hah! It is disgusting. How anyone could live here I cannot imagine.”
Penny felt down into her handbag. Goddamn it, if all Tabitha’s potion did was give someone a nasty stomach, this witch was getting it right now.
“Here, give me your glass. I’ll refill it,” said Penny with her smoothest smile. “Maybe you can forget for a few hours your life of terribly upsetting luxury.”
“No!” said Maria-Elena. “What, you think I want to drink more of that gut rot and get staggering and vomit like the English girls?”
“Just a bit,” said Penny desperately, seizing the glass. “Who knows, it might melt your iron knickers.”
She poured some wine from a nearby table, then turned away slightly to get the herbs in.
“What are you doing?” screeched Maria-Elena, loud enough to be heard above the hubbub. “What are you doing with my glass?”
“Nothing!” said Penny, jerking suddenly and spilling the contents all over the floor.
“What is this? Georges! Georges! She is trying to poison me!”
“I’m not trying to poison you,” said Penny, desperately trying to force the herbs back into her bag. OK, as whims went, this one was really dumb. “Stop being stupid.”
Georges came over. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” said Penny, putting her hands behind her back.
“Show me that glass!” ordered Maria-Elena. “Georges, she is trying to poison me. Phone the police immediately.”
