by Kate Spicer
Charlie is away, overseas and for several days too. If I do go on the rampage, there’ll be no distressing scrabble to form an impression of ordered normality tomorrow. I can sink into a multi-destination night out and recover at my sluttish leisure. I’ve given the dog a beasting of a walk early evening. A dog that’s been properly walked is a happy and settled one.
At the V&A a friendly door bitch waves me past security. The dress, the hair and the make-up had made me fizz with self-approval at home. As I pouted and fussed over the amount of shadow under my eyes in the mirror next to the passenger light in the taxi, I clock everyone else in the overlapping circles of fashion and society. My whole demeanour flags and I feel poor, lumpy and average. I am so familiar with this feeling that I no longer care. Aspiration is all about suffering the pains of inadequacy, after all.
Inside everyone is gathered round those they consider to be their peer group. Any conversations outside these groups will be mannered and briefly charming with those considered worthy, and pointedly chill for those enthusiastic climbers punching above their social weight. Haughty is an old-fashioned word, but an indispensable one when describing the monsters and supercreeps in this society sea.
The fashion editor of a women’s glossy glides past, a Celine-cloaked humanoid on wheels. The last time I saw her, at a less glittering event than this, we talked for 20 minutes. ‘Rebecca!’ I smile and put myself in front of her, a ghastly thing to do, but the chat that last time had been profound by society standards. Not so meaningful that I can remember what it was we spoke about but sufficiently above the usual people-places-things, who, where, when, what and how much did the dress cost.
‘Ewhmmnello.’ Her lips barely move but her eyes look trapped. I respond, as is correct, with a similarly indifferent one-line greeting and she glides on to greener pastures than barren pointless me. The wife of a very famous homosexual fashion designer passes me. I interviewed her recently and she is extraordinary. I say hello and remind her that we’ve met and, obsequious and polite, I thank her for the time she gave me for the interview.
‘I had such an interesting response to the piece,’ I lie. I hadn’t; she’s far too out there and weird to speak of anything that a Middle England Sunday supplement reader can relate to. Her English isn’t great, and I only really speak restaurant French, but I feel an urgent need to flatter her, more for something to do than any real interest in her feelings. With my oafish accent, I continue with the toadying in a foreign language, ‘Vous êtes une inspiration pour les femmes anglaises.’ She nods with an impatient insincere twitch of a smile. I’m flogging a dead one here. We both move on, awkwardly. Brave compatriots in the shallow diaspora of fashion and lifestyle.
For all the morale-crushing failed conversations, the emotional temperature tonight is unusually warm for such an event. This is creepy and odd because society isn’t generally welcoming. I feel the awkward dread of outsiderness crowd in as the adrenaline of greeting these people ebbs away. This is bad news; I am still in the early stages of a social marathon.
Oh, fuck them all. I start looking around at the second tier, the people who will be happy to see me. Their dresses are less fabulous, their photo more rarely taken but their greetings are enthused. I see someone I know and move towards them. I know this person well enough to breathe out hard through tight lips when I get close enough, the exhalation meaning, ‘Am I glad to see you. Who’s here? Anyone friendly?’. I don’t let my intense relief register on my poker face, ‘You look great, who’s that dress by?’
The pop star she works for is famously tight and for all the private jets and showbiz fabulousness of her job, she survives on £30,000 a year. ‘Small designer, a lend. Obviously.’
‘Obviously. Same here,’ I say, with a roll of the eyeballs. ‘So many badly dressed people. I guess they’re the ones that actually paid for their tickets.’
Grace has luscious shiny hair, she is pretty and her skin and eyes yet to show signs of being hardened to the environment. She is more sensitive than most people in this game. When she needs to talk it requires me to open a vein of sympathy and it turns out that tonight is no different; she has suffered a mauling in the jaws of the fashion cabal – again. I don’t have much choice but to listen as I’m hardly rocking a 20-woman strong entourage here.
‘On the way in the car she had her grooming team with her,’ Grace says, her being the pop star boss. ‘I joined in a conversation about whether she was showing too much cleavage and the other two turned on me. The stylist literally hissed, “Darling, we’re fine without your input. Coffees and cars, darling, coffees and cars,” the phrase that’s used to put PAs in their place. It made me cry. Thank God she didn’t notice.’
The tears brim again and I give her a hug. Her hair smells of coconut and almonds. ‘Oh darling. They’re just fashion skanks. It always amazes me the way they can use the word “darling” like a poisoned dart.’
‘It’s the ultimate mean girl gang, even the men, I will never get used to it.’
A tear has escaped from her brimming lower lid. I feel slightly repulsed but I pride myself on my kindness and empathy, especially when I don’t have many people to hang out with. I’ve got a full glass of Ruinart Blanc de Blancs, which is about as good as it gets when it comes to free party champagne, and it’s slipping down a treat. Grace and I circle round the edge of the throng. I shower her in reasons to buck up. ‘Urgh, look at that pig of a dress … Christ, how did he get in here, he hasn’t worked in fashion since the nineties. How did I get in here, for that matter, I weigh more than eight stone. Shit!’
It doesn’t take long to cheer her up. ‘How do you feel about leaving?’ she moots.
‘Ace. I feel tip-top about that, girl. Let’s leave these fashion cunts here and skidaddle. We don’t belong here.’
I feel tangibly uplifted too, even though the after-party is at Chiltern Firehouse, to which we are NFI. NFI? It means not fucking invited. Most of the people on this planet are NFI.
Grace and I gather a posse to leave with, a shambolic crew of seven. Our friend has picked up two suits from a big fashion conglomerate and we ride into town in some guy’s chauffeur-driven Merc. Wedged in on the clotted-cream-coloured leather, I give Grace a kiss on the neck. ‘Vile vile human beings, fuck ’em all. I bet they’re all sniffing crap coke in the bogs by now … they’ll all be ugly and scrawny and full of collagen by the time they’re fifty. Cokehead losers. Speaking of which …’ I pause for comic effect, ‘got any?’
‘No, but I wouldn’t say no a quick toot …’
‘I’m not an addict,’ I say, ‘I just love the smell of it.’
‘Very moreish,’ we say in unison, sniggering at this oldie but a goldie. I’m having a fun night now we’ve gone off-piste. It’s best not knowing what is coming next.
After a few £18 G&Ts in a flashy Mayfair private members club, the sort that makes me look at Grace and say, ‘I hope someone else is buying our drinks’, these new corporate friends sweep us on with them to a party at a townhouse in Chelsea. In the vast, pristine and never-used kitchen, I register the light chopping sounds of cocaine being portioned out on a milky marble surface. An invisible sound system pumps out the Rolling Stones’ ‘Beast of Burden’. Unusual: normally the rich have tragic taste in music and their parties feature far too many House compilations made by five-star Parisian boutique hotels.
Out in the garden, a clutch of people blowing smoke into the cold air, there are lots of conversations carrying on with unusual concentration and interest. Everyone is high and ‘user-friendly’. This means you can turn and talk to absolutely anyone, even the famous people, and they will be friendly back.
A thought sneaks into my giddy mind. I wonder what Wolfy is doing.
Indoors, a couple of manic cocker spaniels come skidding across the parquet towards their owner, who greets them with a mixture of alarm and gratifying joy. There are at least twenty people still bright and chatting; the mood has not darkened, the party is still full
of life, but I don’t just want to go home to my dog, I need to. Au revoir. I tuck Gareth’s train into my knickers and step out into the fresh air, which seems to pass right through me, energising my steps as I lean out and flag a taxi.
When I get home Wolfy is already standing there waiting, waggling his rear end side to side and making little squeaks of happiness as he burrows into my knees. This is where a dog goes to get the best smell of you. I rock back on my haunches so I can greet him face to face, nose to nose, eye to eye.
‘Mmmmn’olfy.’ I kiss him all over his head, even though the dog books tell you dogs hate both kisses and being held by their heads. ‘Come on! Let’s go!’ He dances around, sinks down into his praying, ‘let’s play’ position, a downward dog. I pull on the first thing I find, my second-hand fur, step into muddy wellies and hitch the Gareth Pugh dress even higher up into my knicker elastic, I pick up my sunglasses and stumble out into the dawn to walk across to the Scrubs with the sun rising at my back and my dog at my side.
I should feel disgusting but, watching him gambol across the grass, shooting off, sniffing and zooming back to me at speed with his head dipping up and down, fur flying back in the wind, how can I wallow down there in my usual pit of recriminations and despair?
I run clumsily after him, tripping over my wellies and poor Gareth’s dirty train, and he shoots around me in wide circles before dropping his head and belting back at top speed. He keeps suddenly making emergency stops, turning on a sixpence and heading back to some unmarked spot for an intensely focussed sniff. I pull off my old fur and, after the mandatory hypervigilance for any sensory trace of shit on the ground, I find a good spot and lay it on the grass lining-down. I put my face into his thick shaggy neck fur, sniffing in his scent of digestive biscuits and warm hay, and I make throaty happy animal sounds. He sits, panting with his mouth open wide in a canine grin. ‘Mmmm, mmmmmmm, Mmmmmmm.’ There are no words, only sounds that adquately express this kind of joy.
A bloke walks through a horde of crows pecking at the wet dawn grass. He has an Alsatian and a spaniel with him. They are the only other mammals in sight, otherwise the Scrubs looks deserted, even if it is not. I’ve heard that homeless people live in the depths of the woods around its edge. I’ve seen tents come and go. Bloke’s wearing blue combats and government-issue boots – a police dog handler or a guard from the prison more probably. These are working dogs: security and drugs. He looks over at me. ‘Morning!’ I say, wanting to laugh, sat there in a £2,000 dress with my bum being warmed by coyote-fur underneath and an insanely shaggy lurcher in my arms. He nods, says nothing.
This walk – was it bedtime wee or first walk of the day? After a while spent loafing more than walking we go back to the flat and I chat to the dog, laughing at how stupid I am and how handsome he is, as I clatter about in the kitchen fixing a flagon of lemon water to take to my bed. I clock a large bag of black pepper Kettle Chips and add them crackling to the pile of recovery materials to take upstairs to bed. I’ll be needing them tomorrow.
I sit up in bed. The sheets still have a scent of freshness and are silky smooth with age. Downstairs I can hear the dog settling himself on the sofa for the night, which is actually day. Hearing his subtle rustling and creaks I miss him already.
‘Wolfy?’ I call, questioning whether he wants to come, questioning whether I am really inviting him in to the realm of humans. What about my replies to the adoption anoraks, ‘Dogs upstairs, never!’ There is a pause, stillness and silence for about 30 seconds. ‘Wolfy?’ I hear the tentative skirling and clicking of his nails on the painted wood of the stairs. He stands at the top looking at me, panting with his mouth wide open. Dog smiling. I pat the bed. ‘Hup Woofs?’ He stops by the bedside, still dog smiling, as if he’s saying, ‘You sure?’ before springing delightedly onto the mattress and snuggling down at the bottom of the bed. I fall asleep spread out like a starfish and with the dog’s head resting on my calf. No foetal position required. This oxytocin stuff is mind-blowing.
And that is the end of Wolfy sleeping downstairs.
‘Excuse me?’ I put my chirruping question to the Hulk’s back, the mean-looking guy with the Staffie. Wolfy and I were walking behind him on our way to Coffee Plant. It took the length of Elgin Crescent to Ladbroke Grove for me to pluck up the courage to come right out and ask, ‘Is your dog the love of your life?’
‘She’s the only one.’ His grimacing laugh rumbled like a tube train underground. A flash of gold grilles from his teeth as he smiled. Then he turned back to his walk.
This was reassuring. If loving your dog was a form of mental illness, or at least of weakness, then a wide range of decent humans were similarly afflicted. I relaxed into it. Bring it on, I say. There’s a study by academics at Edinburgh University that says our oxytocin response to dogs is in our genes. This is great news. Yet another problem I could lay at the feet of my parents. It’s not even my fault.
It is months since that miserable visit to Tim that had prompted my hunt for Wolfy.
He rang one evening while I was walking the dog round Wormwood Scrubs, wondering if I was around when he planned to be in Notting Hill. ‘No,’ I lied, ‘I’m on a deadline.’
He started talking, telling me about his new girlfriend. She’s young and apparently madly into anal sex. His favourite. I didn’t say she’s only with you for the drugs and the money. ‘I don’t want to know Tim, please.’
The dog was schnuffling around the edges of the little copse with the homeless guys living in it and I stared distractedly. Where was their way in through the tangle of trees and brambles? Were they OK in there? How did they live?
There was a real counterculture here that all the dog walkers took in their hearty stride. The al fresco hook-up scene cranked up with the warmer weather, and come early summer men of every age and ethnic stripe would sit along the benches at the edge of the copse on the Scrubs Lane side, looking at their mobiles and waiting for the sign to hive off into the bushes for some part-time loving. Following Wolfy, I’d once come across a naked guy in there waving a cucumber, and had screamed in shock, ‘OhmyImsosorry! Wolfy, come, come, come,’ I called as I blinkered my eyes with my hands.
The man was just as scared as me. ‘Sorry. Sorry love.’ A very apologetic English exchange, really.
All sorts went on up there on the 60 acres of the Scrubs, you just had to look for it.
I’d once thought of myself as a cool girl about town and now I am a prudish middle-aged lady in stout walking shoes screaming at cucumbers. But I still have Tim, dear old Timbo, reminding me of the past. I’m still here, half listening to him telling me about one of his portly coke pals who has kicked the bucket, suddenly but not surprisingly, at the age of 55. ‘Peter died. Heart attack. Wife discovered the mistress. Children appalled. Funeral awkward.’ The complexities of lives lived under the influence. The thought of it made my stomach twist.
‘Oh, sorry about that. But hardly unexpected. He was an elderly coke addict.’
‘We never see you darling, I miss you.’
‘I’ve got a dog.’
‘So I heard, darling, but you can still play.’
Play. Play. What a stupid word. Like that daft clock honking and mewling above his coffee table while unhappy grown-ups get off their tits.
‘Gotta go, Timbo, let’s have dinner sometime.’ The universal language of, I don’t want to see you.
‘When, where, soon, darling?’
Over the years Tim had been the worst great friend a girl could have. Tim had lent me money and put me up when I was homeless after bad break-ups, he had boosted my confidence when it flagged. We had talked. He always listened to my every dirty secret. In fact, no secret was too dirty for him. In fact, the dirtier the better.
Reasons to have dinner with Tim: he’s a mess but he’s kind and he’s smart, smart as hell, in fact, and if he hadn’t been a just about functioning drug addict, he’d have been running the world by now. His problem was that he’d made a lot of money, once,
by inventing some essential bit of code in the early nineties plus he inherited that jammy flat on Mount Street. The result, combined with an addicts gene, meant that he never really worked again.
Tim’s clever. All his dirty sexscapades and late-night idiocy is underpinned by education and the personal and political insight that being a mixed-race guy at a top English public school in the seventies had woken him up to. In the years of sitting around in that grand shithole of a flat we had talked about bookish things and politics, history and religion in a way that I never got the opportunity to normally, or if I did, I’d back off, nervous that I didn’t know enough. With Tim I never felt like that.
We had huge fights. Talking about the impact of the Cold War on post-colonial Africa, I’d punched his shoulder hard. He’d once walked away and left me outside a nightclub in Paris at 3 a.m. with nowhere to stay.
We were truly old friends and his addiction did not define him, not entirely, it was just something that I needed to closely manage.
There was one huge reason not to have dinner with Tim: seeing him meant drugs. I knew this with a certainty so Pavlovian I would feel high and my bowel agitated even if I just walked past his Mount Street flat at 10 a.m.
I looked down at my moist-eyed quadruped. For the last few minutes of the call he had been standing by my side under the little avenue of trees beside the Great Western Railway line. Absent-mindedly, I was soothing myself by rubbing, swirling and massaging his ears where they sprouted from their sockets.
‘Wednesday?’
That’s a good safe night, if such a thing exists in Tim World.
‘Done! Where?’
‘Locanda, they love the dog there. Did you know Lucian Freud took his whippets there for dinner. I want chestnut tagliatelle with chicken livers.’
If I met Tim for Italian food at Locanda Locatelli round the back of Selfridges on Oxford Street I could walk the dog there from my place through Hyde Park, good long walk that. We could split a bottle of Sangiovese, eat some Michelin-starred carbs and I could catch the 94 bus home. I knew I’d make better choices for my nostrils with Wolfy’s wet black nose in view. Yes, I reckoned I could risk eating with Tim without getting sucked back into Groundhog Night at Mount Street.
