“Christ,” I said to Rose while we waited to be shown to our table, “What was that about? Surely Oliver’s not that important?”
Rose laughed. “Not quite,” she said, “but Madonna comes here quite often. They were probably hanging out in the hope that she’d appear, and we might do in a pinch.” Rose has had her photo on the diary page of Hello a few times, and she pretends it’s awkward and embarrassing, but I suspect she’s secretly terribly gratified by it. And once when she was in Tatler she really struggled to hide her delight, and I found the cutting in the kitchen drawer several months later when I was looking for the Royal Taj Mahal menu, although when I asked her if it was okay to throw it away she acted terribly casual and said yes, of course, she couldn’t think how it had got there.
Anyway we made our way to Oliver’s table, and there he was, wearing another of his impeccably cut suits, with a shirt in a sort of amethyst colour, open-necked with no tie, and there was a bit of designer stubble on his face, so I supposed he had dressed down for the occasion. I just stood there for a bit, rooted to the floor as they say, and not just by Rose’s patent McQueen heels, which were pinching my toes like mad. I was so transfixed by Oliver that I barely noticed Peter standing next to me, holding two glasses of wine.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said. “You look fucking incredible. I incredibly much want to fuck you.”
“Shhh,” I hissed. “Hi. So glad you could come.” I kissed him, aiming for his cheek, but he turned his head strategically so I ended up kissing his mouth.
Comparisons are odious, everyone knows that, and I’m ashamed to say I was odious too, as I weighed Peter up against Oliver and found him wanting. Oliver was so polished, so at home in this environment, among these glossy, important, moneyed people. I tried to kindle the desire I knew I ought to feel for Peter, but it was like trying to light a fag with a lighter that’s flint has gone – just a dull scraping, and no spark at all. I couldn’t help contrasting his perfectly nice, ordinary suit with Oliver and his friends’ designer versions of the same thing; Peter’s totally normal short hair with their proper, styled cuts; Peter’s sweet, inoffensive Home Counties accent with their cut-glass tones. And when we all sat down for dinner and I found myself sitting on Oliver’s left (Rose was on his right), I couldn’t stop looking at his hands as he turned the pages of the wine list, listening to his voice as he ordered things without stumbling and faltering over any of the words as I would have done, admiring the slight crookedness of his smile and the huskiness of his laugh, I barely said a word to Peter for about half an hour.
On Oliver’s other side, Rose seemed totally preoccupied too. She had her phone out on the table in front of her, and she was tapping it impatiently every now and then, and looking expectantly towards the door. I wondered if she was texting friends, speculating about whether Madonna was going to put in an appearance, but I didn’t care much. When I felt a warm hand on my thigh, I almost melted in a puddle of delight, before I realised it was the wrong leg, and the wrong hand.
“Ellie?” Peter said, “Are you okay?”
“What?” I said. “Yes, of course, fine.”
He lowered his voice. “I’m not sure I am,” he said.
I turned to look at him. His face was furrowed and unhappy, and he looked all stiff and uncomfortable, surrounded by Oliver’s laughing friends.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Ellie, I think you know,” he said. “I don’t want to cause a scene at your friend’s party, but maybe we should go outside and talk.”
I pushed back my chair and stood up, ignoring the plate of risotto that had just been put in front of me. “Right,” I said.
Outside, the night was warm and there was a thin drizzle falling. I thought how Rose would worry about her hair frizzing in it, and found myself worrying about mine.
“What is it?” I said to Peter.
“I think I may have got things wrong about us,” he said. He looked utterly miserable, and a bit angry. “It’s early days, but I really like you, and I thought you liked me. But I think there’s something going on with you and Oliver, and I’m not comfortable with it.”
I looked up at him and fixed a bright, sparkling smile on my face. “What do you mean?” I said. “Oliver’s just a friend. He’s my sister’s boyfriend. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But just then Oliver and a couple of his friends – the one called Algy and I think the one called Fabrice – came outside and looked at us, and moved discreetly away before lighting cigarettes, and my eyes were drawn irresistibly to Oliver, so much so that I barely heard what Peter said next.
“Ellie, I’m going to go home. I don’t belong here, and you don’t want me here.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Of course I do.” I could see Oliver looking in my direction, and I pulled Peter towards me and tried to kiss him, but his body felt cold and stiff, and he moved away.
“Don’t patronise me,” he said. “I might not have been to university, I might not work for some swanky Square Mile investment bank, but I’m not stupid. You have a think about things. If you change your mind about our relationship, call me, but as far as I’m concerned it’s over.”
“Pete, I…” I wanted to say, how could it be over – whatever it was, it had surely not even begun. But all I could manage was, “I’m sorry.”
“Give this to Oliver,” Peter said, pressing something into my hand. And he turned and walked quietly away into the damp night. I watched him for a bit, then went over and chatted to Oliver and his friends, and said that Peter had some work emergency, and it was only when we got back into the restaurant that I realised the warm wad of paper sticking to my palm was eight twenty pound notes, enough to pay for the wine we’d drunk and the food neither of us had eaten.
Raucously, the evening progressed. Oliver moved around the table talking to everyone, and Rose did too, although she seemed totally without sparkle. Algy and Fabrice ordered brandy and more champagne, and after a while Algy moved into Peter’s place, and I chatted to him a bit but I couldn’t summon up much enthusiasm for it, I couldn’t eat anything, and I couldn’t stop looking at Oliver on the other side of the table. Then Rose edged over into the empty chair on my right.
“Shall we go?” she said.
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said, “we can stay.” But I was feeling sad and hollow and a bit cold without the glowing flame of Oliver’s presence next to me.
“Let’s go,” said Rose. “You’re upset because you and Peter have had a row. Come.”
She put on her coat and picked up her bag, and both of us went round the table saying brittle goodbyes to people, and then we were outside again. The clouds had cleared now, and there was a bright new moon overhead. Rose, with the unerring skill she has in this regard, hailed a passing taxi, and held the door open for me.
“Off you go,” she said, giving me a quick hug. “Will you be okay? I’m sorry, but I need to be somewhere else.”
And she told the driver our address and slammed the door, and I craned my neck round as he was pulling off, to see if she’d gone back into the restaurant, but I couldn’t, she’d vanished. When I tried to call her, her phone went straight to voicemail, and so did Peter’s.
I said to the taxi driver, “I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind. Please could we go the other way, to Highgate?”
It took almost half an hour to get to Peter’s flat, but it wasn’t long enough for me to decide what to say to him. When I rang his doorbell I was still unsure, and when he opened the door, wearing just a T-shirt and boxer shorts and looking cross and sleepy, I couldn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then I sort of gulped, “I’m sorry.”
“You’d better come in,” he said, and I stepped into the hallway and leaned against the door.
“I won’t stay,” I said. “I just thought I should say that you’re right, this isn’t going to work. I’ve been really unfair to you and I wanted to apologise. I hope we can still be friends.�
�
Peter gave a sort of crooked smile. “It’s not me, it’s you?” he said.
“That’s right.” I tried to laugh, and so did he. Then I gave him a hug, and said goodnight. The journey home on the night bus took even longer than it had taken to get there, I was cold and my shoes were mercilessly pinching my feet, but I didn’t care – I felt lightheaded with relief.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Question seven. Question seven, ladies and gents. The result of the annual prize for the most promising young British portrait painter is due to be announced in one month. Which great English artist does the prize commemorate?”
“Turner?” suggested Alex.
“What? No, you noodle, Turner painted landscapes, and anyway the Turner Prize is announced in March,” I said.
“Oh.” Alex looked a bit hurt. “It was just a suggestion.”
“Well, it was a better idea than I could have come up with – I haven’t the foggiest. I could text Rose and ask her? It’s bound to be one of the ones whose stuff she values and sells all the time.”
“No texting,” Alex said. “Things may be bad, but they’re not bad enough for us to cheat.”
I’d forgotten that Alex shared Ben’s ideas about morality and liked to play by the rules – all that sport at university, I supposed. Although if you look at the Pakistanis, maybe it’s not such an ethical game after all.
We looked at each other glumly. Without Ben, our pub quiz team was looking rather threadbare. Alex is sound enough on questions about cricket and nature, and of course is the fount of all knowledge when it comes to Star Wars, but there hadn’t been any questions about that this week, and my expertise in Renaissance and Restoration drama hadn’t been called upon either, funnily enough. We were buggered, and we knew it.
“And now for our music round! I’m going to play you a short burst of six songs, each of which has been covered recently by a contestant on The X Factor. Name the original artist and the X Factor hopeful, for one point each.”
“Fuck,” I said. “This isn’t going to happen, is it?”
“Nope,” said Alex. “I think we can kiss that bottle of cheap Pinot Grigio goodbye this week.”
“Pint?”
“Go on.”
I made my way to the bar and ordered two Stellas and a packet of peanuts. I’d hoped that the Tuesday traditional quiz night at the Duchess would take my mind off Oliver, and work, and feeling guilty about Peter. But it wasn’t working. I felt depressed and preoccupied and I could tell Alex did too, so when I got back to our table and plonked down our drinks, I said, “So. Nina?”
“Ben reckons she’s moving in with him,” Alex said.
“She’s what?”
“Moving into Ben’s flat. With the kid.”
“But… he’s only got one bedroom,” I said stupidly.
“Makes no difference to Nina,” said Alex.
“Hold on,” I said, “I know this track.” The wonky sound system in the Duchess was blaring out ‘Oooh, you make me live’. “It’s Queen, isn’t it?”
“Got it!” Alex scrawled on our answer sheet. “It’s ‘You’re My Best Friend’.”
“Top man!” I said. “Anyway, where were we?”
“Practicalities have never stopped Nina before,” Alex said. “Apparently the kid sleeps in bed with her anyway.”
“Eeuuw,” I said. I mean, really. Pers sleeps in with Claire, but she’s only tiny, and besides, she’s gorgeous, not like Nina’s horrible offspring. “But he’s, like, five or something.”
“Six,” Alex said. “Ben says Nina believes he’ll grow more independent when he’s ready.”
“Well, I’m sure he will,” I said. I’m all in favour of attachment parenting and all that stuff, Claire explained it to me and it makes a lot of sense. “But in the meantime that doesn’t exactly help Ben. Or Winston.” I’m fiercely protective of Winston, whom I regard as a sort of god-cat (in the sense that I’m his godmother, obviously, like I am Pers’s, not in the Ancient Egyptian sense) and he’s always slept on Ben’s bed.
“What is the common name for the grey, dove-like bird of the species Cuculidae?” intoned the quizmaster.
“Hang on,” I said, “You know about birds, right? What was that?”
“Easy one, cuckoo,” said Alex, and filled it in on our answer sheet. “Anyway, yeah, Nina’s not keen on Winston. She reckons his fur aggravates the kid’s allergies.”
“What?” I fumed. “How dare she? What does Ben say about that?”
“Ben seems to have fuck-all choice in the matter,” said Alex. “The little git thinks it’s funny to pull his tail, and when he scratched him Nina went mental, and she’s talking about getting him rehomed.”
“No way!” I said. “Have you told Ben he needs to grow a pair?”
“Haven’t had the chance,” Alex said, “because he’s gone into silent mode again. Not answering calls, not posting on Facebook, nothing. The only reason I know about the kid and the cat is because I turned up on his doorstep and saw the whole thing play out. It was like something out of Child’s Play or The Omen.”
“I can’t believe he’s letting her do it,” I said. “Swan back into his life after all this time and just take over.”
“Yeah,” Alex said. “But remember, Mum brought Ben and me up on her own after Dad pushed off, and it was really tough for her. Ben’s always had a thing about absent fathers.”
“And now, a film question.” I was interrupted again by the quizmaster’s mockney voice blaring out. “There’s been a recent surge of interest in the forgotten art of elocution. Which Oscar-winning motion picture is believed to have inspired it?”
“The King’s Speech,” Alex and I chorussed, and he wrote it down. “Anyway, what’s up with Ben and Claire?” I said. “I thought they were seeing each other, and that’s why Claire hasn’t been in touch for ages. I assumed she was doing that loved-up eye-staring thing with Ben that she did with Ty, and I was leaving them to get on with it.”
I knew when I said it that I sounded really resentful, and not happy for Ben and Claire at all. I was, really, it just felt a bit shitty that the two of them, my best friends, had got together and left me out. I should have been happy for them, and I’m sure that given time I would have got over myself and learned to be, but in the meantime I just felt… jealous. There, I said it.
“I honestly haven’t a scooby, Ellie,” Alex said. “Ben never said anything to me about what was going on with him and Claire, he just mentioned a couple of times when I wanted to meet up that he was busy, and seeing her. But what’s with this bloke who changed his Facebook status to ‘in a relationship with Ellie Mottram’ a few weeks ago, then changed it back to ‘single’ on Sunday?”
“And now, a biblical question. Which of the twelve apostles mentioned in the New Testament was crucified under the emperor Nero, but at his own request had the cross placed upside down, because he didn’t deem himself worthy of the same death as Jesus Christ? Which of the twelve apostles…”
“Peter, wasn’t it?” said Alex.
“Of course it was,” I said impatiently. “But listen, what the fuck am I supposed to do about Claire?”
Did she know? Had Ben told her? Was Ben seeing Nina behind Claire’s back? Was Claire getting involved in some horribly messy menage à trois – or menage à six, I suppose it would be, if you counted Pers, Winston and Nina’s ghastly child.
“Where is London’s prestigious Guildhall school of music and drama located?”
“Barbican, isn’t it?” Alex said, and I agreed, but I had a niggling sense that the question ought to have rung some sort of bell somewhere in my head. Slippery as a freshly-peeled lychee, the thought slid away.
“What is the former name of Hampshire County’s cricket ground in Southampton, now known as the Ageas Bowl?”
“One for you, I think,” I said.
It was the opening Alex had been looking for. “It’s the Rose Bowl,” he said, with a smug smile. “Which reminds me
– tell me about your gorgeous sister. How is she? Come on, a nice, detailed description of her in her nightie would be great.” Alex has had a massive, unrequited crush on Rose for ages.
“Bleurgh, pervert!” I said. “I will not provide you with verbal wank fodder based on my own sister. Now focus, we’ve a quiz to lose.”
“What do the following words have in common: Reed, Stone and Twist?”
“Something about smoking spliffs?” Alex hazarded. “Inhale through a reed and you get stoned, or twisted?”
For God’s sake. It was a pub quiz conspiracy. “Oliver,” I spat.
The last thing I needed right then was to be reminded of him – but I didn’t need to, really, because he was in my head all the time like an annoying, posh, handsome ear worm, interrupting my thoughts and my dreams and making me do little dances on the Tube. However hard I could have tried to make things work with Peter, I would never have felt the kind of dizzy passion I imagined Ben and Claire sharing, or the helpless desire I felt for Oliver.
It was all heinously complicated, like something out of the plot of a Shakespearean comedy, about which I would have been able to answer quiz questions effortlessly, had the uncultured git of a quizmaster bothered to ask any.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” I said to Alex, “Claire’s the most gorgeous, fab person in the world, but if Nina’s decided she wants Ben back, she’s going to get him. It’s like she’s got some horrible power over him. I bet she keeps bits of his toenails and semen and stuff in a little bottle and dances widdershins around it and does incantations by the full moon.”
“Don’t!” Alex shuddered. “That’s so gross. I don’t need to think about my brother’s spunk, thanks, never mind Nina harvesting it like something out of Twilight.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Let’s talk about something else.”
There was a bit of a pause, and then Alex said, “I’ve been meaning to say, you’re looking pretty fit these days. Not that you didn’t always, of course.”
“Stop! You’re only digging yourself deeper.” I tried to sound severe, but of course I was quite flattered really.
It Would Be Wrong to Steal My Sister's Boyfriend Page 18
