‘Australia?’
‘Yep.’ He puts his phone back in his pocket. ‘It’s where my ex-wife is from.’
‘Wow. You must really miss her.’
‘I do. I try to get over there as often as I possibly can. Every month, if I can swing it.’
‘God.’ I stare at him. ‘That must be expensive.’
‘More to the point, it’s never enough. But you know, I travel a lot, even when I’m based in the UK, so even if she was living right here, I’d probably struggle to see her as much as I’d like.’
‘You could probably do with winning the lottery or something,’ I say.
‘Er …?’
‘Well, then you could buy a private jet, and fly to see her as often as you like …’ I tail off, because this sounds really stupid, now it’s out of my mouth: the fantasy of a little girl more like Julia’s age than my own. ‘Sorry. That probably wasn’t helpful.’
‘No, no, I appreciate the thinking!’ His face softens as he looks down at her picture again. ‘I can show you about three thousand more photos of her if you like … but maybe not on the first date, hey?’ He grins at me. ‘An ex-wife and a daughter may already be more skeletons in the closet than you can cope with!’
‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘We all have skeletons, Joel.’
He nods, and takes a sip of his wine.
‘So,’ he asks, ‘what’s yours?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your skeleton.’ He settles back in his chair. ‘Ex-husband? Children?’
‘God, no!’ I actually laugh, then realize that this makes me sound an utter failure in the romance department. ‘I mean, no. No ex-husbands. No children.’
‘Then what’s the skeleton? I mean, you said we all have them, right?’
‘Oh, you know. I … er … oh, I have a problematic family!’ I say, clutching at this truth. ‘Two skeletons, right there! Mum and sister.’
‘Ah. Family skeletons. Yeah, I guess I have those, too. I mean, nothing major. The usual, really. Absent dad who never wanted to really get to know me.’ He pulls a wry face. ‘That’s my sob story.’
‘No, I get that. My dad is rubbish, too. I don’t really see him these days.’
‘Sorry to hear that. I don’t see mine any more, either. I mean, the matter’s not helped by the fact that he’s dead, of course.’
‘Oh, God … Joel, I’m so sorry …’
‘Don’t be! Before he died, our relationship was bloody difficult. Not to mention the fact he lived in São Paulo, and me and my mum were always moving around, so it was difficult to keep up much of a relationship at all. Difficult or otherwise. I mean, especially when you factor in the issue of him being an utter narcissist and a waste of perfectly good oxygen.’
It’s pretty nice, I have to be honest, to connect with somebody who knows what it’s like to deal with a complicated family set-up. I mean, absolutely no offence to Olly whatsoever but, with the best will in the world, with his lovely, happy, nuclear family, he can’t ever really understand what it’s like to have a dad who couldn’t really care less if you were dead or alive. Nor can Nora, for that matter. And even Bogdan, who admittedly has one of the most complicated family set-ups I’ve ever witnessed, does at least have a father who cares about him, and demands his presence at the table for family dinner every Saturday night, even if I accept that there are obviously certain stressors in the fact that Bogdan can’t tell his dad he’s gay, and his dad can’t openly acknowledge that he’s a criminal.
‘And … your mum?’ I ask, tentatively, just wondering if Joel is going to complete the package by wearily admitting that his mum’s a rampant drama queen who plays major favourites with his younger half-sister.
‘Oh, my mum’s amazing,’ he says, fervently. ‘She’s an aid worker. You know, properly hands-on stuff – digging through collapsed schools in earthquake zones, flying into places that have been hit by drought and famine … She’s a real-life heroine, to be honest with you.’
Right.
I see.
Well, we still have absent fathers in common, at least.
‘Still,’ he says, after a moment, ‘I suppose I can’t deny that there have been a lot of times when I’d have rather she were just a normal mum. At home with me, instead of out saving the world.’
If you take away the out saving the world part, this brings us back to having more in common again.
‘So, tell me about your mum.’
I take a long drink. ‘Well, she certainly wouldn’t be much use in an earthquake zone. Unless the traumatized, starving, homeless survivors suddenly decided that what they really needed wasn’t shelter and clean water but a good old tap-dance and a communal sing-song to a selection of Andrew Lloyd Webber.’
He laughs. I mean, he really laughs.
‘You’re great, Libby,’ he says, when he stops. ‘Do you know that?’
‘You’re pretty great, too.’
‘Shall we go and get some food?’ he asks. ‘And carry on this conversation elsewhere?’
‘And drink slightly too much wine and compare notes about our mothers? Absolutely! Let’s go!’
But first, we finish off the bottle of wine that’s still sitting between us. Because we’re having a great time – a really, really great time – and it would be pretty rude not to.
We ended up getting fish and chips, as it happened, though obviously – this being Notting Hill – at a pretty posh fish-and-chip place with actual tablecloths, and knives and forks and plates rather than plastic sporks and greaseproof paper. And we drank the entirety of another bottle of wine, and – best of all – the conversation literally hasn’t stopped the whole evening.
And now we’re walking back along the quiet streets to my flat, so that he can drop me off before heading home to where he lives himself – near Shepherd’s Bush, I think he mentioned, though I’m a bit giddy with all the booze and can’t quite remember for certain – and he’s just taken my hand. Which is the big development of the last couple of minutes. And which feels … lovely.
‘This has been a really terrific night, Libby,’ he’s saying, now, as we turn off the main road into my street. ‘I’ve had a great time. The best I’ve had in ages.’
‘Me too.’
‘Really?’ He glances down. ‘I was a bit worried, a couple of times, that you’re … how do I put this? … not quite here.’
I blink up at him. ‘Are you saying I’m not all there?’
His face breaks into another of those smiles. ‘Heaven forfend.’
‘Joel, honestly, I’ve had a wonderful time.’ We come to a stop, right outside my flat. ‘And I’m sorry if I’ve seemed a bit distant at times. I have … a lot on my plate at the moment.’
‘Ah. So, is there room for me? On your plate, I mean.’
To answer this, and without any forward planning in the slightest, I suddenly find myself going up on tiptoe to place a kiss on Joel’s smooth, perfect lips.
After a little start of surprise, he kisses me back.
It’s extremely nice.
I mean, extremely. Especially when he slides both arms around my waist, and pulls me a little nearer, so that I can get the full benefit of that pleasing personal-trainer body up close.
When we break apart, a few moments later, he smiles down at me.
‘That was a nice surprise.’
‘Well, I wanted you to know just how much I’ve enjoyed myself.’
‘And there were no words to convey that?’
‘There were no words.’
‘Wow. I’ve rendered you speechless. I must be doing well!’ He clears his throat. ‘So, there is room on your plate for me, then? In amongst the meat and the potatoes and the—’
He can’t finish the sentence before there’s a sudden, blood-curdling yowl from somewhere behind us, and a dark figure looms out of the darkness, fists raised, in Joel’s direction.
I have a split second to realize that the dark figure is, in fact, Dillon O’Hara.
&nb
sp; But only another split second later, Dillon is lying, flat on his back, on the pavement, where Joel has just expertly deposited him with some kind of extremely impressive martial-art flip.
‘What the fuck?’ Dillon gasps up at me, while Joel, keeping his forearm on top of Dillon’s chest to hold him firmly down, reaches into his pocket for his phone and tosses it towards me.
‘Call 999,’ he instructs. ‘Tell them it’s a mugging.’
‘It’s not a fucking mugging!’ Dillon croaks.
‘It’s not!’ I say. ‘It’s really, really not! I know this man! Although I’ve no idea what the hell he was doing coming at us out of the darkness like that …’
‘All I heard was this dickhead talking at you about his meat!’ Dillon wheezes. ‘What the fuck else was I supposed to do?’
‘He wasn’t talking at me about his meat,’ I say, more irritated with Dillon than I’ve ever been before in my life (which is really saying something, trust me). ‘We’re on a date. Can you let him up?’ I ask Joel, who’s glancing back and forth between us in a confused sort of a way. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’
‘Ex-boyfriend, actually,’ Dillon says, as Joel moves his arm and lets him scramble to his feet.
‘Oh, please,’ I begin.
And then I stop, as Dillon staggers, ever so slightly sideways, and I realize that he’s drunk.
Which, for a recovered alcoholic, is a Very Very Bad Thing indeed.
Oh, no. Oh, Dillon.
‘Hey!’ Dillon suddenly declares, peering more closely at Joel from where he’s standing, swaying a little. ‘This isn’t Olly!’
I’ll kill him. Relapsed or not, I’ll kill him.
‘You said you were on a date,’ he goes on, before I can stop him, ‘but this isn’t Olly! Not that I’m objecting, mind. I’d be perfectly happy if I never had the misfortune of running into old Turd-Brain ever again … I’m Dillon, by the way,’ he says, sticking out a hand in Joel’s bemused direction. ‘Allow me to congratulate you, my fine fellow, on being the lucky man who has won Libby’s heart.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ Joel says. ‘I don’t think I’ve won anything yet.’
‘Hey!’ Dillon glares at him. ‘It’s not a contest, you know.’
‘No, I know, I was just responding to your … look, would you like us to help you get a cab, or something?’ Joel puts a concerned hand on Dillon’s shoulder, though I think this is partly just to hold him up. ‘You seem a bit … uh … well, if I can be honest, you seem …’
It’s right at this moment that Dillon pitches forwards at a 180-degree angle, throws up all over Joel’s shoes, and then slumps to his knees to rest his forehead on the pavement, two (rather expertly judged) millimetres outside the huge pool of vomit.
‘Oh, God …’ I’m utterly aghast. ‘Joel … I’m so sorry …’
But Joel, with the same unhurried, incredibly sexy sang-froid he showed when performing his nifty judo move on Dillon a couple of minutes ago, simply steps out of the puddle, shakes the worst of it off his shoes, then leans down to scoop Dillon up into a fireman’s lift over one broad shoulder.
‘Shall I get him upstairs?’ he asks me, and – mute with embarrassment – I nod, fumble for my keys, and unlock the door.
This isn’t the time for thinking such thoughts, but I have to say, if Joel hadn’t already been very, very attractive to me earlier this evening, it’s just been multiplied by the fact that I now know he can carry a reasonably heavy man up a steep flight of stairs without so much as a huff, a puff or a grunt of exertion.
I follow, watching Dillon’s head, his eyes closed, swinging along near the small of Joel’s back, until – as Joel rounds the slight corner at the top of the stairs into the living room – he stops still.
I can see why, the moment I get up there too and squeeze through the doorway past him.
Grace Kelly’s wedding dress is laid out on the Chesterfield.
The drunken ex didn’t seem to put him off. The vomity shoes didn’t seem to put him off. But the exquisite lace wedding dress – oh, and veil, by the way – all laid out waiting for me seems to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
‘Er …’ he says, after a moment. His voice sounds quite different: strangulated instead of smooth and confident. ‘Should I … I mean, if you need that, uh, dress to stay there on the sofa, I can always put him on the floor …’
‘No, no, I’ll move it!’ I can feel my face flaming as I lift the dress and veil off the sofa and drape them, with not even a moment’s thought for their preciousness and rarity, over the heap of packing boxes nearby. ‘Joel, it’s … I mean, it isn’t my dress. I’m not getting married, or anything!’
But, if anything, this just makes the whole situation worse, because now I just sound like some kind of desperately embarrassing Miss Havisham, all geared up to slip into a wedding gown the moment I get home from my date.
‘Libby, it’s fine. There’s no need to explain anything.’
‘But that’s just it! There isn’t anything to explain …’
‘Bucket,’ Dillon mumbles, from where Joel has just deposited him on the sofa. ‘Sick.’
‘You know what,’ I say to Joel, as I leap to grab a bucket from the cupboard near the top of the stairs where I’m keeping my Henry hoover and all my limited cleaning equipment, ‘just go. Please. I think it would be best.’
‘But are you sure you can handle this?’ Joel points at Dillon. ‘Handle him?’
‘Yes, I can handle it. It’ll be better if you leave, in fact.’
‘Well, all right, if you say so, but—’
‘I say so.’ This came out a bit more snappishly than I intended. ‘Sorry, Joel, I just … look, it was a lovely evening. Thank you.’ I shove the bucket under Dillon’s head just in time for him to start throwing up again, noisily, into it. ‘But honestly. Go now. Oh!’ I suddenly remember something he said, as we left the restaurant, about not having an Oyster Card on him. ‘Do you want to borrow my Oyster Card? For the bus home?’
‘What?’ He looks quite startled now, as well he might, given that him borrowing my Oyster Card would mean he had to see me again to give it back. ‘God, no, no. I don’t need … Look, I’ll call you,’ he adds, rather feebly. ‘OK?’
‘OK,’ I say, in as bright a tone as possible so he doesn’t have to feel embarrassed about the obvious lie. ‘Thank you again!’
The door couldn’t shut more swiftly behind him.
And then it’s just me and a semi-conscious Dillon and Grace Kelly’s wedding dress, all by ourselves in my flat.
*
I’ve just come down from emptying the bucket into the loo when I hear the unmistakable sound of Grace Kelly’s voice coming from the Chesterfield.
‘Oh, how thrilling! I was hoping this dream would last a little longer!’
She’s sitting on the arm of the Chesterfield, wearing nothing but an ivory silk slip and an excited expression on her beautiful face. Her figure, beneath the slip, is taut and angular and very, very slim; the skin on her bare arms and legs glows in just the same shimmering, light-reflecting way that her face does.
I’m momentarily alarmed that she’s popped up while Dillon is right here – slumped on the Chesterfield, in fact – but he’s pretty much unconscious now, so it hardly matters. And I’m actually a little relieved that the sofa still seems to be, you know, working. That I haven’t screwed it all up by accidentally allowing Grace Kelly to lay eyes on a photograph of her real-life son and the daughter-in-law and grandchildren she sadly never met. Which, fingers crossed, looks like either something she’s wilfully forgotten about or just isn’t going to mention.
‘I think I must have started dreaming about something else for a little while,’ she goes on, getting to her feet, ‘but I’m back now. Or rather, you’re back. So perhaps we can get back to what we were discussing earlier in the night?’
I lift the bucket up.
‘Does it look,’ I ask, ‘like I have the time to sit aro
und discussing anything?’
‘Oh, but you must! We were making such excellent progress earlier!’ She doesn’t seem to have noticed Dillon, slumped only a couple of feet away from her along the Chesterfield. ‘Now, this man you were talking about. Your Clark Gable …’
‘I don’t have a Clark Gable.’
‘Obviously you don’t have a Clark Gable! You’re not real! I’m talking about the man you mentioned, your true love. The one who represents Clark Gable, the same way you represent me … I need you to tell me exactly what you think it was about you that made him cool off.’
‘Well, the fact that he got tired of waiting for me and fell in love with somebody else probably contributed quite a lot to it. But honestly, Grace, this really isn’t—’
‘No, no. That can’t possibly be it.’ Grace’s patrician voice is even brisker and more clipped than usual; in fact, she sounds rather cross. ‘Clark didn’t tire of waiting for me! If anything, I’ve always thought that I was the one pushing him too hard for some sort of commitment. And then, of course, there was my mother’s meddling in the whole business, which I still think put the tin lid on it … I don’t suppose your mother has been meddling in your romantic affairs, has she? Anything to divulge on that front?’
‘No,’ I say, almost as briskly as Grace. ‘My mother couldn’t give two hoots about my romantic affairs. At least, not unless I happen to be involved with the crumpled heap of a man you see on the couch beside you. Who, by the way,’ I add, as Grace glances sideways, looking startled to see him, ‘I really need to get cleaned up, if you don’t mind? I mean, can’t we talk about all this stuff another time?’
‘Oh!’ She gazes at Dillon in horror for a moment – which I can’t blame her for, because he’s passed out and smelling unappealing – before looking back at me. ‘Is this the man you’ve been talking about? Your true love?’
‘Christ, no!’ I dart forward with the bucket when it looks as though Dillon is stirring to – most likely – throw up again, but it’s a false alarm. For now, at least. ‘No, he’s not my true love.’
‘Then who is he?’ Grace peers back at Dillon, studying him intently to try to work out, I guess, what sort of significance he represents in her Freudian dreamscape. ‘Some sort of hobo?’
A Night In With Grace Kelly Page 9
