by Lucy Dawson
‘Well, I’m just so sorry,’ Gretchen said in the back of the taxi, smoothing out her skirt as she crossed her legs and flicked an invisible spot from her very high heels. ‘What a bunch of leathery, mahogany, Hooray Henrys. It was like Eton does Saga magazine. Who the bloody hell goes on cruises these days anyway?’
I laughed. ‘Please don’t feel bad. It was very kind of you to fix it up for me in the first place.’
‘Well, I tried,’ she shrugged. ‘Still, we had a laugh anyway, didn’t we? And unlike the readership of that magazine, the night is still young. I need to make this up to you. Let’s go and grab a proper drink. I’m a member of a club not far from here.’
I hesitated. I’d never actually been to a private members’ club and, much as I didn’t want to be, was quite curious to see inside one. Then equally, our new Spanish flatmate was moving in later. But Tom was also a bit on edge, marching around talking firmly about getting off on the right foot, not giving an inch or sliding down a slippery slope, which all sounded exhausting. It would probably be better if I just stayed out of the way and let him deal with it. Anyway, a drink would be fun. Gretchen was certainly dressed for it in an artfully cut midnight-blue dress that I’d admired on sight. She was the perfect person to have a glamorous Friday night drink with. It was nice to see her again.
‘That,’ I smiled, ‘sounds very good to me indeed.’
Chapter Seven
At the club, Gretchen found us a table with two deep armchairs and ordered us a couple of cocktails. I looked around discreetly. It didn’t really look that much different to a nice bar, except there were more people staring furiously at laptop screens and some very good looking and attentive bar staff. There was also a quiet air of excited expectation, but that might just have been me.
‘So,’ said Gretchen. ‘Tell me what’s new with you. What interesting jobs have you got coming up? My agent loved the LA shots you did, by the way. She said you did some work for some of the gossip mags – inside Surrey footballers’ houses, that kind of thing. That must have been . . . an experience.’ She kicked her shoes off easily, curled her legs under her, took a sip of her drink and waited eagerly.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ I said, remembering the monogrammed carpet and outdoor infinity pool the couple were determined to pose in, although they almost went blue it was so cold. ‘That was just a one-off really, as a favour to a friend. I do quite a lot of studio stuff, too.’
‘Do you do any of the fashion mags?’ She sipped her drink.
‘I’ve done some of them, yeah. Not so much since I’ve gone out on my own, but one or two. They’re all completely mad.’ I shook my head and sat back in my seat comfortably.
‘I’ll bet,’ she laughed. ‘Quite cliquey too, I’d imagine.’
‘I can see how they’d appear that way,’ I said, thinking about it, ‘but it’s mostly because they’re—’
Before we could continue, a couple of men wandered over to us, completely ignored me and said excitedly, ‘Hiiiiii, Gretch! You coming to the party in a bit?’
‘Oh, who’s having one?’ she said interestedly, sitting up like a meerkat and peering over my shoulder.
‘Not entirely sure,’ the man wrinkled his nose, ‘but Daniel Craig is supposed to be coming, so who gives a fuck? Want me to stick you on the list?’
Feeling a bit like Cinderella, I reached for my drink, annoyed with myself for minding that I wasn’t invited to a party that, until three seconds ago, I hadn’t even known existed.
‘Yeah, why not. Could be good for a giggle,’ said Gretchen. ‘Alice’s surname is Johnston.’ She nodded at me pointedly, forcing them to acknowledge me too.
‘Cool.’ The blokes smiled at me vaguely before drifting off.
‘It’ll probably be crap,’ Gretchen said conspiratorially, ‘these things usually are, aren’t they? But we could have a couple more here and then go over and see if we can damage Daniel?’ She reminded me a bit of Vic when she said that. Was it the glint of mischief in her eye? Or maybe it was because sitting around plotting together was the kind of thing Vic and I usually did. Not in a members’ club, obviously.
‘I think he’s got a girlfriend,’ I said, although I was with her on that one, he was pretty beautiful.
Gretchen smiled naughtily. ‘I’m sure she could lend him out for the night. Tell you what, let’s get a bottle.’ She looked up for a waiter and then, as he began to approach, said, ‘We don’t want to be the first ones there. Now, dish the dirt about the fashion mags. You must have had some funny things happen?’
An hour and a half later we were still talking. Eased along by the booze, we had started to open up to each other a bit and were beginning to trade stories about ourselves. I had just burst out laughing so loudly at something she’d said, several people had turned round and looked at us.
‘I’m being serious!’ She grinned delightedly at my reaction and swatted my arm.
‘Of course you were,’ I chuckled and placed a hand on my stomach. ‘Sorry. Carry on with what you were saying.’ I wiped an eye and steadied myself.
‘My point was, you did just know you wanted to be a photographer,’ Gretchen said. ‘See?’
‘But who just falls into presenting on TV? I don’t get it.’
‘I swear to God it’s the truth,’ Gretchen said. ‘I honestly never really wanted to do all this in the first place. If Mum hadn’t shoved me into it, I probably would have just quite happily pratted around in a band at a university or something and that would have been as far as it went. That was the bit I really liked, you see. Singing.’
Just as she finished her sentence, my mobile lit up on the table. I saw Dad mob flash up on the screen.
‘Sorry, Gretchen, would you mind if I just take this very quickly? It’s my father – he practically never uses his mobile, so it must be an emergency.’
‘Not at all. Go for it.’ She sat up straighter in her chair, interested.
‘Everything OK, Dad?’ I said, picking up.
‘No, it’s bloody well not. Have you borrowed the car?’
What? ‘Your car?’ I asked, completely baffled. ‘Why on earth would I have your car? I’m in London! You do know I haven’t lived at home for about eight years or so, don’t you?’
Gretchen looked amused, which absurdly, for a second, made me feel pleased. Then I remembered at twenty-eight I was a little old to be showing off in front of new friends. Dad didn’t laugh either. ‘Hmph,’ he said. ‘Well I didn’t really think it would be you, you’re the only bloody sensible one, but I’ve just got back from a walk with the dog and it’s gone.’
‘The car or the dog?’ I said, trying to focus.
‘The car!’ he said impatiently. ‘I’m actually standing in the space where it should be. Your mother took her car to the shops, Frances doesn’t even drive, which means either it’s been stolen or that little toerag brother of yours has come home and swiped it. Have you spoken to him today?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘Mum did say he might be coming back to you from uni this weekend, though. Dad, can I call you back? It’s just I’m—’
‘I knew it!’ he cut across me. ‘Bloody boy!’
Then he hung up.
I shook my head in disbelief and slid the phone on to the table. ‘Sorry about that. My dad’s having a trying day.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Gretchen said airily. ‘My mum’s been having a trying day for the last fifteen-odd years. Parents, eh? Who’d have ’em?’ She grinned and took a large slug of her drink.
‘So,’ I picked up the threads of conversation again, ‘where were we? How’s your campaign to conquer the States going, by the way?’
‘Oh I doubt anything will come of that.’ She waved a hand dismissively. ‘It was my agent’s idea – create a bit of false buzz, make it look like everyone wants me . . . people only chase things they think someone else wants, it’s human nature. I don’t really want to move to the other side of the planet much anyway. It’d be nice
to get some distance from my parents . . .’
‘Indeed.’ I grinned and nodded at my phone.
‘Exactly,’ she agreed, ‘you know what I mean. But I’d miss my brother loads.’
‘One of my friends just moved to Paris,’ I said. ‘With her boyfriend.’
‘Yeah you see, I wouldn’t even have a bloke to take with me. I was dating this chopper from a boyband – complete twat – it was like going out with a cocktail sausage who thought it could sing.’
‘I think I remember reading you were seeing him,’ I said carefully, not wanting to feign ignorance, but equally not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable.
‘I’m sure.’ Gretchen was unfazed. ‘But what it wouldn’t have said was he was so obsessed with keeping his six-pack he used to do four hours of exercise a day. I once found him in the loo jogging on the spot because he hadn’t been able to get to the gym to do his last hour. Between that and him only wanting to talk about his music – even though he couldn’t strum more than “Smoke on the Water” – and him having to wear outfits approved by his management, he wasn’t exactly ever going to be husband material. Also he hated that I could sing better than him,’ she grinned.
‘So if you like singing so much, why don’t you pursue your own music career?’ I could see she’d make the perfect pop princess.
She shook her head. ‘I’d get slated. “Kids’ presenter turns singer.” I’d only get offered novelty records, then before you can say “Pantomime”, your career is in the toilet. It’s a shame though. When I sing, I feel like I’m on top of a wave . . . just totally free. At times like that, you can almost capture the essence of what you are and everything that you can be. It’s like a high. Sometimes you are a bit high, obviously, but everything is still amplified and brighter somehow. I love that feeling. When everything seems to make sense. You get total clarity about what you can do, what you can achieve. You know?’
She wasn’t really asking me though, she was staring into space as she contemplated the compelling state she’d just described. I looked at her curiously; she had suddenly become a quieter and more reflective version of herself.
‘Well it’s never too late,’ I said after a pause. ‘I never thought I’d start out on my own, but I did and I don’t regret it for one second.’
‘Oh I don’t regret it,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t do regrets – waste of time and energy. It’s really great that you were so brave though, you should be proud of yourself.’ She drained her drink, suddenly cheerful again, like she’d been plugged back in. ‘Thanks for letting me bang on about that. Right, we need to go and have some fun. All this bonding is lovely, but Bond himself might actually be in that room over there. Whoever sees him first gets first go, OK?’
Watching Gretchen work a room was a masterclass in how to make an impact, although she didn’t even seem to be aware she was doing it. She paused, poised on the threshold just long enough for everyone to notice her, smiled as she saw someone she knew and then cut straight through to the centre of the room, long blonde hair bouncing around like she was in a pop video. People even stepped back slightly to let her pass. I, however, made my way to the side bar and got a drink so I could people-watch in peace. There seemed to be a lot of arm touching, laughing, air kissing and peering over shoulders to see who else was arriving. Sadly there was no sign of Daniel Craig; only Craig David, which wasn’t the same thing at all.
‘This is rubbish,’ Gretchen said, appearing by my arm ten minutes later. ‘You seen him yet?’
‘No,’ I shook my head, ‘these drinks are nice though.’
‘I reckon they must be in some VIP bit somewhere.’ Gretchen looked around thoughtfully. ‘They have private rooms here.’
‘In a private members’ club?’ I giggled. ‘Just how much privacy can anyone need? It’s like MI5 in this place.’
But before she could answer me, there was a loud ‘Ladies and gentlemen’ from the front of the room, and a man I vaguely recognised holding a microphone said, ‘Welcome on behalf of The Bengal Tiger Protection Society – keeping these beautiful beasts alive for the next generation to enjoy. We’ve now reached the auction part of the proceedings.’
‘Come on!’ Gretchen hissed to me. ‘Let’s go and take a look about while they’re all distracted!’
She grabbed my arm and rather reluctantly I began to follow. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to explore; when I was little and we were dragged around draughty castles and National Trust houses, what fascinated me more than anything were the doors marked Private, behind which I imagined secret passages stretching away. I used to long to slip through them and see what was going on behind the scenes, but, much like now, I really didn’t want to get into trouble either.
As we reached the doorway, however, the compere said, ‘Our first lot is a signed pair of Christian Louboutins. You may never want to wear these out in the rain, ladies! A slightly early Christmas present for yourself perhaps?’
Gretchen stopped in her tracks, spun round and said, ‘Hang on a minute,’ putting her arm out to stop me.
‘Who will start the bidding at five hundred pounds?’ the compere asked warmly.
I shook my head. It was a pair of shoes for crying out loud, and wouldn’t it be easier to save the tigers, wherever they were, just by donating directly?
‘Thank you, madam, five hundred pounds I am bid,’ he said, quick as a flash, pointing in my direction. My mouth fell open – I’d not shaken my head to bloody bid! Then I realised he was talking to Gretchen, who was standing next to me, excitedly biting her lip and jiggling lightly on the spot with one hand in the air. Five hundred quid! Was she mad?
It seemed she wasn’t the only one, however. Several women wanted to get their paws on those red soles and the amount quickly rose to fifteen hundred. I had sobered up completely and couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Tigers were a worthwhile beneficiary but . . .
Then it all leapt into fast forward. The compere, delighted at such a frenzy on the first lot of the evening, daringly raised the bar to two thousand pounds – and Gretchen nodded. I reached out and put a hand on her arm. ‘Do you even know if they’re your size?’
‘Who cares?’ she said. ‘I’ll just buy new feet.’
Another woman raised the amount to £2100. Gretchen frowned and impulsively called out ‘Five thousand pounds!’ A low murmur of appreciation swept round the room as people turned to look at us and I nearly dropped my drink. The camera equipment I could get with that!
The compere beamed at her. ‘Wonderful! Do I have £5100?’ The room hushed in anticipation. No one spoke. ‘Then going once, twice, three times and sold to the enchanting lady at the back of the room!’
Gretchen laughed excitedly. ‘Oh what fun!’ she said. ‘This is even better than Daniel Craig!’
In the taxi home to mine and then Gretchen’s – that she’d made wait while she finished a cigarette – she stroked her new shoes and said, ‘I just love them.’
I shook my head in the dark. ‘I still can’t believe you did that.’
She leant her head back on the seat. ‘I know – I should have listened to you. Still, it’s only money. It ended up being a great night, didn’t it?’
‘Absolutely!’ It actually really had been. I was buzzing – just like LA again.
She suddenly became serious and said, ‘Al, I’ve got a confession to make. Promise you won’t hate me?’
‘I promise,’ I said, intrigued.
‘I sort of asked you out tonight because I thought if I made it look like I was helping you, you might get me in with some of your fashion mag contacts. You have no idea how hard it is to get them to even consider you for a feature unless you’ve married Brad Pitt or won an Oscar or something, and I really need to raise my profile.’
‘Oh,’ I said. And felt really crap. All of a sudden she didn’t remind me of Vic at all.
‘Sorry.’ She was a little shamefaced. ‘It was a bit underhand of me. Oh, don’t look like that!’ She grabb
ed my arm. ‘I know what you must be thinking, but I’ve genuinely really had fun. I really have!’ she sounded almost surprised, ‘and we did have a blast in LA. I’ve got another confession, too: these shoes are about half a size too big for me. What size are you? Do you want them?’ She held them out to me.
‘Don’t be stupid!’ I said. ‘Put them on eBay or something. I don’t think you’re going to recoup the five grand you spent on them though, you loony.’
She looked at me intently. ‘I haven’t pissed you off, have I? Still friends?’
I hesitated. She waited anxiously, hands clasping the Louboutins, framed by the black cab window. She’d merely wanted a leg-up the glossy magazine ladder, in her pointless, ludicrous shoes . . . but then she had been big enough to be honest with me and come clean. She must genuinely mean what she was saying. Otherwise, why bother? I’d enjoyed her company. It was rare to meet someone interesting and funny but good at listening, too. Sparkly new friends like her didn’t exactly drop into my lap every day of the week and you could have different friends for different reasons, couldn’t you? Not everyone could know me inside out, like Vic did, and be there for every problem. Gretchen’d make a great coffee and cocktail partner in crime.
‘Still friends,’ I said.
Chapter Eight
I think it’s the smell – the smell of hospitals that I can’t handle. I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply through my mouth.
Tom cannot sit still next to me; he’s twitching and stop-starting with panic, fear and powerlessness. I can feel his every movement run down my arm because we are gripping hands as if our lives depend on it. We are waiting in the mercifully empty relatives’ room, the walls of which are a washy, spearmint green and I think it must be cold, despite the big old-fashioned iron radiators, because I am shaking. Helpful leaflets are stuck all over the place, some resting on top of a drinks machine. There are seven chairs and a small table, tucked tight against the wall, which I am next to. Tom is to my left.
