Champagne Kisses

by Amanda Brunker

  It’s because of his predatory intentions that he pretentiously titled himself the Pink Panther. Because he’s always dressed in black, he’s kinda tall and slim and he fancies himself as a serious mover, he thinks it suits him.

  Maddie lets him get away with it because he’s such a lovable cartoon, and so do I; well, most of the time. Some of his unplanned hissy fits can be hard to forget in a hurry.

  We do tend to have diva meltdowns regularly. ‘No – it’s all about me!’ is our usual rant. Other people can’t understand how we’re still pals. But through the huffs and his puffs, it works. I think it’s our common spoilt gene that is the cement for our relationship. When Maddie, Parker and yours truly get together we’re more like the Bitches of Eastwick: Maddie plays Susan Sarandon, I’m Michelle Pfeiffer and, quite aptly, Parker is Cher.

  Thursday night is our favourite night out. Being an art director, Parker has plenty of uber-cool media pals he loves to schmooze, but never before we have a bottle of Laurent Perrier rosé in his Docklands apartment, and scream ‘Mirror mirror on the wall, who could be the biggest diva of them all?’ Then we descend to the city to cause mayhem.

  The fun we share could be classed as bold, bordering sometimes on immoral or illegal. It’s a dangerous friendship at times. But Parker is my addiction.

  Speaking of addicts – well, of a fashion and Dior addict – Parker is closely followed by Princess Lisa Tiswell. And she does very well. But although she’s tall and blonde, she’s no Elle MacPherson. Never fazed by a minor detail like manly features, she does her best with what she’s got; which it turns out, is Daddy’s flexible friend.

  While the rest of us save up for shoes and other essentials, Lisa’s rich ole man proves a constant source of finance for Botox, collagen and monthly flush-outs of colonic hydrotherapy. ‘What’s good enough for Princess Diana is good enough for Princess Lis-za,’ it seems.

  By chance I found out through her mother over a few G&Ts one lazy bank holiday Monday that Lisa had had rhinoplasty aged sixteen. That’s a nose job, to us mere mortals. And it didn’t stop there.

  At seventeen she increased her measly bee stings to a 36B. Then for her eighteenth she got her boobs pumped up again to a more generous 36C. Her mother even produced before and after photos, slurring, ‘She was a bit of a mongrel back then!’

  While I avoid places like the dentist because I’m terrified of needles, I support Lisa in most of her outrageous beauty enhancements. After all, what fun is an Amazonian woman without a decent pair of knockers?

  But what she lacks in natural femininity, she makes up for in balls. Unlike yours truly, who plays the stupid Cupid waiting game, Lisa is not backward about coming forward, and has no problem approaching men and making her sexual intentions known.

  But all credit to her, she has a knack of pulling gorgeous men, and often hanging on to them until she is bored. Literally, she’ll say ‘I’m done with him’ and move on. No obsessing, no deliberating … she’ll just coldly change gear and not look back. I call it her ‘man-itude’. An enviable trait.

  With the confidence of a female Simon Cowell, she says she has great pheromones that no man can resist. I say it’s her short skirts and Brigitte Nielsen appeal that draws the boys to her lucky charms. Lisa is only ever single by choice, and thankfully for my selfish ego, she’s currently flying solo.

  It’s awful, I know, but unless I’m in a loved-up state myself, I much prefer my mates to myself.

  Today we’re hooking up for lunch with herself and her somewhat nauseating sister Joy. These days she insists on being called Mrs Joy Deltour, which Maddie and I choose to abbreviate to a worthy Mrs Brain Detour.

  Apparently, Lisa mentioned talk of winter holiday brochures for herself and the sis. Thankfully Maddie is joining us, so I don’t have to be embarrassed about the Tiswell family wealth and my relative poverty alone.

  Of course I’d never begrudge Lisa anything – even that Swedish waiter guy Sven I’d hinted I fancied. He worked at the local Mexican restaurant, Tequila Sunrise, we all loved, and after three consecutive Tuesday nights eating there, Lisa did a Lisa on it and left the place early without us. But with him. It was an empowering Samantha Jones moment, straight out of Sex and the City.

  Anyways, Lisa jetting off to St Moritz to pick up loose ski instructors is not a problem. But listening to the less Joy-ous sis moan on about how her hubby Tristan doesn’t respect her enough, and how being a modern stay-at-home mom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I’d certainly need back-up.

  Even though she had all the money in the world, and then married more, Joy always leaves me feeling drained. She should pay people to listen to her problems, not insist on dividing up the lunch bill. Although prettier by far than Lisa, not to mention more married than her (or any of us for that matter), she still obviously covets her younger sibling’s carefree lifestyle.

  All our lives revolve around the Dublin social scene. We couldn’t live without it. In the past, it defined who we were. We all enjoyed being liggers and turning up to the opening of an envelope. It was a shallow existence of freebie drinks that came with the bonus of seeing our photograph in a glossy magazine or an evening newspaper. If celebrity was a disease, then Ireland was dying of a vanity plague. We all wanted to be famous. Children no longer dreamt of being firemen or zoo keepers; modern kids craved X-Factor or Big Brother success.

  If we couldn’t achieve fame in our own right, shagging someone worthy of column inches was a very close second. That was sort of Parker’s hobby, though he’d never admit it.

  I had not become a WAG myself so I was still trapped in a singleton vortex of insincerity. When the post arrived I still got a buzz about opening the invites and imagining the mayhem that could be caused at them. First I’d envisage the setting, then I’d place in it the usual suspects, those I admired, liked, and those I couldn’t bear standing close to, and then I’d place myself in the middle of them all, wearing the sexiest outfit possible, holding whatever the branded cocktail might be, flirting, joking, posing for photographers and of course being the centre of attention.

  Once you were in the coveted clique, you were made. You could eat canapés, drink alcohol and retain a certain level of minor celebrity all year round, once the PR companies deemed you fit. It was cheap fun, and we all truly loved it. We never wanted to be stranded on the wrong side of the velvet rope.

  Sure I wanted more out of life, like a lucrative career, a caring husband and the white picket fence with the 2.4 kids. Not to mention matching Range Rovers in the driveway, and holiday getaways in Brittas Bay, Cannes and Dubai.

  Was this fantasy life unattainable? Never. I was a Celtic Cub, and self-belief was everything in this town. Talking yourself up was what us Dubs did the best. No one had to know the real truth – that your mortgage was interest only, the Jeeps would take five years to pay off, and the holiday homes were studio dives kitted with bunk beds and padlocks on the doors. I didn’t know why I wanted to mix in such social circles, living beyond my means, spending more money on hair-care products than on my nutrition. My job as a journalist, which included celebrity interviews and other features for a glossy mag, paid well enough, but it’s almost impossible ever to make enough money to survive in this town. I knew this socializing of ours was a sickness, but I didn’t care. I was always afraid I’d miss the best bashes. There would always be more parties, but I still hated to miss one, just in case it ended up being the best party of the year.

  Your friends would laugh and recall stories of the arguments, the unsuitable public displays of affection, the drug busts and the giant bottles of vodka that were being drunk by the neck, and then tut, ‘Ah, it’s just one of those location stories, you really had to be there …’

  I’m hoping I’ll outgrow this social-climbing obsession before I completely lose my soul. But not yet. There’s far too much trouble to be had for this Valentine.

  As I walk through the doors of Le Café I spot the gang already tucking into a bottle of white
. It’s only twelve noon but that’s why I love them.

  As always, the cute manager escorts me through the heaving Saturday throng of lunchers and stressed-out staff trying to negotiate their way with hot plates and cappuccinos past the tightly packed seats. As we approach the back of the room, I notice the girls looking extremely animated.

  Surprisingly enough, Lisa, Maddie, and even Joy, are laughing hysterically. I’m greeted with a boisterous, ‘Eva da Diva!’ with enough volume for the entire café to turn to view.

  ‘There’s the woman herself,’ announces Lisa, leaving me a tad suspicious.

  ‘What’s the craic, girls? What’s the celebration?’

  ‘We’re toasting you, Miss Eva. And your Lizzy Jagger, Calum Best moment.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, Paris Hilton eat your heart out, girl. If only you were famous we could make a million from your CCTV footage.’

  ‘Oh, dear God. What are you talking about?’ All the while knowing damn well what they were talking about.

  ‘Well, sweetie,’ pipes up Joy, ‘you’ve been acting like a slut. Everyone’s seen the e-mail pictures of you cavorting with your boss, or your boss’s colleague or whatever at some industry lunch.’

  Speechless, I throw a fake smile as the manager steals a chair from another table and winks at me as he places it between Lisa and Joy. His niceness distracts me only for a moment; already I’m totally stressed. Taking a giant gulp of Maddie’s wine, I wave at the empty bottle on the table in front of us and give him the nod.

  ‘Right then,’ demands Maddie, clearing her throat, ‘You’ve Been Framed. Spill the beans on your adulterous affair.’

  ‘Oh, girls, I had a moment of weakness. Please tell me this is just between us?’

  ‘Sorry, hon. I better review this for you. You kissed David Barron … Yuck … Your boss’s close golfing mate. He’s also publisher of Dubliners View, AND Mrs Barron’s husband.’

  ‘Excuse me – he kissed me.’

  ‘Speak to the boob, sista. You kissed him in the not-so-private stairwell at the Haven on Wednesday night. By Friday morning I’d received video footage of the hot and steamy affair, and so had everyone else on Speedy PR’s mailing list.’

  ‘Oh, my God. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Sorry. I was hoping someone else would. Officially you’re a slut, whore mistress and everyone you know in the world has received the proof. Hey, it could be worse – it could have been some Daddy Sleaze. He is sort of cute. Very much married, but cute. Sorry, have I mentioned already that he is married?’

  ‘Yes, yes. So what exactly does it show?’

  ‘Well, you were there, you should know … OK, well, the quality wasn’t great, but there was a lot of tonsil tennis, with hair-ruffling. And I reckon he’s worked out that your mammary glands are totally real.’

  While the girls nearly spat up their vino with the laughter, and I apologized to the middle-aged couple sitting next to us – not that I think I needed to, as our illicit tale seemed to tickle their fancy too – Joy interrupted with the statement of the day: ‘You’re a bit of a guzzler, aren’t you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve often thought if you were chocolate you’d eat yourself. Turns out you’re a man-eater too – it looked like you were going to swallow the face off him!’

  Coming from such a snotty bitch, I kinda took that as a compliment. Hell, I’ve been called a lot worse in my day.

  Somewhat embarrassed by her caustic sister, Lisa dragged me to the toilets to grill me on my extra-curricular activities.

  ‘Well, was it fantastic? Are you going to see him again? Did you wear a condom?’

  ‘Whoah! slow down, sister. It never got that far.’

  ‘You’re a liar!’

  ‘I’m not, I swear. But if I tell you what happened you can’t go back upstairs and tell that mouthpiece of a sister … You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Ah, feck it, it doesn’t matter. It was awful. Truth is, he bit my tongue. Then he pinched my nipple so hard I think he drew blood. I mean, did he think that would turn me on? Anyway, and then—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And then … Oh, God … No, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Tell me, you bitch.’

  ‘OK. Two words. P–R–E–MATURE—’

  ‘Noooo … Ejaculation!’

  ‘Yep. But look, what am I going to do? If everyone has seen the e-mail, the shit is really going to hit the fan. No wonder my phone hasn’t been ringing. People must be avoiding me. Thank God, I took Friday off to work at home.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m too stressed to think. What if his wife finds out?’

  ‘Bold Eva … Marriage-wrecker …!’

  ‘Ah, stop. Don’t make me feel so bad. He pursued me.’

  ‘Tell that to his wife – joke! Only joking!’

  Grabbing me by the hand Lisa pulls my lacklustre big ass up the stairs, informing two unsuspecting souls on the way, ‘This is my friend, the guzzler. She’s a legend.’

  By the time we returned to our seats, the wine had obviously gone to Joy’s head and poor Maddie was being bored to tears with, ‘My Tristan this … and my Tristan that.’

  ‘Ya know he really wants me to take this holiday with Lisa,’ proclaimed Joy. ‘But I bet the bastard just wants me out of the way. I don’t believe a word that he says about his new sec-a-tary. Nobody called Cindy could be a plain Jane. Ya know, he says my breasts are no longer sexy after the babies. All men cheat.’

  Thankfully saving the moment, four plates of yummy strawberry cheesecake arrive at the table. As does another bottle of wine, courtesy of the manager. He always treats us. And he continues to welcome us even when he gets constant complaints from neighbouring tables about our noise levels. I suppose there’s some nice perks to being a journo.

  ‘Ladies, with my compliments for being my most fabulous customers,’ he smiles, darting me another cheeky wink before fleeing in the direction of some smashing plates, screaming, ‘P45!’

  Oh, I really do love working in the media and having a magazine column where I can easily throw in praise for ‘trendy’ and ‘happening’ eateries.

  ‘To the guzzler,’ announced Maddie. ‘If she can’t find her own husband, she’ll find someone else’s.’

  ‘To the guzzler,’ seconds Lisa, ‘and to Eva’s début as a cover girl for Adulterers’ Weekly.’

  By 10.30p.m. I’m standing in the sweaty toilet of the Haven.

  Currently the club du jour, the place is wedged to capacity, and mirror space to check how beautiful one was is at a premium.

  I swore blind I’d go home and never look at another man again, married or otherwise, but I’d lied to myself once again.

  My guilt and shame had to be subdued by alcohol. If I got myself into another drama in the process, what better way to forget my original headache.

  Despite having several bottles of vino and two vodkas inside me, I had convinced myself I was still as sober as a judge, and began applying my make-up so that I looked like Janice Dickinson at Hallowe’en. In true girlie tradition I became best friends with the blonde in the queue in front of me. We didn’t swap names, just lip gloss. And while waiting for the cackling women to finish their lengthy chats in the cubicles, I started to explain to her my innermost secrets.

  As nonchalant as you like, I started gassing: ‘You know, I’m as horny as hell. But I can’t have sex. I only got a Hollywood wax done this morning.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m the same the day I get mine done. There’s just something about being bald that makes you want to grab a man.’

  ‘God, I haven’t been with a guy, properly, in ages. But I so couldn’t go there tonight, even if I got the chance … I’m like a plucked chicken!’

  Feeling my plight, she offered up some sisterly advice. ‘You know, tea tree oil is the best for reducing the rash. Oh, and Sudocrem is great.’

  ‘Is that tru
e?’

  ‘Yeah, and a bucket of booze … The rash mightn’t be gone – but you won’t give a fuck till the morning!’

  As the two of us curled up with the laughter, one of the toilet doors swung open, stopping me in my tracks. There before me was my arch-enemy Caroline Higgins. Once upon a time we used to be friends, but she betrayed my trust and any friendship we ever shared was long since gone.

  In retrospect it was like a John Wayne movie. Or a toilet stand-off. Unfortunately my bessie bud was oblivious to the situation, and quickly brushed past Caroline complaining, ‘About time.’

  Instantly my mood flipped from jovial to stressed. Caroline was the only person I knew who had the power to upset me by just looking at me.

  Several years back I had fallen in love with a suit. Unluckily for me, she was his best friend and sometime occasional shag from college. Though I think leech would have been a more appropriate title.

  His name was Kevin Brennan. Looking back, he was pretty dull. But of course, ever the optimist, I overlooked his nerdy ways. Yes, by day he was an IT something-or-other. By night he was a bit of a madman. Like me, he had his moments – loved to party, loved spending money. Most of all he loved the trivial glamour that my job as an ace celeb reporter and columnist in a national magazine brought.

  Despite being highly successful in his own field, he revelled in the excitement of being my Eva + 1. Like a fanatical teenage girl he took every opportunity to star-spot and loved the chance to hobnob with our minor local celebs. Once we even bumped into Bono and his mates in Val’s nightclub. The poor fella nearly passed out with the enthusiasm.

  Now, I know that Kevin didn’t really care about me. It was more the life that I could provide for him. But at the time he had my heart, and thorn-in-my-side Caroline Higgins didn’t want me around.

  In short, she did everything in her power to split us up in our brief six-month relationship. We had started off as friends, and often did date things together as a threesome – which on reflection, made her a major gooseberry; but at the time we had a laugh, and I dismissed the inconvenience of her being around.