by Sue Watson
Of course I didn’t and the smoked salmon tasted wonderful and salty and sharp, washed down with prickly, cold Cristal – pure heaven on the tongue. For once I was glad that I wasn’t a supermodel who had to make do with a leaf of rocket and a fag behind the kitchen bins. So I chewed on delicious, crustless sandwiches and cakes whilst looking on in awe at the lean-limbed bodies swishing and strutting past. As the towering beauties sashayed straight off the catwalk and into the party, I suddenly became aware of a not-so-super model approaching our table. It was none other than Mary-Jane Robinson, wearing a tight-fitting white trouser-suit, her twisted smile growing bigger as she came nearer to our table.
“Fuck,” I said, nodding my eyes in her direction. “Don’t look now Al, but MJ’s here, and she’s coming over.” Of course he turned round and looked straight at her and as I got up to leave, she pounced on me, grabbing my arm.
“Stella, how are you?” she gushed.
“Fine thanks,” I said, unsmiling.
“You made these cakes, didn’t you?” she gestured towards the magnificent cakes that Al and I were so proud of. “I’m so glad you’ve found something you can do. I think it’s great when people can use their domestic talents to make their living.” She took a tiny, frigid bite of cake and shuddered. “Oh dear, back to the drawing board I think,” she said turning up her lip and wrapping the beautiful, nibbled cake in a napkin. She screwed it up, crushing the cake, all the time staring directly at me.
“Are you finding it hard to swallow, MJ?” I smiled.
“How dare you!” started Al and my heart sank. He had jumped up and was standing chest-to-chest with MJ.
“Al, Kate Moss wants to speak to us about her next birthday bash,” I lied, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him away.
“But Stella, how can you let her…” Al said, as I swept him through the room.
“Look,” I whispered as we walked away, “do you want to risk throwing our business down the toilet? She’d love to cause a row and ruin everything. Imagine Sangita’s face if she discovered her cake-makers, brawling with guests on the fashionista floor like dogs.”
He nodded: “But oooh, she makes my blood boil!”
“There’s a time and a place,” Seb said, joining us and handing Al a glass of Champagne. A bit shaken, I urged Al to carry on enjoying the evening and to put thoughts of MJ from his mind. I needed to take my own advice because I was conjuring up those old images of a mangled MJ – this time, face-first in the canapés.
I am a complete label whore when it came to luxury, and MJ was soon a distant memory when a waitress came round with beautiful goodie bags. Thanking her profusely, I leapt with undignified haste onto the lace bag and immediately lighted on a special-edition bottle of Chanel perfume, a Zandra-Rhodes miniature teapot, a willow patterned silk scarf and a voucher for afternoon tea for two at the Wolseley. Al and Seb peeked in theirs, and watched amused as I lovingly caressed each gorgeous little goodie plundered from the Willow-Pattern tissue paper.
“You are such a Goodie-Bag Hag”, Al laughed at me and rushed off with Seb to find the bag lady so they could ask for another one to take home for Grace.
Alone at the table, I continued ferreting around in the bag, sipping my Champagne and gazing about me when, through the tangle of long-limbed lovelies I saw the second surprise guest of the day walking headlong towards me. This was a much more welcome one, with a smile that filled my tummy with sparklers. Immediately pushing away the half-eaten sandwiches and cake I held my stomach and chins in and with the confidence of someone who had just downed half a bottle of good Champagne, crossed my legs and flashed a full-on smile.
“Stella! How are you? Where’ve you been for the last twenty years?”
“Is it Dave?” I asked, knowing full well it was. And my heart flounced like a fashionista as Dave Kennedy embraced me.
Dave and I had worked together at a local radio station early in my career and I’d had a massive crush on him. I would have heart palpitations and breathlessness every time I saw him. He was good looking, with wavy brown hair, hazel eyes and an amazing crinkly smile and I’d believed it was a matter of time before things moved to the next stage. I’d dropped endless hints, engineered situations he’d find impossible to resist and one desperate night as he chastely kissed me goodnight I had even politely enquired if he was gay. He assured me he wasn’t, kissed me on the head, missing the point completely and we carried on in the same vein for another six months. We grew apart as friends when I fell in love with Tom but over the years I’d thought about Dave and had sometimes wondered what might have been.
Feeling the familiar breathlessness and tight chest (even after all these years), I smiled up at him and felt myself becoming the vivacious, laugh-a-minute, flirty girl I used to be when he was around.
“I can’t believe that after all this time you’re here tonight and as gorgeous as ever,” I laughed, throwing my head back, hoping this might simultaneously hold in my double chin and defy gravity with the wrinkles.
“I’ve thought about you a lot over the years,” he said, placing a familiar arm around my shoulder. “I heard you were working at Media World and called not long ago, actually, to ask if I could speak to you, but they said you’d left and there wasn’t a contact number for you.” Hmm, I wonder who that was, I thought. Of course there’d been a contact number for me – but I bet MJ’s instructions had been clear on that one.
“I’m still in telly too,” he went on. “In fact, I’m here tonight because we’re planning to film a documentary about the reality of life as a catwalk model and I’m planning the programme and meeting people.”
“How exciting, and all those gorgeous women,” I gushed.
“I’ve never been one for the skinny types,” he smiled, “but the major channels love the idea of a doco about them. There are about three companies here tonight who are gagging to get hold of Fashion Weak – spelt W-E-A-K.”
Maybe that was what MJ was doing here.
We sat down and sipped more Champagne and he filled me in on the last twenty years. As I’d suspected (and maybe secretly hoped), Dave was divorced. After three years of marriage and a son called Max, his wife Toni had turned out to be gay and left him for another woman (who loved cats and hated Dave). Max was now six and Dave saw him on alternate weekends; I made sure to ask him lots of questions, after the Diego disaster.
“Are you still married to that, er, cameraman?” he asked, pretending not to remember Tom’s name.
“He’s called Tom and no, we’re not together anymore,” I said. I still found it hard to talk about my life because the Tom stuff still hurt and I wasn’t so sure about laying myself bare to an old flame just yet. However, as we talked, I felt his concern, his humour, his gentleness – and I had drunk quite a bit of Champagne, so the floodgates opened. I told him all about being bullied at work, about my life as a desperate housewife, how Tom had left me for someone else so I’d concussed him with a turkey and all the other stuff in between. He laughed in all the right places, showing those beautiful white teeth, his eyes as crinkly and twinkly as they always were. We talked about life twenty years ago and giggled about some of the people we’d known and the things we’d done. After about an hour, one of his researchers came up to him and indicated to Dave that they should leave.
“Stella, can we get together sometime for a drink, or dinner?” he said, with his head to one side, smiling.
Fireworks exploded in my chest and I nodded, basking in the warmth of his smile. For the first time in ages, I felt sooo good, until…
“Hi Dave. Why, I didn’t realise you and the lovely Stella were friends,” it was MJ, on the prowl again.
“Oh, you two know each other?” said Dave, completely unaware that the skinny, bullying super-bitch I’d just been telling him about was now standing in front of us.
“Look MJ, I’m sorry about the documentary but you can’t blame me wanting to take it straight to ITV, I mean, no hard feelings, eh?” Dave said, h
olding out his hand for her to shake. She took it limply and turned to me. I was intrigued. So, MJ had been chasing Dave’s fashion doc, had she? I smiled triumphantly, glaring at her from Dave’s side like the First Lady.
“Just remember, pillow talk is dangerous, Stella,” she smirked, the saccharine of her smile giving way to the usual bitter aftertaste.
Dave’s eyes didn’t leave mine and as she walked away he said, puzzled; “I’m not quite sure what that was about. What did she mean about pillow talk?”
“Oh she probably thinks I’m behind your decision to reject her offer for the fashion doc.”
“But I hadn’t even met you again when…”
“Oh I know that, Dave. Who cares what she thinks! She’s the one I was telling you about, who made my life hell but she can’t touch me now,” I said with confidence. He squeezed my arm and looked into my eyes and I realised that not even MJ could ruin my mood. The tea party was a success, Sangita was over the moon and it looked like I might have a date.
28 - Nude Espresso and Sizzling Pheromones
We finally left the Fashonista’s Tea Party at about 2am. Seb had booked us into a cheap hotel near the party. I slipped gratefully between the starchy sheets and slept like the dead. After three days with very little sleep and lots of Champagne I was very glad to have a bit of a lie-in before breakfast on Sunday morning. I woke up still on a high, from the wonderful comments about the cakes – then I remembered running into Dave Kennedy and felt a warm jolt in my stomach; it had been lovely to see him again. I wondered if he would ever call, or if after Alex and Diego it was going to be three strikes and then out.
I didn’t have to wonder for long. He called me at about 12pm just as Al, Sebastian and I were sipping coffee in the Nude Espresso in Spitalfields (the boys were hoping for naked baristas while I wanted good coffee and homemade brownies. Sadly for them, only my wish was granted).
Dave asked if I’d like to get together for a late lunch and suggested an Italian restaurant near Leicester Square. After another round of coffees, I left Al and Sebastian at the tube station and tried to navigate on my own, which didn’t go too well. I arrived late and flustered, having got horribly lost. The night before was beginning to feel unreal after all the years in between and I wasn’t even sure if he’d actually be there.
I needn’t have worried. As I walked into the garlic and basil-scented warmth, I saw him sitting at a table gazing at his mobile. Unobserved, I was able to rewind twenty years and drink him in all over again. The eyes were even twinklier than the night before, accentuated by a crinkling around the eyelids that along with the greying temples made him incredibly attractive. I was surprised at the way he made me feel after all this time and gathering my courage I lifted my head and swept over to his table. “I’m sorry I’m late. I, er, couldn’t find the restaurant,” I stammered. With no Champagne courage, I was suddenly feeling very tongue-tied. I was twenty-two again and as he looked up and saw me his face broke into a beautiful smile.
“Stella. Glad you’re finally here. I thought I’d already lost you again,” he joked. He rose from his chair and gave me a firm, delicious hug. I sat down, bathing in his eyes – the most amazing hazel-flecked eyes – and when he smiled his teeth were incredibly white like someone in a toothpaste ad. He was so very, very cute. I could feel my tummy turning to warm, melted chocolate.
I nibbled on a breadstick, avoiding his stare and feeling like Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter. Suddenly the waiter arrived, fussing around us like a bluebottle. “Drink, Signora?” We reluctantly pulled away from each other and I ordered a glass of red.
“It’s so nice to see you, after all this time,” I said, sipping daintily on warm Chianti.
“And you haven’t changed,” he replied as enormous, unmanageable menus were thrust in our faces by the stalking waiter, who announced dramatically “My name is Pietro. I am at your service, Signor,” and bowed with a flourish. Once we’d ordered and Pietro had eventually bustled off, we both leaned forward across the table and I attempted eye contact around the tower of breadsticks. Dave dipped his head to the side of the bread skyscraper enquiringly, and we both started giggling.
I detected an air of confidence in him that hadn’t been there before and I thought my heart was going to stop when he reached into his upper pocket, put on a pair of round glasses and read the wine list. “Shall we get a bottle of Barolo?” he asked, looking over the rims in an authoritative fashion.
“Ooh. Get you! Dave Kennedy, wine connoisseur,” I giggled.
“One of my many talents,” he smiled, looking straight at me over the glasses. I was a sucker for a man in glasses – they particularly suited Dave, making him look intelligent and bookish.
Pietro returned with the Barolo, theatrically pouring the wine for Dave to taste (being a woman I apparently don’t have taste buds). Once he moved on, Dave sipped his wine and said: “Well, Stella. It looks like last night was a big success for you – so where do you go from here?”
I looked at him coyly. “Well, Dave” I started, “that just depends.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. We continued chatting, about nothing and everything. Things were different now, I was grown up with a sophisticated line in small-talk and a fledgling business while Dave now wore glasses and knew about wine. It felt so good sitting across the table from him, I could almost feel the air sizzling with an undercurrent of unsated passion – then I realised it was Pietro at our elbows with the ‘Sicilian Sizzler’.
I barely touched my lunch. My chest was heavy and my tummy filled with warm gloop. “I’m not very hungry,” I said, fiddling with my food. “I’m feeling very ‘Posh Spice’ regarding the pasta.”
He chuckled. “You’re so funny, Stella,” he said, “you always made me laugh.”
The wine was mellow, the lighting soft, apparently I was hilarious and it just felt so right. The heat from the ‘Sicillian Sizzler’ and something to do with pheromones suddenly urged me to lean across the table. I’m a big girl now I thought and suddenly I felt strong enough to make my desires known. I made the move and leaned into him, narrowly avoiding my breasts brushing against the food. He was also moving towards me and I suddenly felt his warm, red-wine breath on my lips as his mouth moved against mine, softly at first, then stronger, his tongue pushing slowly into my mouth. I pulled away gently – things were going very fast and I wasn’t sure that here, with Pietro’s constant attentions, was the place to start ripping each other’s clothes off.
I opened my eyes, pulling away and sitting back in my chair. I was horrified to discover my breasts had submerged in the as-yet uneaten Sizzler. The sexual tension dispersed temporarily as we pawed at my greasy, tomato-covered boobs with our napkins, both laughing but a little embarrassed. It was starting to look like bad porn by the time Pietro returned with more napkins, lightly swabbing me down and enquiring of my still-full plate; “Had enough, Signora?”
“Not yet,” I answered, looking straight at Dave, who gave me a secret smile and ordered another bottle.
“Mmm, I’m suddenly hungry and this is delicious,” I said, not taking my eyes from his as I picked up my fork and plunged it into the dish, my tongue slowly savouring the sweet tang of tomato. Even in my heightened state of sexual arousal I fully appreciated how the backcloth of black, Mediterranean olives complimented the garlic and chilli kick and my groans were genuinely culinary.
Dave took a big gulp of wine and I was flattered to note, desperately tried to avert his eyes. “I’ll get the bill,” he said, clearing his throat and pulling himself together. I smiled, wondering, what happens now?
Dave had it covered. “Stella, there’s a little hotel I sometimes stay at when I’m on business here – it’s out of the way and…” I looked straight at him. No point in feigning surprise or reluctance now – I’d already behaved like a porn star on Viagra. And so what – we were both divorced with afternoon childcare.
“That sounds great,” I said, feeling like a woman of the world and not even givin
g a second thought to how I’d look naked in daylight.
Once he’d paid the bill, we got up from the table and walked out of the dark restaurant together. Stepping out onto the pavement we were almost blinded by the bright, shimmering heat of the afternoon. My legs suddenly felt shaky from the wine and he grabbed my hand, leading me across the road and through the winding streets. We pushed through the throng, passing several theatres and posters but I didn’t take in any of it.
We arrived at the hotel and headed for the lift. “I feel like we should be in school, it’s like playing truant,” I said. As the doors closed we were suddenly alone together for the first time and I looked up into his eyes. He took my face in both his hands started to kiss me again, gently pushing me into the lift wall, my handbag dropping to the floor, his hips pushing against mine.
Once at the room we fumbled with the bloody card-key (they never work) and fell into the room, giggling. He was still kissing me as he pulled at the straps and slipped the dress from my shoulders. It fell to the ground, floral chiffon swirling in a pool on the boutique, tiled floor. This was quickly followed by matching M&S lingerie from their cheap yet chic Parisian Collection…
After the storm we lay there, side by side on the cool tiles surrounded by discarded clothes and both slightly stunned from all the hot passion and red wine.
“I always knew you’d be good in bed,” he said, turning to look at me with a big grin.
“That was the floor. You don’t actually know what I’m like in bed – yet,” I rolled over, resting my head on his chest. It felt good to hold a man again.
“Give me five minutes and we’ll do the bed test then,” he said, stroking my hair. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”
I reached out and poked him on the nose. “I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you on that,” I joked. He grabbed my arms and we rolled around the floor pretending to fight (yes – me rolling around the floor of a Soho hotel room on a Wednesday afternoon after sex with a man. What had I become?!).
