The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Her eyes water with barely restrained fury as she glares at him. Wow. She really hates this bloke. We all stare at Leo Frost. He must sense it because he turns round and gives Valentina an arrogant wink.

  Valentina makes a weird sound somewhere in the middle of a sob and a squeak.

  ‘What’s the story there?’ I ask nosily.

  Valentina sniffs and takes an enormous gulp of her champagne. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing.’ She pauses for a beat. ‘Well, apart from the six weeks we dated and he basically destroyed my heart and my self-esteem.’

  Eek.

  ‘Harsh beans,’ Summer says with a grimace.

  ‘I don’t fall easily,’ Valentina explains, anger making her eyes glint. ‘But I fell for him hard. Really hard. He made me feel like I was something special. Reeled me in. I thought we were serious, or getting there at least, and then I found out he was seeing three other women. Yes, three. He fucked a trio of women behind my back. A trio.’

  ‘Nooo.’

  ‘Yes,’ Valentina nods sadly. ‘It was horrendous.’ Her nostrils flare and she shakes her head really quickly as if trying to clear away a bad memory.

  Whoa.

  She has literally just transformed from a confident Elle MacPherson-alike top editor to a broken wreck in the space of two minutes. More evidence of Mum’s wisdom: love shits on you.

  ‘I’m sorry, Valentina. That sounds properly crap.’

  Ordinarily I’d tell a woman this messed-up over some idiot to get a grip. She’s crazy for putting herself into a situation that, essentially, puts an open target on your heart. But this particular woman has the potential to, you know, make our dreams come true and she’s clearly very damaged by this shithead, so I keep my mouth shut and try to empathize.

  Valentina clings onto her champagne flute, clearly getting into her ranting stride. ‘Just last week he was in the Observer, spouting about how he’ll never get married, how he sees himself as an “intrepid explorer of women”.’ She makes air quotes. ‘What does that even mean? I simply cannot believe I wasted six weeks on him. I could have been doing something far more fulfilling with my time. Six weeks! I might have learned a new language in six weeks! German. Ya! Instead I let him do this – ’ she points at herself – ‘to me. He’s a bloody horror show.’

  ‘That is shitty,’ I say.

  ‘How awful,’ Summer agrees.

  ‘Gosh. I’m seriously sorry, guys.’ Valentina takes out a compact mirror and checks her perfect make-up. ‘I had no clue he was going to be here. His Twitter feed said he’d be in New York, so it’s really thrown me to see him out of the blue.’ She grabs another drink from a passing waiter and guzzles it back.

  ‘Well, if it makes you feel any better, I really don’t see what the fuss is about. I don’t think he’s hot at all,’ I declare, finishing up my drink.

  Valentina and Summer goggle at me.

  I examine Leo Frost once more to see if I’m missing this supposed ‘magnetism’. But I’m not. He’s lanky and pale, and his coppery-coloured hair is arranged into a quiff halfway between Danny Zuko and Don Draper. His eyes are pure green and crafty-looking, and his nose is too long. Why haven’t his friends explained to him about Fake Bake? Seems to me that they’re not really his friends at all.

  ‘I think he’s super hot. Looks just like Tom Hiddleston,’ Summer says reluctantly. ‘Sorry, Valentina.’

  Hmmm. I suppose he does have a Captain America jawline, and what I suspect underneath the navy suit is a pretty nice bod. But he doesn’t look like Tom Hiddleston. Not that much, anyway.

  Valentina offers me another flute of champagne. ‘No thanks,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m, er, not much of a drinker.’

  Summer raises her thick fashiony eyebrows.

  ‘You may as well celebrate, sweet Jess,’ Valentina says to me with a tipsy wink. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon have an official reason to.’ She gives a little hiccup.

  Whaaaaaat? Is she saying what I think she’s saying? That the Summer in the City book is pretty much a done deal? I do an excited face at Summer, but she doesn’t see it – she’s busy waving at some blond guy in sunglasses she seems to recognize.

  ‘Oh, go on, then,’ I chuckle, taking the glass from Valentina. ‘Just one more couldn’t hurt.’

  It’s a matter of pride for me that I can find a way to have fun in most situations: tram queues, blogger meet-ups, smear tests can all be turned into entertaining social occasions with enough booze and the right banter. But I’m sorry to say that there is zero fun to be had at this book launch. Nil. I feel like I’ve been here for many days and it’s never going to end. There have been approximately fifteen speeches by literary people totally sucking up to Davis Arthur Montblanc, and to be quite frank his new book doesn’t sound very entertaining at all. It’s called The Beekeeper, but it isn’t even about bees, just bees as a motif for capitalism. Pah. This is not my crowd. To make matters worse, Valentina is one hundred per cent the only person in this room to appreciate the leopard-print onesie. Everyone else is looking at me like I’m planning to either mug them or offer them class B drugs.

  I’ve thought about slipping out and going back to the hotel: order some room-service pear cider, chat up the cute, twinkly-eyed concierge, see if he can get me late-night access to the Jacuzzi, but Summer’s having such a great time telling everyone about her Barbie-head necklace and the time Anderson took her to the MTV Movie Awards where James Franco said she had ‘presence’.

  And in any case, if I left early it would reflect badly on us, especially since we haven’t officially signed any book contracts yet, despite Valentina’s exciting hints.

  Also . . . I’m a bit drunk. I know, I know. I didn’t mean to be. I truly didn’t. But people kept showing up with champagne, and the champagne, although shit-tasting, is free, and there was nothing else to drink and I was thirsty and this party really is a snooze-fest – there isn’t even any music playing! And somehow, two glasses of champagne turned into seven glasses of champagne, and all the excitement of the day means I’ve forgotten to eat anything more substantial than this morning’s delicious beef pasty. Anyway, I’m all in now, no point in stopping.

  I look around for the smarmy ginger guy who had the whisky. Leo Frost. I wonder if he’ll get me some whisky.

  Oh, there he is, standing by a table piled high with copies of The Beekeeper. He’s deep in conversation with three women. I say conversation: the women are all talking over one another while he basks in their adoration. And he’s now drinking a beer! How on earth did he get a beer? I would so love a beer right now. Ooh, I wonder if he knows where they’re keeping the pear cider too? He’s obviously part of the inner circle.

  I get up from my seat and wobble tipsily on my new purple high heels. Shuffling across the Berkeley Rooms, I reach Leo Frost’s little crowd and nudge my way in.

  ‘Hello, everyone! How’s it going?’ I say with a friendly smile and a wave.

  The group give me a cursory glance before their eyes slide away, uninterested. They go right back to their conversation.

  Oh.

  ‘Yah, I just loved that Mercedes campaign,’ one of the women gushes to Leo Frost. ‘Drive Alive. It really called to me, you know? I saw it in Vogue and bought that car the very next day. I had to!’

  ‘Genius,’ a slim, smart-looking Indian woman agrees. ‘Just genius work. How on earth did you—’

  ‘Drive Alive?’ I scoff with a slight hiccup. ‘You mean that advert that’s up on every bloody billboard I see in my life? You are kidding? That advert sucks. It sucks so hard. Come on, guys. We can be honest. I won’t tell anyone.’ I push my glasses up my nose with my forefinger. ‘Am I right or am I right?’

  The group abruptly cease talking and glare at me as if I’ve just announced I’m going to nick all The Beekeeper copies and use them for toilet paper.

  Leo Frost frowns and stares down his long nose at me. ‘Tell me, what did you not like about the work?’

  ‘Drive Alive?’ I chuckle. ‘It doesn�
��t even mean anything. It’s basically as if some goon used the first word they could think of that rhymed with drive and called it a concept. Drive Alive. Of course you’re alive when you drive. It’s a basic requirement of the Highway Code. And why is the woman driving the car wearing nothing but a diamond bikini? I just don’t get it. Isn’t she cold? Where is she going? None of my mates drive in diamond bikinis.’

  Leo Frost swallows hard and looks me up and down. ‘That ad was my piece,’ he says in a smooth, deep voice.

  ‘Ah. Oops. Sorry,’ I say, feeling a bit guilty.

  ‘Don’t worry yourself,’ he smirks, eyes travelling pointedly over my onesie. ‘It’s high-end work. You’re hardly the target audience.’

  They all laugh at me and then Leo Frost gives me exactly the same infuriating wink he gave to Valentina. ‘Run along now, there’s a good girl.’

  Oh no he did not.

  ‘What a fucking knob-prince!’ I hiss. Only it doesn’t come out as a ‘hiss’ but as an indignant shout.

  The whole room falls silent. Shit. Did I just shout ‘knob-prince’ at a Booker-prizewinner’s book launch? ‘Knob-prince’ isn’t even a real swear. I just made it up right this minute! And it’s not as insulting as I meant it to be. It actually sounds quite complimentary. Shit. What a waste of the word ‘knob’, Jess.

  ‘Sorry, everyone,’ I say, holding my hands up. ‘Sorry to interrupt your big night. Sorry, Davis Arthur Montblanc.’ Davis Arthur Montblanc looks at me aghast. People are whispering behind their hands and throwing disgusted glances my way. Benedict Cumberbatch shakes his head at me furiously.

  Leo Frost takes a leisurely sip of his beer and laughs. He laughs!

  ‘I think you ought to go home,’ he says, staring at me with his obnoxious green eyes before wandering off into the crowd, the group of clever, beautiful women trailing behind him.

  What an absolute . . . knob-prince!

  ‘KNOB-PRINCE!’ I call out after him.

  Shit! I just did it again. He turns round, a look of pure astonishment on his face. One of the women nudges him and whispers something in his ear. They both laugh super snidely, shake their heads at me and turn away into another huddle of fancy, clever people. Who does he bloody think he is?

  Ugh! I march towards him, determined to let him know that he is not as cool as he thinks he is, that it was really cruel of him to call me the entertainment when I first got here, and that he looks absolutely nothing at all like Tom Hiddleston. But just before I reach him, the waiter (who incidentally failed in his promise not to let me have any more booze), carrying a full tray of champagne, appears out of nowhere. I don’t have time to slow down my indignant advance towards Leo Frost and, oh fuck, crash smack-bang into the waiter and his tray.

  ‘Oof,’ I groan as his unfeasibly sharp elbow digs into my ribs and I fall to the floor, legs akimbo. I can only watch, mesmerized, as the silver tray frisbees upwards and the flutes upon it sail off through the air like expensive, shittasting, heat-seeking missiles.

  ‘Oh, cockwaffle,’ I whisper, surveying the carnage from my spot on the floor. Leo Frost has champagne dripping off his ginger quiff and into his eyes. He’s blinking furiously, using his fancy mauve tie to dab at his face. The sour-faced Indian woman has champagne on her lovely posh dress; she’s crying soundlessly, her mouth gaping open in distress. The skinny waiter is scrambling up off the floor and racing behind the bar in disgrace. Benedict Cumberbatch has a large champagne spill in the crotch area. And worst of all, the pile of The Beekeeper books is absolutely soaked through. Davis Arthur Montblanc picks one up forlornly, dangling the dripping hardback between finger and thumb and trying to shake off the liquid. Oh jeez. This is so much worse than sweating onto his manuscript. I put a hand to my head. Fuck.

  Leo Frost, prising his champagne-sticky eyes open with his fingers, catches sight of me on the floor and heads my way. He holds a neatly manicured hand out to help me up. Pretty gracious of him, considering.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say earnestly. ‘I am so, so sorry. The Bollinger storm was a complete accident. I didn’t see the waiter at all – he just blasted into me out of nowhere. Crap. Are your eyes all ri—’

  ‘I haven’t a clue who you are or why you think you should be here – ’ he interrupts furiously, impressive baritone voice projecting across the room. Why is he talking so loudly? – ‘but you’re an absolute disgrace. You’re dressed inappropriately, you’re rude and . . . and loutish, and you have ruined a very important night for a lot of people. I suggest you leave immediately before I call the authorities.’

  I blink. My stomach churns. I try to say something, anything, but my mouth just opens and closes like a PG Tips monkey. This could be the first time in my life that I’m lost for words. I don’t like it one bit. I’m usually so full of words. I love them and cherish them, yet now, when I really need them, they desert me. My cheeks glow with heat as one of the surrounding party attendees begins a slow clap in support of Leo Frost’s speech. Then a nearby woman adds her slow clap too, and soon the whole crowd is applauding. Damn it. For such a long time I’ve aspired to be involved in a real-life spontaneous slow clap, but I can hardly join in on this one when its intention is to show me what a div I am. Can I? No. No, I definitely shouldn’t.

  This feels horrible. They actually hate me. So many people I admire in this room, and they hate me. Leo Frost continues his little public address, turning ceremoniously to the crowd of people, arms flung wide.

  ‘Of course, we mustn’t let one unsavoury character ruin what has been an otherwise wonderful evening, and I’d like to personally extend my sincere apologies for the interruption to tonight’s celebrations of my esteemed uncle, Davis Arthur Montblanc. There are many wonderful writers here tonight. Let’s just see this little diversion as potential future copy, shall we?’

  A scatter of polite laughter.

  Unsavoury? Unsavoury?

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Summer spits, arriving at my side. She grabs hold of my elbow and drags me towards the door. ‘Jesus. You’re such a let-down, Jess! Why do you do this? You’re like a damn teenager.’

  ‘I . . . I . . . The waiter appeared out of nowhere. It was a complete accident. Where’s Valentina? I need to apologize.’ I crane my neck, trying to find Valentina in the crowd. She’s not there. Instead, Leo Frost, leaning against the bar, catches my eye and looks me up and down in a really condescending way. Ugh!

  ‘No way. No Valentina,’ Summer hisses, dragging me out into the busy London street. ‘She’ll never want us now! It’s over.’

  Chapter Seven

  Save your tears for the pillowcase.

  Matilda Beam’s Good Housewife Guide, 1957

  Three days later there had been no word from Valentina Smith or anyone at the Southbank Press. On day two, Summer locked herself in her bedroom and refused to come out. I set up camp outside her door and tried to convince her that everyone at the publisher was probably still hung-over from all that free party champagne and simply not up for making celebratory phone calls. Summer didn’t answer though, just sent Holden back and forth for organic nut snacks and elderflower cordial and an instruction to absolutely ignore me no matter what I said, even when I sang ‘Please let me in, I’ve been a massive turd, but I’m a turd who is soooo sorreeee!’ in my best singing voice. I tried to bribe her out by telling her how much Mr Belding was missing her, even though the truth was that he seemed to be much happier prowling around our flat in the nude.

  Five days after the launch, and with still no word from the publisher, it eventually sinks in that I may have fucked things up in a massive way. I can’t believe it. Valentina was so enthusiastic about everything. Could that really have changed so quickly? Leo Frost is a really big deal in London. Maybe he’s like a sort of mafia don and, by offending him, all the doors I try to get through for the rest of my life will be mysteriously shut in my face, and one day, who knows when, the head of a noble stallion will be resting on the foot of my bed.

  �
�I’m going to ring up Valentina,’ I say determinedly through Summer’s door at lunchtime on Tuesday. ‘We had a rapport, I think. I’m going to try and fix this, OK? Apologize to her for my stupid behaviour. She can’t punish you for what I’ve done – it’s not fair.’

  I take out my iPhone, but before I can look up Valentina’s number online, Summer’s door clicks open and she emerges at last. She doesn’t look dishevelled and tear-stained like I thought she would after holing herself up for almost a week. She looks fresh. Bright-eyed and clean and sparky and . . . happy?

  ‘Have you heard something?’ I ask, getting up from my spot on the hall floor, my heart leaping. ‘Oh my God. You have, haven’t you? Good news?’

  I’ve not messed it up. We’ve got the book deal. Summer’s fine. I’ll have enough money for a decent flight!

  My body floods with hot, bright relief.

  ‘Jess . . . we need to talk,’ Summer says.

  ‘God, we really do!’ I agree, following her downstairs to the living room. ‘It’s been five days! Feels weird us not speaking for so long. I don’t expect you to forgive me straight away. I know how mad you are. But I’ll make it up to—’

  ‘We didn’t get the book deal,’ Summer cuts in, perching neatly on the huge leather sofa.

  ‘We – we didn’t? Oh shit. Shit.’ I plonk down beside her. ‘Let me ring Valentina, Sum. God.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Valentina.’

  ‘What? When? When did she ring? What did she say? Why don’t they want us? They loved us last week!’

  ‘She said the decision wasn’t just down to her . . . that a whole team has to decide these things.’

  ‘Oh God. Did she say it was my fault?’

  Summer looks me squarely in the eyes and nods. ‘Yes. She did.’

  Fuck.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to call Leo Frost a knob-prince. He just completely rubbed me up the wrong way. He talked to me like I was crap on his overly shined shoe. It made me so cross, I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why we need to talk.’