“I’m pretty sure time has always escaped you, so you might as well call off the hunt.”
He gave me a kiss on the cheek and then gestured toward the bar. “Want anything?”
I’d already necked my first glass of wine, so I nodded. “Get some peanuts, too.”
He came back with the drinks and a packet of dry roasted and sat down. “So, what’s new?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. I figured there was some reason you wanted to have a drink with me.”
His eyes widened in mock surprise. “Why would I need a reason to see my favorite American?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Now really, tell me what’s happening in your world. Is all well in the land of science?”
I jumped slightly. How had he found out about the project? “What do you mean, science?”
“You do remember that you work at the Science Museum?”
Relief swept over me. “Oh! Right! Yep, science is good. I’m working on an electromagnetism exhibition at the minute.”
“Sounds riveting.”
“It is, actually. How about you? How’s the paper?”
“Fucking awful. Everyone’s getting sacked. Something called ‘the Internet’ seems to be interfering with our readership numbers.”
“Is it really bad?”
Adrian smiled sadly. “They binned the whole of the arts and culture section today. Apparently they’re going to rely on readers to send in their own reviews. They’re rebranding it the ‘YouView’ section.”
“That sort of shit drives me crazy. Every idiot with a blog thinks he’s a writer or a critic these days, and no one’s out there fact-checking or proofreading anything! I mean, people are professional critics for a reason—they actually know something about the thing they’re critiquing. And now we’ll have some jackass telling us that the new Transformers film is awesome because loads of shit blows up in it. We’ll all be illiterate in ten years, mark my words.”
“Yes, and more importantly, I’ll be out of a job.”
I decided this was the moment to test-drive one of my adding-value tales. “It kind of reminds me of this pony I used to ride as a kid.”
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
“Well, you see, when I was a kid, I spent a whole summer riding this one pony at the farm down the street from me. His name was Jason. He was one of those brown and white splotchy ones—very handsome. I loved Jason and I was really good at riding him.”
“I’ll bet you were,” Adrian said with a grin.
“Don’t interrupt. Anyway, I went from trotting to cantering to galloping over a couple of months, and at the end of the summer we came in second place in the local show-jumping competition.”
“Quite an achievement.”
I ignored his tone. “It was, actually. Pretty soon after that, it got too cold to ride anymore and Jason and I had to part ways for the winter.”
“How could you just abandon Jason like that? Heartless bitch.”
“Shut up. Anyway, when summer came around again, I went down to the farm to see if I could take him for a ride, and they told me that over the winter, Jason had become depressed and fat—”
“Probably because you abandoned him.”
I gave him a dark look and continued. “He’d gotten too fat to ride and they’d had to sell him. My mom told me that they sold him to a place upstate, but years later I found out that they actually sent him to Elmer’s. As in the glue factory.”
“Fuck, they made glue out of the poor chap?”
I nodded sadly. Inwardly, I was feeling pretty smug about my storytelling performance.
“So, how does this relate to me? Are you telling me that I’ve become too fat to ride and should be sent to the glue factory?”
“No, of course not! Can’t you see? Print journalism is the fat pony!”
“That’s not particularly encouraging, either.”
“It was supposed to be an uplifting story of triumph over adversity . . . but I guess, on reflection, it’s not all that uplifting. So what are you going to do?”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m thinking of moving to the States.”
My stomach lurched. “What? Why?”
“Well, because long-form journalism has more of a foothold there, so I could probably get a bit of work. I’ve been speaking with the Huffington Post and they seem keen—not that they’ll pay me anything. Plus, chicks dig the accent over there.”
“But what about a visa? Medical insurance? Crazy right-wing nut jobs?”
“It’ll all sort itself out. I suppose if I really got into a jam, I could always marry an American . . . ?” He raised an eyebrow at me.
“Sorry, buddy, you’ll have to look elsewhere for your visa bride. I’m sure you won’t have trouble on that front.”
I hated the thought of him in America. It was too weird, like some sort of freaky-Friday swap gone horribly awry. I pictured him surrounded by blond Texans cooing over him as he hammed up a Cockney accent.
“Ah, don’t look so depressed, Cunningham! With time, the gaping hole left in your life by my absence will shrink.”
“It’s just strange thinking of you wandering around my homeland.”
“Don’t worry, with any luck I’ll do something deviant and be deported immediately.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you. When are you thinking of going?”
“As soon as possible, really. No time like the present. I expect I’ll be out of a job in the next couple of weeks, and I only need to give one month’s notice on the flat.”
“Fuck.”
“So any helpful hints you could give me about that great country of yours would be much appreciated. You don’t happen to know anyone in DC, do you? Ideally someone very influential and/or devastatingly attractive?”
I thought for a moment. An old friend from college lived there, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to introduce the two of them: she was way too pretty.
“Not that I can think of, but I’ll ask around. More importantly, what are you going to do for your big send-off?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Dunno. Get massively pissed?”
“Well, let me know when you do so I can join you.”
He gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I hope all Americans are as hospitable as you.”
July 27/28
The night of the dinner was upon us.
“Lo, have you seen my black bra?” Lucy was standing in the hallway wearing black tights, high heels and an old Liverpool top.
“I think I saw it on the radiator in the bathroom,” I said, struggling to zip up my dress.
“Fuck! It’s still wet!”
“Just use the hairdryer.” The dryer switched on for a few minutes, and then Lucy emerged from her bedroom, resplendent in a black leather pencil skirt and a sheer black top. It was a big change from her usual floral tea dresses.
“Holy shit. You look amazing! Where did you get that skirt?”
Lucy blushed. “Tristan bought it for me.”
“He’s got a great eye. What do you think about this? Is it slutty enough?” I did a little twirl.
“Is it meant to be a top?”
“It’s my party and I can wear what I want to. It’s also my last chance to have sex this month, and Christ only knows what the next book will involve. I could have another month of celibacy thrust upon me. I can’t leave anything to chance tonight.”
“You’re not leaving anything to the imagination, either.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just because you’re all saintly and monogamous with Tristan now doesn’t mean you can go judging me.”
“I’m hardly a saint, babe.”
“True—you’re wearing way too much black to have completely turned to the good side.”
I heard her mumble something under h
er breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing!” she said brightly. “Now let’s check on the lamb.”
I am a terrible cook, but luckily for me, Lucy is a great one. She’d planned the whole menu, down to the delicate little raspberry tarts for dessert. She’d been poring through cookbooks and foodie sites for days, agonizing over canapés and cuts of meat: it was like some mania had been unleashed in her. I’d been sous chef and chief wine buyer, which suited me just fine.
The guys were meant to get there at eight, so we’d timed it so dinner would be on the table by nine. I busied myself by filling tiny vol-au-vents with smoked salmon and crème fraiche while Lucy trimmed the carrots into smaller, neater versions of carrots. We were a well-oiled machine. By the time the door rang at three minutes past eight, we were ready.
Tristan was the first in but, despite his relative punctuality and the bottle of more-than-decent champagne he’d brought, he was extremely contrite about his tardiness. He apologized to Lucy at least four times, which was odd enough, but even more surprising was the fact that Lucy just nodded sharply and said they’d discuss it later. I had no idea she was such a ball-buster.
It was my first time seeing him in the flesh and I had to hand it to her: he was dishy for an older guy. Close-cut salt and pepper hair, strong dimpled jaw, impeccable suit hiding only the slightest of paunches . . . he was the real deal. And, more importantly, they looked happy to see each other.
He opened the champagne and poured three glasses. “Here’s to you two gorgeous creatures,” he said, raising his glass. “Thank you so much for having me.”
“All the thanks should go to Lucy. She’s the one who cooked.”
Tristan put his arm around Lucy’s tiny waist. “I’m sure she’s very commanding in the kitchen.”
“Yep, she’s been cracking the whip all day!” I said.
Lucy flushed bright red.
Tristan gave Lucy a significant look. “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” he said.
At ten past, Cathryn and Michael arrived with a bottle of dessert wine and a huge pavlova.
“I hope this is all right!” she said as she handed over the towering meringue, dripping artfully with cream and berries.
“Cathryn, it’s amazing! It’s a work of art!”
She looked at it critically. “It’s slightly lopsided, I’m afraid. Sorry, I was in a bit of a rush when I put it together.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s amazing! You’re too hard on yourself.”
“I tell her that all the time,” Michael said, handing me the wine and giving her a little squeeze. He was handsome in a very symmetrical way, all clean lines and polished angles. They suited each other perfectly.
“Stop it, both of you,” she said. “My ego doesn’t need any more inflating, thank you. That pavlova is a disgrace and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
I rolled my eyes and poured them both a drink. “Come meet Lucy and Tristan,” I said, pulling them into the living room.
Tristan stood up as soon as they walked into the room. I saw him blanch slightly as he took them in, but he recovered almost immediately. “Cathers? What a lovely surprise!”
“Uncle Tricky?” Cathryn said. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“You two know each other?” I asked.
Cathryn turned to me. “He’s a great friend of my father.” She turned back to him. “How are you? Lovely to see you. You remember Michael?”
The two men shook hands warmly. You have to hand it to posh people: they are amazing at acting unfazed in even the weirdest social occasions.
“Of course, of course. How are you, my boy? Cathryn, Michael, this is Lucy.”
Lucy tottered out from behind Tristan, looking shell-shocked. “Hello!” she trilled.
“Lauren’s told me so much about you!” Cathryn said. “Though obviously not everything,” she added, looking archly at Tristan.
“Yes, let’s all sit down and get acquainted,” Tristan said, reaching for the champagne bottle, which contained just the dregs.
“I’ll grab another bottle from the fridge,” I said.
Lucy sprang to her feet. “I’ll help!”
We huddled in the kitchen, whispering furiously.
Lucy was red. “Uncle Tricky?” she hissed. “I can’t believe this. It’s so grim! Do you think they’re actually related? I know he’s older than me, but I never thought of him being uncle age!”
“No, I think uncle is just something fancy people call family friends.”
“Urrrgh. Even so. Cathryn must think I’m a tart! I can’t bear it. How am I going to make it through the evening?”
“You’re just going to have to suck it up. Besides, none of them seem bothered by it, so you shouldn’t either. He’s obviously crazy about you and that’s all that counts.”
Lucy took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Right. Just make sure I’m never without a drink.”
“Done.”
At twenty-five past, Sleepy Eyes rolled in, offering monosyllabic greetings to everyone and giving me a very encouraging squeeze on the ass before sauntering out to the balcony for a cigarette.
I went out to join him.
“Thanks for coming,” I said. I cupped my hands around the end of my cigarette as I lit it.
He nodded.
“How’ve you been?”
He did a sort of shrug-nod which I took to mean “I’ve been good, thank you. And yourself?”
“I’ve been really busy. Busy, busy! I went to, like, four gigs last week. And a gallery opening. And two wine tastings. And a food festival in Finchley.” None of that was true, of course, but after a year in London, I’m well seasoned at talking about cultural events I haven’t actually attended.
He nodded.
I took a long drag.
He tilted his head toward the living room. “That the girl from the other night? The one who’s into chicks?”
Fuck. I’d forgotten all about that. As if the night wasn’t complicated enough already.
“Uh . . . yep, that’s Cathryn. But no need to mention any of that . . .”
“She here with her dude?”
“Michael. But they’ve sorted out that whole issue. All in the past! Definitely no need to bring that up.”
He nodded wisely. “Cool.”
“Come on, I’ll get you a drink. Would you mind helping me with something in the kitchen?” One of The Rules of the Game’s dinner party tips is to encourage your intended target to be your “helper.” Apparently it makes you seem in control, though at the moment I felt anything but.
“Sure. I’m just going to finish this.”
I ducked back into the kitchen and found Lucy meticulously spooning jus over the lamb roasting in the oven.
I shooed her away. “I’ll take care of that. Go play with Tristan and the gang!”
She looked worriedly at her lamb. “Are you sure? Make sure you keep an eye on it. It should be pink in the middle. It’ll be ruined if it’s overcooked.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll watch it like a hawk. Now get out of here before Sleepy Eyes comes in! I’ve got to woo him with chores.”
Lucy shot me a doubtful look before heading into the living room. Sleepy Eyes slid past her into the kitchen.
“You’re here! Great. Would you mind chopping this up?” I handed him a bag of fresh mint and a paring knife, which he accepted with a shrug. “I’ve just got to do the potatoes.”
“Cool,” he said as he started chopping.
“Soooooo. How’s the band?”
“Got another gig coming up.”
“Really? That’s great!” I realized I was being too positive and forced myself to slip in a neg. “I mean, at least you’ll get some practice.”
“Yeah, guess so.” A
curl had flopped over his left eye as he chopped and I reached over to push it back, casual contact very much encouraged by the book. He ignored me.
After much chopping and sautéing and panicking and cursing, dinner was served. Lucy and I had bought a couple of extra folding chairs and we all crowded around the IKEA dining table. Tristan, Cathryn and Michael were doing their best to pretend that this was the height of sophistication. Sleepy Eyes straddled his chair backward and gazed at the ceiling, glassy-eyed but gorgeous.
“Is he stoned?” Cathryn whispered to me.
“I think he’s just artistic.”
Lucy asked Tristan to carve the lamb, a task he took to with impressive enthusiasm and care. Every time he moved to make a cut, he would look to Lucy for approval. She would nod and he would slice. It dragged on and on.
“Uncle Tricky, can you speed it up a bit?” Cathryn piped up from the end of the table. “At this rate, it’ll be cold by the time we eat it.”
“Or we will be,” Michael muttered.
Tristan looked at Lucy, who nodded. He began carving like a man possessed.
After a short ice age, we started to eat. Lucy had outdone herself: the meal was a triumph. Even Sleepy Eyes managed a full sentence of approval.
“So,” Cathryn said, looking at Sleepy Eyes, “Lauren tells me you’re in a band. That must be awfully fun.”
“Yes, what sort of music do you play?” Tristan asked. “Not that I’m very familiar with what you young people are listening to these days. I much prefer classical.”
Sleepy Eyes nodded slowly and said, “I play the drums.”
Cathryn smiled encouragingly. “That’s nice.”
“That must be very tiring on the old arms,” Tristan said. “Do you play many shows?”
“Once a week,” he drawled.
Tristan nodded. “Well, it’s good that it’s regular. What else do you do to fill your time?”
Sleepy Eyes looked mildly affronted. “Music’s my life.”
“Of course. Apologies.”
Sleepy Eyes turned to Cathryn. “You should come to one of our gigs. We get a pretty mixed crowd at some of the venues. You might meet someone . . . you know . . . like-minded.” He raised a languid eyebrow.
Love by the Book Page 14
