by Lucy Lord
By the time we’d hit the sixth form and discovered booze and boys, our shared obsession had died down a bit, but we were still both terribly excited at the idea of Poppy going to Oxford, and all the Brideshead-style punting shenanigans that this would entail. But the first time I went to visit her, towards the end of the Michaelmas term, I was in for a shock. Poppy had always had a pretty face, but the mouse-fair shoulder-length bob and old-fashioned clothes that swamped her tiny body meant that up until now her prettiness was very much of the girl-next-door, unthreatening variety.
The stunning undergraduate holding court in the Christ Church bar, surrounded by sycophants seemingly hanging on her every word, was a different proposition altogether. Her recently highlighted hair had grown, and now flowed – silky, blonde and streaky – down her back and over her shoulders. In keeping with the Britpop look of the time, khaki hipster cargo pants and a black crop top showed off her pert tits, flat brown tummy, narrow hips, and … Good God, she’d had her belly button pierced! And she was smoking! I was in such a state of shock at Poppy’s transformation that I just stood there gawping for a bit, until she noticed me and squealed, running over with her arms outstretched for a hug.
Pops did her best to make me feel welcome that weekend, but there was a definite change in her. The way she spoke, the way she lit her fags and tossed her hair – it was as if that first term at Oxford had bestowed on her an unshakeable sense of self, a glamorous patina that has not left her to this day. Her fellow students, still high on the glory of having been chosen as the crème de la crème of the country’s intelligentsia, were clearly not impressed by me, a shy, somewhat dumbstruck, London art student. We never did get to go punting.
Back at Goldsmiths, things were hardly better. I’d been so excited about the prospect of art college, imagining I’d meet all sorts of interesting, like-minded people, my head full of romantic notions of Art, and Beauty, and Love. But once I was there, I couldn’t believe how full of themselves everybody was, how obsessed with being trendy. If I’d thought my all girls’ school was cliquey, this was ten times worse, in its shallow, sniggering, look-at-me arrogance. I was horribly conscious that I’d never be skinny enough to be properly fashionable. Not that I’m fat (a perfectly reasonable size 10–12 for my five foot seven height), but you had to be pretty bloody emaciated to make the outlandish garments favoured by my peers look anything other than downright hideous.
No doubt, if they’d realized who my father was, things would have been different. But Brown’s a pretty common surname, and I was buggered if I was going to ride on Dad’s coat-tails. Actually, I lie. I’d gladly have ridden on his coat-tails, but couldn’t exactly start saying to all and sundry, ‘Don’t you know who my dad is?’ without looking and sounding like a total dickhead.
Part of me hated the lot of them; another part, the insecure eighteen-year-old girl part, longed to be accepted. Sometimes I’d drink too much to kill my insecurity and make a complete arse of myself in the college bar. Sniffing out vulnerability the way a shark sniffs blood, my male contemporaries soon realized that I could easily be sweet-talked into bed; pathetically naive, and longing to be loved, I fell for it every time. Disappointment inevitably followed crushing disappointment.
By the time Poppy returned from her round-the-world travels and came to live in London, I had a pretty low opinion of both myself and the entire opposite sex. I was temping at a post-production house in Soho; the married boss, a loathsome piece of work with a shaved head, goatee and penchant for black polo-neck jumpers, had already tried to shag me. Pops took one look and kindly swept me up in her groovy new life, introducing me to her terrifyingly successful new friends as ‘Bella, my best mate ever’. Slowly I began to be assimilated, to develop my own style and something approaching confidence. I’ve never shaken off the feeling that if it wasn’t for her, I’d still be that twat embarrassing myself in the Goldsmiths bar, desperate to be loved and accepted.
I owe Poppy a lot, I think now with a huge rush of affection, as I taste the fish stew. It’s sublime. The basic Mediterranean triumvirate of tomatoes, onion and garlic underpins the delicate sweetness of the fish, whose variety yields a beautifully complex balance of textures and flavours. I have elevated my ambrosial mire to heady aromatic heights with saffron, thyme and the aniseedy kick of fennel and Pernod.
I go out of the door at the back of the kitchen to get some flat-leaf parsley from the herb garden. Away from the floodlights of the pool, the stars are stupidly bright, twinkling their little hearts out against the velvety purple sky. Pulling up great leafy handfuls (I’m a strong believer that more is more when it comes to herbs), I notice a shadowy figure making its way in the direction of the outdoor loo. Having known that figure all my life, I recognize my father instantly. I’m about to say something when I hear a ghastly giggle. Stepping back into the shadows, I watch as Kimberly grabs him from behind, running her long fingers over his crotch and biting the side of his neck.
‘Kimberly?’ asks Dad, his voice hoarse with lust. She continues her lewd manoeuvres for what seems like minutes but is probably only thirty seconds or so, until Dad says, ‘You shouldn’t have followed me. It’ll be too obvious what we’re up to.’
‘This is just for starters, big boy,’ breathes Kim. ‘We’re going to have a ball later.’
And she turns on her elegant heel and saunters back to the party.
I wait until Dad has continued towards the loo before bolting back into the kitchen, feeling deeply queasy. You’d think I’d have become inured to my father’s various peccadilloes over the years, but actually witnessing the full sub-porno horror, and with somebody I hold in such low regard, is unpalatable on every level. And then there’s the little matter of darling, gorgeous, soon-to-be-cuckolded-by-a-much-older-man Ben.
I chuck the parsley down onto the worktop and start chopping furiously.
‘Jesus, what has that poor parsley ever done to you?’ says Poppy, then stops when she sees the look on my face. ‘Christ Bella, what’s up?’
I tell her and she starts to laugh. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, but you must admit it’s quite funny. I mean, look at Ben. I can tell you with my hand on my heart that this is going to be an entirely new experience for him.’
‘I know, that’s what makes it so awful. Poor Ben …’
‘Oh I don’t know, it’ll probably do him good, vain bugger. Come on, Belles, you know what he’s like! Mr Irresistible …’ She starts laughing again. ‘It’s really quite priceless.’
‘But it makes Dad look like such a silly old fool. It’s not as if she can actually fancy him more than Ben, and for him to think she can is so deluded. Aaaaargh, cringe!’ I light myself a fag and puff away like something demented.
‘I’m not sure your father’s that stupid,’ muses Poppy. ‘He’s been in the game for years, and he’s just taking advantage of the situation. Most men would probably do the same – silly fuckers, the lot of ’em. No, let’s be realistic, babe. The only person who comes out of this badly is Kim … Big Boy, indeed!’ And she starts spluttering again. This time I join in, feeling an awful lot better. Thank God for Pops, I think, giving her a grateful hug. She hugs me back, then says, all brisk and business-like, ‘Right, let’s get this food sorted. And don’t worry your pretty little head about things. It’ll just add to the evening’s entertainment.’
I take another couple of drags on my fag before stubbing it out and picking up the chopped parsley. I watch the emerald confetti cover the surface of the pan in a grassy blanket, then give the whole lot a good stir. A hefty grinding of black pepper, a final squeeze of lemon and it’s ready.
I carry the vast pot out to the table that Poppy has laid beautifully, with candles, proper napkins and jugs of flowers nicked from the garden. A couple of crusty white loaves, fresh that morning from the panadería, share table space with a happy clink of bottles, red, white and rosé. Managing not to trip over my hem this time, I put the stew in the middle. It does look and smell sensational, if I d
o say so myself.
‘Who’s my clever, beautiful, darling girl?’ says Dad, reaching up to give me a hug. I hug him back, seething with mixed emotions.
Chapter 3
It’s ten to midnight and Ibiza Town is heaving. We amble slowly through the harbour, taking in the bustling bars and restaurants to our right, the Old Town climbing up the hill behind them, crowned by its ancient stone fortress. To our left, yachts sit imperiously on the inky calm sea, their polished wood and gleaming white bodywork a constant taunt to those yet to make a billion dollars. Palm trees line the water’s edge, and everywhere you look is a seething mass of humanity, determined to get its money’s worth of fun. Immaculate, gesticulating Italians in faded jeans and shades; evidently Scandinavian blondes with deep golden tans and suspect neon fashion sense; less attractive but edgier Brits. Every European cliché is covered here.
We are overtaken by a procession on stilts – models in bikinis and fabulously bewigged transvestites in full evening dress; it’s hard to say which are the most gorgeous. They are promoting Manumission at Amnesia, which won’t really get going for at least a couple more hours. We pass stalls selling silver and turquoise jewellery, batik sarongs and limited edition CDs. Finally we reach the Rock Bar, with its too-cool-for-school clientele and waterfront tables and chairs. As luck would have it, a large group of Americans is leaving as we arrive, so we quickly nab their table, to the evident disgruntlement of some unfeasibly attractive French girls just behind us. Ben flashes them his most gorgeous smile, and their disdainful Gallic shrugs melt into coy giggles.
As there aren’t enough chairs to go around, Mark, Ben and Andy make a big show of looking for empty ones. Poppy nudges Damian.
‘Go on, you lazy bugger. Make yourself useful.’
‘Why bother?’ asks Damian idly. ‘Mark and Ben just want to flirt with some randoms and Andy loves to do a good turn.’ There is a slight edge to his voice when he gets to the last bit. Perhaps Poppy’s comments about Andy being a ‘proper journalist’ have been a little too close for comfort. He plonks himself down onto one of the free chairs and pulls Poppy onto his lap. ‘Just sit down and shut up, beautiful.’
‘Good idea, that man,’ says Charlie in his public school way, pulling up a chair and beckoning Plump Alison to sit on top of him. Skinny Alison helps herself to a chair, leaving two left, between my father, Kim and me.
‘Ladies,’ he starts, but Kim is having none of it, insisting that he take the chair, while she perches on his lap like a great ginger giraffe. I sink into the final chair gratefully, my decision to wear my Terry de Havilland platform wedges not having been the best of the holiday so far.
The three men return from their search empty-handed, which is not surprising at this time of night. At the sight of us all, with the exception of yours truly, sitting on one another’s laps, Andy approaches Alison with a rueful grin, saying, ‘Go on darling, indulge me.’
‘If I must,’ she huffs. ‘But we all look bloody silly.’
Ben takes one look at Kimberly sitting on Dad’s lap and slopes off to flirt some more with the French girls, which leaves – oh shit – Man-Mountain Mark.
‘Babe?’ he asks me, arms stretched out, pleading. He looks so silly in his little shorts and offensive T-shirt that it’s hard not to laugh out loud, but he’s also extremely fit and muscly and I reckon if anyone can withstand me using them as a chair it’s him. I stand up to let him sit down, then settle down comfortably on his enormous lap. He casually puts his arms around me and I get a pleasing tingle, despite myself. There is something about Mark’s overt maleness that is both reassuring and arousing at such close quarters.
‘I’m not squashing you, am I?’ I ask stupidly, and he laughs.
‘Light as a feather, babe.’
Perhaps it’s the hefty post-prandial line we all found so essential, perhaps it’s the booze, perhaps it’s the balmy evening, but his response turns me on way more than it should. I hope I don’t slide off his lap. Remembering my similar reaction to Ben earlier in the evening (and to Randy last night, for that matter), there is a brief moment during which I wonder at my fickleness before thinking, fuck it. I snuggle closer back into his chest.
The highly camp waiter comes to take our order and we plump for vodka limóns all round. It’s not something any of us would order at home – in fact it’s not something any of us could order at home as the limón in question is a lemon Fanta, neither as sweet nor bitter, respectively, as lemonade or bitter lemon, but wonderfully tangy and refreshing in the heat. The generous Spanish spirit measures help too, of course.
‘Well, this is all very cosy, isn’t it?’ says Charlie, who’s sweating slightly in his chinos and polo shirt. Plump Alison, who has caught too much sun and looks pink and sore, shifts uncomfortably on his lap and he tightens his arms around her. Those shorts really weren’t a wise choice, I find myself thinking meanly, then pull myself up. Stop being such a bitch, Bella.
As if she’d read my mind, Skinny Alison suddenly says, ‘I hope you’re planning to lose some weight before the wedding, Alison. I don’t want you bursting the seams of your dress.’ Alison, it transpires, is to be Alison’s bridesmaid, which seems odd as they only know each other through their respective other halves. Clearly Skinny Alison is not one for extensive female bonding.
‘I’ve got a great detox programme I can recommend?’ says Kimberly, leaning forward with deep faux-sincerity. ‘I always follow it for a week before the Victoria’s Secret show and it really makes a difference.’
As everybody now has a clear mental image of lean, lithe Kim in her exotic underwear, compared to poor Alison in her ill-fitting shorts, I suddenly snap, ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, leave the girl alone. We’re meant to be on holiday.’
‘Well,’ huffs Kim, all affronted. ‘I was only trying to help.’ Alison, who was looking on the verge of tears, smiles over at me gratefully and I instantly feel guilty.
‘Still,’ says Skinny Alison, ‘you will think about it, won’t you? I don’t want to have to worry about getting your dress altered, when there’s so much more to think about for my big day.’
‘Jesus, Al, give it a rest, won’t you?’ says Andy sharply. ‘Get off me, please. I’m going for a walk.’
‘Wha …?’
I catch Poppy’s eye and try not to snigger at the look on Alison’s face.
‘I’ll be back in ten minutes, just need to clear my head,’ he says, lighting a fag and striding off towards the harbour, his long legs in their old Levis covering ground quickly. He looks rather dashing, and he’s certainly gone up in my estimation for standing up to his witch of a fiancée.
Ben comes over with one of the French girls. ‘Hey guys, this is Veronique. She’s never been to Manumission before so I suggested she comes with us. Her mates want to go to El Divino.’
‘Hi Veronique,’ we chorus, as I consider how much less attractive Veronica sounds in English.
If you didn’t know Veronique’s nationality, French would be your first guess. Her long dark brown hair is dead straight, with a choppy eyelash-skimming fringe. Though her dark almond eyes are thick with kohl and mascara, she doesn’t appear to be wearing any other make-up, her clear olive skin and pillowy lips needing little enhancement. Stick thin in skinny black jeans and braless in a black vest with a couple of studded belts encircling her narrow hips, she is the picture of rock-chick insouciance.
Ben has certainly upped his game here, I think dispassionately, wondering how Kim will react now and rather hoping for Dad that she doesn’t immediately switch allegiance back. Then my father, as tends to be his wont, surprises me. Gently pushing Kimbo off his lap, he rises gallantly to his feet and kisses Veronique’s hand, murmuring, ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ before launching into fluent French. Within seconds the sulky pout has been replaced by a delighted, slightly gappy smile. To give him his due, Ben laughs good-naturedly and tries to join in the conversation in schoolboy French.
‘What are they saying, what are th
ey saying?’ asks Kim, as Ben looks over in her direction and says something, laughing. Dad puts his arm around her waist and says, ‘Veronique was saying you look like a model. We were just telling her how right she is.’
By the look on Veronique’s face, it wasn’t a compliment, but it is so beyond Kim’s intellectual capabilities to consider that some people might not be impressed by her profession that she is temporarily mollified and preens herself unnecessarily.
‘And what do you do, babe?’ she asks Veronique, launching back into faux-sincere mode.
‘I sing. I write. I paint,’ breathes the Frog in a seriously sexy accent. ‘I was – ’ow you say? – discoverrrred by a model agency – during my Baccalaureate. But I told zem no – I am an artiste.’
Mark gives me a squeeze and whispers gleefully in my ear, ‘This is awesome. I fucking hope it turns into a bitch fight. Couple of hot babes too.’
I laugh and whisper back, ‘Who do you think would win? The Frog looks pretty scary, but I reckon Kim’s as tough as old boots.’
‘Difficult call.’
‘Yeah, well …’ says Kim. ‘You probably did the right thing, babe. It’s only a few short girls who ever really make it. In fact, I can only think of Kate Moss. And I’m sure you’d agree you’re hardly in her league.’ She looks around at us all and laughs gaily.
