by Lucy Lord
‘Pouf, whatever …’ shrugs Veronique, lighting a fag and turning her back on Kim. ‘Ben, chéri, you said somezing about a drink? Vin rouge, s’il te plaît.’
‘I’ll get it,’ says my father, taking Kim by the hand. ‘Why don’t you come with me, Kimberly?’ And he leads her through the heaving crowds towards the bar.
With Kimbo out of the picture, we all relax for a bit.
‘No disrespect, mate,’ says Damian to Ben. ‘But where the fuck did you find her?’ Then, as Veronique raises her eyebrows, ‘Not you, darling – the other one.’ Poppy rolls her eyes and stage-whispers to me: ‘Lord Tact of Tactville strikes again.’ I giggle and whisper back, ‘This is hilarious.’
Poppy looks at me curiously. ‘So you’re feeling better about everything now?’
‘Oh yes, water off a duck’s back.’ I wave my hand about airily.
‘Ow,’ complains Mark as I bash him in the nose, at which Poppy and I laugh so much that I nearly fall off his lap. The various intoxicants have made us awfully silly, I am nearly coherent enough to reflect.
Andy returns from his strop.
‘Right, when are we off to Manumission?’ he asks, looking at me and Poppy.
‘Oh God, not for another hour or so at least,’ says Poppy. ‘Anyway, Damian needs to go and score first, don’t you sweetheart?’
‘Too right I do,’ says Damian, getting to his feet. ‘In fact, no time like the present. Anyone else fancy a walk?’
‘I’ll come,’ says Andy, surprising us all.
‘Actually, darling,’ says Skinny Alison, ‘I think I’d rather have an early night. I need to get up early to try and get hold of that incompetent bloody seamstress in the morning.’
‘OK darling, go ahead. I fancy a night out.’Skinny Alison’s features droop, and I almost feel sorry for her, but it soon passes as she bullies Plump Alison and Charlie, who were clearly also looking forward to a night out, into escorting her back to the villa.
Multicoloured lights flash through the darkness, the sweat of 20,000 revellers fills the air and the insistent beat of electro house pumps through our veins. Nazi officers, sexy nurses and PVC-clad beauties mingle with only slightly less exotically dressed clubbers. A naked couple is almost shagging on stage – they put a stop to the live sex shows a few years ago, but the simulation is pretty realistic. Dwarfs fondle girls in stockings and suspenders carrying whips. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose, if you’re a dwarf.
The popularity of Manumission is staggering. Queuing time for your average Joe is generally a couple of hours, but we managed to blag our way to the front of the guest list queue in ten minutes. This was not, as you might expect, due to the extreme beauty of Kim, or Ben, or even Poppy; people are used to extreme beauty here. No, we managed to swan past a whole load of satisfactorily put-out models entirely thanks to my father’s longstanding notoriety in the Balearics.
‘You’ve got to hand it to him, Bella, he’s a groovy old bugger,’ were Poppy’s words, as my heart swelled with a weird kind of pride.
Now we’re all on the dance floor, vaguely paired up – me with Mark, Damian with Poppy, Dad with Kim, Ben with Veronique and Andy kind of hovering on the sidelines. He’s a good dancer, I notice.
Mark puts his arms around me and starts gyrating unnecessarily, grinding his pelvis into mine. As any inhibitions I might once have had disappeared hours ago, I’m finding this mightily enjoyable and looking forward to what I’m assuming will be the logical conclusion to tonight. I close my eyes and let the sensations wash over me. Suddenly they stop and I open my eyes. Mark is looking over my shoulder. I turn round and follow his gaze. Two little brunettes in short dresses, one hot pink, the other orange, are attracting quite a bit of attention with some clearly South American hip undulations. Fuck. The Brazilian twins. Just my bloody luck, I think, any idea of my night culminating in some hot shagging disappearing in a puff of smoke.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, babe.’ Mark can’t get away fast enough. He practically runs over to them and they both squeal enthusiastically and throw their arms around him.
And in a flash the scene changes from divinely decadent to disgustingly decadent. Dwarfs leer repellently. The lingerie-clad babes seem to mock me, cackling as they crack their whips. The Nazis assume a terrifyingly sinister mantle. Of course they do, they’re fucking Nazis, for Christ’s sake. Whoever thought that was cool? I want to scream. My father has his hand right up Kimbo’s skirt. It’s the last straw. I mumble hasty goodbyes to a surprised Poppy and Damian and push my way past the crowds out of the club.
Outside I catch my breath and light a cigarette.
‘Are you all right?’ I look up to see Andy standing behind me, his intelligent eyes concerned behind the specs. He must have followed me out.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. It just all got a bit much, that’s all,’ I say, trying to disguise my humiliation. I’m feeling horribly frumpy in my maxidress now.
‘Listen,’ says Andy awkwardly. ‘I saw what happened in there, and for what it’s worth, I think Mark’s a fool. Those two girls are … well, they’re nothing special really.’
‘Thanks,’ I laugh, a trifle tearfully. ‘However, they’re practically half my age and there are two of them. You do the math, as our American cousins are wont to say.’
Andy laughs too, looking relieved. ‘Do you want to go back inside?’ he asks. I shake my head.
‘No, I’ve had enough. I’ll get a cab back to the villa.’
‘OK, I’ll see you back.’
‘Don’t be silly; you’ve got a pink ticket. You go back inside and enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. Let me see you into a cab at any rate.’
He is as good as his word and five minutes later I am sitting in a taxi, speeding along the motorway back in the direction of Ibiza Town. Now I’m away from the seediness of Manumission I decide I fancy another drink. I’m still buzzing from the various substances I’ve ingested and am certainly not ready for bed yet. The idea of chilling with the Alisons and Charlie just doesn’t do it for me, so I ask the driver to take me back to the harbour, instead of taking the turn that would take us back to the villa.
He shrugs. ‘Sí sí, claro.’ He’s seen it all before.
Five in the morning is probably the quietest you’ll ever see Ibiza Town. Most of the bars pack up around three, as everyone decamps to the clubs, and there’s respite for a few hours before the bars and cafés start opening up for breakfast. I am starting to regret my decision not to go home, when I see a light glimmering in the distance. I walk towards it and discover a little bar, just behind the waterfront. It’s distinctly unglamorous, with unflattering strip lighting and about ten customers, but it’s a bar and it will serve me a drink. I go in.
‘Un vodka limón, por favor,’ I say to the barman, plonking myself onto one of the high bar stools.
‘Cinco euros,’ says the barman, handing me the drink. I look up in surprise. Very cheap, by Ibiza standards.
‘Here, let me get that,’ says an unmistakeably cheeky chappie cockney voice in my ear. I look over into a pair of very sparkly blue eyes set in a ruggedly handsome face.
‘Well, if you’re sure …’
‘Yeah, no problem. So what’s a lovely lady like you doing all alone on a night like this? Where are your mates?’
As I start to tell him, it dawns on me that there is something out of the ordinary about this particular fellow. The short arms, the large head, the … the … little dangly legs, swinging from the bar stool. Yes, I’m being chatted up by a dwarf.
He notices me noticing and says matter-of-factly, ‘Yeah babe, I’m a dwarf. Just finished my shift at Manumission. All the industry workers come here after their shifts – it’s the only bar left open in town. You were lucky to find it.’
‘I just kind of stumbled on it,’ I say, and we start chatting. He’s a bright chap, it turns out, and I surprise myself by enjoying the conversation as much as any I’ve had
in the last few days. He seems to think so too, as he says:
‘I can’t tell you how good it is to talk to an intelligent English girl. I meet so many gorgeous babes in my line of business, but they’re Spanish, or Dutch, or Swedish, and I haven’t had a good chat for months.’ Just as I am wondering whether this is a compliment or not – nothing about me being a gorgeous babe, I notice – he pipes up, ‘Hey, I’ve got some Charlie back in my apartment – just along the front here. Do you fancy coming back for a line?’
Without missing a beat, I say, ‘Sure,’ wondering how much weirder the night can get. I get off the bar stool and watch as he swings his little legs round and leaps down to the floor. Quite a lot weirder, it transpires, as I take his hand. It’s like walking along with a toddler.
‘Bye Joe!’ ‘Adios José!’ ‘Ciao Giacomo!’ Everyone calls out their goodbyes. My diminutive friend is popular in these parts, it seems.
It’s totally light now and the cafés are setting their tables with gingham cloths and laminated menus, in time for the breakfast rush. Surprised, I ask Joe the time.
‘Blimey, it’s eight thirty,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘Time does fly when you’re having fun.’ He winks. We’ve been talking for three and a half hours? Bloody hell, I think, as I follow him up the narrow staircase to his flat.
On the first floor of a slightly dilapidated nineteenth-century building, right on the seafront, it is in a fab location. I tell him as much, as I look out to sea over his wrought-iron balcony.
‘Being a Manumission dwarf must pay well,’ I joke, and he nods seriously.
‘It’s the best job in the world. I mean, let’s face it, being born a dwarf could be a serious bummer, but in my line of work I meet all these gorgeous babes …’ He’s off again, I think. ‘… I mean, I should spread the word to all dwarfs – move to Ibiza – but then I might be doing myself out of a job.’
As he can’t reach the table, he racks a couple of lines out on the wooden floorboards and we both sniff greedily. Then he gets out a photo album and starts showing me pictures of all the ‘babes’ he’s had over the years. ‘She was my girlfriend,’ he says, pointing out an improbably pneumatic blonde. ‘And her,’ gesturing towards a leggy brunette. And on and on and on.
By now I am wondering what to make of it all. He is clearly trying to pull me, I think. Could I go through with it? On the one hand, it would be a great story to tell the grandchildren. On the other … hmmm. In my defence, it’s been a very long night.
I’m still trying to make up my mind when he excuses himself to go to the loo. I’m idly wondering if he has a special WC, half a foot off the ground, so he can reach it (or is his cock ENORMOUS? – surely nature compensates in some way?), when something catches my eye. Hanging over a chair that until now was partially obscured from my vision is a very familiar-looking dress. My white dress.
I pick it up and scrutinize it just to be sure. Yes, it’s definitely mine. Same neckline, same crochet, same red wine stain on the hem. Little bugger. It must have been him filching it from the next-door cubicle. More in his eye line, I suppose. He comes back from the loo.
Slightly disappointed I’ll never find out about his cock, I hold up the dress and ask, ‘What’s this?’
‘Oh some tart left it on the toilet floor, so I grabbed it,’ he chortles. ‘Sometimes we do cross-dressing dwarf weddings and I thought it would make me a beautiful bride.’
I start to laugh immoderately. The idea that my minidress could be floor-length on him is enough of a turn-off to bring me to my senses.
‘Tee hee hee … hee hee … heee hee hee hee heeeee … sorry Joe, but I’ve got to go. See ya!’
Seeing the disappointment on his weirdly handsome face, I relent.
‘I’m the silly tart whose dress it was, you see.’
He laughs too, then asks, a tad desperately, ‘Go on gorgeous, what d’ya say – a quick shag, just for a laugh?’
‘I can’t,’ I say, ‘but thanks for the offer.’
‘No hard feelings?’
‘No hard feelings,’ I say, as I bend down to take his hand.
I am still giggling as I walk down the harbour, clutching my crochet dress to my breast like the blue blanket Max used as a comforter when he was a toddler. And then something makes me laugh even more.
Mark, still in his horrible ‘sit on my face’ T-shirt, his lower flanks only in very tight briefs, is running down the seafront, a look of abject panic on his face.
We stare at each other.
‘Well?’ I ask.
‘Their bloody father came back,’ he pants, and I laugh some more.
‘What happened to you?’ he asks eventually. I tell him and soon we are both laughing so much that it feels as if we’ll be mates forever.
‘Let’s go back to the villa,’ says Mark. ‘I’ve got a bottle of Scotch.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘But no shagging. You’re a fucking slag.’
‘Takes one to know one,’ he says companionably, and we walk back, arm-in-arm, in search of a cab.
Chapter 4
I’m standing in the printing room, binding twenty long and extremely tedious presentations. This is the downside of being me. I’ve wanted to be an artist ever since I was tiny, and have sold a fair amount of my work over the years, but not nearly enough to keep me in the manner to which I’d like to become accustomed. My miserable time at art college coincided with the new-found notoriety of Tracey Emin and Damien Hirst, and a whole host of my contemporaries attempted to emulate their success with substandard parodies, sold to a gullible public as avant-garde brilliance. My less zeitgeisty approach to art (drawing and painting things I find visually appealing) sadly failed to grab the same media attention, as a result of which I am still that oh-so-romantic figure, the struggling artist. That is, skint.
In order to buy myself time to paint, have fun and pay the mortgage, I take on temping contracts – anything from a few days to a few weeks, depending how desperate I am. I started off temping in media companies, which I thought would be fun. And in the beginning they were: post-production houses in Soho, advertising agencies and PR firms around Charlotte Street, breathtakingly pretentious record labels in Clerkenwell where all the fonts were lower case. I liked going to work in jeans and trainers and hanging out with wisecracking movers and shakers who thought they were cool. Occasionally even the temps were treated to very long lunches that turned into druggy nights. But after a while I noticed everyone was getting younger than me, and there’s something desperately sad about making coffee for twenty-something record execs when you’re pushing thirty.
So fortuitously I discovered I could do a new type of temping: desktop publishing. DTP, as it’s known in the trade, involves making presentations look pretty, using computer graphics packages like Photoshop and Quark. It appeals to the artist in me. It certainly beats filing or co-ordinating people’s diaries (one of my pet hates – I mean, how much more servile can you get? Besides, I’m crap at efficiency). And it pays substantially more than bog-standard secretarial temping. But – and it’s a big BUT – most companies that use DTP operators, as we are glamorously called, are financial ones. Yes, even now, as the reviled institutions desperately try to claw back business with hideously written dossiers, brimming with management speak and graphs.
And, as far as atmosphere goes, financial companies suck. They’ve always been life-sappingly corporate. That’s a given. From the horrible suits everyone wears, to the icy air conditioning that makes you wish you were wearing one, to the macho trading-floor filth that masquerades as witty banter, everything about them has always conspired to destroy the soul. Now, the added frisson of grim fear and shoulder-sagging desolation really make them the last place on earth any sane person would choose to hang out.
And binding is about as dismal as it gets. At least if you’re hiding behind your computer you can waste half the day pissing about on the internet. As it happens, the binding really ought to have been done by Sebastian, the dim,
blond, posh gap-year intern. But he doesn’t get asked when there’s a perfectly good female around to patronize. It’s on days like today that I feel a total loser compared to my friends in their high-flying careers, however tenuous such careers may now seem. The idea of Poppy binding is frankly laughable. But I just cannot contemplate what kind of ‘real’ office-bound career I might have chosen. Or what I could do instead. Become a tree surgeon? No, I decide grimly, if this is the price I must pay for my art, so be it. One day I’ll be able to support myself without stooping to this.
So I punch another set of holes into another sheaf of paper.
‘Bella,’ calls Gina, PA to one of the directors, ‘your phone’s ringing.’
I make my way back to my hot desk and pick it up.
‘Hello, darling. Can you think of anything that rhymes with erection?’
‘Hi, Mum. How are you?’ My mother writes erotic poetry and I love her to bits.
‘Rough as a badger’s arse, I’m afraid.’
I laugh. ‘Lovely expression, Mummy.’
‘I think it’s rather good – I only learnt it recently. Anyway, it sums up how I feel perfectly, but it’s entirely self-inflicted so I’m trying not to feel too sorry for myself.’
‘What have you been up to?’
‘Well, Tabitha and Valentine came to stay for a few days, which you know is always lethal. She’s done something quite groovy to her hair. Then yesterday that ghastly little man with the squint – I think he’s the new postmaster or something – wanted me to sign some horrid petition so I fobbed him off with a couple of large whiskies. And then Auntie Charlotte rocked up on her motorbike – and, well, as you can probably imagine, it all went downhill from there. Anyway, what was I ringing for? Yes … erection …’
‘Erm … deflection? Reflection? Rejection?’ I proffer.
