by Lucy Lord
‘Not great, to be honest. Oh Belles, sometimes I can hardly bear it when I remember how he used to be.’ Poppy’s large, almond-shaped green eyes fill with tears, which she angrily wipes away. ‘It’s such a bloody horrible disease.’
‘I know, lovey, I know.’ I reach over and squeeze her hand, thinking of the tall, bespectacled gent with his wonderfully dry wit and endless thirst for knowledge. It was always hugely entertaining around the Wallace dinner table, even when we were kids. ‘He did … recognize you, didn’t he?’ I falter, as it’s the big one; the big, big horror that one day her own father won’t know who she is.
‘Oh yes, he still recognizes me, bless his dear old heart.’ Poppy smiles sadly. ‘It’s just the other things he doesn’t recognize that are so scary.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like last weekend we were watching telly – that’s all you can do with him any more, really, as conversation is so bloody impossible – and he thought the people on the box were outside the window, trying to break in. He got quite agitated about it and I just had to keep saying, “Dad, it’s the TV, we’re watching telly, remember?”’
‘Oh Pops.’ I squeeze her hand again, not knowing how else to proffer comfort.
‘I honestly don’t know how Mum copes. Remember I told you she was feeling guilty for getting irritated because he kept repeating himself?’
I nod.
‘Well, it’s way beyond that stage now. He isn’t really a properly functioning human being at all any more. Jesus, Belles, if I ever get like that, please just give me a lethal injection.’
‘You’re on. And vice versa?’
We shake on it and Poppy continues.
‘Dad hates the carers – keeps going on about what are all these strangers doing in my house, which you can’t blame him for really. But he’s very fond of the chap in the mirror. Keeps introducing his “new friend” to Mum. When he waves and smiles, the chap in the mirror waves and smiles back, you see.’
‘Oh Pops, your poor mother. Surely it must nearly be time for him to go into residential care?’
‘From a purely selfish point of view I’d like him to stay at home until he dies.’
‘Why?’
‘Because sometimes we can pretend things are like they used to be – say if Mum and I are cooking Sunday lunch and we’ve put Dad in front of some documentary on the telly. But it’s simply not fair on Mum the rest of the time. She’s being a complete bloody martyr though – reckons it would be a betrayal to put him in a home.’
I think of blonde, soignée Diana, an ex-Radio 4 presenter, still glamorous at sixty-two. Jesus. What a life sentence. For both of them.
‘Damian’s been looking into residential homes that specialize in dementia,’ Poppy continues. ‘Even though they are, by their very nature, fucking grim hellholes, some are so much better than others – actually the discrepancies are astounding. There’s one he’s found near enough home for Mum to visit daily that looks quite promising. We’re going to go and have a look the weekend after Glastonbury.’
‘He’s a good chap, your man.’
‘My rock.’ Poppy faux-swoons, then visibly cheers up. ‘Ooh look, talk of the devil. There he is with Mark! What does the sexist cunt think he’s wearing?’
I follow her gaze and laugh. Mark’s huge chest is clad in a T-shirt announcing 10 reasons why beer is better than women. The last time I saw something similar was about twelve years ago, on an ill-advised student trip to the Greek island Ios. It involved an awful lot of booze and shagging randoms, and my (only) Goldsmiths friend Emma and I ended up running out of money and sleeping on a roof for a week with an entire rugby team from Halifax. Happy days.
‘Is it meant to be ironic?’ Poppy asks as she stands up to greet Mark.
‘I’ve been telling him it’s crap,’ says Damian. ‘But he insists it will get him birds. How are you anyway, my lovely?’ As ever, he looks effortlessly cool in dark jeans and a close-fitting scarlet T-shirt by some obscure Japanese label, his eyes hidden by yet another pair of expensive shades. They get the pick of the latest designer kit at Stadium, the magazine they work on, which makes Mark’s choice of garb even more baffling.
‘Well, apart from this Neanderthal seriously compromising my street cred, I’m fine,’ says Poppy equably as she gives her boyfriend a hug.
‘Just you wait,’ says Mark.
‘Actually, I think it’s hilarious,’ says a voice, and my heart jumps into my throat. It’s Ben, looking like a film star. ‘I especially like number six – a beer still looks as good in the morning as it did when the bar closed.’
‘All right, mate,’ says Damian, as they high-five each other.
‘What’s this in aid of?’ Ben picks up the nearly empty champagne bottle.
‘Poppy’s been promoted,’ I say, as she doffs her trilby and says ‘Deputy Head of Production for Europe to you, sir.’
Ben breaks out in a big grin and lifts her off the ground in a great bear hug. ‘Oi, put my missus down,’ says Damian, as I try to ignore the brief stab of jealousy in my heart. I’d die for Poppy’s casual flirtiness with Ben. It’s easier when you’re already taken, I suppose.
‘Aren’t you going to congratulate her?’ he asks Damian, who laughs.
‘She actually found out a couple of days ago. We celebrated then, didn’t we, sweet thing?’
‘Oh, we most certainly did.’ Poppy smiles and puts a finger to her lips. Even after five years, the chemistry between them is obvious.
‘Enough, enough – I so don’t want the sordid details,’ says Ben camply. ‘Who’s up for beers?’
He goes to the bar and returns minutes later with three pints of Stella.
‘That was quick. It took me bloody ages to get served,’ I say.
‘I think the barman took a shine to me,’ Ben smiles, and he’s probably right. He’s looking absurdly handsome in a slim-fitting navy blue suit with an open-collared white shirt that shows off his tan and incredible blue eyes. The narrow lapels and old-skool Adidas trainers neatly sidestep any suggestion of banker wanker.
‘What’s with the whistle, mate?’ asks Damian.
Poppy groans, ‘Get him with the Mockney.’ Damian’s Welsh lilt has just about had all its curves sanded down to standard men’s magazine estuary, which is a shame. Occasionally it resurfaces when he’s tired or upset. I imagine Ben’s accent disappeared the moment he walked through RADA’s doors (though he can apply it on demand, just as he can Scouse, or Geordie, or Glaswegian).
‘Audition. A new BBC sitcom – it’s being touted in the biz as the This Life of the new decade, and I haven’t a hope in hell of landing a part. But it would be churlish not to try.’ His boyish modesty is so endearing it makes me want to race right over to White City and shake the execs by the scruffs of their stupid necks. How can they be so blind not to realize what delicious gold dust they’re in danger of letting slip through their fingers? But he’s probably got it down to a fine art.
‘Don’t be a cunt,’ says Mark. ‘You know you’re in with a chance with your big blue eyes.’ He tries to widen his little brown ones to illustrate. ‘Talking of big blue eyes, I shagged the work experience girl last night.’
‘Poor little thing,’ is my immediate response, and he grins. ‘Yeah, I gave her a fucking nosebag full, put on some porn and soon she was letting me piss on her.’
‘What?’ Even Damian looks shocked. ‘Sweet little Amy?’
‘Not so sweet, mate.’
‘But why did you want to piss on her?’ I ask.
‘Never heard of golden showers, darlin’?’
‘Good God almighty, you really are a wanker, aren’t you?’ says Poppy.
‘Not really. I made her laugh.’
‘Yeah right.’
‘No really, I did. I couldn’t piss because of the coke, so she had to put the bath taps on full flow to encourage my full flow. She was giggling all over the place, little minx.’
‘I hope you were nice to her in the o
ffice today,’ I say sternly.
‘She called in sick.’ Then, seeing our combined horror and amusement, he adds, ‘C’mon, it’s not like she’s a kid or anything. She knew what she was letting herself in for. She probably just had a hangover.’
‘I’m just wondering how much lower you can sink,’ says Poppy. ‘Never mind, let’s at least give the poor girl the dignity of not being discussed like this any more.’
‘But tell us what her tits were like first?’ says Damian, leaning back nonchalantly in his chair, one foot crossed in his lap. Poppy slaps his leg, laughing.
‘Fucking gorgeous.’ Mark makes melon-squeezing gestures with both hands. ‘Pierced nipple too. See, I rest my case for the defence – not so sweet.’ Everyone laughs and I have a hideous moment of clarity.
Is this what we have come to?
I am actually quite shocked by Mark’s revelation, and feel hugely sympathetic towards the work experience girl. I remember myself at that age, vulnerable and desperate to please, and can only imagine how ghastly she must be feeling today, to the extent that she couldn’t face going into the office at all. Being peed on, for God’s sake?
‘Oooh Ben, loved the Ibiza Facebook pics,’ says Poppy, snapping me back into reality.
‘Except I had to detag myself in that one of us at Sa Trinxa,’ I say grumpily. ‘That was possibly the worst photo I’ve ever seen of myself.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad,’ says Ben, laughing.
‘You know which one I mean, then?’
‘Well, I know which one you detagged …’
‘Ben, it was an awful photo,’ says Poppy. ‘Don’t worry, Belles, you look nothing like that in real life.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile at her. ‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’
‘Talking of Ibiza, mate, did you ever hear from Kimberly again?’ Damian asks Ben.
The day after my encounter with the dwarf, Kimbo and my dad said their goodbyes and left the island, leaving me hot with vicarious shame.
‘Nope,’ says Ben, grinning.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I say, ad nauseam. ‘I can’t believe Dad did that. No, scrub that. I can perfectly believe Dad did that, but I really can’t believe that Kim did.’
‘Listen Bella.’ Ben looks into my eyes with such sincerity I could melt. I wish I’d bothered to pluck my eyebrows before I came out. ‘It’s not your fault your father’s a randy old goat. And it’s certainly not your fault the bird I was shagging turned out to be such a gold-digging slag. So, for the last time, stop apologizing.’
‘OK,’ I smile.
‘In fact he did me a favour. Veronique was hot as fuck,’ he goes on, and my heart sinks again.
‘Have you kept in touch with her?’ asks Damian, taking a swig of his pint.
‘Well, let’s just say she has an interesting interpretation of the text medium.’
‘Meaning?’ asks Mark. ‘Photos? Videos?’
‘Both,’ says Ben smugly.
‘Go on, show us,’ pants Mark.
‘Shall we just leave them to it?’ Poppy says to me, but Ben surprises us, saying, ‘No, it wouldn’t be right. She sent them for my eyes only.’ Drop-dead gorgeous and an old-fashioned gentleman to boot. Could this man be any more perfect?
‘Spoilsport,’ sulks Mark, and Ben laughs.
‘Surely you get to see enough of that sort of thing at work anyway?’
‘No such thing as enough, mate.’ Not for the first time, I thank the Brazilian twins for my lucky escape.
‘Yeah yeah, you boys and your ludicrous conquests,’ says Poppy. ‘Can we talk about something a tad more interesting for all of us? Like a certain festival that’s happening next week, perhaps?’
‘Yay, Glastonbury!’ I shout happily, more than a little pissed by now.
The Daddy of all festivals is next weekend and I’m looking forward to it enormously, despite vowing ‘never again’ after last year’s washout. It really was repulsive, with constant, relentless rain, and mud so deep it came over the top of your wellies, which made every step a Herculean effort. Some people had their tents washed away, and were left standing in their knickers: no possessions, no money, no nothing. None of us fared that badly, but my tent was not waterproof in the slightest (not least because I kept getting too wasted to remember to zip it up properly), and I had to sleep inside a bin liner inside my sleeping bag. The irony of a bunch of middle-class twits with lovely warm homes paying through the nose to endure such miserable, Somme-like conditions was lost on none of us. Still, with that uniquely British triumph of hope over experience, we duly paid through the nose again this year. And at the beginning of April it’s a gamble, as you have no idea how the summer’s going to pan out. So far it’s been an absolute scorcher, so fingers crossed.
‘Remember Mark’s trench foot last year,’ laughs Damian. Mark had refused to buy wellies, claiming they were for poofs.
‘Fuck me, that was painful. It took about a week to unmesh my trainers from the flesh of my feet. And another week to dry off.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t all bad,’ says Ben. ‘That first night, before the rain had really set in, was a hoot. Remember we found that random field with the tiny sound system playing some banging house? And Bella said something funny about sinking literally and metaphorically into the quagmire.’
I look up, shocked that he remembers something I said in a drug-fuelled moment nearly a year ago. I have a distinct recollection of him looking like a rock star in a fake fur coat, cowboy hat and shades, his long legs in mud-spattered jeans tucked into long black wellies. Film star, rock star, whatever …
‘We had a laugh all right,’ says Poppy. ‘It just wasn’t terribly comfortable. But this year is going to be beautiful, isn’t it? Come on, let’s all just will this gorgeous sunshine to continue.’
‘What day are you all going down?’ I ask.
‘I’m shooting next Friday so can’t get there till Friday night, which is a pain in the arse,’ says Ben. ‘I don’t suppose any of you could reserve a place and set up my tent for me? All the spaces will be gone otherwise …’
‘You lazy cunt,’ says Damian. ‘Course we will, mate. Mark and I have Press passes anyway, so I’ll see what privileges we’re entitled to this year.’
‘We’ll probably drive down on Thursday if you need a lift, Belles,’ says Poppy.
‘Thanks, Pops. Where would I be without you?’
Chapter 5
‘Bella Bella, che bella,’ says the head waiter as, an hour or so later, we walk into Osteria Basilico, the much-loved Italian on Kensington Park Road. It’s a longstanding joke he’s kept up ever since I first moved to the area. ‘And the beautiful Poppy. Why should we be so honoured tonight?’
Poppy and I grin at each other, aware that it’s pathetic to be flattered by the blandishments of Italian waiting staff, yet enjoying the compliments nonetheless.
‘Hi Giovanni,’ I say. ‘Any tables downstairs?’ Of course, all the tables outside are already taken.
‘For you, anything!’ He kisses his fingers. We follow him down the stairs.
Osteria Basilico is a proper old-fashioned phallic pepper mill Italian eaterie, serving classic stalwarts in lively, cavernous surroundings. The free-flowing wine and candlelit gloom encourage you to let your hair down. Not that we are in need of much encouragement.
It’s pretty full but, true to his word, Giovanni finds us a table for five in the furthest corner from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Shall we order some wine before we start?’ asks Damian, and as we all nod our assent, ‘A white and a red to kick off with?’
He selects a Chianti and an Orvieto without bothering to look at the list. We’ve been here enough times by now to know it pretty comprehensively. I pay lip service to the menu, despite knowing I’ll be going for the melt-in-the-mouth carpaccio and sublimely garlicky spaghetti vongole.
‘Don’t you understand, Max, that money is no object when it comes to making my day absolutely perfect?’ comes a
strident voice from the next table.
‘OK OK, I was only offering you a couple of options,’ retorts a laid-back and wonderfully familiar voice. ‘Jesus, woman, take a chill pill.’
‘Max!’ I cry, jumping out of my chair. I hadn’t noticed in the gloom, but sitting right next to us in this subterranean corner of West London is my resolutely East London brother, dining with Andy and Skinny Alison.
‘Bella!’ He rises languidly to his feet and gives me a hug. ‘What a coincidence.’
‘Why didn’t you let me know you were in my neck of the woods? We could have hooked up for a drink.’
‘You must know I never mix business with pleasure, sis.’ Then, seeing the look on Alison’s face, he adds, ‘Just kidding. Did you know I’m sorting out the catering for Andy and Alison’s wedding? As I’m Andy’s best man? We thought we’d discuss it over a nice, relaxed dinner.’ He rolls his eyes at me and I try not to laugh.
I know I’m biased, but Max is gorgeous. His curly blond hair used to be the bane of his life. He looked like a cherub when we were kids and spent years trying to tame it – tying it back, slicking it down, shearing it into brutal military-style No. 1s – but always the curls sprang back, a life unto themselves. Now he’s come to accept them and wears them in a kind of honky afro/golden halo. He’s very tall (six feet four), broad shouldered, and keeps himself in shape, but without Mark’s ridiculously pumped-up look. His big long-lashed brown eyes, so similar to mine, give his face a sweetness that reflects his personality probably a lot more accurately than he would like.
