Revelry

by Lucy Lord

  There’s no point in cooking his scallops now. They should be eaten immediately and at £1.50 apiece I’m not going to risk ruining them. So I heat some butter with the remains of the bacon fat and chuck in six of the plump little bivalves for me, which I admit is a tad greedy, but I reckon I could do with a bit of spoiling right now. I turn them over just as they’re starting to caramelize, then plonk a pile of spinach in the middle of a plate, with a few rashers of golden bacon and a lemon quarter stacked to one side. The scallops cooked to juicy perfection, I arrange them around the greenly seeping spinach, and pour the last of the Soave into my glass.

  I go out onto the balcony with my drink and plate.

  As I start to eat my little bit of home-cooked luxury, I think about a pregnant homeless woman I gave some money to yesterday, and feel slightly ashamed of my earlier internal tantrum about Ben. I need to get a grip, some perspective. I’m a fucking lucky bugger, sitting here on my balcony on such a balmy night with my scallops, and if my gorgeous boyfriend – boyfriend! – has to do some networking with ballet dancers then so be it. It’s not the end of the world.

  Then I picture the dancers again and start to cry.

  Chapter 9

  I wake up feeling wonderfully refreshed. Glancing at my clock radio I see it’s only 7.15 – still quarter of an hour until my alarm goes off, which is almost unprecedented. Ben is cuddling me from behind, which makes me very happy indeed, until I recall the events of last night. I’ve been out for the count since my head hit the pillow, so I’ve no idea what time he came in. He kisses my shoulder in his sleep and I squirm with pleasure, before steeling myself and gently extricating myself from his grasp. Nope, I’m getting up and getting on with my day. Things to do, people to see. I try not to feel too depressed that these things involve nothing more exciting than more presentations and binding, then remember that we’re meeting Max later, which perks me up a bit. I look for something in my wardrobe suitable for both a Mayfair hedge fund company and a Hoxton lounge bar. Difficult, nay fucking impossible, so I settle on my trusty pale pink shift dress, with a ditsy printed floral ra-ra skirt and plain white vest in my handbag for later.

  I look around my lovely tidy flat with satisfaction. Morning sun is streaming through the muslin curtains in the sitting room; it’s going to be another beautiful day. Emboldened, I switch on the radio in the kitchen. Ben doesn’t like to be woken up by the radio when he doesn’t have to get out of bed for a few more hours, and he definitely doesn’t approve of Radio 1 (way too mainstream), but bugger him. It’s my flat. I make myself some tea and get ready at a leisurely pace, which is another new experience for me. I’m normally so desperate for another half-hour’s kip in the mornings that I end up growling and lashing out like a grizzly bear disturbed mid-hibernation. Not to Ben of course, but inanimate objects, the imbeciles on the wireless, the sub-humans on the Tube – they are all, in the general course of things, fair game for my self-inflicted jittery wrath.

  Showered, dressed and made up, I eat some toast on the balcony, then leave Ben a polite note about what to do with the scallops in the fridge should he want them for lunch (resisting the temptation to suggest he shove them up his arse if that proves too difficult). I go and gaze at him for a minute before leaving the flat. His skin is caramel smooth and brown against the white sheets, his long lashes brush his cheeks. His light brown hair, still streaked with gold from the Ibiza sun (and a little help from his hairdresser), flops against the pillow. With great difficulty I resist kissing him goodbye, then skip out of the door with a surprisingly light heart.

  I sail through the day, working incredibly efficiently. I restrict my internet usage to a brief email exchange with Poppy and even manage to smile at a clearly perplexed Stella. The woman whose job I’m covering decided a few weeks ago to extend her maternity leave, so they asked me if I’d like to stay on. I really can’t imagine why. Most temps would probably be an awful lot more efficient and less surly than I am, but I am good at the design stuff.

  Much as I’d have loved to say no, having Ben living with me has been a big drain on my already meagre finances, and in the current dreary climate finding temp work isn’t as easy as it used to be. So I’ve resigned myself to the drudgery for the time being. Despite Ben’s large modelling fees, there always seem to be new trainers, designer clothes and – yes – bloody vinyl for him to buy. The mortgage and bills just don’t cross his mind, and I pathetically haven’t brought them up, not wanting to sound like a bourgeois, suburban housewife. But I do resent giving up on my art, albeit temporarily. Still fired up, I resolve to have a serious talk with him tonight.

  By the end of the working day, Ben has sent me eight texts, each more contrite than the last. The final one says: ‘Darling, please speak to me. I am so, so sorry. I had no idea you were cooking such a feast. The scallops were delicious, btw, but not as delicious as they would have been if you’d cooked them. The flat looks wonderful. I can’t wait to see you. What time are we meeting at DC? Love you xxxxxxxxxxx.’

  I type back, ‘I’m going straight from work, so should be there around 6.30. Turn up whenever you want. You’ll probably have to bond a bit more with your dancer friends, so I’m not holding my breath.’

  A minute after I’ve sent it, my phone starts ringing.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh Bella, come on.’ He’s laughing slightly. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t eat together, OK? I do have to do a certain amount of schmoozing for work, you know. This shoot should be over soon. What’s that, Katarina?’ He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and says something I don’t get. ‘Where was I? Oh yes. Tonight I’ll be a good boy, I won’t join the girls for drinks, won’t pass Go, won’t collect £200 and I’ll be with you by seven. OK, sweetheart?’

  ‘I suppose it’ll have to be,’ I say huffily, but unable to sulk for much longer. He’s managed to make me feel a bit silly.

  ‘Great, great!’ I can hear him smiling boyishly down the phone. ‘Listen darling, I’ve really got to go now, but I’ll see you later, yeah? Love you.’ And he hangs up.

  During my fairly hellish journey across and under town I have time to reflect on why I get so wound up about things that other women (well, Poppy at least) would be able to take in their stride. It doesn’t take Freud to work out that my philandering father has to be at least part of it. Even though I was too young to remember my parents’ break-up, Mum and her female friends were of the ‘all men are cheating bastards’ school of thought for much of my childhood. And as Dad had a different girlfriend, sometimes two, every time Max and I went to visit him in Mallorca, I had no cause to think any differently.

  I’ve had boyfriends before, of course, but none of them that meant as much to me as Ben, who, let’s face it, is a pretty bloody brilliant catch. I lost my virginity at seventeen on a one-night stand, had several student dalliances with gits for whom cool was all and who didn’t give a toss about me, and fling after unsuitable fling in my twenties. My last proper boyfriend, dull Rupert, was a banker (I know) who dumped me for not being ‘corporate wife material’. He actually used those words. Since then, a lot of the men who’ve tried it on with me in bars and clubs have been either married or in long-term relationships, which has given me little reason to believe that my mother was wrong.

  Divine Comedy, Max’s bar, is, as I said, situated in Nan’s old terraced house on the Hoxton/Dalston borders, with an extension built into the back garden where the outside loo used to be. Really. The rest of the street is a curious mix of old and new East End. Most of the neighbouring houses have been bought and done up by Hoxton Cunt types, thrilled to be living in the same street as the hippest bar in town. A launderette, pie-’n’-mash shop and ugly council estate at one end of the road give authenticity kudos to the glottal-stopped ‘keeping it real’ crowd (the council estate residents thoughtfully keep themselves to themselves). A fantastic Bangladeshi curry house at the other end offers the newer residents a reassuring whiff of ethnicity. Pops, Damian and I once went there
, and even Damian admitted the curries were good. Though we reassured him after we left that they weren’t nearly as yummy as his.

  The bar on the ground floor is opulently done up in a manner that might be deemed English Eccentric, all swirly aubergine wallpaper, battered velvet sofas, sparkling chandeliers and giant candles in wrought-iron candlesticks. Into the mix Max has thrown disco glitter balls, Russ Meyer film posters, tiger skins and stuffed moose heads (in a nod to the current charming taxidermy craze), with dazzling results. The first floor is home to the restaurant, which, as a temple to seasonal, grow-your-own minimalism, is as different to the bar stylistically as it’s possible to be.

  The Members Only lounge area on the top floor, which used to be the loft, is Sixties-futuristic, with white leather beanbags, large plastic spherical chairs in neon colours hanging from the ceiling (by means of pleasingly bounce-inducing spiral wires), deep white wall-to-wall shag-pile carpet, a vast aquarium and Perspex bar. But the real inner sanctum is the swimming pool in the basement, which Max will absolutely only open if he’s in the mood, which is once every couple of months at the very most. Rumour has it that he turned Scarlett Johansson away as he didn’t like her attitude.

  Turned Scarlett Johansson away … Ludicrous that I should be related to somebody capable of that.

  It’s such a lovely day that someone has shoved some mismatched tables and chairs into what used to be the tiny front garden. They are all occupied by people for whom conventional is a dirty word (they all look exactly the same), so I go inside to look for my brother. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, but then I spot him perching on the arm of a leather chesterfield, chatting animatedly to Charlie and Plump Alison, neither of whom I’ve seen since Ibiza. My heart sinks slightly.

  ‘Alison, Charlie, what a nice surprise,’ I slime sycophantically, kissing them both on both cheeks. ‘Hey, Maxy.’ I give him a big hug.

  ‘Hey, Belles.’ Max hugs me back. He stands back to look at me. ‘You’re looking well. Have you lost weight?’

  ‘Don’t think so, but I had an early night and just the one medicinal bottle of wine last night, which probably accounts for it,’ I laugh.

  ‘Is Ben joining us?’

  ‘He said he’ll be here by seven, but I’ll believe that when I see it.’

  ‘Ooooh. Trouble in paradise?’ There’s not quite as much sympathy in Max’s voice as I’d have liked.

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea? Can I get anyone a drink?’

  ‘We’ve just opened this,’ says Alison, pointing at the enticing bottle of Pouilly-Fumé in an ice bucket on the marble-topped table in front of them. ‘Do you want to share it?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, as Max goes to get me a glass from behind the bar. ‘I’ll get the next one.’ There is a pause.

  ‘I can’t believe how great this weather is,’ I say, fanning myself with the cocktail menu, for want of anything better to say.

  ‘I know, it’s blissful, isn’t it?’ sighs Alison, who is looking quite pretty today in a floral cotton skirt and pale blue T-shirt that matches her eyes and makes her hair look more blonde than mouse. She is definitely one of those English girls who look better in England.

  ‘We should be sitting outside,’ says Max, returning with my glass.

  ‘All the tables are taken,’ I say. ‘You really shouldn’t have become so successful, Maxy.’

  He laughs, ‘Leave it to me,’ then disappears through a side door. He staggers back carrying a Victorian love seat – a two-seater sofa, upholstered in bubblegum-pink crushed velvet. ‘Charlie mate, give me a hand?’

  Charlie bounds up like an eager dog and the two of them return with an identical love seat, only this one’s upholstered in lime-green satin.

  ‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ says Max proudly. ‘I picked them up in Paris and got them covered just around the corner, but I haven’t worked out where to put them yet. For this evening, they can go outside.’ So we heave the garish antiques out into the early evening sun.

  ‘Sorry folks, you’ll have to budge up a bit,’ says Max to the clones sitting around the tables. ‘Make room for my sister and my mates, please.’

  There is some huffing and puffing as tables get shoved around, but it’s all good-natured. This is partly why Max is such a success in the hospitality business. Now he’s grown into himself, confidence-wise, he’s just innately likeable, and people warm instantly to that easy-going exterior (behind which lurks the inevitable steely business brain).

  We settle down in the love seats, Max and I side by side in the pink, facing Charlie and Alison in the lime green. The wine bottle sits between us on the floor in its ice bucket. We all smile at each other.

  ‘This is brilliant,’ says Charlie enthusiastically. ‘Remind me next time I’m a fresher to befriend the speccy swot all the cool guys are shunning.’

  ‘If I remember rightly, it was Andy who first took pity on me,’ says Max. ‘One speccy swot to another. You were too busy trying to ingratiate yourself with the rowers.’

  ‘Actually, they were trying to ingratiate themselves with me,’ says Charlie. ‘I was a brilliant addition to the light blues.’

  ‘Did you actually compete in the Boat Race?’ I ask.

  ‘My finest hour.’ Charlie looks wistful for a second, then laughs. ‘Apart from the fact we lost that year.’

  ‘I remember Andy was so worried about how you’d cope with defeat – he had a three-point plan about how we were going to help you deal with it.’

  ‘God bless the bloke. We just went out and got monumentally rat-arsed!’ Charlie chuckles again.

  ‘Poor Andy,’ says Max. ‘I hope he’s not about to make the biggest mistake of his life.’

  ‘That bloody woman,’ says Alison, which takes me by surprise.

  ‘I thought she was your friend?’ I say, taking a large swig of wine. It is ice cold and delicious.

  ‘Was being the operative word,’ says Alison. ‘And that was only really because she was Andy’s girlfriend. She wasn’t too bad before the engagement, but I wouldn’t have actually chosen her to be my friend for all the tea in China.’ The old-fashioned expression suits her, I think, registering the almost Victorian-doll-like quality of her face.

  ‘I take it this is to do with being her bridesmaid?’ I say, remembering what Max told me and Ben at Glastonbury, and feeling suddenly sad as I recall how intensely happy and excited I was then. It was only a month ago. Charlie laughs, bringing me back to the present.

  ‘The woman’s turned into a complete psycho.’ He puts an arm around Alison’s shoulders. ‘Tell her, Ali.’

  ‘Where do I begin?’ sighs Alison, pushing a stray strand of fair hair out of her eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ she starts to laugh. ‘When she asked me to be her bridesmaid, she made it quite clear that I was third choice, that her two best friends, who are very clever, glamorous, and slim, are living in New York and won’t be able to do it.’

  ‘Don’t sound much like best friends to me, if they’re not prepared to cross the Atlantic to be her bridesmaid,’ I say.

  ‘That’s EXACTLY what I said,’ says Charlie, slapping his robust rower’s thigh.

  ‘Yes, well, she practically told me I should be honoured to do it. Then she started bombarding me with emails and phone calls about my “duties”. I didn’t realize bridesmaids had duties. When I was my cousin Clare’s bridesmaid when I was eight, all I had to do was turn up and look pretty.’

  ‘That’s all I had to do when I was my aunt Tabitha’s bridesmaid, too. And Max was the most adorable page boy.’

  ‘She put me in silk knickerbockers with a sailor collar,’ sighs Max, to which Charlie gives a great whoop of delight.

  ‘I bet you LOVED that, you poof!’

  ‘Charlie, don’t,’ says Alison, looking agonized. Max smiles at her.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ali, he’s about the only person in the world who can say that to me.’

  ‘Apparently I have to follow her around on the Big Day,’ Alison g
oes on. ‘Touching up her make-up and carrying an “emergency kit” which includes a needle and thread, mints, shine blotting papers, nail varnish …’ She ticks them off on her fingers. ‘… and – get this – a spare pair of knickers. In case she shits herself, perhaps?’

  This is so unexpected coming from mild-mannered Alison that I burst out laughing.

  ‘Are we really talking about the same high-flying, glass-ceiling-breaking superwoman?’ I say. ‘Who somehow turns into a pampered imbecile incapable of doing anything for herself just because she’s getting married?’

  ‘It has been known,’ says Max drily. ‘Oh by the way, Belle, I got a postcard from Dad this morning. Did you know he’s in Rio?’ He reaches into his pocket and hands me the postcard, which has a stunning close-up photo of colonial roof tiles against an azure sky on the front. I turn it over.

  Hey kiddo, Dad has written in his beautiful sloping handwriting. Didn’t think you’d appreciate one of the countless photos of girls in thongs! The real thing’s even better though – Copacabana Beach has to be seen to be believed. Yesterday I drove into the jungle. Awesome, man. The beauty of the towering plants made me feel small and humble. The poverty of the favelas breaks your heart, but apart from that this country has everything – ocean, jungle, great food, fantastic climate, some amazing architecture, the Carnival spirit … and (of course) the girls!

  Love you Maxy,

  Dad xx

  PS Thought you might like to know there are plenty of handsome young men here too!!!

  I laugh and hand the postcard back.

  ‘I had a very similar one, though he didn’t mention the girls quite so much. Mine had a beautiful painting on the front that he saw in some gallery and thought I’d appreciate.’

  ‘Dear old Dad.’ We both smile. The combination of culture, nature appreciation and unabashed lechery is just like him.