Revelry

by Lucy Lord

  ‘Andy, Alison, how lovely to see you,’ says Mum, flustered now. ‘This is Bernie Bradshaw, everyone. Bernie, this is my son, Max …’ Her voice is proud. ‘… and Andy and Alison, friends of his from Cambridge.’ She likes to get the Cambridge reference in wherever possible. ‘They’re getting married in a few months’ time, which must be awfully exciting for you.’ She beams at Alison.

  ‘Not really,’ says Alison. ‘At the moment it’s just exhausting. There’s so much to do.’

  ‘But fun things, surely?’ persists Mum, who evidently hasn’t seen Alison in wedding mode up till now.

  ‘Not when you’re dealing with halfwits,’ says Alison sharply. ‘Especially when you also have to deal with drunken imbeciles ruining your work clothes. Is it all right if I get myself a glass of water? I’m parched.’

  ‘There’s a jug of cold in the fridge,’ says Mum. ‘Then do join us for a nice glass of wine.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alison is so lacking in warmth compared to the well-lubricated over-familiarity of the rest of us that Mum sits down, looking hurt.

  As Alison makes her way to the kitchen, Max and Andy walk down to the pond.

  ‘Maxy!’ shouts Jilly, rising from the waves like Venus to give him an eyeful of her impressive chest.

  ‘Hi Jilly,’ he smiles, looking determinedly over her shoulder. Andy, beside him, doesn’t know where to look, so I wave at him.

  ‘Hi Andy,’ I say, wading over to give him an affectionate if soggy greeting. I haven’t forgotten how kind he was to me that night in Ibiza with Mark, the Brazilian twins and the dwarf. ‘Maxy, second time in a week! You could have told me.’

  ‘I didn’t know myself until today,’ says Max. ‘Alison needed an – erm – emergency meeting with the musical director …’ He tails off delicately and Andy shakes his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, I really don’t know why it was necessary for you to be there today.’

  ‘I’m your best man, aren’t I? Anyway, it’s such a lovely day it was nice to get out of London. And just think, I’d have missed all this fun if I’d stayed behind.’ He gestures at us all and says solemnly, ‘My sister and her mates at play are a joy to behold, don’t you think?’

  Andy looks at me and smiles. ‘Yes they are. In fact it looks so inviting in there I might have to join them. Al,’ he shouts up the lawn. ‘Do you fancy a swim?’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t imagine it’s very hygienic.’

  ‘There’s nothing unhygienic about my stream,’ huffs my mother. ‘The mill keeps the water moving all the time so it doesn’t have a chance to get stagnant.’

  ‘Well, I think I’ll pass, all the same,’ says Alison. ‘And I’d rather you didn’t risk it either, Andy.’

  ‘I’m hot and bothered after yet another day of wild-goose chases,’ he snaps. ‘And I’m going to cool off.’ And without further ado, he takes off his jeans and T-shirt and wades into the water in his navy blue boxers. Automatically, I check out his physique. Not bad at all. ‘Bugger, my glasses,’ he says, wading back and putting them on the grass verge. He ducks under the water for a minute, then emerges, gasping with pleasure. ‘God, that’s good!’

  Ben and Poppy, who have been involved in a game of frenetic splashing, greet him enthusiastically, Damian less so.

  ‘Well, I think I’ve done my cooling off,’ drawls Jilly. ‘And I’m gasping for a ciggie. See you back at the table, darlings.’ And she rises again from the waves, this time giving us an eyeful of her pertish buttocks, and strides languidly, brazenly, back to dry off in the sun.

  Ben swims up behind me and grabs me round the waist, kissing the back of my neck. I think I might pass out from pleasure. Mother Duck swims right past us, followed by five little ducklings, which are beyond the fluffy yellow stage but pretty damn sweet nonetheless.

  ‘Oh my God, how adorable,’ I whisper. The scene is so idyllic that we all just watch them in silence for a minute or two, then burst into spontaneous applause and laughter.

  ‘Jesus, anyone would think we were American,’ says Poppy. ‘Well, for me that moment cannot be bettered, so I’m buggering back to the feast.’

  As usual, Poppy has put into words what everybody else was thinking.

  By the time it’s dark it’s also starting to get chilly. I have glamorously put one of Max’s old fleeces on over my bikini but still I give a little involuntary shiver.

  ‘Darling, you’re freezing,’ says Mum. ‘Why don’t we all go inside? I’ve got some lovely cheeses if anyone’s still hungry.’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ grins Bernie, patting his paunch. ‘Hostess with the Mostest, that’s what you are, Princess.’

  We troop into the sitting room, which Mum has done up like – you guessed it – a Moroccan souk. Ethnic throws and cushions in myriad shades of orange, red and pink cover up the old holey sofas and armchairs, kilims warm up the flagstoned floor and flea-market lanterns and candles give off a flattering soft light.

  ‘Oooh, I’d forgotten about your piano,’ Poppy says to Mum, who is lighting a joss stick. ‘Can I have a go, please?’ Poppy got up to Grade 8 at school and still plays beautifully. Well, she would, wouldn’t she?

  ‘Of course darling,’ says Mum. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Actually, I play the piano too,’ says Andy mildly. ‘Perhaps I could have a go once you’ve finished, Poppy?’

  He and Alison surprised us this afternoon by being a lot more fun than usual, after a couple of drinks had loosened Alison up. Bernie has been bringing her out of her uptight shell, asking her about boring legal stuff, and she’s blossomed under the attention, waxing lyrical about the complexities of various landmark cases, all of which went right over my head.

  ‘Very bright young lady, that,’ I overheard Bernie saying to Mum, who looked as if she was still smarting from Alison’s earlier froideur. Then her good hostess gene kicked in and she rallied.

  ‘There’s plenty of room here if you two want to stay the night, Alison. It’s a long drive back and you’ve both been drinking.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Andy. ‘I was thinking we’d have to find a B and B.’ I remembered what Max told me about his parents’ death. Of course, there’s no way he’d drink and drive.

  ‘Oh no, what a ridiculous waste of boodle,’ said Mum. ‘You two can have the spare room and Jilly will be fine on the sofa. No Jilly, I’ve set up a camp bed for Max. Behave.’

  Now we settle down comfortably as Poppy embarks on the first of several of Chopin’s études. She follows these with some spirited Scott Joplin ragtime, to which Mum, Jilly and I perform an impromptu Charleston. Ben, who has been riffling through the sheet music on top of the upright rosewood piano, suddenly exclaims, ‘The Noël Coward songbook! Can we? I played Elyot in Private Lives at RADA.’

  ‘Talking of Noël Coward,’ I say to Damian, who is watching Poppy proudly, ‘what the fuck—’

  ‘—does Simon Snell think he’s up to with the silk robe?’ Damian finishes my sentence, laughing. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, babe.’

  Then Ben embarks on ‘A Room with a View’, and we all watch, entranced. He is absolutely brilliant, capturing perfectly the clipped, patrician tones of the maestro himself. He runs through ‘I’ll See You Again’, ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’ and ‘Poor Little Rich Girl’, before declaring himself, still in character, ‘utterly pooped’.

  ‘Why don’t you take over, Andy?’ says Poppy. ‘I’m sure I’ve delighted you all enough.’

  So Andy starts to play. Searing, jazzed-up rock ’n’ roll and boogie-woogie fill the air as his fingers race across the keyboard. With Poppy it’s always about the performance – she was laughing and joking with us, hamming it up as she trotted out our old favourites. Andy, by contrast, seems completely lost in the music.

  ‘Blimey, you’re a talented bunch,’ says Bernie. ‘I can’t listen to this without dancing. May I have the pleasure, Princess?’ And he and Mum take to the floor in a remarkably proficient jive. Soon we have all joined in, e
ven Alison, wearing that unnatural grimace that passes for a smile, but that’s probably only as Ben has asked her to dance – Jilly has annoyingly claimed me as her partner. Just as Andy has come to a break, and the rest of us are out of breath and laughing, an unmistakeable sound jars through the air. It’s Ben’s ringtone.

  ‘I’ll take this outside,’ he says, as icy fear grips my heart. In the last few days I have come to view Ben’s phone with the utmost apprehension. The next few minutes are hell as I imagine all kinds of conversations with all kinds of people, all of them female. I light a fag, trying to appear nonchalant.

  Ben races back in and swings me up in the air, twirling me round and round. ‘I’ve done it, my darling, I’ve done it! I’ve got the part! I’ve beaten five thousand actors to the lead in People Like Us, Channel 4’s most eagerly anticipated sitcom since This Life. Fame and fortune, here I come!’ As he punches the air, and everybody crowds around, congratulating him, I am ashamed of my reaction. I should be ecstatic he’s got his big break, I know I should. But I can’t help feeling very, very scared of what the future may now hold.

  Chapter 11

  Over the next few weeks, my fears seem largely unfounded. Ben’s due to start filming soon, so he spends most of the day holed up in my flat, learning his lines, ready for me to test him in the evening when I get in from work. The rest of his time is spent working out at the Third Space gym in Soho. It seems rather a lot of his body will be on show in People Like Us, and I try not to dwell on the sex scenes he’ll doubtless have to shoot. The weather continues to be glorious – it’s the best summer we’ve had for years – so we hang out on my balcony, ordering in sushi, as we don’t want to be cooped up in the kitchen, which gets unbearably hot. Sometimes I meet him in Hyde Park or Primrose Hill, with a picnic he’s chosen from a local deli. Sometimes friends join us; sometimes it’s just the two of us, going over his lines and snogging. There’s a lot of snogging. It’s a blissful, relaxed time, and I’m starting to feel like part of a real couple. Perhaps, just perhaps, I think with cautious optimism, we can make it work after all.

  I’m still temping, but can just about tolerate it in the knowledge that I’ll be able to stop just as soon as Ben starts being paid for the sitcom. He’s promised me that. Plump Alison’s card burns a hole in my handbag. I still haven’t got around to showing her my work. All my spare time is taken up with Ben, but as soon as I can stop the bloody desktop publishing, I’ll call her, I assure myself.

  The only real fly in the ointment is Poppy, who is being elusive in the extreme. Horribly aware that I’ve been neglecting her of late, I’m constantly suggesting meeting up, but there always seems to be some glamorous work do for her to attend. To be fair, she’s also travelling a lot with the new job and spending most weekends with her parents, trying to take some of the pressure off her mother. When I think of summers past, of the picnics and barbecues and beer gardens, the endless laughs and drinks we’ve shared, I feel terribly sad. We used to meet every Wednesday without fail, rain or shine, and generally most weekends and probably another week-night too. Obviously I understand the time she has to spend with her parents, and have offered to accompany her on her trips home, but she always says no, she has Damian for that. She is hugely protective over Ken and, I think, wants me to remember him as he used to be.

  On the odd night we do meet, she seems completely wired, and I’m convinced it’s coke keeping her going from showbiz party to glamorous job to sick father and back again. One evening Ben and I decide to head east and see Max and the crowd at Divine Comedy. The Stadium boys are there – Damian, Mark and Simon Snell, who only wears his silk dressing gown in the office, I have subsequently learned. Today he appears to be channelling a South Kensington-dwelling French child, immaculate in navy blue Bermuda shorts and a Lacoste navy and white gingham shirt. The effect is ever so slightly disturbing on a fully grown man.

  ‘Hello boys, what a nice surprise,’ I say, perching on one of the Victorian love seats. ‘Poppy’s not with you, is she, Damian?’

  ‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ says Damian morosely. ‘Hardly ever see my missus any more.’

  ‘Probably shagging someone at work,’ says Mark in his usual sensitive manner. Damian rounds on him.

  ‘Don’t you dare fucking say that, you prick.’ Then he laughs slightly selfconsciously and adjusts his shades, embarrassed at losing his cool. ‘Nah, she’s just doing really well with her job, which is great. Who says we have to be joined at the hip anyway?’

  ‘How’s her dad?’ I ask.

  ‘Worse than ever. He went AWOL the other night. Somehow managed to get out of the house and was found wandering round the village in his pyjamas. He has no concept of day and night any more, just looks at you blankly if you point out that it’s dark outside. Diana was out of her mind with worry.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, I can imagine. Poor Pops.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s hitting her hard.’

  ‘I wish there was something I could do to help.’

  ‘There’s nothing anyone can do. That’s the tragedy of it.’

  Damian sounds weary and for the first time I realize the strain he must be under too.

  We hang out in the sunshine, chatting. I’ll give them one thing, these Stadium boys, they can be bloody good company. And, much though I’m missing Poppy, it is nice to be the only girl for once.

  ‘Those pictures of Heidi Klum made me feel sick,’ says Mark, of the supermodel who posed for the magazine shortly after giving birth. ‘She looked like a middle-aged, suburban housewife trying to act sexy.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh,’ laughs Simon. ‘The woman had just had a baby’, just as I am marvelling at the absurdly high expectations of female beauty that working in such an environment bestows.

  At that moment there is a commotion as a large crowd of fashion freaks and transvestites makes its way through the garden to the front door.

  ‘Poppy,’ I cry, spotting her at their centre. She is looking seriously sexy (if a little OTT) in a black peaked leather cap, Agent Provocateur black corset, skintight American Apparel PVC leggings, fingerless lace gloves and five-inch platform ankle boots by Christian Louboutin. She looks over at me for a moment before recognition crosses her face.

  ‘Belles!’ she cries, tottering over in her boots and flinging her arms around me.

  ‘It’s great to see you,’ I say. ‘It’s been ages. In fact, I think the last time was when we all went to Mum’s for the weekend.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ She doesn’t quite meet my eye. ‘There’s been so much on with work. Tonight we’re promoting a new series on Fashion TV. Damian,’ she says, suddenly noticing him, startled. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming here tonight.’

  ‘You were still asleep when I left for work this morning. And knowing how we like to keep each other updated with romantic little texts all day, I didn’t think I needed to.’ Uh-oh.

  ‘Hi Pops. Loving the get-up,’ says Ben.

  ‘Pure trash, isn’t it?’ she grins, suddenly sounding more like her old self. ‘Hi Mark, hi Simon. Listen guys, I’ve really got to go and schmooze, but I’ll give you a ring, Belles, and we’ll make a proper date, yeah?’ She gives me a brief hug and kisses Damian. ‘Bye babes, see you at home later.’

  And she buggers off back to her fashion freaks and transvestites.

  A few weeks later, I am at a loose end. It’s Saturday and Ben has flown to New York to be interviewed by Vanity Fair for a piece on new Brit talent. His profile really has shot up since he landed the part in People Like Us. I was meant to be spending the weekend at Mum’s but Bernie has swept her off on a surprise romantic getaway. Damian’s gone on a stag weekend to some Eastern European city where the girls are impossibly beautiful and the beers are impossibly cheap. Poppy, as a result, has taken herself off to Babington House for a weekend of ‘pampering and general detox. Christ do I need it,’ she told me on the phone a few days ago. In the old days she’d have asked me to join her, I think sadly.


  Fumbling in my bag for my cigarettes, I come across Plump Alison’s business card. Clutching at straws – it’s Saturday, she’s probably got plans, but you never know – I dial the number on the card.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Alison, hi. It’s Bella, uh, from Ibiza, you know? Remember we met at Divine Comedy a month or so ago?’

  ‘Bella, how are you?’ Her voice is warm and friendly.

  ‘I’m fine thanks, never been better in fact. Um, are you still interested in seeing my paintings?’ I ask directly, hating having to sell myself but not knowing how to beat about the bush.

  ‘Yes, of course. When were you thinking?’

  ‘Um … today? Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s short notice and you’re probably really busy, it’s a stupid idea …’ I tail off.

  ‘No, no, I’d love to see you. Why don’t you bring your portfolio to the gallery and then we can go and get some lunch?’

  ‘That sounds great. What time?’

  ‘Around two? The address is on the card, but I can give you directions if you like.’

  ‘No that’s OK, I’ll find it in the A–Z,’ I say. ‘Really looking forward to it.’ And I am.

  I took the Hammersmith & City line from Ladbroke Grove to Aldgate East, so am wandering down Brick Lane. I always get lost around here, and find myself meandering through eighteenth-century Huguenot weavers’ terraces, their perfect proportions such an incongruous juxtaposition to the hideousness of Commercial Road, with its traffic and trade clothes shops that call themselves ‘fashion’. There’s a great buzz to the area, with its eclectic boutiques, cool bars and curry smells – as well as Spitalfields, of course. But a lot of it’s just ugly. Maybe I’m not cool enough to get it.

  I walk for bloody ages, convinced I’m lost, around streets that have lovely names but horrid buildings – lots and lots of soulless concrete monstrosities, as far as I can see. Just call me Prince Charles. I am walking along Fashion Street when I ask an evident local (she is wearing neon green leggings and leopardskin) where Alison’s gallery is. I show her the card.