by Lucy Lord
‘Just round the corner, babe.’
I find myself in yet another back street, with big nineteenth-century industrial buildings, old factories and the like that have been revamped. An awful lot easier on the eye than the last, modern lot. The biggest is very impressive. It’s Alison’s gallery.
I go in. Whitewashed (of course), its front windows span two floors, making it feel beautifully spacious. The top storey is suspended from steel girders, so both floors benefit from the wonderful light streaming through the skylight that is positioned directly over the spiral staircase that connects them. Alison is finishing some business with a Chinese man in bondage trousers and Jackie O shades, so I take a look around.
Somebody has had the inspired idea of making huge simulacra of the characters from The Magic Roundabout entirely out of dyed cotton wool, which I suppose is quite fun, though I’m not convinced my life is enriched by knowledge of their existence. Several pinball machines, depicting scenes of graphic sexual violence via Manga cartoons, are clearly making a very serious point indeed. There are some asymmetrical sculptures well within the grasp of anyone who’s done A level Art. But they’ve sold for around sixty grand, as far as I can make out by the red stickers. So far, so predictably preposterous.
I turn around and see a wall covered with some of the most brilliant abstract paintings I’ve seen for a long time. As I get closer, I recognize the name of a notoriously obnoxious, but incredibly successful New Yorker.
‘Bella, how lovely to see you,’ says Alison, kissing me on both cheeks. She looks cool and unruffled in rolled-up jeans, sequined flip-flops and a flattering wrapover tunic top, geometrically patterned in shades of blue. ‘What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Or there’s a rather nice bottle of Sancerre in the fridge, if you prefer …’
‘What are you going to have?’ I ask, not wanting to look like a lush in front of her, until I realize that after Ibiza she’s unlikely to be under any illusions.
‘Well, I’ve had quite a successful morning, so I think I deserve a glass of wine. Let’s live dangerously!’
‘Good idea,’ I smile.
We settle down onto a white suede cuboid sofa that must have cost a fortune. I am starting to feel extremely embarrassed at my presumption in coming here. Out of my depth doesn’t come close.
‘So …?’ she asks, smiling at me. ‘Aren’t you going to show me your portfolio?’
‘Actually,’ I cringe, ‘I really don’t think I want to show you after all. I mean, look at this place! Sorry, it was ridiculous of me to think that you’d be interested.’
‘Well, we won’t know until I’ve had a look, will we?’ she says reasonably. Then, as I hold on to the book stubbornly, she laughs. ‘I’m not going to bite. It’s me, Fat Alison from Ibiza.’ She takes advantage of my shocked horror to grab my book. ‘You should see your face,’ she laughs. ‘You were calling Alison Price Skinny Alison the other night, so it stands to reason I must be Fat Alison.’
‘Oh God,’ I groan. ‘I am such a git.’ Should I tell her she’s Plump, not Fat, or will that just dig me deeper into the hole?
‘Of course you’re not fat,’ I say desperately. ‘But you must admit she IS very skinny, and it was just a way of differentiating you: Skinny Alison and – er – Alison.’
‘Whatever,’ she says, and I wish the ground could swallow me up. ‘Let’s have a look at these paintings.’
I sit squirming on the soft suede as she goes through my book painfully slowly. Just say something, for fuck’s sake. Eventually she looks up and smiles at me.
‘I like it,’ she says, and it’s all I can do not to throw myself at her jewelled feet and shower them with kisses. ‘OK, some of it’s a bit raw, but there’s definite talent there, and it’s great to see such joyous use of colour. I love these ones – different interpretations of the same view, throughout the year.’ She’s talking about the view from my balcony. I laugh slightly wildly, unable to believe what I’m hearing.
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Really, really, really?’
‘Really, really, really!’ she laughs back. ‘And I think if you worked on them, and painted a few more, there might even be scope for an exhibition here. In fact they’d look rather good over there, don’t you think?’ She points to the first wall you see as you enter the gallery, which is the one exhibiting the famous, obnoxious New Yorker’s work.
I take a huge gulp of my wine, my face breaking out in the most enormous grin. ‘In that case, lunch is on me.’
The late afternoon sun beats hot on my shoulders as I amble slowly in the direction of Hoxton. I am so excited about the possibility of something actually happening with my art that I can’t really take it in properly. This, this thing, this dream I’ve had ever since I was a little girl, but which has never really happened, suddenly looks within my grasp. I’ve tried calling Ben, Poppy, my mother, my father and Max, and none of them are answering their bloody phones. Typical.
Lunch was great, if expensive. Perhaps it was foolhardy of me to offer to pay, but soon I’ll be earning proper money, if the prices in Alison’s gallery are anything to go by. Alison is a member of Shoreditch House, so we sat on the roof terrace by the pool, eating pizzas from the wood-fired oven (which didn’t break the bank) and drinking Chablis (which did, but I could hardly order the cheapest plonk on the menu, as I normally would).
Alison is worlds away from the drip I took her for in Ibiza; she, in turn, admitted to having been a bit scared of me and Pops, which made me feel horrible. I mean, I’m glad to have finally been accepted as part of the cool gang, but scaring people was never part of the plan. I remember the bitchy girls at school and all my terrifying peers at Goldsmiths and cannot really believe that this is how I might be perceived these days, like one of the people I used to detest. Maybe I’ve gone a bit too far in the trying-to-be-trendy game. I still feel just as insecure inside.
Now I have decided to go to Poppy’s flat to pick up the canvases and paints I left there just before we went to Glastonbury. I still have her spare key, even though I haven’t once taken advantage of her offer to use the spare room as a studio. Great way to repay a friend’s kindness, Bella. But I needn’t worry about that any more, I think, cheering up instantly. Alison likes the view from my window!
Life really is looking up, I think, as I turn the corner into Hoxton Square, my mind reeling with images of me and Ben, the glamorous artist with her devastatingly handsome actor boyfriend. Oh, I can’t wait to tell him! I’ve missed him more than I thought possible in the last twenty-four hours. Still, it’ll be worth it for the look on his face as I tell him my news. I give a little skip.
Hoxton Square is a riot of multicoloured skinny jeans, cruelly exposing flat arses and skinny legs (the boys), and a variety of root-vegetable-shaped legs, from carrots to parsnips to one unfortunate turnip (the girls). There is little extraneous fat on either gender of course (turnip notwithstanding), but even so: of all the ubiquitous trends over the last ten years or so, the skinny jean has to be the least flattering. I stroll across the grass, happily taking in the large groups playing Frisbee and football, swigging from bottles of Magners and cans of Stella, probably bought from one of the many shops around the periphery of the square announcing CHEAP BOOZE in enormous letters.
I love the ability of Londoners to turn any sunny day into an excuse for a proper piss-up. It’s been a boozy old summer so far. As I emerge from the grassy interior, I see a just-married couple outside the Church of St Monica, on the corner of the square. The bride is radiant in a net-petticoated scarlet Fifties prom dress, with an emerald green veiled pillbox hat and matching emerald platforms. Her make-up is proper Fifties starlet, all porcelain complexion and matte red lipstick. The groom sports an emerald green teddy boy suit and the guests applaud lustily as he takes his new wife in a classic Hollywood clinch. How Hoxton, yet how sweet, I think soppily.
I let myself into Poppy and Damian’s flat and look around with amusement. From the exposed pipes and brickwork interior wa
lls to the lack of extraneous decoration and colour, it couldn’t be more of a contrast to mine. It’s a great place for a party though, I think, remembering Poppy’s thirtieth birthday, which went on for three days. Most of the flat is open plan, with the main bedroom housed in a state-of-the-art glass igloo-type thing in the corner of the living space. The spare bedroom is the exception. I make my way down the corridor towards it. A sudden sound stops me in my tracks. Is there someone in the flat?
Don’t be silly, Bella, everyone’s away. It’s probably just the traffic outside.
So I open the spare-room door, and the sight that confronts me will stay with me for the rest of my life. With her back to me, Poppy is straddling Ben, her perfect, slender torso moving backwards and forwards on top of him, her streaky blonde hair swishing against her lovely brown back. Ben, his eyes shut in ecstasy, is groaning and thrusting as he holds her firmly by the hips. They are both so beautiful and so clearly into each other that they resemble a Danish erotic art-house movie. Or something like that. My canvases, mocking me, are stacked up neatly in one corner with my easel and paints.
I must have made some kind of noise, as Ben suddenly opens his eyes.
‘Shit!’
Poppy turns to look at me over her shoulder and a look of utmost horror crosses her flushed face.
‘Bella!’
I am frozen to the spot for what seems like minutes, drinking in the scene with masochistic attention to detail, before turning on my heel and running as fast as I possibly can down the corridor and out of the flat. I can hear Poppy running after me, but even she can’t follow me outside with no clothes on.
Once I am outside, the tears start streaming down my face and I am gulping, coughing, sobbing so hard I can hardly breathe. The pain, betrayal and humiliation are so great I have absolutely no idea what to do. I let out an awful scream, much to the amusement of some cunting twenty-somethings (thanks for the adjective, Mark) sitting outside Zigfrid, then continue to run, head down, blindly, through the square, not caring who I bump into or send flying; in fact, wanting to cause as much fucking damage as I possibly can. Then …
‘Whoa whoa, stop that, babe, stop it.’ A pair of well-manicured, freckly hands has grabbed me by the shoulders. Their owner lifts my chin up to face him. I don’t know which of us is more surprised.
‘Bella,’ says Simon Snell, taking in my tear-stained face and lunatic lack of control. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’
I start sobbing even more heavily at this, and he leads me back to Zigfrid, where he orders two triple brandies. ‘Just fuck off,’ he says menacingly to the cunting twenty-somethings who laughed at me. They oblige.
Somehow I manage to tell him what has just happened.
‘Jesus,’ he says, giving me a huge hug and stroking my hair, which starts me off again. ‘Sssh, sssh … Here, do you smoke?’ He gets out a silver cigarette case and lights me a Gauloise. Through my tears I register that he is dressed to the nines in a beautifully cut cream linen suit, navy V-necked T-shirt and Panama hat with a navy and white striped band around it. He is carrying a silver-topped cane.
‘You look smart,’ I quiver. ‘Am I keeping you from some big do?’
‘Not at all. Just popped out to get a paper. Some of us,’ he sniffs, looking round the square at the be-jeaned masses, ‘like to uphold certain sartorial standards.’ I don’t reply, lost in my own misery once more, so Simon continues,
‘I must say I’m surprised at Poppy. Ben’s too good-looking to trust further than you can throw him, but I did think better of Damian’s bird.’
‘Christ!’ I look up in horror. ‘Damian!’
‘Yes. Christ, Damian, indeed. But for the moment let’s worry about you. Do you want me to take you home? I’ll stay with you if you want.’
Simon turns out to be an absolute star. He pays the bill, hails a cab, stops at one of the CHEAP BOOZE places for a bottle of brandy, and takes me home. Once I’m inside, the sight of Ben’s stuff sets me off sobbing again.
‘I’ll deal with all of this, little shit,’ says Simon. ‘Do you have any bin bags?’ I nod numbly in the direction of the kitchen. He returns with the black roll of plastic and starts, ‘Oxfam, Oxfam, Oxfam – actually this is rather nice, can I have it?’ This raises a watery laugh, so: ‘Oxfam, me, Oxfam, me, Oxfam, me, me, me, me, me …’
We settle into the brandy and Simon asks if I want him to call anyone. ‘No, I feel too stupid,’ I sniffle pathetically. ‘But I’ll probably want my mum tomorrow.’
He stays with me until we have finished the brandy and he has systematically divided all of Ben’s stuff into bags for Oxfam or himself.
‘Damian,’ I slur.
‘I’ll let Damian know,’ says Simon grimly, ‘though I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. You get some rest. Take these, sweetie.’ He hands me a couple of pills.
‘What are they?’ I look at them suspiciously. They look just like Es and it hardly seems the time or the place.
‘Valium. I always have a couple on me in case I need to fly somewhere urgently.’ Blimey. Jet set or what? ‘It’s the only way I can get to sleep on a plane – I really need to be horizontal.’ Or maybe not so jet set.
Simon goes into my bedroom and comes back with an old pink T-shirt with a picture of a kitten on it. Oh dear.
‘High sartorial standards, that’s what I’ve got,’ I manage to smile up at him. He laughs, pats me on the head and goes into the kitchen while I fumble to pull the twee garment over my head. It takes several minutes.
‘Done?’
I nod and Simon leads me to my bedroom. He tucks me up like a child and I am asleep within minutes.
Chapter 12
It’s Monday and I am crying over Ben’s portfolio, the one thing that Simon missed, as it was under the bed. What did I do wrong? I ask myself pathetically, gazing at his beautiful face, before asking myself what the fuck did I miss? I go over and over the lovely times, picking the proverbial scab. Getting together at Glastonbury – that’s probably the most painful. But then there are more recent things, the little things, domestic details, the way he’d kiss my shoulder just before nodding off, that wonderful closeness I thought we shared when I went over his lines with him. Was the whole thing one great big fucking lie?
Then I go over and over the lovely times with Poppy, which are far, far more, as we’ve known one another for more than twenty years. I gaze at Ben’s face in his book, then tear out the pages with another howl of grief. I have always scoffed at idiotic men in boys’ films throwing things at walls, but now I’m just as bad as them, chucking crockery about, left, right and centre.
How long has it been going on? How much have they been laughing at me? I recall all the times I’ve confided in Poppy with my insecurities about Ben and feel so sick I wish I could vomit, but sadly I’m cursed with the constitution of an ox. She told me I was stupid to be jealous of him. But it never occurred to me to be jealous of her with him.
Why would I have? She was my best friend, the person I trusted implicitly – so all of those ‘silly insecurities’ as she put it, are magnified somehow into something so horrible I cannot imagine I’ll ever trust anybody again. I take little comfort in the fact that I was right all along about the lying scumbag. I think about her squealing when Ben dive-bombed her at my mother’s house. My mother’s house. Was he groping her under the water then? After we’d just shagged? Maybe they’ve been laughing at me since Glastonbury. Maybe it’s been going on since Ibiza, even before Ben and I became an item … Maybe … Fuck, is it too early for a drink?
I scour the flat and eventually come across an old encrusted bottle of ouzo that I brought back from a Greek island-hopping holiday with Poppy about eight years ago. That’ll do. ‘Cheers, old buddy.’ I toast her with heavy irony. My own thoughts are too grim to suffer alone so I switch on the telly.
‘It’s all about natural beauty,’ says some cunt who is trying to pretend that the redhead on the box isn’t wearing any make-up. Yeah rig
ht, her eyelashes would be white were she truly au naturelle. Some people are better looking than others and that’s that. Then I remember that Poppy is naturally far more beautiful than I am and start sobbing again. How could I ever have been arrogant enough to think that someone as gorgeous as Ben could be satisfied with me? Of course Poppy is far more in his league.
I take a huge swig of ouzo and take a look in the mirror. I look gratifyingly hideous: greasy-haired, blotchy and red-eyed. I start to make gurning faces at myself, just to prove that I am the ugliest person in the world. I take all my clothes off and slouch, sticking my belly out and making my entire body look grim beyond belief. It gives me weird satisfaction. Yes, I am ugly, ugly, UGLY … I sit down on the floor and get stuck into the bottle.
There is someone at the door. Poppy has been calling my mobile so I’ve switched it off. Ben, the cunt, hasn’t even bothered. I’ve told the hedge fund people they can shove their job where the sun don’t shine. No bridges burned there then.
‘FUCK OFF,’ I shout down the speakerphone.
‘Bella, let me in,’ says Damian, sounding more Welsh than I’ve ever known him sound. ‘I’ve brought your art stuff for you.’ I quickly put on a horrible old greying towelling dressing gown and let him in.
If anything, Damian looks even worse than I do. His brown skin has taken on an ashy pallor that has turned it almost green, and his deep, mournful eyes are red and swollen. It speaks volumes that, today of all days, he hasn’t bothered with his habitual shades. He is staggering under the weight of my canvases, paints and easel.
‘Let me take those,’ I say, trying to relieve him of his burden. Everything crashes on the floor and we both start laughing uproariously. As we stoop, simultaneously, to pick it all up, we both start crying.
‘Oh Christ, Damian, I’m so sorry … You’ve been with Poppy for years.’
‘Yeah, and she’s been your friend for your whole life, just about. As … HE has mine …’
‘D’you want some ouzo?’ I brandish the crusty bottle.
