by Lucy Lord
‘So you mean, you never intend to give any of them the job in the first place?’ I asked, horrified. Since my world was turned upside down, I’ve been thinking of Simon and Damian as the good guys. I don’t want my neatly simplistic, black and white outlook to be rocked like this.
‘Course not,’ he said, laughing at my naivety. ‘We’ll only go for a known writer. But the girls don’t know that, and it gives them a huge confidence boost to think that they’ve been considered for a column at such an early stage in their journalistic career. And we get to read about their sordid exploits. So everyone’s a winner,’ he concluded, winking and depressing the hell out of me.
Three weeks have passed since Jilly bullied me out of my torpor, and I’ve thrown myself into my art. Max has very kindly lent me a couple of grand, which should cover my bills and mortgage and tide me over until the exhibition, which is due to take place in a month or so. If it’s a complete failure, I’ll have to think seriously about what to do with the rest of my life, but for the moment even admitting the possibility of failure isn’t an option. Over and over, I paint the view from my balcony, capturing it at different times of day and night, trying to look at it through different eyes for each of the new pieces. It’s great to be painting properly again, and I have vowed never to return to desktop publishing, even if the exhibition flops.
I have also started running again, and getting out amongst the trees and geese and swans and squirrels and occasional horses that populate Hyde Park is remarkably therapeutic, though I could do without the happy couples canoodling on the grass or sharing boats and ice creams on the Serpentine. The humiliating, brutal truth of what has happened will not leave me for a long time. But for the time being much of my pain and self-pity has turned to anger, which is a lot more bearable.
It irks me that I’m missing Poppy far more than I’m missing Ben. She, of course, was always the first person I’d turn to when Man Trouble reared its ugly head. I don’t appreciate the irony, and have turned to my other female friends for lengthy, wine-fuelled bitching sessions about my former best mate. Most of them are happy to oblige, having been jealous of Poppy for years for her looks and apparently effortless success. They’re also delighted to offer their opinions about Ben. Well, let’s face it, most of them must have thought at some stage, ‘How on earth did she manage to hook him?’
As I’ve ignored all of her calls and emails, Poppy tried sending me several Facebook messages but as all she could come up with was her broken record of ‘sorry’, I’ve defriended her. I really don’t want my nose rubbed in whatever’s going on in her social life anyway. According to Damian, all their mutual friends have shunned her, which gives me a glimmer of Schadenfreude, but she’s always got her adoring fashion freaks, transvestites and workmates. And of course Ben.
I haven’t spoken to Ben since D-Day, but he had the nerve to send me an email saying he was sorry I had to find out like that, but it was probably for the best, and when would be a good time for him to pick up his stuff from my flat. Telling him I’d given all his precious designer clobber to Oxfam put a smile on my face for the first time that day.
The fashion chicks are now discussing what they’ve eaten today. ‘I had an egg white omelette sprinkled with flaxseed for breakfast,’ says one. Oooh decadent. ‘And a shot of wheatgrass juice – it’s great for your colon, you know.’
‘Oh great, great – protein-tastic. Yeah,’ says the other one sagely. ‘I had porridge with soya milk and dried apricots. I’m lactose intolerant, you know.’
‘Yeah babes, I can tell by the bloating. You should be careful of those dried apricots – they’re packed with sugar. My body finds it really hard to digest fruit.’ She rubs her concave belly with satisfaction. ‘My metabolism can get really sluggish if I’m not careful.’ I smirk to myself as I bend over my drawings, loving the pseudo-scientific codswallop.
‘I’m having a superfood antioxidant salad with quinoa and goji berries for lunch,’ says the other one. ‘I’m wheat intolerant and quinoa’s such a great energy-giving grain.’
‘And I’m idiot-intolerant,’ whispers a voice in my ear. I look up to see Simon, resplendent in his mauve silk robe, smiling his beautiful, cosmetically enhanced smile at me. ‘Life’s way too short for quinoa to be a dietary staple,’ he says out loud. Both girls laugh sycophantically. Simon has considerable influence at Stadium.
He checks out my drawings, which are for a piece called Beware: 10 things that can drag you down on your way to the top. The illustrations are fairly stylized, depicting the imaginary Stadium reader – urban, expensively moisturized and successful, yet rugged, manly and possessed of an excellent trainer collection – climbing a mountain. Beautiful, scantily clad girls, evil, backstabbing colleagues, pints of beer, football pitches and lines of coke all conspire to bring him back down. I’m rather pleased with them and wonder why I haven’t considered making money out of my illustrations before.
‘These are great, Bella,’ says Simon enthusiastically. The fashion chicks look at me with dislike. ‘I’ll leave you to it. You don’t fancy coming to Hoxton Cunt tonight, do you? Damian and I are on the decks. It would do you good to get out.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, not wanting to be an object of pity, and not really ready to see Damian yet either. I was hugely relieved to be told he wasn’t going to be in the office today. ‘But I’m going round to dinner at Max’s. I think he’s cooking for a few of us.’
‘Great.’ Simon pats me on the shoulder. ‘Have a good one.’
I finish my drawings and go over to give them to Mark, who, as Art Director, will decide which ones will go in the mag. I haven’t seen him since The Day of Doom and now he looks at me awkwardly, clearly embarrassed by the situation.
‘You all right?’ he mumbles, shuffling his feet.
‘Sure!’ I grin brightly. And then, I can’t help it, my eyes fill with tears. Christ, what a prick I am, crying in the Stadium office.
‘Oh babe,’ he says with concern, holding out his huge arms. ‘Hug?’ And I melt into his strong frame, not sobbing, but unable to stop the flow of tears for a minute or so. I can feel the fashion chicks’ sneers burning a hole in my back.
‘If I ever see that prick again I swear I’ll deck him,’ says Mark. ‘Damian has gone to pieces over what he’s done.’
‘Thanks,’ I sniffle. ‘And while you’re at it, could you cut Poppy’s tits off please?’
‘Done,’ grins Mark, high-fiving me.
‘Right, I’d better get going. Let me know which pic you’re going to use, yeah?’ And I make my way out of the office into the steaming hurly and burly of Soho in late August.
I always start to feel sad around this time of year that summer is nearly over, just as I am always happy and excited in May and June that endless long sunny days seem to stretch out ahead enticingly. Of course in recent years this hasn’t been the case at all, with miserable rain, floods and even hail in July and August, followed by unfeasibly hot Septembers and Octobers. This year has been a wonderful exception, though it would have been nice to enjoy the latter part under different bloody circumstances. The papers and radio have reacted with predictable hysteria to the lovely weather by printing and broadcasting government warnings about how much water we should drink and SPF we should slap on. The best bit of advice I’ve read yet is ‘stay in the shade if you get too hot’. No shit Sherlock. How do they think people manage in Greece? Or Dubai?
It’s only 4 p.m. and I’m not due at Max’s flat till 6.30. We’re starting early to give us a good hour or two of sunshine on his roof terrace. It would be silly to go home now and come all the way back out again, so I start to walk east towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where I can sit on the grass and chill out for an hour or so. I can then get the Central Line from Holborn all the way to Liverpool Street and walk the rest the other end.
I go into a newsagent’s for an ice cream and something to read while I while away the time under the trees. As I walk over to the freezer, the front pag
e of the Evening Standard catches my eye. More specifically, a small column to the side of the day’s main headline, with the caption TV heart-throb spotted with mystery blonde. See Page 3. Underneath it is a photo of Ben and Poppy leaving some club, looking absurdly glamorous. Masochistically I open the paper.
Gorgeous Ben Jones, star of the much-hyped forthcoming sitcom People Like Us, was spotted last night leaving Bungalow 8 with a stunning mystery blonde … I shut the paper, then go and have a look at the newsstand. Oh, for fuck’s sake, they’re also on the cover pages of The Sun, the Mirror, the Mail and the Express (right next to an ‘Exclusive’, revealing ‘new facts’ about aliens killing Princess Diana). Don’t any of them have any real news to report?
I buy the bloody lot, my desire for an ice cream melting as quickly as it would have done in this heat, then make a dash for it towards Kingsway, cursing the relentless stream of traffic that makes it impossible to cross the horrible, fume-filled road. I briefly consider throwing myself in front of it, but it’s more of a self-pitying, knee-jerk, that’ll show ’em reaction, than a real desire to do myself in. Finally I reach Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where I collapse on the yellowing grass and allow myself to peruse the papers properly.
First, the Standard. I pore over the photo obsessively, trying to analyse every bit of body language, and not coming to terribly satisfactory conclusions. Ben has his arm proprietorially around Poppy’s slim shoulders and she is laughing up into his face. They look fucking gorgeous together. Poppy is wearing an almost obscenely short black sequined shift, with bare brown legs and gladiator heels, her long shiny hair loose around her lovely face. Ben is in black tie, though he’s discarded the tie itself and undone the top couple of buttons of his shirt. Or maybe Poppy undid them for him? Oh do stop it.
Gorgeous Ben Jones, star of the much-hyped forthcoming sitcom People Like Us, was spotted last night leaving Bungalow 8 with a stunning mystery blonde … begins the blurb. They had been attending the Viper TV Awards where, according to insiders, People Like Us is likely to scoop several awards next year. The handsome actor seemed besotted with his beautiful companion, and who can blame him? But who is she? Actress, dancer or model would be our guess. Just look at those legs!
Fucking morons, Poppy’s way too short to be a model, I think, shutting the paper crossly. Taking a deep breath, I open The Sun. This time the photo has been taken from a different angle, as the paparazzo was clearly aiming for a knicker shot, but they still look pretty bloody amazing together.
Phwoooar! TV Hunk Beds Blonde Babe! is the headline. Man of the Moment Ben Jones was seen taking an unknown blonde STUNNA back to his hotel last night … Hotel? Have they got their facts right? Sorry girls, it looks like Brawny Ben is going to have his hands full with this little sex-bomb. Fellas, wouldn’t you like a piece of that? If you know the identity of the mystery babe, call The Sun on ***** for a £100 reward.
What? Oh come on, I know August is traditionally a slow news month, but this is ridiculous. I flick through the rest of the papers, which report the story in more or less the same way, though the Daily Mail somehow manages to link it to an opinion piece that blames ‘career women’ and ‘binge-drinking ladettes’ for the decline of Western Civilization, followed by an article advocating facelifts for all women over forty.
I sit there on the grass for a bit, with the papers spread out in front of me, unable to know what to do or think. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, I start to laugh. I laugh and laugh and laugh until the tears run down my cheeks. I am spluttering, slapping my thigh, holding my sides, not giving a fuck about the odd looks I’m attracting. Eventually I pull myself together and throw the papers away.
I climb the ladder up to Max’s roof terrace still giggling to myself.
‘Hi Belles,’ he greets me, handing me something large and cold. ‘Margarita?’ Barefoot in a loose white linen smock and matching three-quarter-length sailor pants, he looks a bit like the Angel Gabriel welcoming me to heaven. Alison and Charlie are standing nearby, looking quietly concerned.
‘Hi guys,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Have you seen the papers? Hilarious, isn’t it?’ And I start laughing again. Charlie and Alison exchange looks as Max takes me to one side.
‘Listen sis, are you OK? I thought you’d be devastated at seeing Ben and Poppy in the Press, and this manic laughter is a bit – well – weird.’
‘Don’t worry, I haven’t completely lost it.’ I kiss him on the cheek. ‘No, I’ve done enough weeping and wailing, and you must admit that in a way seeing them in the papers like this is very funny. Let’s not forget that in tabloid world, what goes up must come down. Tall Poppy syndrome!’ I cackle again, delighted with my play on words.
‘Oh I see.’ Max looks relieved. ‘Well, as long as you’re OK with it …’
‘I am.’
‘In that case, let’s get this party started!’
‘Hello you two, lovely to see you.’ I turn to Alison and Charlie and kiss them both on both cheeks.
Sitting on Max’s roof terrace in the sun, we could almost be in Ibiza, were it not for the somewhat grittier views over East London. The whole space is whitewashed, with brightly coloured rugs, cushions, beanbags, hammocks and lanterns in abundance. The scent of rosemary and lavender from a couple of dense bushes in terracotta tubs, and some mellow beats winging their way up through the skylight from the living room contribute to the Balearic atmosphere. It’s all very much a legacy of our peripatetic upbringing, a scene you can see played out by the children of quasi-hippies the world over.
‘This is great,’ I say to Max, throwing my head back and arms out to embrace the sunshine. ‘Who else is coming?’
‘I am,’ says a strangely familiar voice. I turn to see Dave from Glastonbury surfacing from the skylight, somehow managing to make a Liverpool football shirt look stylish. I know one shouldn’t generalize, but there is something about being gay …
‘Dave!’ I cry. ‘How lovely to see you. But I had no idea you and Max had stayed in touch …’
‘We’ve been out a few times.’ Dave looks hurt. ‘Maybe he wanted to keep me under wraps …’
‘Don’t be silly, honey,’ says Max, walking over to give him a drink and a kiss. ‘If that were the case, I wouldn’t have asked you tonight, would I? I just like to keep my private life private, that’s all.’
‘Unlike some people we know,’ I say, waving a copy of The Sun around. ‘Well, you are a dark horse, Maxy. Any more rabbits up your sleeve?’
‘No, the only other guest tonight is Andy. Alison’s working on another big case, so it’ll just be him.’
‘Oh that’s great news. It’ll be good to see him without that witch trying to ruin everybody’s fun.’
‘Bella.’ Max gives me a look. ‘She’s not that bad.’ Then he laughs. ‘But I was relieved when Andy said she couldn’t make it. Another drink?’ He takes my glass for a top-up.
‘So how have you been?’ I ask Dave. ‘How long are you in London for?’
‘I live here. Made the break for the Big Smoke when I came down here for uni, years ago. And yes, I know I haven’t lost the accent.’
‘You sound just like John Lennon,’ says Charlie, in a slightly cringeworthy ‘I don’t meet many people from Ooop North’ manner.
‘Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans,’ says Dave, doing the peace and love gesture and sounding exactly like John Lennon. ‘Man.’ We all laugh and he turns to me.
‘Max has told me all about what happened with your mate and that gorgeous Ben.’ With a deep pang I recall that he was there when Ben and I got together at Glastonbury. ‘What a bitch, man. You don’t do that to your mates.’
‘They’re both total cunts—’
Max interrupts me. ‘Bella, as your big brother I feel I should point out that your language has degenerated appallingly since you got dumped …’
‘OK, OK, wankers then.’ I wave him off impatiently and turn back to Dave. ‘Ben was Damian’s best mate for years to
o.’
‘You all right?’ He gives me a sympathetic look.
‘Not really, but life must go on.’ I light a fag, turning away from him so he doesn’t see the tears that have sprung back into my eyes. People being sympathetic are the worst thing of all. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’
‘Let’s talk about your art,’ says Alison, smiling at me from under a big floppy straw hat. I imagine it’s more to shield her fair skin from the sun than a fashion statement, but it looks pretty nonetheless. ‘How’s it coming along? I hope you’re keeping up the pace. Bella’s having an exhibition at my gallery,’ she tells Dave, who smiles his lovely smile. ‘Cool.’
‘As it happens, I’ve taken some photos to show you.’ I balance my fag on one of the turquoise ceramic bowls that Max has put out as ashtrays and delve into my Gap holdall for my phone. I scroll down to the Images folder and pass it to her. ‘I know the quality of the photos isn’t the best, but you get the gist.’ The photos show the last two paintings, one of which I’ve finished since last seeing Alison, and one of which I’ve started. They depict the view at dawn and at dusk, and are surprisingly different from one another, in terms of what’s going on as well as the more obvious variations in light.
‘The dusk one’s still a work in progress, of course,’ I say, worried as she hasn’t passed comment yet.
‘Looks like it’s coming along a treat.’ Alison hands the phone back to me. ‘And I love the way you’ve finished dawn with those clean lemony strokes. Very evocative.’
‘Thanks!’ I smile, thrilled because I was particularly pleased with the lemony strokes myself.
