Revelry

by Lucy Lord

  ‘You’re on babe,’ he says, giving me a slap on the arse, and we make our way outside, where we immediately start snogging again. He is so huge, so strong, so virile and male that all I care about are his muscly arms around me, his stubbly jaw scratching mine, his hard-on pushing through the stiff material of his white jeans.

  There have been many times tonight when I’ve heard my name spoken aloud, none of them less welcome than it is now.

  ‘Bella? Is that you?’

  I disentangle myself from Mark. No, no, no it can’t be. Oh God in fucking heaven. Max and Andy are standing in the street a couple of feet away from me, Max regarding me with amusement, Andy with what looks like acute distaste.

  ‘Wh … what are you doing here?’ I ask, aware of what a slut I must look – presumably pretty bedraggled by now, with dirty bare feet and hair all tangled around my face. Max laughs.

  ‘The back streets of Soho aren’t your private playground, you know, much as you clearly think they are.’ Ouch. ‘We’re on our way home from dinner. What happened to your shoes?’

  ‘They were hurting, so I took them off.’ I face him defiantly. I can’t look at Andy. ‘Is that a crime?’

  ‘Of course not, Belles, don’t be silly. Just try not to step on any broken glass. Enjoy the rest of your party!’ And they walk off into the distance. Andy hasn’t spoken a single word the entire encounter. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Cunting fuck.

  Chapter 18

  It’s 4 p.m. and I am lying on my sitting-room floor, head resting on my zebra print beanbag. I got out of bed an hour ago, unable to bear the company of my clamouring thoughts in the fetid darkness of my shuttered bedroom. I tried to make myself comfortable on the chaise longue, but to no avail. I wish I could just leave this body behind, and inhabit a new, fresh, unsoiled one. I’m trying to read the Penguin paperback of Scoop that Andy lent me, but my eyes keep closing and I can’t concentrate on the words.

  My feet are ingrained with black – my cursory shower didn’t come close to getting the muck off – and cut to shreds. They really, seriously hurt. I am also covered in bruises, especially halfway down the front of my thighs, which suggests I did a lot of walking into tables last night. I don’t remember falling over, but an unsightly graze on my left knee indicates otherwise. My lovely pink dress lies on the floor just beyond the front door, where I must have left it as soon as I stumbled in. It is soiled and battered, probably beyond redemption. Just like its owner.

  Worse by far than my physical symptoms are the emotional ones. Seeing Andy was the equivalent of having a bucket of cold water chucked over me as far as Mark went, and I left the party soon after. Alone. What a fucking slapper, I think, despising myself on every level. ‘Unfinished business?’ Aaaargh!

  And as for Andy … In all honesty, I can hardly bear to think about Andy. It’s clear to me now that my feelings for him overstep any normal barriers of friendship, and while I know it’s pointless as he’s about to get married, I still don’t want him to think I’m a despicable slag.

  Painfully, I compare the look he gave me outside Café Boheme to the utter distaste on his face as he witnessed the unedifying spectacle of me and Mark bringing the spirit of an 18–30 holiday in Faliraki to the streets of Soho. All that was missing was the vomit. And the eighteen-to thirty-year-olds, come to that.

  Why why WHY did they have to walk past just then? Oh but why why WHY did you have to behave like that? an unwelcome voice keeps prodding.

  To stop the irksome voice, my mind wanders back to earlier in the evening and I recall, with intense shame, dragging Damian and Simon onto the dance floor as I pranced barefoot, singing in all probability, feeling like queen bee, convinced I was one hot chick. At one stage – oh Christ, stop the memories – I even stuck my tongue out at the fashion chicks, implying that the Stadium boys were now my territory, thank you very much. Did I actually do the wanker gesture with my right hand at them too? No, I conclude, even I wouldn’t do that. It’s just my mind playing cruel tricks on me to punish me for having too much fun.

  I hope this isn’t going to affect Andy helping with Dad’s case, I think guiltily, the hangover and comedown now making my behaviour the cause of everything bad in the world. No, why should it? He’s a principled man, on the side of justice, helping because he’s Max’s dear friend. It has nothing, NOTHING, to do with you, Bella Not The Centre Of The Universe. I should call Dad, find out how he’s coping, but at the moment I really cannot face talking to anyone.

  Out of habit I start to think about Ben and Poppy shagging, my daily self-torture, and to my surprise it doesn’t hurt at all. In fact, I just feel sad for Pops, having to deal with her father’s dementia with no support whatsoever from the handsome, self-absorbed bastard I used to think I was in love with.

  A silly old quote comes into my mind: the best way to get over one man is to get under another. Sadly it seems I’ve got over one man by falling in love with one I’ll never get under. Falling in love with?

  I almost laugh thinking about the differences between vain, selfish, weak, manipulative Ben and kind, intelligent, straight-laced, morally upright Andy. Even Ben’s looks, which used to so enthral me, are verging on the effeminate compared to Andy’s. It’s like comparing Brad Pitt to Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird.

  ‘Here Comes the Sun’ starts playing tinnily from somewhere. My ringtone. Where the fuck did I leave my phone? I didn’t take it with me last night. I gingerly get to my feet, wincing as my knee touches the bare floorboards, and look around. My head is swimming now I’m no longer horizontal. My phone sounds as if it’s in the kitchen and I remember having a conversation with Alison about the exhibition in there yesterday afternoon. Yesterday afternoon, when I was clean, unsoiled, looking forward to an evening I then went on to ruin … SHUT UP!

  I’m moving so slowly that my phone reaches the end of its ring span and stops, then immediately starts ringing again.

  ‘All right, all right, keep your hair on,’ I mutter, walking more quickly towards the kitchen now. As I pick it up and look at the display I draw a sharp breath. I deleted Poppy’s number soon after catching her in bed with Ben, but would recognize it anywhere. All of a sudden I think of what I overheard in the loo last night, and press the green button with a feeling of foreboding.

  ‘Poppy?’

  ‘Bella?’ Her voice sounds quavery, indistinct, blurry. ‘Is that you? Oh Belles, I’m so sorry, so so sorry, sorry, sorry …’

  ‘Yes, so you should be, but why are you calling me now?’ She’s not on smack, is she? Is she?

  ‘Sorry Belles, sorry … Ben …’ It sounds as if she’s crying now. ‘Ben, Ben, Ben, CUNT. Sorry, Bella, sorry.’ Then she starts giggling.

  ‘Poppy, what the fuck are you on?’ I ask, properly worried now. Poppy never loses control.

  ‘Pills … had some pills … ran out of coke so took pills … and vodka.’

  ‘No smack?’

  ‘Smack? You say smack? Nooooooo. We don’t do smack, Belles, do we? Why d’ya think that?’ She giggles in a deeply disconcerting manner. ‘No smack but sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, you silly bitch, are you OK? Where are you? I’m coming to get you …’

  ‘Home …’

  ‘You’re at home? In Hoxton?’

  ‘Yes yes, Hoxton, home, sorry, Bella.’

  I try to keep her talking, putting my phone on loudspeaker as I throw some clothes on and run downstairs to hail a cab, but she goes silent on me just as I’m getting into the taxi.

  ‘Poppy!’ I shout down the phone. ‘Speak to me, you stupid tart. POPPY!’

  But nothing. Panicking, I call again, but it just rings and rings and rings. Jesus Christ, what the fuck do I do now? Should I call an ambulance? It’s just about possible it’s nothing major. And it could get her into an awful lot of trouble. But what if she dies? The very thought is enough to make me dial 999 with no more buggering about. I tell the ambulance people what has happened and give
them her address. They assure me they’ll send someone straight over and I lie down in the cab, very slightly comforted by the thought.

  I am pouring with toxic sweat after the uncalled-for exertions and for once in my life wish this bloody summer was over; it’s gone on quite long enough. Soothing rain might take me back to September schoolbooks and childhood sobriety.

  There is no sign of an ambulance as I get out of the cab in Hoxton Square. Scared at what I’ll find, I make my way up to Poppy’s flat, letting myself in with the set of keys that caused all the trouble in the first place. It’s very odd being here again, the surroundings so familiar, yet connected with so much recent pain. I race up the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me, not allowing myself time to wallow.

  I brace myself and open the door.

  She is lying on her open-plan bare floorboards, much as I was earlier, only she is face-down, her usually lovely hair spread out in greasy clumps around her head. I gently lift it up to look at her face. She seems to be breathing, but is certainly not conscious. She is extremely pale and her lips are an unsettling purple, approaching blue, with a dribble of white spume at one corner.

  ‘Poppy sweetheart, wake up.’ I’m crying now, shaking her. ‘Please wake up.’

  She is wearing an old grey marl T-shirt, which has ridden up over her bare bottom. In a kind of trance, I pull it down and look for something to cover her up further. She needs dignity. The nearest thing to hand is a blue and white checked tea towel on the kitchen worktop; it will have to do. Propped up next to it is the card I made to thank her for her offer of the spare room as a studio. I open it and look at the words inside.

  Thanks, dear friend xxx

  The tears that started a minute ago are now pouring down my face and galvanize me into action.

  I put the tea towel over her bottom but, small though her bum is, it doesn’t really help, so I take off my T-shirt and wrap it around her lower quarters. I sit there in my bra on the floor, stroking her hair, saying, ‘Just stay alive Pops, please. It’ll be OK, everything’s going to be OK.’ My tears are soaking her hair and, madly, I turn her around and try to give her the kiss of life.

  It always works in films, but I never paid any attention to first aid things at school and I’m bloody useless. After several failed attempts I give up and put her head on my lap, worried that I might do more harm than good if I continue. I carry on stroking her hair and trying to say positive things.

  ‘Remember lovey, what your dad used to say, that brilliant quote from Dryden? “Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own; He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today …” Well, I don’t think that your dad would think that what you’ve done today is living, really, would he? He would want you to go on doing the living today that he can’t do any more, so tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow can do their worst …’ My voice breaks. ‘Go on Pops, live. For your dad’s sake … And your mum’s … And mine.’ She doesn’t respond and I let myself sob quietly, still stroking her hair. ‘Tomorrow do thy worst, Pops, for you have lived today,’ I manage through my tears.

  I can hear an ambulance siren approach, and look around, trying to assess the damage. An empty bottle of vodka has been knocked over on the floor, alongside a plastic prescription pill bottle, spewing its small white contents in several directions. I reach over to pick it up, trying not to disturb Poppy’s head on my lap, and look at the label. Temazepam. The inevitable couple of empty coke (or smack?) wraps are splayed either side of where her head’s just been. I pick one up and, steeling myself, run my finger inside. The crumbs do have the disgusting, bitter taste of coke, but then I don’t know what smack tastes like.

  Something else catches my eye. A transparent plastic bag, only around five centimetres square, of the type that dealers use, containing three tablets that look like Es.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Poppy, how many have you taken?’ I say aloud, holding her pale hand tightly in one of mine and continuing to stroke her hair with the other.

  The ambulance men burst through the door and I hold up the bag, gabbling, ‘It looks like she’s taken cocaine, Temazepam, Ecstasy and vodka. Maybe heroin, but probably not. Can you pump her stomach or something? She is going to be all right, isn’t she? Please say she’s going to be all right …’

  One of the ambulance men comes over and takes the two pill packets from me.

  ‘And you are, madam?’

  ‘I’m her friend Bella. She phoned me and I called nine-nine-nine. I’ve got a spare key. Is she going to be OK?’

  ‘Try not to worry,’ he says, not answering me directly. ‘We’ll do everything we can for her. You did the right thing calling us.’

  I watch numbly as they pick Poppy up off my lap, strap her to a stretcher and carry her out of the door. My T-shirt falls away from her nether regions. So much for dignity. I try to reclaim mine by retrieving the crumpled garment from the floor and putting it back on.

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘No, sorry love, but make your way to St Barts and go to A & E. They’ll point you in the right direction. Try not to worry,’ he says for the third time, his words having quite the opposite of their intended effect.

  My journey to St Barts seems to take forever, even though it’s no distance at all as the crow flies, and all I can think is live, Poppy, please live. Please God, make her be all right. I really couldn’t care less about Ben any more. Fuck this mad summer. Fuck it.

  I think of the day we got our A level results, which meant Pops had got into Oxford; going out and celebrating in the village, then coming up to London for a very naughty weekend of booze and snogging desperately uncool boys, giggling over everything the way only teenage girls can. (‘Mine’s worse than yours’; ‘No, mine’s really, really gross!’ We were late developers, remember.) I think of her skipping through the car park en route to Glastonbury, a wine box in each hand, plastic cups clenched between her teeth. I think of her holding my hand at my nan’s funeral, squeezing so hard it hurt but made me feel better. I think right back to our first day at school together, Poppy with her slightly too-big uniform, pristine white socks, angelic face, tufty bunches and wicked sense of humour. I think of endless days of laughter and fun and kindness and friendship and wish more than I’ve ever wished anything that neither of us had ever set eyes on Ben bloody Jones. Live, Poppy, live.

  I suddenly remember that Mum is back in contact with Diana, Poppy’s mother. Shit, she needs to be told. I dial Mum’s number.

  ‘Darling, I was just thinking about you,’ she says in her dear, familiar voice. ‘I must have evoked you.’

  Five hours later, Mum, Diana, Damian and I are sitting in the A & E waiting room, on our seventeenth cup of horrible NHS coffee. I have never seen anybody look as distraught as Diana does now. If I could wipe that look out of my memory bank forever, I would.

  ‘I thought life had struck me a pretty unkind blow, when I found out about Ken’s illness,’ she said earlier, in her lovely measured Radio 4 tones. ‘But nothing – nothing – prepares you for the idea that your child might die before you.’

  She broke down then, crying out, ‘Not Poppy, please God, not Poppy. Please don’t let my beautiful baby die …’

  Mum took her off for some strong coffee, brandy out of a cow-hide hip flask and some soothing words as only my mother knows how. When they returned, Diana was dry-eyed, beyond tears, an automaton. She’s remained like that since, but the pain and fear etched on her face are almost unbearable to behold.

  The doctors pumped Poppy’s stomach but the coke, booze and pills had already done their worst (there wasn’t any smack, which is one blessing, I suppose). She hasn’t regained consciousness yet, and if she doesn’t wake up soon, there’s a possibility of permanent brain damage. And of course, she might not wake up at all. The words lethal cocktail of drugs keep swishing round my mind.

  Damian starts pacing the hospital corridors, out of his mind with fear. He called Ben to establis
h just what had happened and Ben eventually admitted that he’d left Poppy for one of the actresses on People Like Us. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes when Damian gets hold of him.

  A doctor in a long white coat, stethoscope hanging around his neck, walks towards us down the corridor. I experience a moment of pure dread.

  ‘Mrs Wallace?’

  Diana starts running towards him like a madwoman.

  ‘Tell me my baby’s OK, please, please, tell me she’s OK.’

  The doctor smiles.

  ‘She’s just regained consciousness, and she’s asking for you.’

  ‘Does she seem … OK?’ None of us has been able to bring ourselves to speak the words brain damage out loud.

  ‘Well, the tests are still inconclusive, but judging from her vocabulary, I’d say she’s on the mend already,’ says the doctor, with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Oh thank God, oh thank God, oh thank you thank you thank you God. Oh Jesus. Oh thank Christ.’

  Diana, a lifelong atheist, falls to her knees and finally lets herself go, sobbing her poor old heart out in the middle of the cold, sterile hospital corridor.

  Mum, Damian and I look at each other and smile, tears streaming down all our faces.

  The tubes coming out of her nose and arms are unreal. I feel as if I’m in an episode of Casualty. But the words coming out of her mouth are pure Poppy.

  ‘Christ I’m a contemptible cunt.’

  ‘Shhh, sweetheart, just rest.’ I stroke her hair.

  ‘But I AM.’ She tries to prop herself up on her elbows, then sinks back onto the narrow bed, defeated.

  ‘Unforgivable … boyfriend-stealing bitch … prima-donna near-death experience,’ she wheezes hoarsely. ‘As if poor Mum doesn’t have enough on her plate as it is. Sorry Belles … I really wasn’t trying to kill myself. More drugs just seemed like a good idea at the time. Until I started to feel really weird, and not good weird.’ She coughs like someone dying of tuberculosis in a nineteenth-century novel.