Revelry

by Lucy Lord

  ‘Wow,’ says Max quietly.

  Andy’s arms around me are too close for comfort, so I say, with not a jot of coolness,

  ‘OK, as I’ve ruined my entrance and cannot wait a minute longer, pleeeeease, Andy, tell us what you’ve got?’

  ‘Are you sure? You don’t want a drink first?’ Andy looks at me quizzically.

  ‘You know what, for probably the first time since I was about fifteen, I don’t want a drink first.’

  He laughs and takes some papers out of his slightly battered dark brown leather laptop carrier.

  ‘In that case, sit down.’

  I do as he says. I will always do as he says.

  ‘I thought it was better to print it, as seeing things on paper always makes it more real than on a screen, don’t you think?’ He smiles.

  ‘Andy, I can see you’re enjoying your moment of glory, but please just get on with it,’ says Max.

  ‘OK, OK,’ says Andy. ‘Sorry. The thing is, we have special search engines at work that search all global news, and the archives go way back. That’s one of the ways we hacks are able to dig up dirt. Things like Google don’t come close.’ He smiles at Max, who has been Googling Kimberly for weeks.

  ‘So all you had to do was type in the bitch’s name, and it came up?’ I say, thinking ungratefully, if it’s that bloody simple, why didn’t he come up with it earlier?

  ‘It wasn’t quite as easy as that. You’ll see why in a minute.’ As he riffles through the papers to make sure they’re in the right order, I steal a glance at him. He looks wonderful: tall, broad-shouldered and dependable, his intelligent dark eyes gleaming with excitement behind their geeky specs.

  He hands me and Max two sheets of A4 each. We start to read. It’s an article from the Perth Gazette, dated five years ago, about a girl working in a hardware store who accused her middle-aged boss of raping her.

  Hilda Lehman, 20, broke down under cross-questioning and admitted she’d fabricated the entire story. Sykes, 56, had refused to promote Lehman to store manager after intercourse had taken place …

  ‘OK, it’s a similar story, but it’s a different person,’ I say, disappointed. ‘Surely that won’t make any difference to Dad being found guilty or not? It’s hardly a landmark victory.’

  ‘Look at the photo,’ says Max, his smile lighting up his dear face. ‘Turn the page, you idiot!’

  I turn the page over and from the second a skinny, freckly girl with goofy teeth and – yes! – a ginger Afro stares back at me. She’s had some work done since then (very expensive dentistry for starters) but it’s Kimbo all right.

  ‘She must have changed her name,’ I say, quick on the uptake as ever.

  ‘Models do it all the time,’ says Max.

  ‘Especially if they’re called Hilda!’ splutters Andy, and we all crack up, laughing till we’re fit to burst, hugging and high-fiving each other. Max punches the air, whooping, his golden curls flying all over the place.

  ‘But what about the legalities?’ I come down to earth with a whacking thump. ‘I bet there’s some stupid law where you’re not allowed to bring things like this up in court. Alison was telling us about how crap the law can be the other night, Andy …’

  ‘Ah yes. That is a problem. But don’t you see? Now we all know, beyond reasonable doubt, that your father is innocent.’

  ‘I knew anyway,’ Max and I say in unison. Andy smiles at us.

  ‘So did I. But as far as I’m concerned, this proves it. Even with my tiresome bloody principles, I can see that it’s a coincidence too far.’ Max and I look at one another guiltily, trying to remember who coined the phrase.

  ‘But what are we going to do about it?’ I ask. ‘If they can’t bring it up in court, how can it help?’

  Andy takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. ‘I’m not entirely sure. We probably need to talk to your dad’s lawyer. Let me sleep on it, and I’ll try to figure something out.’

  The next morning, I’m looking at Facebook on my elderly Mac. Yup, found the bitch. There she is, amongst Ben’s friends. Kimberly Bliss. What kind of wanky, made-up name is that? I scroll through her profile: 1,798 photos of herself. Yeah, it figures.

  I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands as I think Kimbo needs a little push, and I just know that Andy won’t countenance such a thing. He’ll probably start talking about witness intimidation or something. I am hoping to find out where I may be able to confront her. Luckily for me she is one of those self-centred twats who assumes that everybody is going to be fascinated by the minutiae of her daily activity.

  Yesterday, for example, she wrote, Got up had a bath with Chanel stuff they always give me for free sooo nice to pamper myself for once I work so hard. Walked down the street and three men in a car wolf wistled!!! Day got even better when man from Pretty Polly said my leg’s are the best hes seen for a long time. Ha ha long time. Like my leg’s are long!!!!

  As I look at today’s offering I realize the illiterate freak of nature is making it very easy for me.

  Gr8 day so far 100 red rose’s from secret admirer dellivere’d to my door!!!! Dont understand why I have so many secret admirer’s???! Seeing agent @ Modz1 @ 3pm to pick up check then more pampering at Harvey Nix god I need it I work so hard!!! Meditation later its very important to look after you’re brain :-)

  Bingo. I know where Models 1 is, as it’s Ben’s agency too. In fact, I think that’s where they met.

  When I get out of the Tube, Covent Garden station is packed with your usual annoying tourists who keep getting in the way. I try to remind myself that they’re on holiday so they should be allowed to meander, but still find myself tutting, then saying very loudly to a group of French school kids who are clogging up the exit to the lift, ‘That’s not the best place to stand.’ I’ll be quite horrible when I’m an old lady.

  It’s very odd outside Models 1, as if one is in a parallel universe of beauty, where every single girl going in and out of the door is nearly a foot taller than the girls on the street. Some of them are quite exquisite, of course, but a lot of them just look weird, as though they belong to some kind of alien race. It’s all bones, height and other things that look good in photos.

  Even the weird-looking ones make me feel old, fat and ugly though. I snap myself out of it. This isn’t about me, it’s about Dad. I hadn’t realized that I had a recording device on my phone, but having discovered it last night, I’ve switched it on and am standing in wait. Poppy would be proud of me, I think, as I recall our teenage private detective aspirations.

  On the dot of three, I see her approaching the agency, talking into her iPhone.

  ‘Well yeah, of course I’ve always been lucky with my legs! Oh babe, you’re toooo kind. Yeah, I know I’m genetically blessed. But I do try and give things back too? I’m going to a charity thing tonight for L’Oréal?’ She looks puzzled. ‘What do you mean, what charity? I thought L’Oréal was the charity? Something to do with testing cosmetics on animals?’

  I walk up to her, my trusty recording device peeking out of the front pocket of my denim jacket, and she looks even more puzzled for a few seconds. Then recognition dawns.

  ‘You!’ she shouts. ‘Get away from me; I haven’t got time for this. Don’t you know who I am?!’ A crowd is starting to gather.

  ‘Isn’t that Kimberly Bliss?’ says one starstruck schoolboy.

  ‘Oh, I think you might have some time for me once you’ve heard what I have to say. And I certainly know who you are, Ms Lehman. Or should I call you Hilda?’

  Kimberly’s mouth falls open, making her look even stupider.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh I think you do, Hilda.’

  ‘What’s going on? Why’s that weird woman calling her Hilda?’ asks the starstruck schoolboy.

  Kimbo drags me into a side street and says, ‘What do you want, Becca?’

  ‘My name’s Bella. And I want to know why you’re
so determined to ruin my father’s life.’

  A really nasty, hard look crosses her pretty little face.

  ‘Stupid old git should have stuck to his side of the bargain. Does he really think I enjoyed sleeping with him? He’s disgusting. Old, and flabby, and grey. I’m so sick of these lechy old blokes, they make my skin crawl.’ She gives an exaggerated shudder and I want to kill her. ‘I really needed that Italian Vogue cover too.’

  I look at her with absolute distaste.

  ‘You really are vile. Has it ever occurred to you that one day you will be old, and flabby, and grey, too?’ Kimberly looks terribly put out, as if she thinks she has the elixir of eternal youth or something. ‘Dad would never have gone for you if you hadn’t given him so much encouragement. I saw you in the herb garden in Ibiza. I also know about what you did back in Perth in the hardware store, Hilda, so you might as well tell me. You thought you’d teach him a lesson, right, just as you thought you’d teach your store manager a lesson?’ Take the bait, bitch, take the bait.

  ‘Yeah, I did. I thought I’d teach them both a lesson.’ A self-satisfied smile crosses her conceited, dim-witted face. ‘I don’t screw fucking granddads unless there’s something in it for me.’ Bullseye. Straight from the horse’s mouth.

  ‘You fucking moronic cow,’ I say slowly. ‘How many models do you think my father has met over the years? Really? How many? What do you think makes you so bloody special? He’s always said he hates ginger minges anyway.’ It’s not true, but I want to protect Dad. ‘He actually tried to get you the cover of Italian Vogue, but they told him they were used to classier birds than you. I think I know where they’re coming from …’

  ‘You fucking bitch!’ Kimbo tries to grab my hair but I skip lightly out of her way.

  ‘Nope. I think you’ll find that you’re the fucking bitch.’

  ‘I’ll get my lawyer on you for harassment.’

  ‘Oh I don’t think you will.’ I take my trusty recording device out of my jacket pocket and start playing her own voice back to her. I will always treasure the look on her stupid, smug little face.

  ‘I think it’s about time you withdrew your ludicrous allegations. Don’t you?’

  ‘Belles,’ says Max as I answer my phone. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened!’

  Try me, I think.

  ‘Kimbo’s withdrawn all her allegations against Dad! It’s bloody amazing!’

  ‘Ah – well. I think I might have had something to do with that.’

  ‘What are you on about, sis?’

  So I tell him.

  ‘Not just a pretty face then,’ he says eventually, laughing. ‘Bloody hell, that’s brilliant. I wish I’d been there.’

  ‘You can listen to the recording. And if you want a real laugh, go and check out her Facebook page. But not a word to Dad, please. Promise?’

  ‘Of course I promise. I can’t believe she’s so stupid she actually admitted it!’

  ‘I know. Like candy from a baby. She’s so used to mass adulation that she probably considers herself untouchable, stupid bitch. I hardly even needed my knowledge of her past.’

  ‘Just brilliant,’ says Max again. ‘Ooh, before I forget, Dad wants to take us and Andy out to lunch at the Pont de la Tour tomorrow to celebrate. Suit you?’

  Suits me down to the ground.

  Our table’s starched linen, gleaming glassware and shining silver has long since given way to creased napkins, crumbs and a cheery throng of bottles, despite the best attentions of the excellent waiting staff. As it’s another perfect day, we’re lunching on the terrace, with its spectacular views of Tower Bridge. The restaurant is packed, mainly with tourists taking advantage of the weak pound, though I spot several clearly illicit canoodling couples and several bailed-out-by-the-taxpayer bankers on expenses. Bastards.

  ‘That was delicious,’ says my mother, patting her mouth with her napkin. ‘Thank you, Justin.’

  ‘Yes, thanks Dad,’ I say. ‘Mine was really yummy.’ My sea bass was heavenly, but it’s the company that’s made lunch today, as, giddy with relief, Mum, Dad, Bernie, Max, Andy and I have laughed and bantered our way through three courses and six bottles. I can’t remember the last time I shared a meal with my parents and Max, and it’s lovely how well we all still get on. Great that Bernie fits in so well. Lovelier still that … Don’t even think it.

  ‘I still find it incredible that any sister could do that. Twice.’ Mum, who flirted with bra burning in the Seventies (a mistake with her large bust), drains her glass. ‘Apart from anything else, it totally undermines the plight of genuine victims.’

  ‘Quite,’ says Andy, pouring himself another glass of Shiraz. I am reminded of his horrible story about the Albanian girl and feel slightly sick.

  ‘Tell me again what David Simpson said?’ Max asks Dad, who is wearing Bono shades, a billowing peasant smock, tight black jeans and cowboy boots.

  ‘Hilda’s just dropped the charges altogether.’ Dad chortles, highly amused by this detail. It seems unkind to remind him that he was once called Bert. ‘What a stroke of luck. Even though you found out about her past, Andy – and I can’t thank you enough, son, David said we couldn’t have brought that up in court anyway.’

  ‘Yes, a real stroke of luck,’ says Bernie, looking at the three of us beadily.

  ‘She’s getting off bloody lightly, considering she could have ruined your life,’ I say, swiftly changing the subject.

  ‘You know what, angel face? I don’t want the chick locked up. I just want to put the whole mess behind me. I would like to know why she did it, though.’ Dad’s eyes are sad, the vertical lines on his face deeper than ever.

  ‘Come on, Dad, we’ve been through this. She’s clearly a total basket case.’

  ‘Yeah kiddo, you’re probably right. Anyone for coffees? Brandies?’

  Brandy in the middle of a weekday is a little decadent, even by my family’s standards, but fuck it, we’re celebrating. Six espressos, three Armagnacs, a Cointreau, a Grand Marnier and a Calvados are duly ordered. The Americans at the next table look suitably horrified. Yup, we’re the ‘alcoholic Brits’ you’ve heard so much about.

  ‘How’s preparation for your exhibition coming along, darling?’ asks Mum. ‘It’s next Saturday, isn’t it? So exciting.’

  ‘Yes, really exciting, but bloody terrifying too. I’ve just about finished all the work, but Alison is determined to make the party a great big poncy art world launch. The art world scares me shitless.’ I remember being at Goldsmiths, ploughing on with my painting, while all the people around me were marinating sheep’s hearts in absinthe and sneering at my ‘chocolate box conformity’. There was nothing remotely chocolate boxy about my work, as far as I was concerned, but the words still stung.

  ‘Don’t be silly, sis,’ says Max. ‘At least you can actually paint. Which is more than you can say for half the bunch of blaggers currently out there. It’s going to be great. Tell you what, if you sell more than twenty per cent on the opening night, I’ll open the pool at DC for an after-party.’

  ‘Oh wow! OK, it’s a deal.’ I lean across the table to shake on it, catching Andy’s eye in the process. All these meaningful looks are having a disturbing effect on my equilibrium. Disturbing yet addictive.

  ‘You’re all coming to the opening night, aren’t you?’ I ask around the table.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love,’ says Bernie. ‘Haven’t you got a clever daughter, Princess?’ He lands Mum a big smacker on her cheek.

  ‘Both my babies are brilliant,’ she beams. I try not to look at Max.

  ‘Alison’s assistant, Jessie, who is very Shoreditch, has come up with some hilarious ideas for the party, which have absolutely nothing to do with my paintings,’ I say. ‘Dwarfs with platters heaped with talcum powder on their heads, for instance.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ asks Mum, furrowing her brow. Dad laughs and pats her on the head, patronizingly.

  ‘It’s the old story about Freddie Mercu
ry’s legendary party where dwarfs had platters of coke strapped to their heads, surely?’ says Andy. ‘I always thought that was apocryphal.’

  ‘No, that’s true, all right,’ says Dad, who’s been dying to put his oar in. ‘I was there.’ Suddenly the vertical lines on his face are verging on horizontal. ‘If I remember correctly I took Marie Helvin. Now she was one saucy bit of crumpet.’ I wince. Will he never learn?

  ‘Never!’ says Bernie. ‘I was security that night. Those were the days.’ He slaps Dad on the back, laughing hoarsely. ‘What a night, me old china. Remember the hookers? Most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen, present company excepted, of course Princess, and they turned out to be geezer girls …’

  As we listen in amused disbelief to their scandalous reminiscences, Max and I both look at Andy, shrugging and raising our eyebrows, as if to say: ‘Shucks, parents. What can you do, huh?’

  ‘Anyway, it’s a dreadful idea for your opening night,’ says Max. ‘Can you imagine your guests’ disappointment once they discovered it was talcum powder? You’d have a riot on your hands.’

  ‘I know. Jessie also suggested Balkan violinists on roller skates, which would have been fun too, but …’

  We finish our coffees and brandies and walk down to Butler’s Wharf. Bernie’s part-time chauffeur/hired thug is taking the oldies back to the country, which is just as well as none of them is in a fit state to drive. Dad hugs me, Max and Andy in turn.

  ‘If you ever need anything, son – anything …’ he is slurring sentimentally into Andy’s shoulder.

  ‘Thanks sir, I’ll bear it in mind,’ says Andy, giving him a brief hug back and shaking his hand. God, what must he make of us all?

  Eventually we wave them off and start making our way back towards Southwark.

  ‘Oooh, now we’re here, I’d love to pick up some jamón ibérico from Borough Market,’ I say, aglow with afternoon sunshine and Cointreau. ‘Do you know it, Andy? It’s the best ham in the whole world.’