Revelry

by Lucy Lord

  ‘It is mouthwatering,’ agrees Max. ‘And I wish I could come with you. But I’m afraid I’ve a very dull meeting with my accountant, in …’ He looks at his watch. ‘… Shit, less than half an hour. I’ve really got to run. Great lunch. Thanks again, Andy. See you at Belle’s exhibition? Byeeee!’ And long legs flying, golden curls bouncing, he runs off towards London Bridge station.

  ‘Well, I’m heading to Waterloo, and Borough Market is almost en route, so I don’t see how I could possibly not stop for the best ham in the whole world,’ says Andy, making fun of me.

  ‘You’re not in a hurry to get back to work then?’ Please say you’re not.

  ‘It’s four o’clock, Bella. I took the precaution of taking the afternoon off. I didn’t think your father would let me get away with a sandwich and a can of Coke.’

  It’s much cooler in the shade of the market. Blinking in the comparative darkness, we are faced with stall upon stall of artisan breads, robust charcuterie, rainbow-hued fruit and veg; cheeses that are pungent, mild, crumbly, creamy, snowy white to tangerine and every shade of yellow in between; wobbly custard tarts, delicate millefeuilles, stodgy stollen, cutesy cupcakes; aromatic hog roasts, curries, tagines, goulashes, cassoulets, stir-fries, paellas.

  The paellas signify our arrival at the Spanish stall, Brindisa, purveyor of most excellent ham.

  ‘It’s sooo good, honestly,’ I tell Andy. ‘It’s made from black-hoofed pigs fed on acorns and it’s just completely delicious.’ He laughs at my eagerness, but I’m trying to deflect attention from the fact that it seems such a couply thing to do, checking out the goodies at Borough Market. The woman in charge of the stall cuts off a couple of slices for us to try. The sweet, salty, unctuous meat melts onto my tongue.

  ‘You know what?’ says Andy, looking into my eyes. ‘I think that really is the best ham in the whole wide world!’

  I laugh back at him, taking care not to touch him, my heart going so fast I’m surprised it hasn’t burst right out of my chest by now.

  We amble along the South Bank in the heat, picking from the packet of ham, even though we’ve just eaten; it really is too good to resist. Just like Andy, I think, glancing up at him.

  ‘Your parents are great,’ he says, helping himself to another oily slice.

  ‘I’m glad you think so. They can be a bit of a pain at times, but I love them to bits really.’

  ‘Yes, it’s obvious. That bond between you all is a lovely thing to see.’ I can hardly bear to think of his loneliness, as an only child, after both his parents died so suddenly.

  Leafy plane trees line the path. Across the water sits St Paul’s: grandly, classically, unfeasibly beautiful. I can still never get over the fact that people managed to build domes like that in those days. In the distance we can just make out the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, glinting in the sinking sun. I love the view from this side of the river. The Thames rolls by. An enormous variety of boats, from ferries to pleasure cruisers to permanently moored pubs to police craft to kayaks to dinghies, crowds the glittering taupe water. A lone, flower-painted barge that has clearly drifted from one of the canals looks as if it is in trouble the other side of the river, which might explain the police boat.

  As I point it out to Andy, one of the thousands of tourists cluttering up my wonderful city jostles me. I stumble right into Andy’s chest. He puts his arms out to steady me and before I know what’s happening, he is kissing me. I want it to go on forever.

  ‘Christ.’ He pulls away, still looking me in the eyes, then drags me away from the crowds, into one of the little winding side streets round the back of the Globe. He takes off his glasses, which have steamed up (I didn’t realize that really happened), and wipes them on his T-shirt. Then he replaces them, catches sight of a bench, and drags me after him to sit down. I’m finding all this masterful dragging really quite exciting. Once we’re both seated, he turns to look at me again. He is holding both my hands.

  ‘Bella, I shouldn’t have done that. I’ve wanted to for weeks now, I’ve got some kind of crazy – I don’t know – crush on you …’

  ‘Oh, it’s not a crush, I feel the same, I—’ Andy cuts me off.

  ‘But it’s got to stop. You must realize that? This can’t go any further. Whatever this madness is that’s taken hold of us is not real and it’s got to stop!’ He’s shouting now. I nod numbly.

  ‘I’m getting married to Alison in three weeks’ time. We’ve been together thirteen years, Bella. I couldn’t do anything to hurt her, really I couldn’t. She’s set her heart on this wedding and it would kill her if I pulled out now.’

  Pulled out? Andy visibly shakes himself.

  ‘But of course I wouldn’t pull out anyway. Al and I have been through a lot together; we see eye to eye, we’re two of a kind.’ Oh no you’re not. ‘You and I must forget that this has ever happened. Please, Bella? I’m sorry I kissed you, it was very, very wrong of me.’ He looks almost as distraught as I feel.

  And all of a sudden that image of Poppy looking over her bare shoulder at me as she fucks my boyfriend forces its way into my mind. What the fuck do I think I’m doing? I, just as much as anyone, know the hell of being cheated on, and I was only with Ben for a couple of months, for Christ’s sake. What kind of evil bitch am I, intruding on a thirteen-year relationship? A thirteen-year, about-to-be-married relationship?

  I realize he is still clasping my hands and gently extricate myself.

  ‘You’re right.’ I force myself to smile. ‘What on earth were we thinking? I blame the brandies! And the sunshine! And bloody Dad for making me so grateful to you!’ I’m trying not to cry now. ‘We’ll forget this ever happened, and I promise you my lips are sealed. If you don’t want to come to my exhibition, I understand, so …’ I falter, then pull myself together brightly. ‘… So I guess I’ll see you at the wedding. Best of luck, Andy.’ I consider kissing him on the cheek but think better of it.

  It’s only once I get home that the tears come properly.

  Chapter 20

  It’s the night of my launch party and the weather has finally broken. After such a long, hot summer, the torrential rain has been welcomed by practically everyone in the desiccated land. Everyone except me. I gaze out at the sheets of water splashing down onto the slate grey streets with such vehemence they splash straight back up again.

  ‘Nobody’s going to come, are they? This sodding weather’s going to keep them all away.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bella. Everyone’s coming,’ says Ali, pouring me a glass of champagne. ‘I’ve hyped it up to be the party of the summer. No self-respecting hell-raiser is going to be put off by a little bit of rain.’

  ‘Little bit?’ I laugh, gesturing out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, through which the storm looks admittedly impressive.

  ‘OK, perhaps more than a little bit. But honestly, try not to worry. It’s going to be great. The last half-hour beforehand is always the worst.’

  Ali’s wearing a navy blue and white spotted Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress that makes her look about a stone slimmer. She went to the hairdresser this morning and her hair falls in silky blonde waves to her shoulders. She looks lovely, and I think I might love her. But I am terrified.

  To calm my nerves, I pace through to the gallery’s back office and check my appearance for the twenty-fifth time in twenty-five minutes. In deference to the weather, I’m wearing black skinny jeans (yes, I know) and a vintage oversized Clash T-shirt which I’ve slashed at the neck so it falls off one shoulder. A wide patent leather belt the exact shade of Chanel Rouge Noir nips the T-shirt in at the waist and I’m teetering, as ever, on platform strappy sandals. Apart from the shoes, it’s a pretty radical departure from my usual carefree summer style, but tonight I need a coat of armour against the jeers of the art world’s coolmeisters.

  Perhaps I’m also in a kind of mourning. Oh, that’s probably too fanciful, but toughening up my image has been a conscious way of distancing myself from Andy, should he turn up. L
ook, I’m Bella the edgy Shoreditch artist. What would I need with a conventional nine-to-fiver like you? OK, so investigative journalism isn’t exactly nine-to-five, but … SHUT UP! The only way I’ve been able to deal with my sadness over Andy is to block it out completely, compartmentalizing like men do. I did enough wallowing over Ben to realize that it doesn’t help in the slightest, and were I to dwell on it, this pain would be far greater than anything the spineless lothario could cause. So consciously, deliberately, I put Andy out of my head (again), and turn my thoughts to my big night.

  Ali has been working round the clock to promote the exhibition and I’ve watched in awe as she’s set the cogs of the publicity wheel in motion. Journalists, art critics, rock stars, food critics, models, theatre critics, billionaire entrepreneurs, film critics, nightclub impresarios, a ghastly Geldof or two – she knows them all and nobody has been exempt from her relentless storm of upbeat endorsement. Who’d have thought mousy little Alison would have a contacts book to rival Jade Jagger’s? (Oh yes, she’s been invited too.)

  The caterers Jessie hired wanted a themed opening, ‘conceptually Palestine meets Judy Garland meets Jack the Ripper Whitechapel, with the emphasis on Gaza’, but Ali vetoed it. Instead, and sadly sans dwarfs with coke on their heads, we’ve gone for England, forever England, which reflects my work to an extent and means we can have yummy miniature Yorkshire puddings topped with slivers of rare roast beef, fish and chips in little newspaper cones, tiny spoonfuls of chicken tikka masala et al. We were told by the caterers that this was ‘very ten years ago’, but as Ali said, with the speed with which out-of-date becomes retro fashionable, we’re way ahead of the game. The waitresses are wearing Vivienne Westwood-influenced tweed bustiers with mini Union Jack bustles and a Thirties-styled band in evening dress has just started tuning up. They’ll be playing things like ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’.

  I walk back out into the main space of the gallery. Its vast geometric whiteness makes a striking contrast to the tempestuous scene outside. And my splashily colourful oils create another cheery dimension of contrast. Ali, true to her word, has grouped the views from my balcony on the wall previously occupied by the famous New Yoiker, the one directly to your right as you enter the gallery. There are fifteen of them, each strikingly different to the last, from the warm purples and lilacs of late summer dusk to the bright lemons and limes of a spring dawn, via a clearly autumnal piece vibrant with vermillion and terracotta. If you look closely, it’s the differences in detail – the flower seller packing up for the day, the blokes fighting outside the pub, the pregnant woman buying the Big Issue – that are more interesting than the seasonal variety, decorative as this makes the overall rainbow effect. Well, I hope so anyway.

  Ali has deemed almost as many other works from my portfolio worthy of exhibition too: a portrait of my mother in her garden that I painted a couple of years ago; a detailed close-up of an Arum lily, dot-dot-dotted with pollen; some Japanese-inspired line drawings of Routemaster buses and London cabs that I was terribly pleased with at the time. It’s overwhelming, really, being surrounded by my work. I did all this! I haven’t just been wasting my life ricocheting from pub to party to beach and back again! I am an artist!

  I turn to Ali with a huge grin on my face.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, Ms Brown, or may I call you Bella?’ starts the food critic from the Evening Standard. ‘How can you explain a mere art exhibition becoming the Most Talked About Party of the Season? There are more luminaries here than there were at the Serpentine summer party.’

  ‘I don’t know … I – well, I can’t really.’ I start laughing. ‘And can you explain why I’m being interviewed by a food critic?’

  ‘Our gossip columnist is having an affair and is in flagrante as we speak,’ the food critic confides. He is plump and smiley and reminds me a bit of Ronnie Corbett. ‘Shit, that was stupid of me. Please don’t let on.’

  ‘Mum’s the word. So – what do you make of it?’ I gesture round at the gallery, which has filled up with people in the last hour to the extent that Ali is now operating a one-in-one-out policy at the door. Every other face is recognizable from Hello! magazine.

  ‘Honestly? Half these people would turn up to the opening of an envelope, but I like your paintings very much. They’re easy on the eye and interesting. A bit like you, in fact.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I beam, loving the little fellow.

  ‘Bella! That bloody woman wouldn’t let us in until two others had gone and she knows I’m your best friend.’ Poppy races through the crowds towards me, arms outstretched for a hug, and I hide a smile. Ali doesn’t have much time for Poppy after her recent behaviour, while Poppy’s pretty little nose has been put well out of joint by my having another best friend. I let her hug me. She looks adorable in an Inspector Clouseau rain hat and stone-coloured mini trench coat with bare brown legs and black patent ballet pumps.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask. ‘Are you allowed to have a drink?’ She’s been in a hideously expensive drying-out place for the last couple of weeks, with no contact with the outside world.

  ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ She grins and grabs a Black Velvet off a passing waitress. The food critic looks at me enquiringly. ‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘But this is personal. Help yourself to everything you want and be nice about me please?’

  ‘Rarely did one suggestion so perfectly follow the last.’ He bows and heads off in search of more booze.

  ‘Hello, Bella darling,’ says Diana, who has followed Poppy through the crowds at a statelier pace. She looks very chic in a knee-length pale grey silk shift, pearls at her throat, her ash-blonde hair in an elegant chignon.

  ‘Oh Diana, thank you so much for coming. I had no idea. Are you sure it’s OK to leave Ken for the night?’

  Diana smiles sadly.

  ‘I’m afraid the time had come to listen to my daughter. I’m not the right person to look after him any more, and our home isn’t properly equipped. He seems quite content in the home we’ve found him though, which is close enough for me to spend several hours a day with him. He doesn’t even ask when he’s coming home, which is what I was dreading. He seems to think that the home is home.’

  ‘Oh Diana, that’s a huge thing for you to have done, but I’m glad to hear Ken’s happy where he is. I hope it’s not too hideous a wrench for you.’

  ‘Well, the house does seem vast and empty without him, so I’m selling up. I have to anyway, to pay the care fees, which are astronomical. But there’s a little cottage around the corner I’ve got my eye on.’ Diana smiles bravely and I give her a hug.

  ‘Mum’s been brilliant,’ says Pops. ‘You know it’s the right thing to do, don’t you Mum?’

  ‘Yes darling, I do.’ Diana smiles at her daughter and I thank God that Poppy is alive. How the poor woman would have coped with both tragedies is unthinkable.

  Somebody throws a bear-like arm around me from behind, nearly knocking all the breath from my lungs. It can only be one person.

  ‘Mark! Great to see you.’ As I turn around I notice he is hand-in-hand with an incredibly pretty girl.

  ‘This is Sammi-Jo.’ He sounds almost bashful. Sammi-Jo holds out a tiny little hand. Her nails are very long and sugar pink.

  ‘Hi. This is brilliant. You must be so excited,’ she says in a husky voice, and I warm to her instantly. She is about the same size as Poppy, except for a vast pair of knockers, braless and barely contained in a cropped white vest top. Flagrantly disobeying the ‘legs or tits’ rule, her prettily shaped lower quarters are clad in tiny black hot pants, over-the-knee schoolgirl socks and stripper shoes. The expanse of young flesh on display (thighs, midriff, cleavage, arms) looks as if it’s been dipped in caramel.

  ‘Sorry about the get-up,’ she says. ‘But we’ve come straight from a shoot. You did say it would be all right, Mark?’ They are still holding hands.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ I say. Her face is young and sweet, with huge brown eyes and
full lips under the heavy make-up. Her waist-length straightened hair is dyed dark red.

  ‘So you’ve been shooting for Stadium?’ asks Poppy.

  ‘Yeah, bit of a step up from Nuts. Nuts pays better, of course, but they keep trying to put me in a mortar board, which frankly looks a bit stupid when you’ve got your tits out.’

  ‘Sammi-Jo is studying philosophy at London Uni,’ says Mark proudly.

  ‘Cool.’ Poppy looks at her with new respect. ‘Shall we all bugger off for a bit? Maybe get some canapés? I think Bella might have to mingle some more. Belles?’

  ‘Thanks.’ I’m dying to talk to all of them more, but she’s right. I really need to focus on the punters.

  ‘Great,’ says Sammi-Jo. ‘If I don’t have something to eat soon I’ll start biting my acrylic nails again. This is the third lot I’ve got through this month and my agent is starting to get really pissed off with me.’ Mark laughs and kisses her full on the lips. Undeterred, she continues. ‘They’re tough buggers to bite through and I’ll probably wreck my teeth too if I go on at this rate …’ They wander off in the direction of the bar.

  ‘Bella, I want to introduce you to Philip Henderson,’ says Ali, gesturing to the very distinguished-looking gentleman at her side. Tall and slim, sporting well-cut grey hair and an equally well-cut grey suit, Philip Henderson, who’s probably around fifty, exudes expensive charm. You can just tell that his shoes are hand-made.

  ‘Delighted,’ he says. ‘And may I congratulate you on a first-class body of work?’

  ‘Thanks.’ I’m not sure what else to say; I can hardly start asking him to put his money where his mouth is. As it happens I don’t have to, as Ali butts in, ‘Philip is interested in buying your line drawings of the buses and taxis.’ A sale? Yippee! I try to stay cool but am probably betrayed by the huge grin on my face.

  ‘They’re quite beautiful,’ says Philip. ‘And very clever to use the Japanese medium to depict something so quintessentially London.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I thought at the time, but then I started wondering if it’s not a bit …’ Ali silences me with a look. Christ I’m stupid. ‘That’s the general idea,’ she says firmly, as I wonder, insanely, if I could write a Cockney haiku to go with them.