The Chocolate Run

by Dorothy Koomson

  We’d switched hotels this year. Usually, it was the Holiday Inn, but this year I’d wangled a special deal with the Queens Hotel, which had a huge ballroom that would be perfect for the gala night event.

  The ballroom had been breathtaking when I left it last night. The stage, where film-makers would come receive their prizes from our other honoured guests, had been set up. Silver stars hung from the ceiling, while huge hangings with Andy Warhol-type prints of various film icons adorned the walls. The waiters and waitresses would be dressing up as cinema ushers with boxes around their necks instead of carrying trays.

  Today, Martha, Renée and I had the afternoon off so we could get ready for tonight. I was using this afternoon to sleep and then to go get my hair professionally put up. Martha was off getting her hair done too. Her film icon of choice was Marilyn à la The Seven Year Itch and she was doing it properly. She wasn’t only hiring the dress, she was also having her hair cut and dyed. A big sacrifice for work, but there was no telling her.

  Renée, who’d gone from svelte to heavily pregnant seemingly overnight, was going as Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby. I’d tried to explain the folly of this: ‘Asking for trouble’ kept slipping from my lips, but she wanted to wear a cute sixties dress. ‘The woman was impregnated by the Devil,’ I reminded her. But she wasn’t listening. I was the only one being normal.

  I glanced at my dress again. I was going as Holly Golightly from Breakfast At Tiffany’s. I’d found the perfect black dress that flowed down my body to pool around my ankles and flattered every one of my curves. It didn’t have the split that Holly’s had, but everything else looked the same. I also had fake diamond jewellery – necklace, earrings, bracelet and hair clip – long gloves, high-heeled black shoes and a long cigarette holder. When I’d had my hair put up I was going to look like the star of the show.

  It was a tradition that Matt and Jen came to the last-night party of the Festival, and booked themselves a room in the hotel for the night. Greg, who got an invite as standard because he was a member of the press, often stayed in my room (Sean never came to the Festival, not even if I got him free tickets – he just wasn’t interested) unless he pulled – in which case he usually booked a room to impress said pullee. Tonight, after the speeches and prize-giving, though, Greg and I were going to sit down Jen and Matt and explain how we felt about each other. And, then, tomorrow, I was off on holiday. We were off on holiday.

  Holiday. Ten days. With Greg. He’d arranged it, OKed it with Renée so I wouldn’t have to oversee the dismantling of everything tomorrow, then booked us a nine-day trip of a lifetime. The ultimate chocolate run. We were doing Lille, Belgium and Switzerland. He said we’d do Mexico and Ghana another year. He hadn’t told me about the holiday until two days ago, yes, ’til Wednesday, because he didn’t want to risk me freaking out. Greg knew me so well. He was indeed my perfect boyfriend.

  I stopped in the middle of unpacking my bag as my heart skipped a beat. I sat heavily on the bed, clutching my make-up bag. My perfect boyfriend.

  I thought I knew what I wanted from a relationship until I got together with Greg. He had depths. Real depths. He wasn’t one chocolate, he was a whole selection box. I knew that, but it kept surprising me.

  I could sleep now. I slept BG (Before Greg), but now I slept through. I rarely woke up at 4 a.m. and lay thinking, worrying, fretting, reworking any more. It was the reworking that was destructive. Should I have married Sean, just gotten over the whole Jackie Brown and ‘I don’t believe in marriage’ things? Should I be nicer to Mrs H because, after all, my dad does love her? Should I have accepted that job at the London Film Festival? On and on I went. Not with Greg. If I woke up in the night, I’d simply roll over, go back to sleep.

  It wasn’t simply having a boyfriend, it was Greg’s Gregness. It was knowing that all the pieces of the selection box he was made him my Malteser. My favourite chocolate. Greg was my Malteser and I could be still with him. My mind could rest. I could be at peace.

  I lay back on the bed, spread my arms wide out. I never knew this was what love felt like. It was almost as good as chocolate. Dare I say? Better than chocolate . . . No, that’s wrong. Nothing is better than chocolate. But this, this love business was 99 per cent as good. Hell, 99.99 per cent as good.

  ‘As you can see, I am with child,’ Renée said.

  She was giving her speech, the final one of the Festival. She was glowy and striking in her orange and white A-line sixties minidress that emphasised her bump. She’d scraped all her hair under an elfin-cut blonde wig to go for the full Rosemary look. ‘Despite rumours to the contrary, this is not the Devil’s child,’ Renée added.

  The three hundred or so people in the ballroom tittered. ‘I will be stepping aside as Festival Director for the period of my maternity leave. Thankfully, I have a more than able replacement. Most of you have dealt with her, negotiated with her and sometimes been told off by her. It is, of course, our Deputy Festival Director, Amber Salpone.’ I went cold. She didn’t tell me she was going to announce this. Most people don’t make a big deal of things like this. They go off on maternity leave and pray that their stand-in does a shite job so everyone remembers how fantastic they are. ‘Come on, Amber, step forward,’ Renée cajoled.

  I stepped forward but with difficulty – my Holly Golightly dress had only so much give, walking wasn’t exactly easy.

  ‘This is the woman who you’ll have to wine, dine and generally be nice to,’ Renée said, fanning her fingers out like I was the prize on a game show.

  I plastered a smile on my face. What do I do with my hands? Where do I look? I’m not used to this. Not sure I like it. Despite all I’ve wished for, I don’t like being the centre of this much attention.

  I looked out into the crowd, at the sea of Marilyns, Bogarts, Hollys, Chaplins, Halles, Denzils and, quite obscurely, one Princess Leia. The first person I locked eyes with was Mr Chocolate Sniffer, dressed as Will Smith in Men in Black. He’d become a Festival volunteer and we’d had an awkward moment when he realised who I was and why I knew his films. ‘I see why you watch a lot of films,’ he’d said.

  He was attractive, yes, but he didn’t have the same effect on me he had last time. I wasn’t in that lost state I had been when I last saw him so I’d been a bit more reserved this time, but that didn’t stop him attempting a bit of flirting at a screening one night. He’d rested his hand on my arm as he asked me to come out for a drink with him after the screening. He’d been stood very close again and I’d marvelled at how smooth his skin was, and how engaging his chestnut eyes were. But, I wasn’t panicky like last time. I only had eyes for Greg. This man was beautiful, but not Greg.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Go on, just one.’

  I shook my head and, in response, he’d flashed me a beatific smile, went to say something, then the smile froze on his face. ‘Your man, is he white with long black hair, looks like he could handle himself in a fight?’ he asked in a stage whisper.

  ‘Suppose,’ I replied, slightly confused.

  ‘Interesting. Right, so I’ll remove my hand from your person and ask you out another time.’

  I’d turned and found Greg shooting malevolent looks at Mr CS’s retreating form. Still, it didn’t stop us having a laugh, and him being pleased for me. I grinned back at him, then stepped back out of the limelight.

  Renée finished her speech and then the prizes were handed out. After the speeches, for me, came the schmooze. I had to talk to a number of people and set up meetings for when Renée left; others needed their egos flattering because they hadn’t won the award they thought they deserved; others still wanted to chat as the lights were lowered, music came on, people started dancing in our magical ballroom crammed with icons.

  When I escaped the final schmoozee, I stood at the foot of the stage, my eyes scanning the ballroom looking for a Mafioso from The Godfather, Bridget Fonda from Single White Female and, ahem, James Bond. In other words, Greg, Jen and Matt. The first person
I spotted was Greg. He was wearing a black suit, black shirt, with black tie. He was stood alone, leaning against a pillar, staring into the mid-distance. I’d love to have taken a picture of him like that. Hair tumbling forwards over his face, his body almost propping up the pillar. He’d look brilliant in black and white. I decided to write it into my screenplay. Man stands against pillar, looking broody. And horny. Well horny.

  Greg straightened up as I approached, his face brightening with a smile. I linked my arms around his neck.

  ‘Hey, this is public contact,’ Greg warned, his Minstrel eyes doing that trick where they were fixed to mine, but at the same time looked over every inch of my face.

  I shrugged. ‘Don’t care. You’re my fella and I don’t care who I tella,’ I said.

  Greg laughed a small sunshine laugh. ‘Jen and Matt have gone to get something from their room. Actually, I think they’ve gone to have sex . . . but, hey, you did really well. Amazingly, in fact.’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied cheekily. ‘Did you expect any less of me?’

  ‘You’re pissed,’ he said and planted a hand on each of my bum cheeks.

  ‘No. Just happy.’ And pumped up from pulling off my first Festival.

  ‘And just beautiful,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, I didn’t like to say anything,’ I joked.

  I got another dose of sunshine poured into my ears. I brushed his hair out of his face so I could see his chocolate eyes. ‘I’ve been thinking about that living together thing,’ I began.

  Greg’s expression froze. His heart raced so hard in his chest I could feel it against my chest.

  Maybe I should have left things alone. I’d thought of taking this step constantly during the last few weeks. Every time I went to sleep without seeing or talking to him I’d thought about how I could have him there all the time if I took the next step.

  ‘And I was going to say that I’d like to go for it if you did, but by the look on your face, maybe I should’ve left it alone.’

  ‘My face was scared you were going to flip out again.’

  ‘I didn’t flip out.’

  ‘Oh yes you did. I’ve never seen a woman get so freaked in such a short space of time. Why do you think I haven’t brought it up since?’

  ‘So, what do you think? About moving in together?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Greg said, scrunching up his lips in thought.

  ‘I’ll totally understand if you’ve changed your mind,’ I added. Knowing I so wouldn’t. Why wouldn’t he want to live with me? Why w—

  Greg lowered his head, moved his lips a fraction from mine. ‘Course I want to live with you. I love you, don’t I?’

  I closed my eyes in a drunken haze of happiness as Greg kissed me. He was perfect at lip kisses, perfect at making this block of chocolate dissolve. I kissed him back, remembering the last time we’d done this.

  It was the night before the Festival started. I’d left work after midnight and got a taxi round to his because I hadn’t seen him properly in almost a month. On the doorstep I called him and said I’d sent him a little something because he’d been so understanding about not seeing me in the run-up to the Festival. He’d stomped downstairs, opened the door and given me the ego boost of a lifetime when his face transformed into a picture of pure joy. He’d pulled me into the house and I managed to kick the door shut before he was tearing at my clothes, kissing me, dragging me to the ground and then emptying out my bag to find a condom. We’d done it right there in the corridor. He hadn’t orgasmed so much as exploded inside me.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re pleased to see me then?’ I said as we got our breath back. He’d smiled an indulgent smile, shook his head slightly as he remembered my inability to do serious for too long. ‘I want you to stay with me,’ he said, suddenly serious. I went to explain that I couldn’t, that I had to go home and sleep before the big opening, and he’d said, ‘Please. Stay.’ So I had.

  That was two weeks ago. Sixteen days. Sixteen years in Greg and Amber sex time. We were making up for it now, though, with heavenly kisses that were more than likely to end up with us sneaking off up to our room.

  Nothing else mattered, existed, as we kissed. Nothing, except the voice that bellowed in my ear, ‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?’

  chapter twenty-nine

  friend or lover?

  Greg and I sprang apart, like two people who shouldn’t be kissing who’d been caught with their faces welded together. We stood with guilt daubed across our faces, staring at Jen and Matt.

  They glared back at us. Highly unamused. Stupefied? Put out?’ Extremely pissed off ? Yes, yes, and yes. Amused, no.

  I averted my eyes as giggles started escaping from the corners of my mouth, silent laughter shaking my shoulders. To make matters worse, I felt Greg’s shoulders shaking as he started laughing which, of course, made me worse. One look back at our audience did it, though. Matt’s big frown and Jen’s wide open eyes had the laughter booming out of my mouth. I fell against Greg as we laughed as though it was the funniest thing on earth. Which it was – after seven months of sneaking around, we’re caught out three minutes before we come clean. Eventually, we pulled ourselves together, Greg slipped his arm around my waist, and I wrapped both arms around him.

  ‘If you hadn’t guessed, we’re together,’ Greg said.

  Matt and Jen simply stared at us, their expressions unchanged. Greg looked down at me, silently asking if he was allowed to tell them everything.

  I nodded.

  ‘And we’re moving in together.’

  ‘FANTASTIC!’ Matt screamed so loudly that even above the music we jumped. He came hurtling towards us. ‘I always thought you two should get together!’ he screeched. ‘You’re so well suited, and now you’re settling down. That’s amazing!’ All a bit expressive for a Yorkshire boy lump of toffee who didn’t like me, but maybe he wasn’t as unchanging as I’d cast him as, after all. Maybe he was all right. It’s not as if I didn’t like toffee.

  While Matt leapt on us, almost choking me when his bicep linked around my neck – I assumed that was unintentional – Jen didn’t move. She stayed in the background, frozen still. Immobilised by horror. Everything about her – her face, her body, her eyes, particularly her eyes – were etched with horror. Then she came out of her trance and joined the group hug.

  Later, the men did the manly thing and went to the bar to get drinks. I did the womanly thing and said they could put it on my room tab.

  Jen, who’d come as Bridget Fonda in Single White Female, was wearing a clingy little black dress that showed off every diminished inch of her, stood with me by our chosen pillar. The second Matt and Greg were out of earshot, she turned on me.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about you and Greg?’ she asked, her big blue eyes, which seemed sunken in her face, narrowed into a fierce glare. They were just blue, not one of the usual variations they used to be, just blue. I always thought Jen would be hurt when she unearthed my secret, not angry. And horrified. And fearsome.

  ‘I meant to,’ I explained. ‘I really meant to, but, um, remember in college I went out with your fella Connor’s best mate and I dumped him after a few weeks because he was so boring?’

  She gave a curt nod, her dusky pink lipstick making her lips a flat line as she pressed them together.

  ‘Remember how much trouble it caused between you and Connor and how you kept trying to get me to give his friend another chance? And it caused so much trouble between us. We almost fell out over it. I didn’t want that to happen to us again. To be honest, I didn’t think it’d go so well with Greg. I thought it’d be over in a few weeks so nobody need know.’

  ‘But you’re going to live with him, it must’ve been going well,’ she hissed.

  ‘We were going to tell you tonight, but they made that announcement and I got tied up talking to people and . . . I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Never. Not Sean, not anyone. He’s my soul mate. Not that I ever believed in such things before. But he is. I . . . I . .
. Oh, please be happy for me, Jen. Please.’ I was begging her. Begging her because I wanted all this to stop. I wanted my Jen back. Not the one who called me fat or bought me half-pints. The one I’d spent the last twelve years with. The one I called my best friend.

  Jen’s face softened into a huge smile as she put her spindly arms around me. ‘Course I’m happy for you, sweetie. I’m very happy for you.’

  As I hugged her, I felt every bone in her. Shame washed over me – I’d let this happen. I’d let Jen slip into this by not being a proper friend, by being so caught up in being with Greg. While I was falling in love, becoming more confident, Jen was becoming a shadow of her former self. Well, I decided, holding her closer, I have to get the real Jen back. And that starts with getting her weight up.

  I hit the loos at a run. A feminine run that was more a swift walk because of the confines of my dress and because I was trying to cross my legs as I walked.

  I was aware that I was probably doing a wiggly-bum walk as I crossed the dance floor, keeping close to the fat pillars that ringed the dance space until I reached the heavy oak doors. I stepped out onto the thick, springy carpet of the corridor, then wiggly-bum walked into the marble-floored loos. The air was heavy with pot pourri and expensive perfume. A loo attendant sat on a gold chair with a red velvet cushion. It was so posh in there it was technically a powder room; had I not been busting to go, I would’ve wondered if it was too posh to piss in.

  I emerged from the loos altogether more composed. A couple of people stopped me to congratulate me on how great the Festival had been and on my promotion. I grinned back at them as I said thank you. I was important now. Admittedly I hadn’t exactly liked the limelight earlier when I had to stand on the stage, but I was behind-the-scenes important. I was a behind-the-scenes star.

  Now that Jen and Matt knew, my night was complete. Greg and I could hold hands, or, as we’d been doing, he could slip his arms around my waist, and kiss my neck, lean down to whisper ‘I love you’ into my ear as we talked to the other two . . . Yup, we were a disgusting couple. That had to stop. But not tonight. Tonight was the night we’d finally come out, so we were allowed to be disgusting. Matt had been unbelievably overjoyed about Greg and me getting together. He kept thinking back over the past few months and then saying things like ‘So, when you were going on about the best sex ever, that was Amber?’ and Greg would nod, very smugly.