‘Everything seems to be going really well!’ I say.
‘It does, yeah.’
‘Great! Um, actually, I wanted to have a quick word with you, Olly …’
‘Right. Now’s not really the time, Libby, to be honest with you.’ He holds up the bottles of wine. ‘I need to make sure everyone’s got plenty of this.’
‘Of course. Sorry. I don’t want to stop you, I know you’re working. It’s just …’
The first, the most important thing I’d intended to do was offer that massive apology.
But this isn’t what comes out of my mouth, as I’d been assuming it would.
‘Why are you so angry,’ I hear myself asking, ‘that I had dinner with Dillon?’
He flinches. It’s slight, but visible.
‘It doesn’t sound,’ he says, quietly, ‘like it was just dinner.’
‘OK, so let’s say it wasn’t just dinner.’ (Where the hell has my planned apology gone? Why am I getting sidetracked by all this ridiculous Dillon stuff, for crying out loud?) ‘Let’s say it wasn’t even just kissing. Let’s say I went back to his flat with him and had torrid sex all night … I didn’t, by the way,’ I add, hastily. ‘But why do you have to end up so furious with me about it that you … take my name off your restaurant?’
He looks right at me, properly, for the first time in this conversation. ‘Who told you about …? Oh. Bogdan.’ He sighs. ‘I thought I’d sworn him to secrecy.’
‘Olly, this is Bogdan we’re talking about. He doesn’t do secrecy.’
‘He’s kept his own bloody sexuality secret from his father for God knows how many years,’ Olly says, irritably. ‘Though quite how he’s managed that,’ he goes on, gazing over to where Bogdan, in his Harry Styles T-shirt, is coyly sipping wine and letting Adam (oh, for heaven’s sake) feel his biceps, ‘remains a total mystery to me.’
‘Agreed. But that’s not what I want to talk about.’
‘Fine. But I don’t want to talk about any of this at all.’ Olly puts one of his bottles down on the bar, picks up a clean white napkin and starts to wrap it, expertly, around the bottle to prevent leaks while pouring. ‘What you do with Dillon O’Hara is your lookout, Libby.’
‘Look. If you’re annoyed because you think I should have told you I’d seen him again …’
‘That’s not why I’m annoyed.’
‘… then you’re right. I should have told you. The only reason I didn’t is because you’ve had such a lot on your plate at the moment, and I know how much even the mere mention of him winds you up. And I know you wouldn’t have been prepared to hear how much he’s changed …’
‘Bollocks.’
‘He has, actually. A lot.’
‘Leopards,’ says Olly, scathingly, ‘don’t change their spots.’
‘OK, well, I always think that’s a ridiculous thing to say.’ I’m feeling pretty irritated now myself. ‘I mean, it’s just pointing out the fucking obvious. You might as well say tigers don’t change their stripes, or penguins don’t change their beaks, or elephants don’t change their trunks …’
‘They probably do,’ mutters Olly, ‘if the ones they’re wearing need a wash.’
I glare at him. It’s not a time for levity.
‘My point is that just randomly observing that living creatures don’t change their essential physical characteristics is no proof at all that people can’t change! I mean, if people couldn’t change, what would be the point of an organization like Alcoholics Anonymous? What would be the point of people going to therapy …?’
‘Libby, sweetheart, I wouldn’t pull on that thread, if I were you,’ says Dillon, who’s just strolled over to the bar to join us.
Oh, dear Lord.
If we all come out of this alive, I’m going to kill Bogdan.
‘Hope you don’t mind the gatecrash, mate,’ Dillon goes on, leaning down to give me a kiss – a rather slow, deliberate one – on the cheek, before reaching over to hand a bottle of whisky to Olly. ‘Just something to say congratulations, about the new place.’
‘Thank you,’ says Olly, accepting the whisky in the sort of way a disgruntled footballer accepts being sent off by the referee.
‘It’s looking good,’ Dillon goes on. ‘Nice décor.’
Olly merely grunts.
‘Decent-looking paintwork,’ Dillon adds, in a tone of deliberately pleasant surprise.
‘You know a lot about paintwork, then, do you?’
‘Sure do. Worked as an apprentice to a painter and decorator for two summers when I was a lad.’
‘Well, the decorating world’s loss is the acting world’s gain—’
‘OK!’ I interrupt, brightly, all ready to lead Dillon firmly away from the bar and out of the restaurant (and, ideally, as far from Clapham as he’ll let me take him), but he’s rooted to the spot.
‘So what did you use on these walls, then?’ he asks. ‘Looks like that overpriced slop from Farrow and Ball. What’s this one called? Dowager’s Tipple? Weasel’s Belch?’
‘It’s Dulux, actually,’ Olly says. ‘Jasmine White.’
‘This is never Jasmine White,’ Dillon scoffs. ‘I did a whole house in Jasmine White back in Clondalkin. Jasmine White’s got a more buttery undertone. This is Natural Calico, not a shadow of a doubt.’
‘It’s Jasmine White.’
‘I’m telling you, mate, it’s Natural Calico. Less creamy, more peachy.’
‘It isn’t peachy.’
‘Apricoty, then.’
‘Or apricoty.’
‘Jesus, mate, have you never seen the colour of an apricot?’
‘There’s more than one sort,’ Olly says, ‘of fucking apricot.’
Oh, God. Here we go.
‘Have you never seen a Moorpark apricot?’ Olly goes on, eyeballing Dillon as if his life depends on it. ‘They’re fucking green. Or the Red Velvet apricot …’
‘OK, well now you’re just making up apricots.’
‘… which is the colour of a fucking plum.’ Olly shoves a hand in his pocket and pulls out his phone. ‘I’ll Google it for you,’ he says, stabbing at his phone screen, ‘and then you can cast your expert painter-decorator’s eye over my walls again, and tell me they’re apricot coloured.’
‘Hey, look, it’s no skin off my nose what fucking colour walls you have.’ Dillon’s smile has faded. ‘You can paint them in all the colours of the fucking greengrocer’s, for all I care—’
‘Dillon, look,’ I say, stepping in front of him before the apricot paint wars start to become physical. ‘Maybe it’s a better idea for you to head off and get a drink somewhere else …’
‘He can’t have a drink,’ Olly observes, savagely, ‘he’s a recovering alcoholic.’
‘Better a recovering alcoholic,’ Dillon says, ‘than a smug, self-satisfied, apricot-obsessed …’
And now, all of a sudden, Tash appears, like a good fairy in a fairy tale, all blondeness and good health and looking lovely in (damn her) exactly the sort of all-black outfit I’d have probably felt more comfortable in if I’d worn it tonight: a black cotton broderie anglaise sundress, with her hair in two annoyingly cute farm-girl braids.
She puts a hand on Olly’s shoulder.
This is it. This is all she does.
But I can see, immediately, what it does to Olly.
He cools down.
And then he gives Tash a brief touch of his own: just one hand, cupping the small of her back.
It feels like the temperature, just around me, has dropped by about fifteen degrees. While over in the Tash and Olly corner, it’s pleasant weather: idyllic, in fact.
I may not know much about relationships. I may not even know much about men in general.
But I know Olly.
Something has started to happen between him and Tash. It’s as clear as day.
‘Everything OK?’ she asks him.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Olly tells her.
‘I’m Tash,’ she goes on, in her smiley, confident way, exte
nding a hand to Dillon. ‘And don’t worry, I know who you are, I’ve seen you in loads of stuff on TV!’
‘Don’t stoke his ego any more than he already does himself,’ I mutter, as I grasp Dillon firmly by the elbow and finally – finally – succeed in manoeuvring him away from the bar, through the throng, and out on to the street.
‘What the fuck,’ I say, ‘are you doing here?’
Dillon opens his mouth.
‘And don’t give me some crap,’ I go on, ‘about Bogdan mentioning the party and you just thinking it might be lovely to pop along and give your old pal Olly a nice bottle of whisky you can’t drink any more.’
‘Who says he’s not my old pal?’
‘Everyone on the entire planet. Especially if they’d just heard the two of you bickering like schoolboys over shades of apricot, for Christ’s sake. And were you ever a painter and decorator in Clondalkin, by the way, or is this just another of your many fantasies about your old life back there?’
‘Hey.’ He’s serious again, now, in the blink of an eyelid. ‘I don’t lie, Libby. I never lie. Not about stuff that matters.’
‘Oh, so deliberately coming all the way here to wind up Olly doesn’t matter?’
‘That’s not why I came here. I came to see you.’
‘You could have called and asked me to meet you after the party.’
‘I didn’t want to wait until after the party.’ He reaches out a hand and touches my face, with a hand that feels light as a feather. ‘I wanted to see you now.’
‘Dillon …’ I take a small step away. A very, very small step. OK: so small a step that his hand is still touching my cheek. But still. It’s the principle of the thing. ‘We agreed we couldn’t make it work between us.’
‘You said that. I never agreed it.’
‘Point taken.’
‘Great. Now all I have to do is persuade you to be.’
I blink at him. ‘Me to be what?’
‘Taken.’
The pavement feels as if it actually just shifted under me. Which could mean that Clapham has just been the epicentre of a small earthquake. But, more likely, means that Dillon, and my all-consuming, unstoppable desire for him, has just made my legs turn to trifle again.
‘Can I hope that your silence,’ Dillon says, with one of his most devilish grins, ‘means that you’re at least thinking about it?’ He lowers his voice. ‘And the fact you’ve turned shocking pink and look as if you’re about to expire …?’
‘No.’ Arrogant bastard. I swallow, very hard indeed. ‘Or rather, yes, OK? I am thinking about it. But thinking doesn’t have to equate to doing. Now,’ I go on, ‘I need to go back inside and apologize to Olly, on your behalf, for all that apricot nonsense a few minutes ago.’
And, way more important even than that, I need to go and make that hugely important apology I got sidetracked out of doing earlier. If I can get Olly alone for a moment to do so. If I can disentangle him from Tash …
‘I don’t think Olly gives two shits right now whether you apologize to him or not.’ Dillon pulls his hand away from my face. ‘Or didn’t you notice that he and Blondie are seriously into each other?’
So Dillon spotted it too.
‘Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair,’ he goes on. ‘Get a cab home. I’m sorry I can’t persuade you that my intentions towards you are … well, not honourable, obviously. I can’t possibly claim that. But they’re genuine. And I’m sorry, Libby, but where you’re concerned, I just can’t help myself. I’ll never be able to help myself.’
He turns away and starts to walk in the direction of Clapham High Street.
And I turn the other way and – on legs that are still pretty trifle-like – head back into the restaurant.
Olly and Tash are still standing over by the bar.
They’re talking, and smiling. Their heads are very, very close together; her hands are resting on his arms; one of his hands is resting on her waist.
I think it’s best if I just leave them to it.
Best, in fact, if I just leave the party altogether.
Though what part of me it is that thinks it’s also best to leg it out of the front door, out on to the street and after the retreating back of Dillon in such a hurry …
The stupid primitive part, I’ll wager.
I catch up with Dillon just as he reaches the corner with the High Street, and holds his arm out for an oncoming taxi. When I reach for his other hand, he turns round.
‘Fire Girl,’ he says, looking surprised for a moment. ‘I thought you said …’
The taxi’s not even pulled up to the pavement before we start kissing.
So I’m here. Back where it all started.
Dillon’s flat.
To be, in fact, more specific, Dillon’s bed.
But things haven’t moved quite as fast as all that, OK? We’re both still fully clothed.
Well, I’m still fully clothed. Dillon has just this very minute pulled off his T-shirt, and is now displaying an upper body even more impressively defined than I remember.
‘Rehab,’ he says, when he catches me looking.
‘Sorry?’
‘Responsible for this.’ He gestures down at his abdominal muscles. ‘When you give up drinking, and you can’t have sex, and all there is to do all day is sit around gazing at your navel, there’s quite a lot of time – and incentive – to make sure it’s an extremely attractive navel.’
‘Oh, right, of course.’
‘And talking of extremely attractive navels …’
He lies back down on top of the duvet and pulls me towards him.
Which just goes to show that love – or lust, or whatever it is he’s feeling for me at the moment – really is blind, and with an appalling memory, because my navel isn’t what anyone would call extremely attractive. At best, on a very, very good day, and by nice, dim candlelight, it can be described as serviceable.
‘And I’m absolutely loving this dress,’ he murmurs, nuzzling into my neck and using the fingers of one hand to touch, gently, the halterneck strap and the skin underneath it. ‘What with the blonde hair, it makes you look a bit like Marilyn Monroe.’
‘Oh, trust me, I don’t look anything like Marilyn Monroe.’
‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘You’re even more gorgeous.’
I’d point out that this is even more inaccurate than his compliments about my belly button, but there’s no opportunity to say anything at all. He rolls sideways, pulling me with him, so that I end up lying on top of him, his arms around me, as he starts to kiss me again. His hands are in my hair, and his body feels warm against mine, and it’s all just as incredibly wonderful as it was the first time we did this, and the last time we did this, and all the times in between.
So it makes no sense whatsoever that I suddenly roll away, lie on my back and stare at the ceiling for a moment, and then say, ‘So you think Tash and Olly are into each other, too?’
‘What?’
‘You said something earlier, outside the restaurant … I’m just asking if you definitely think Tash and Olly like each other.’
‘Uh … is this really the time to be talking about other couples, Libby?’ Dillon rolls over to face me and props himself up on his elbow. ‘I mean, far be it from me to quash any desires of yours, if that’s what’s tickling your fancy … I can nip out and get a nice big goldfish bowl in the morning, we can all chuck our keys in it and re-enact something that might have happened in the suburbs in the Seventies …’
‘You think they’re actually a couple? Already?’
‘Because that was the most shocking aspect of what I just said,’ Dillon observes. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, obviously you were joking about the wife-swapping …’
‘I never joke,’ he says, ‘about wife-swapping.’
‘… but you didn’t seem to be joking when you called them a couple.’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know … Look, Libby, in all seriousness, can we just get back to what we
were doing?’ He edges closer, puts an arm around my waist and fixes his eyes on mine. ‘I mean, you’re driving me insane, Fire Girl. I can’t think about anything else but you. Your gorgeous, soft body, and how great you are in bed, and your goofy smile when you wake up next to me in the morning … I haven’t slept a wink the last few nights, thinking about it all, and all the stuff I want to do with you, and to you, and adjacent to you …’
‘And perpendicular?’ I ask, with a smile, because I sense we’re both trying to find our way back to the flirtatious banter we were engaged in before I brought up the topic of Olly.
‘Oh, Christ, yes.’ He lets out a theatrical groan. ‘Perpendicular. Please, please, Libby, don’t deny me the pleasure of doing anything perpendicular.’
‘I won’t,’ I say.
And we start to kiss again.
Until I pull back, a moment later.
‘When you say you can’t think about anything else but me …?’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ He rolls onto his back. ‘You’re not going to make this easy, are you?’
‘I just think that’s something we should talk about.’
‘You think the cure for me not being able to think about anything else but you is to talk about it?’ He stares at me, deadpan. ‘It’s like being in a therapy session all over again. Only with a really hot therapist. That I can’t keep my hands off.’ He thinks about this for a moment. ‘In fact, if you were up for any role-play …’
‘Not right now.’
‘… I could be the lapsed drunk …’
‘Because that’s really sexy.’
‘… and you could be the head of the Institute of Really Hot Therapists … where they all wear mind-blowingly sexy uniforms, with, like, really small white doctors’ coats, and heels, and nothing underneath …’
‘Wouldn’t be terribly practical, for a therapy session.’
‘Ah, well, that might depend on the sort of therapy the Institute of Really Hot Therapists offered …’
‘Dillon. Come on. Don’t you think it’s even a little bit important that within hours of coming out of rehab, never planning to touch a drink or a drug again in your life, you’re suddenly … fixating on our relationship?’
‘Who says I’m fixating?’
A Night In With Marilyn Monroe Page 24
