by Penny Smith
Dee was the lynchpin, the organizer, who emailed everyone to set up the dates.
Essentially, each adhered to a similar timetable.
Dinner.
Followed by a bar.
Followed by a club.
Followed by carriages at dawn.
Followed by hangovers.
Followed by assertions that they were never, ever going to drink again. Or, at least, not that much.
At eight o’clock on the nose (tardiness was next to untidiness), she got on to the tube, feeling marvellously racy in her high red shoes. ‘Red shoes, no knickers,’ as her mother used to say.
By nine, the girls were in full flow. Dee was recounting the tale of her second date with William Baron. ‘It was going really well until he said fat people brought it on themselves, or some such crap. I accused him of being fattist. And he said that on balance he thought I was probably fattest. Although he did immediately say that was a joke. A pun. And we know, Katie, how flat those can fall. So, anyway I drank enough to drown a schooner, or is it drown a sailor? Which meant we had a much easier evening – from my point of view. Except … I was still thinking about the fat thing, and my arse being on show. So we went back to his place, and I suddenly remembered what my dear old aunt Gracie was wont to say: “Beauty is only a light switch away.” From then on, everything was lights off. Apart from a strategically placed candle.’
‘Good God,’ said Carina. ‘Where the hell do you put a strategic candle?’
‘You don’t change, do you, you smutty-minded individual? It was – obviously – strategically on the bedside table, thank you very much. To make sure we knew where we were. Or, to be strictly accurate, where the body parts were.’
‘No, said Carina, mock-mystified. ‘He’s a murderer too?’
‘Oh, shut up and let me finish,’ said Dee.
‘Your aunt Gracie was right,’ interrupted Kathy. ‘Good lighting is v. v. important as a woman reaches her prime.’
Dee continued her tale: ‘And I left early on Saturday morning before he got up so he wouldn’t see my haggard face without any makeup. And my hair was a mess,’ she ended.
‘What’s the worst thing about getting old, do we think?’ asked Katie.
‘Wrinkles,’ said Carina.
‘Weird knees,’ added Kathy.
‘Bat wings, so you constantly have to find something to cover the tops of your arms,’ said Jane.
‘Getting rid of your short skirts because of the cellulite,’ claimed Kirsty.
‘I don’t know because I’m only thirty-two,’ said Dee.
‘Liar,’ laughed Katie. ‘I’ve been thirty-seven for years. Why don’t you join me there? And I hate my eyesight going wonky. Although it has its compensations. In the mirror, I think I look all right. So despite being terribly young, Dee, what pisses you off about getting less young?’
‘That everything seems to be so much more urgent. In the past it didn’t matter that I didn’t have a bloke because there were so many other things I needed to sort out. But now … Well. Now I want babies. And the time available, unless I resort to a turkey-baster and a willing male donor, is getting shorter. So to cut a long answer slightly short, I would say that I yearn for a meaningful man, a baby, a pension – which I really should have started by now – a house in France, and more self-control so that I can stop this constant battle against the muffin top, which wasn’t quite as repulsive when I was younger.’
‘But don’t you think,’ suggested Carina, ‘that life as une vieille dame has its advantages? We wouldn’t want to go back to being nineteen, would we, with all those insecurities? Backing out of rooms naked because you were worried about what the man would think of your wobbly bits? Paranoid that they didn’t fancy you because they didn’t phone the next day? So obsessed with them that you could barely brush your teeth for thinking about them?’
‘It’s all right for you,’ said Kathy. ‘You’re married to a lovely man, with children, a beautiful house, no need to worry. I, on the other hand, being terminally single, have to make such an effort every time I go out that by the time I’ve left the flat I’m exhausted and ready to go back to bed. And,’ she raised her hand to stop Katie butting in, ‘it’s been so long since I’ve had a shag, I think I may have healed up. And I’m getting to the stage where I feel like I can’t be bothered either. I only have a bikini wax now if I’m going on holiday. I’m currently sporting, under my attractive and very expensive Hennes skirt, a pair of hairy shorts. And a pair of support pants over the top. I feel sure that any prospective partner would be champing at the bit at the thought of it. Not. And I’m not sure I care.’
She sat back and tossed down the last of her wine.
‘It’s all right for you too, though, Kathy,’ said Jane. ‘I’ve got a twat of an ex-husband, who refuses to see the children more than once a month so they’re all upset, and little Hero’s started wetting the bed. And although David does his best, they’re not his kids and Bertie and Willow keep on shoving it down his throat whenever he tells them off. We haven’t had sex for God knows how long – we’re always too tired with ferrying children around to get it together. My idea of romance is a nice cup of hot chocolate and a whole night’s sleep on my own in a double bed.’
‘And it’s all right for you, Jane,’ said Carina. ‘At least you have a job you can do from home. Whereas the home is my job, and sometimes I get such stultifying brain atrophy that I can see John nodding off while I’m speaking. I feel about as sexy as a bag of chicken giblets. Even if I force myself to climb out of my tracksuit by the time he gets home, ten to one I’ll have a bit of fish-finger on my top. I have nothing interesting to tell him, and if I do, I can’t think of the right words because I’ve spent all day talking to the children or their horrid little friends. If he’s not already shagging his secretary, it’s only a matter of time.’
‘My turn now.’ Katie laughed. ‘It’s all right for you. At least you have a man who supports you, and will continue to support you, even if he does run off with his secretary. Who, incidentally, as we both know, is such a munter that he’d need his head examining were he to take down her particulars. And you’ve got adorable children, who won’t be little for ever. Whereas if I don’t get some money in soon, I’ll be forced to sell my raddled old body in King’s Cross.’
Kirsty continued with the theme. ‘It’s all right for you, Katie. You haven’t had any children so you don’t have empty, sagging breasts, like two small pouches, or a latticework stomach that swings from side to side when you run. And haemorrhoids. And bags under your eyes. And a partner who bloody ogles every girl he sees.’
‘But it’s all right for you, Kirsty,’ said Dee – who got shouted down.
‘You’ve already done yours!’ they cried. And ordered another couple of bottles of wine for the road.
‘By the way, Katie,’ said Dee, quietly, ‘you were right about William. I spoke to him eventually, and he said that that was exactly why he invited her out. And he says he didn’t say dinner, just that he’d like to meet up to discuss a possible strand. And he said he didn’t get back to me about Wednesday because he had a late session booked in so he wasn’t going. We’re out on Saturday night.’
‘And what will you be wearing to meet your paragon of guru?’
‘Paragon of guru?’
‘Play on words. Paragon of virtue? Paragon of guru?’
‘Seriously bad. Give it up. Now. So … I was thinking I’d wear fishnets,’ said Dee.
‘Good thought. Anything else?’
‘Nope. Just fishnets. And maybe a fish in the nets? Haddock, perhaps.’
‘Or crabs?’
‘Ha. Disgusting. But you’d never get crabs in a fishnet. You need a pot for that.’
And the night descended into bawdiness.
At about the time that those with day jobs were thinking about getting home, the K Club went clubbing. The cackling coven wound its way through the streets of London’s West End and up to Air Street,
where Katie had reserved a table. ‘Cocktails, I think,’ she said, ‘and I will be having a Cosmopolitan.’
The heat in the club lay on them like a duvet.
‘Maybe we should get up and dance. At least it’ll be good for us,’ shouted Carina, over the music. ‘Like doing morris dancing in a hammam.’
The best thing, thought Katie, fuggily, about your very best friends was that it didn’t matter how rubbish you looked, they all said how beautiful you were. And they didn’t criticize your dancing. And they said they loved your shoes, even if they hated them. And that your hair was fine. Really fine. No, not at all like Margaret Beckett on a bad day. And these Cosmopolitans are bloody glorious. ‘Another round, I think,’ she said, sliding back sweatily on to her seat.
‘Three more Metropolitans, two Caipirinhas and the same thingy as last time,’ she puffed to the waiter.
As they sat at the table recuperating, clammy and with a lot less makeup on than when they’d arrived, Katie spotted a proposition. She cupped her hand round Kathy’s ear. ‘Look at that gorgeous bloke on the dance-floor,’ she slurred. ‘Indian. Or half Indian. Snaky hips or what?’
Kathy peered round her into the gloom. ‘Mmm. Magnifishent. Hairy chesht. Jusht what you like in a man. And, amazhingly, hish friend ish attractive too.’
‘I’m going to dance near them,’ announced Katie, standing up. ‘Coming?’
They staggered on to the dance-floor where their antics were noticed by Mr Snaky Hips and his mate, who began to undulate in their general direction.
The girls squashed up as the new arrivals joined them.
Introductions were made.
Mr Snaky Hips’s name was Krishnan Casey. He was half Irish, half Indian, had the greenest eyes and a mouth made for kissing, Katie thought.
His friend was half Irish half Chinese, Seamus Chung.
‘Brilliant name,’ said Kathy, admiringly, her eyes lingering on the six-pack revealed by his tight-fitting shirt.
The pounding music made it difficult to have any meaningful dialogue, so the girls concentrated on meaningless dialogue. They discovered the two men worked in the City, played squash together, lived in Holland Park, and would have to be up at six in the morning.
‘How do you do that?’ shouted Katie.
‘Drugs,’ shouted back Krishnan. ‘Do you want some?’
‘No, thanks. Would ruin the taste of my Surbiton,’ bellowed Katie. ‘But don’t let me stop you.’
‘I was joking, actually. I drink lots and lots of water. Can’t get enough of the stuff,’ he said. ‘Which is why I’ll be leaving you for a few minutes.’ He disappeared in the direction of the loo, oddly with Seamus.
‘Well, I’m sorted for pudding,’ said Katie, putting her mouth close to Kathy’s ear again. ‘How about you?’
‘Dreamy,’ murmured Kathy.
Dee came round from the other side of the table and leaned forward to Katie. ‘What about Bob?’ she asked.
‘He’s lovely,’ slurred Katie, ‘totally yummy. But he’s not here. Sadly. And I think I need to be kissed. It’s not being unfaithful. And he’s very sexy, isn’t he?’
Dee merely shook her head, and returned to the icy remains of her drink.
Katie was feeling decidedly woozy when Krishnan came back, and thought she might be better off on the dance-floor with him. She tried to do dirty dancing, but found it difficult to keep in time, so settled for trying to balance on the balls of her feet with a sweep at either end of the sway. ‘Whoops,’ she said, as she bounced off another shuffling drunkard.
Krishnan held on to her arm as she stumbled, then put his other arm round her and held her tight. Katie looked up, drowned in the sea green eyes and closed her own ready for the kiss. Then opened them again because her head was spinning. But Krishnan had already taken her lips in his – and what a kisser. She was lost within five minutes of the exquisite perfection. Katie was an expert on kissing. It was possibly her favourite hobby. She had started early. At twelve, she had kissed Geoff with the shiny dark hair. It was better than shortbread covered with chocolate. Better than jumping out of trees. Better than beating Tracy at maths. There was absolutely nothing better than closing your eyes and getting goosebumps while a boy held you close.
She gave up learning the piano. She gave up concentrating at school. She gave up on all her girlfriends who were not as passionate as she was about her new hobby. She went to the cinema with any boy who was willing. She discovered what she liked and what she definitely didn’t.
She did not like the washing-machine. That was George – saliva all over her face, and a rotating movement with the mouth.
She did not like the chewer. That was Edward – no tongues, just a chewing motion.
And she hated the woodpecker. That was Chris, with his frantic pecking and jabbing.
Katie got a reputation for ‘going with anyone’. But she didn’t care. It was important to check whether there was anything new to learn. And, amazingly, there always was. But she never wanted to go any further than kissing. Her reputation changed to ‘prickteaser’. She cared even less. She just wanted to carry on kissing. And while there were mouths to feast on, she would continue her studies.
Whether Krishnan had studied quite as much, she might never find out. But right then, right there in the hot, clammy club, he was the most delicious kisser she had ever kissed.
It was perfect. A bit of pressure, and the tongue doing a vague exploration. It was lucky he was holding on to her when he finished because otherwise she would have fallen over, swooned in a truly old-fashioned way.
‘Wow,’ she said, coming up for air. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’
He whispered in her ear, making the follicles stand up all down her back. ‘I was taught by nuns.’
She laughed, and they returned to the table for a drink. She managed another Cosmopolitan, and felt as sparkling as a seventies glitterball. She decided she was going to take Krishnan home. As a treat to herself. ‘You want to come to my pad? In Chelsea?’ she asked. ‘I have a beer in the fridge …’ she added, knowing herself to be a little drunk, so speaking very slowly to make sure she was being understood.
‘My, oh, my. A whole beer. I think I would probably like to,’ he said, looking at her in a measuring way.
Katie stood up. ‘Girls,’ she announced portentously, ‘I am going to go now. Krishnan here will be taking me home. Thank you for a wonderful night. I love you all.’
She and Krishnan made their way to the exit. There was a slight wave in her walk. A glassiness in the eyes. A heaviness to the head.
The cold air in the street pulled her up. ‘This way,’ she said peremptorily to Krishnan, having spotted a taxi at the end of the road.
At which point, a photographer leaped in front of her and started snapping. She could see spots in front of her eyes, and staggered off the pavement, narrowly held from flying full length by Krishnan, who seemed surprised to have a photo taken of him and a woman he had just met. ‘What the fuck are you doing, mate?’ he shouted angrily. ‘Back off. And put that bloody camera down.’
‘It’s OK,’ puffed Katie, standing up and pulling down her dress, which had ridden up alarmingly high during the tumble. She tried to see past the flashing light of the camera to the photographer behind it. ‘Please stop that,’ she said, putting out her hand. ‘You’ve done enough now. Stop it.’
He carried on as she walked towards him.
‘Stop it,’ she said again.
But he didn’t.
And, suddenly, she had had more than enough of him. She ran at him, grabbed his camera and pulled his head towards her with the neck strap. ‘Stop it with the fucking photographs,’ she shouted in his face, and pulled the strap over it.
‘Give me back my camera!’ He made a grab for it.
‘No,’ said Katie, pulling it from his fingers.
As he fought to get it from her, a young woman tried to walk past them. No one knew quite how it happened, but one moment they were gr
appling over the camera and the next there was a girl on the ground with an enormous gash on the side of her face where it had hit her. ‘Now look what you’ve done, you arsehole!’ shouted Katie, as she knelt down to the girl.
The photographer was taking pictures again.
‘You bastard,’ she yelled at him. ‘Fuck off. Oh, God, she’s out cold. Call an ambulance.’
Suddenly she noticed that Krishnan was no longer with her.
He had watched the scene unfolding, and realized she was famous in some way. He really didn’t want to be around. He thought he’d be in trouble.
So he didn’t witness the arrival of the ambulance. The arrival of the police. And the exit of Katie and the photographer in the back of the squad car.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Friday was not a good day. At least, it wasn’t for former breakfast-television presenters who had spent the night in a police cell. Katie had not gone quietly. She had vociferously protested her innocence, and pointed furiously at the photographer as the culprit.
Although the policemen were sympathetic, they couldn’t fail to notice that she reeked of alcohol, and that her explanation of events kept getting lost in translation, muddied by a few too many Cosmopolitans.
It also didn’t help that the photographer appeared to be a decent type, who claimed he’d only taken a couple of pictures before she’d attacked him. They spotted the lie as soon as they got to the police station and looked at the digital playback.
Nevertheless an injured woman had been taken to hospital for stitches and observation. And, of course, a celebrity was involved, which meant there would be newspaper interest. And that things had to be seen to be done so the media wouldn’t have a go at them.
Katie hardly slept, veering between desperate dehydration and dehydrated desperation. Just when things were looking up, she’d had to make a small error, and now she was on the slippery slope to ruin again.
If only she hadn’t had that last drink. If only they’d gone to a club that didn’t attract photographers. If only she hadn’t taken the camera from the photographer. If only she … And what the hell had happened to Krishnan? Why hadn’t he helped her? She didn’t remember him leaving. Mind you, she didn’t remember much of the evening after they’d got to the club.
