Young Wives' Tales Part 26

The walls and floor are mirrored so I keep stumbling into myself. I grope my way around as discreetly as possible until I find somewhere to sit down. There are no individual chairs, only ma.s.sive leather daybeds the size of four coffee tables joined together. People are lying on them; chatting, smoking, drinking and laughing. I recognize most faces but still feel uncomfortable lying down next to colleagues. I'm not one for speedy intimacy, as a rule. However, after I've knocked back a gla.s.s of whatever it is Julia hands me, I decide I'd better sit down before I fall down.

I should have eaten lunch. I'm out of the habit of getting trolleyed on Bolly. I remember the days when slos.h.i.+ng back a couple of bottles of bubbly was what I did as a chaser to several Cosmopolitan c.o.c.ktails and I still felt relatively unaffected. I don't do drunk. Or I didn't do drunk. I like to be in control.

It's another sign of b.l.o.o.d.y ageing, isn't it? I can no longer handle my drink. Soon it will be thin bones, leather skin, floppy b.o.o.bs, incontinence, meals-on-wheels. Will I ever feel the thrill of a stranger catching my eye and holding it a little longer than necessary? The fact is, for the last five years or so, since Auriol was born, I don't believe I've lived my life in a true or full way anyhow. It's a half life. A step closer to nothingness, to death. I've travelled less. I've eaten out less. I've missed out on promotions and bonuses. I rarely o.r.g.a.s.m. I'm always tired. People promise that motherhood expands horizons in unimaginable ways but that has not been my experience. Motherhood has wrapped me in chains.

I should go home. I don't want people to see me slurring, or dribbling or pa.s.sing out. I've enjoyed a rather unique position at Gordon Webster Handle in that I've seen just about every one of my colleagues plastered and pathetic but no one has seen me behave with anything other than decorum.

Ever.

Even Peter.

I mean, of course, I get a little squiffy with him sometimes. We have been known to knock back a couple of bottles of wine at dinner but I feel totally different now. Not squiffy, more splattered. Not that what I'm feeling is actually bad, rather it's unknown and as such, a little disconcerting.

'Go with it, Lucy,'yells Julia, as though she's read my mind.

She's lying on the red leather daybed, next to me, and staring at the ceiling. I look up. Fantastic images of incredibly beautiful clubbers are being projected on to the ceiling. As the floor and walls are mirrored it becomes almost impossible to work out what's up and what's down. Reality begins to lift and float with something more dreamlike and a little easier to handle: illusion. I wonder what Peter's doing right now? Sitting with his feet up probably. He'll be balancing the remote control and a bottle of beer on his stomach. Feet up on the coffee table, even though I'm always telling him not to do that.

I flop on to my back and watch the images flitter and flutter above me. Julia pa.s.ses me a cigarette and I take a drag. For the first time in months I start to feel a little relaxed.

'Hey look, Lucy. Ralph is snogging Mick's PA,'says Julia.

I try to sit up but find the movement too taxing. I take her word for it.

'I thought he fancied me,'I comment.

'He fancies everybody. He's totally indiscriminate,'she says. I see. 'He tried it on with me when I was working late one night. Very clumsy attempt. Embarra.s.sing all round, to be honest. What about you? When did he take a pop?'

'Well, he's never actually moved in on me,'I confess. 'I'm too senior for him to risk that,'I add.

'Right,'says Julia but she sounds unimpressed.

I thought Ralph fancied me.I've been giving him a gentle cold shoulder since he joined, as I was sure if he made a pa.s.s our working relations.h.i.+p would be destroyed, but it looks like I needn't have worried myself. I didn't realize he was indiscriminate. I normally pick up on that sort of thing. Not that I fancy him in the slightest, but. Well. I just thought.

The evening seems to be being played on a faulty video recorder. One moment everything is happening at double speed and life rushes by in a series of vibrant, disjointed images, loud noises and spicy smells. The next everything is slowed right down and it seems to me that the people dancing look exactly like footage of the guys landing on the moon. Sus.h.i.+ is being served but I can't be bothered to sit up to eat any; I do however accept two, or perhaps three, funny-coloured c.o.c.ktails from beautiful girls who want to be writing novels; most of the liquid makes it to my mouth.

The noise around me is deafening; laughter and lasciviousness bash against one another. Una.s.suming people who usually limit themselves to the odd decent gla.s.s of port after dinner are suddenly downing fluorescent liquids and challenging one another to break-dancing compet.i.tions. The loos are already packed with sobbing girls trying to fix their rivers of mascara and there are groups of guys from accounts wearing paper hats and acting 'wacky'. Their desperate show of merriment puts me in mind of the presenters of the programmes that Auriol likes to watch.

Suddenly, I notice the presence of someone sitting on the daybed next to me. I'm still lying flat and can't summon the energy to turn and see who it is. It's not Julia she disappeared to snog one of the traders some time ago. She's a thoughtful girl, though; she left me with two drinks lined up so I haven't had to go to the bar.

'Hi-ya, Princess.'

'Mick!'I beam at him. 'Lie back, lie down flat,'I instruct. 'It's sensational. Look at what's on the ceiling.'There are no longer images of s.e.xy clubbers strutting their stuff; there's now a montage of fabulous street scenes. One minute I'm in Venice, then Miami and then Barcelona.

'Sit up, Princess,'says Mick. He gently grasps my shoulders and pulls me to a sitting position. I am a floppy dead weight and don't help him. 'Has someone been spiking your drinks?'he asks.

'Nooooooo. I did all this on my own,'I slur back with a smile. 'I've eaten very little for three days now. And tonight I have drunk lots and lots. It's wonderful.'I fling my arms wide to ill.u.s.trate my exuberance. Nothing spills out of my gla.s.s because it's empty. I look around for my next one.

'Why aren't you eating?'

'Don't want to get fat.'I can't believe I've said this. Never in my life have I ever admitted to dieting, although I've dieted since I was an adolescent. I no longer regard the way I eat, or rather what I don't eat, as a matter of dieting, it's simply being sensible. I never eat processed food, saturated fats, crisps, chips, sweets, biscuits, cakes or ice cream. It's a fact that a moment on the lips is a month on the hips. I also regard alcohol as prohibitively fattening and since my thirty-third birthday, when I noted a considerable slow-down in my metabolism, I've made it my rule to limit my alcohol consumption considerably. It's stupid to break my own policy. Even as I accept this in a part of my subconsciousness, I take a large gulp of champagne. Why aren't I more bothered?

'I've never seen you this drunk, Luce.'

'I've never been this drunk, Mick. Do you like my dress?'

'Sorry?'

'My dress. It's new. Do you think it suits me?'All at once I need a compliment specifically from Mick, and I need it now.

'Very nice.'

'Really?'

'It's great,'he says.

Even three sheets to the wind I note the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. Since NY Mick and I have settled into a relations.h.i.+p that is sprinkled with friendly banter, more friendly than before we went away and less flirtatious. Of course I'm delighted to have a buddy and I acknowledge that the relations.h.i.+p couldn't have gone any other way, I'm married, but.

But. A small part of me thinks that this new safe relations.h.i.+p is just a teensy bit dull. By opting to be 'just good friends'I've agreed to don the invisibility cloak. Why do all grown-up decisions have to be so dull? What to do? What to do? I am unused to having relations.h.i.+ps with men unless they are s.e.xual. I don't have a precedent for a male friend. In the past I had lovers, admirers, exes and men I flirt with, and those relations.h.i.+ps were fun.

'Look, look, up there!'I catch Mick off-guard and am able to push him flat on his back on the enormous daybed. I lie down next to him; our arms are touching and we both watch the images flicker above us. 'See, it's New York.'I beam at him. 'I had a fabulous time in New York,'I comment, trying to sound casual. 'Did you?'

Mick smiles. 'It was a laugh, Princess.'

'I didn't get this drunk ever in New York,'I state. I'm aware that my voice sounds a little like Auriol's when she's telling me of one of her achievements, about which she is particularly proud, arranging her soft toys in size order, perhaps.

'No, Lucy, you didn't.'

'I wonder what would have happened if I had.'

Mick shrugs and sits up. The movement is swift and decisive, which just goes to show he's got great stomach muscles. 'Now come on, I'm going to get you a big gla.s.s of water and you are going to stop drinking.'

This just goes to show he doesn't know me very well at all.

Noise, constant noise, clamours and tears around the room at full volume now. People are shouting, chatting, laughing, singing. No one is listening. Music is blaring and the clink of bottles. .h.i.tting the rim of gla.s.ses sounds like a chorus of 'Jingle Bells'. Despite this I'm almost asleep when Mick arrives back moments, or maybe ten minutes, later. He brings with him a bottle of water and Joe Whitehead. Since meeting Joe in September my initial impression of him (that he is an incompetent nuisance) has only deteriorated. He is spotty, sweaty and sneaky. All of which I might forgive if he was good at his job but he's not. I'm too drunk to bother being polite to him. When he asks me if I'm having a good time I mouth, 'I can't hear you, the music is so loud,'and then I turn my attention back to Mick.

Annoyingly Mick won't lie back down on the enormous daybed, although Joe has no qualms about flinging himself flat. He's flapping his arms and legs up and down, the way one does in the snow to make snow angels. I notice that everyone clears off our daybed, driven away by his BO.

'I lurve the feel of leather on my skin,'he shouts with a leer.

Idiot.

Mick insists I stay upright so I can drink the water he's brought me. I take sulky sips. I'm not sure I want to be sober. I'm having quite a lot of fun being drunk and I'm short on fun these days. Admittedly, I haven't actually spoken to anyone at the party. I haven't had the chance to network or impress and clearly I'm not in a fit state to try to do so now. I haven't had a dance or even investigated the terrace, which, apparently, is heated and has great views of London. Perhaps I'm not using my night of freedom to the optimum but I am having fun and I don't want to be sober. Whenever Mick looks away I sneak a quick slurp of whatever gla.s.s is to hand. As the bill for the evening is being footed by GWH there are a large number of unfinished, discarded drinks littering the tables. This way I mix vodka, gin, champagne, beer and wine. A Russian roulette c.o.c.ktail game: with each sip I wonder if this is the one that will make me keel over.

I move closer to Mick. 'What do you think of kids?'I ask him.

He looks at me quizzically but accepts the nonsequential nature of the conversation.

'I like them but I couldn't eat a whole one,'he quips with a grin. A peal of laughter explodes from somewhere. It's crazy and disproportionate. Oh G.o.d, it's me laughing.

'I don't understand kids,'I confide. 'Got one, don't know what to do with her.'He's a guy, so he doesn't ask me what I mean. I don't care, I take his silence as encouragement enough. 'I mean all that endless zoo visiting and play-date arranging and the smells.'Mick blanches so I don't go into detail about the offensive odours that kids seem to emit on a more or less continuous basis from the moment they burst into your life. 'I don't know my own daughter. I don't know the person I created.'

Suddenly, the truth and sadness of this sentence slams me to the floor. I think I'm in danger of crying. b.l.o.o.d.y alcohol. I've seen this happen to other people a million times, how the h.e.l.l have I let myself get into this position? I decide to change the subject.

I glance around the party room. It seems that everyone has now drunk enough to be freed from the restraints of recognized, civil small talk or even the affable chat owed to closer colleagues; the room oozes unreserved, barefaced disorderliness. I remember this exciting recklessness from years ago and I like it. I feel great.

I move closer to Mick's ear, he must be able to feel my breath on his lobe. I can see the hairs on the back of his neck rise. I wonder if that's the only part of his anatomy that's starting to stand to attention. I drape one hand around his neck and let the other rest on his thigh.

'Then again, I've got a husband and I don't know what to do with him either,'I admit in a whisper. 'I don't think he knows what to do with me any more. He's forgotten.'

I let the words sit between us. Mick does not look at me but stares straight ahead; his stillness proves I have his attention. The rest of the room, so noisy and powerful a second ago, disappears. The world is silent while I wait for Mick's response. I know what I've done I've opened a can of worms. I want ideas to creep in and out of his head. Inappropriate, dangerous ideas. I want Mick to pick up on my discontent and I want him to act on it. More, I need him to. He looks s.e.xy tonight and he's here, right? Available. Right? And I really could do with being desired.

It seems that several light years pa.s.s while I allow Mick to fully comprehend the situation. I'm drunker than I've ever been and I'm expressing frustration with my family life, I'm sitting next to him on a large leather daybed if there is ever going to be one, then this would be his moment to up the stakes.

'You never said anything like that in New York,'he replies, carefully.

I'd actually been expecting him to suggest we move somewhere quieter, so I reply without thought or guile, 'I was never this drunk in New York, Mick.'

He quickly turns to me. 'It's not my style to seduce drunken women, Princess. Thanks for the offer and all.'With that he stands up and calls to Joe, 'Mate, I have to go. See to it that Lucy drinks lots of water and get her into a cab within the hour. She needs to get home too.'

'I'm on it, captain,'says Joe, putting his fingers to his forehead in a salute.

Then Mick walks out of the room, without so much as a glance my way.

He's gone. I feel stupid, angry, disgusted. Disgusted at him and myself. I can't believe that I've just served myself up on a platter and he said no. No. He wanted it well enough in New York. I'm sure he did. What's gone wrong between then and now? Am I so repulsive? So decrepit? No doubt he's gone to find a woman who still has puppy fat and has no idea who Spandau Ballet are.

Joe sits up.

'f.u.c.k water. Who does he think he is?'

It takes me a minute to understand Joe. I feel lost and displaced. Peter doesn't want me. He can hardly bear to come home any more and when he does we do nothing but row. Auriol wants me too much and I am a failure as a mother. Connie doesn't understand me she loves the whole mother thing. b.l.o.o.d.y, b.l.o.o.d.y Rose. I bet she's at home right now making chocolate brownies and fruit pies from scratch. I drop my head into my hands and fight tears. My hands look gnarled and grey. It might just be the lighting of the club but I don't think so. I'm old. Mick didn't want me. I feel confused and self-conscious. Even f.u.c.king indiscriminate Ralph didn't want me. I'm washed up. I'm over.

Joe sits back beside me. I hadn't realized he'd gone but apparently he's been to the bar. He slams down a silver bucket. I see a bottle of Crystal peeping out.

'Mick can be such a bossy w.a.n.ker. You can handle your drink, can't you, Lucy?'

'Usually,'I slur.

'That cheeky b.a.s.t.a.r.d has no right to tell you when to stop drinking.'

'No right,'I agree. I shake my head and as I do so I feel my brain rattle around painfully. I think I might vomit. 'Feel sick,'I mumble.

'Best thing for that, Lucy, is to drink more,'advises Joe.

'Really?'

'Always.'

The champagne kicks the back of my throat, a frosty addictive liquid. A thousand startling bubbles dance frantically on my tongue and for a moment I do feel better. I hold out my gla.s.s for a refill and smile at Jack-a.s.s Joe.

35.

Thursday 9 November

John

There are two days left until Tom takes the jump. I've been drinking pretty solidly since the (highly successful) stag weekend at the end of October, but I think my liver might now look closer to minced offal so I decide to have tonight off the sauce. At 5.30 p.m. this evening it seemed a good idea to have a night in, watch a DVD, have a bath, cut my toenails and then turn in before midnight. But it's seven now and I'm bored witless.

Sometimes I have to wonder about my line of work. I get paid shedloads, enough to buy a beauty of a house, but I work all the hours G.o.d sends and mostly in places that demand an inconvenient commute from my beauty of a house so I end up staying somewhere else. As I said, this gaff is quite something, but it's not home. And occasionally I hanker after my creature comforts, like my big fridge, my stereo, cable TV and Andrea. Not necessarily Andrea per se, but you know, company.

My mobile rings into my empty flat and I'm grateful so I pick it up without checking to see who is calling.

'Why did you and Andrea split up?'

'h.e.l.lo, Connie. How are you?'

She does not return the greeting but waits for an answer to her question. I'd seen it coming. She's been getting p.i.s.sed off with my avoidance techniques. She wants to talk about the big things. Maybe she's curious. Or vain. Or confused. Or maybe talking is her way of legitimizing s.h.a.gging and she won't do one without the other. I don't know, but this is the first time she's called me in over five years and I can't see any reason for holding out on her.

'Andrea had an affair.'

'No!'

I hear her gasp and I can imagine her face, a study of amazement. Sweet really. I guess she might have chosen to be smug or ecstatic. But I can tell that she's genuinely shocked. It is possible that Connie is one of the few people in the world who really thinks that being unfaithful to me is an inconceivable idea. Would she have been faithful to me? If we'd got together back then, would we have made it through, I wonder?

'I'd a.s.sumed...'Connie stutters to a stop.

'You a.s.sumed that I'd done a bunk,'I fill in helpfully.

I wander over to the window and look out on to Kensington High Street. Late-night shoppers are already frantically filling the streets as though it was Christmas Eve rather than early November. I'm not much looking forward to Christmas.

'Well, yes. Why did she have an affair?'

The question allows me to believe that Connie would have been faithful to me, if we'd lived the other life, the one where not only did I get the girl but I wanted her at the correct time and so I held on to her. Tightly.

'She thought I was being unfaithful.'