Chapter Forty-One
Adam was sitting in the back of a black cab feeling very uncomfortable. There were probably fish out of water who were more relaxed than he was. Adam tried to smooth down the more maniacal of his curls with his hand, but he could see from his reflection in the cab window that they were just springing spitefully back into their chosen place the minute he let go. He turned and smiled at his date for the night.
She was called Jemima and he could quite safely say that he’d never dated a Jemima before. Jemima smiled back. She was poured into a tight Lycra creation that she said was a Herve Leger, whatever that was. Adam thought he was supposed to be impressed and smiled at her and nodded thoughtfully as if he was. He had never been out with anyone before, Jemima or not, who had worn so little clothing. The Herve Leger seemed to press her chest upwards and outwards at a gravity-defying level and, at the other end, it barely skimmed her bottom. It gave the impression that she was encased in a very small, tight elastic stocking.
Toff was sitting opposite him and Toff’s date, Fenella, was similarly attired. It was a good job they weren’t going to the Jiggery-Pokery. Walter the barman would have passed out. Shame, though, that Chris wasn’t here to witness it – although he, too, would have needed smelling salts and a bucket to drool into. Adam smiled to himself. He was going to try to relax and enjoy it. Jemima was definitely going to turn heads and he felt thrilled, in a vaguely embarrassed fashion.
There was no way, he knew, that Jemima would have gone out with him if Toff hadn’t set it all up. Jemima would have looked more at home on the arm of a leather-tanned, seventy-year-old multi-millionaire with white shoes, a large yacht and a bad cough. Fenella and Jemima were both models who worked regularly with Toff, and Adam was beginning to appreciate more and more the obvious attractions of his friend’s rather glamorous job. And he was sure that if he hadn’t felt quite so tense, he’d be having a great time.
They were going to the opening of a new wine bar. One of Toff’s friends who owned a model agency had branched out into ritzy hostelries too and had invited Toff along to the launch. Toff had decided that Adam needed to live a little and he was probably right. Being able to recite the entire programme content of the Radio Times was not necessarily a sign of a man living a wild social whirl.
Adam tugged at his shirt collar. He’d forgotten what proper grown-up going out was like. His suit felt like it belonged to someone else, it was so long since he’d worn it. Adam wasn’t sure when he’d lost his zest for dating. When he and Laura had split he’d embarked on a campaign of short-lived flings – all with perfectly acceptable women. Perhaps it was when Josh had started to play a more active part in the proceedings that women-hopping had lost its lustre. There were only so many ‘aunties’ that you could introduce to a messy, boisterous five-year-old.
The women, in turn, had either treated Josh as if he were some sort of temporary inconvenience to be dealt with or they’d cooed and gooed over him in gushing terms, indicating that they too were keen to start a family. It was souldestroying really. The worst type of man to try to interest in starting a family is one who already knows what it’s like. Having done it once, Adam was in no way keen to rush in and repeat the experience. And, despite the theories about men wanting to spread their genes to every woman they met, he didn’t want London to be littered with a band of Adam lookalikes borne by a dozen different mothers. Unfortunately, most of the women that he met these days were over thirty and had neon lights flashing over their heads saying: Desperate for a baby! Desperate for a baby!
He smiled over at Jemima again and she, in turn, smiled back. It was one of those sickly smile exchanges that says ‘I really haven’t a clue what to say to you.’ How old was she? he wondered. Twenty-five? Maybe less. Certainly not the type who would want to rush into handing over the ruination of her figure to Mother Nature.
He would have to start talking to her soon, Adam thought. But what about? It was ages since he’d done the small-talk thing and he’d never been very good at it then. That’s why he enjoyed talking to Cara. She was the sort of person who seemed to understand everything, even though most of the time she was on a completely different planet than the rest of them. At least it gave you a refreshing new perspective on life.
‘We’re here,’ Toff said as they pulled up outside a swish-looking wine bar.
A crowd of young, trendy people thronged outside as two burly dinner-suited security guards checked their invitations. His friend jumped out and settled the cab fare whilst the two girls tried to feed themselves out of the door without showing their underwear to the world.
‘OK?’ Toff asked.
Adam nodded. He couldn’t have been more nervous if he’d tried.
Toff slapped him on the back. ‘Stick with me, old fruit. You’ll be fine.’
‘Come on, Sebastian,’ Fenella said. ‘Chop, chop. There’s ice-cold champagne waiting to be drunk.’
‘OK,’ Toff said and strode off to join her. And as Adam and Jemima fell into step behind them, he wondered whether he’d ever be able to call Toff by his real name without laughing.
Chapter Forty-Two
We pull up outside Temptation in Cara’s battered old 2CV. The engine clatters to an ungainly halt. I am clutching my clutch bag and now know why they’re called that. A row of heads from the waiting queue turns to stare at us and I’m trying to convince myself that it’s because Cara’s car is like O’Rafferty’s motor car – forty different shades of green – and covered in a rash of politically correct stickers, anything from SAVE THE WHALE! to HOW GREEN IS YOUR WASHING POWDER? It’s a very embarrassing car to be seen alive in.
‘You are going to be all right?’ Cara says nervously, nibbling her nail.
‘Fine,’ I answer nervously, nibbling mine in return.
I’ve borrowed Cara’s beaded bag and raided her wardrobe to find something that wasn’t tie-dyed in the 1970s or hand-embroidered by ethnic gypsies. I also needed something that would accommodate the difference in the size of our respective chests and settled on a floaty chiffon number in hot pink that Cara had picked up second-hand from the Portobello Road Market. If I buy things in the Portobello Road Market they look second-hand, but this is fabulous and not at all the sort of outfit that I’d normally wear. It’s wraparound and wispy and strappy, and I think it probably looks more wraparound on Cara than on me. But if I am going to launch myself into the world for my fifteen minutes of fame as an exploited sex symbol then I must get used to showing a bit of flesh.
I check my newly dyed Chestnut Burst hair in the vanity mirror for the thousandth time. ‘Do I look OK?’ I say to Cara.
‘You look a lot more tarty in that dress than I do,’ she says candidly and I detect a distinct note of pique.
‘Thanks.’
‘You look tarty, but great,’ she concedes. ‘They’ll probably think you’re a soap starlet or the latest pop singer or something.’
‘That’s the general idea.’ I spent hours carefully applying layer-upon-layer of make-up too, rather than my usual five minutes of scribble before I rush out of the door. My nails are filed and painted – all twenty of them. I am exfoliated and depilated to within an inch of my life.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?’
Cara is wearing flared, frayed denims and a faded FCUK T-shirt that was probably once black. Her dreadlocks are tied in a bunch on top of her head with something that looks like string.
‘No,’ I say with an emphatic shake of my head. ‘I have to do this alone.’
‘Ring me when you want collecting,’ my friend says.
‘You don’t have to collect me. I can get a cab.’
‘Call me,’ Cara insists. ‘I don’t want you to do anything stupid.’
‘Isn’t it rather too late for that?’ I point out.
‘Take this,’ Cara says and she thrusts a small, clear stone into my hand.
‘What is it?’
‘A quartz crystal,’ she says.
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Ah! Why didn’t I know that? I examine it closely. ‘What am I supposed to do with it?’
‘It will help to protect you.’
‘From what?’
‘Anything the universe can throw at you,’ Cara tells me solemnly.
‘Oh, good.’ One little stone? You’ve got to be joking. I tuck it into Cara’s beaded bag. It’s the thought that counts. At least someone is worrying about me – other than myself, of course. I squeeze Cara’s hand. ‘I feel better already.’
Cara looks at the queue. ‘Go on,’ she instructs. ‘There aren’t many people waiting now. You won’t have to hang around.’
‘Thanks.’ I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. ‘You’re a pal.’
‘Have a good time,’ she says. Cara looks worried to death. You’d think I was going to have an operation, not a few convivial drinks at a new hip-hop happening wine bar.
‘I’ll try to.’
‘Not too good,’ Cara adds with a sigh. ‘I don’t want to see you on the front page of the Sunday Sport tomorrow snogging a Second-Division footballer.’
And I wonder, if I’m caught in a compromising position with a publicity supremo, would he be able to keep it off the front page?
Chapter Forty-Three
The wine bar was packed. Very. Adam and Jemima were squashed up against one of the bars and Adam was finding it very difficult not to stare down the top of her Herve Leger creation. Her breasts were forming milky-white flawless domes that brimmed over the edge of her black dress like the head on the top of a well-poured Guinness.
There was a sprinkling of people who Adam thought he recognised, but then he was utterly useless on names. They were pretty television-type guys and girls who were probably out of Casualty, The Bill and London’s Burning – that sort of stuff. Josh would have known them all. They squeezed past Adam and Jemima, making a beeline for the free bar just as they’d done.
The place was decorated in an eclectic pseudo-French style – Louis XVI meets Eurotrash. The chairs were ornate, gilt-backed with crushed Burgundy velvet seats and the walls were deep turquoise, studded with ruby-coloured jewel lights and curving gilt mirrors. It was hard to see the rest of the decoration as there were so many people obscuring it, but it was clear that the white ash floor was getting stickier by the minute.
A matchbox-size dance floor was situated at one end and a dozen or so beautiful babes strutted their funky stuff to the pounding beat. Boy George had been drafted in as DJ for the night and the music was great, but loud enough to make conversation impossible. Adam leaned closer to Jemima, enveloping himself in the cloud of her sweet perfume.
‘Do you enjoy being a model?’ he shouted in her ear.
She smiled. ‘What?’
‘A model?’ Adam yelled. ‘Like it?’
‘Yes,’ Jemima shouted back.
Adam nodded appreciatively. ‘Have you been doing it long?’
‘What?’
‘Long?’ Adam realised his vocal cords weren’t going to last out for the night at this level. ‘Long?’ he shouted again. ‘Doing it?’
‘Yes,’ Jemima yelled.
Adam stifled a sigh and swigged his freebie champagne. Why was it that fizz always tasted better when you weren’t providing it yourself? Toff looked across at him from where he was sandwiched between the bar and Fenella. He gave Adam a surreptitious thumbs-up and Adam nodded, feeling that he ought to try harder at communicating with his date. After all, Toff had gone to a lot of trouble to set this up and drag him out of his shell. Although, sad as this may sound, he was acutely aware that he was missing Stars in Their Eyes Kids Special.
Adam cleared his throat. ‘Do you travel a lot?’ he shouted.
‘What?’
‘Travel?’
‘Yes.’ Jemima was clearly determined to save her vocal cords.
‘Where to?’
‘Yes.’
Perhaps they should have gone to a restaurant first and got all this inane chit-chat out of the way first. This was a terrible situation. He didn’t know Jemima and, consequently, wanted to make the effort to, but it all felt rather like trying to push water uphill. She patently did not have the same desire to enquire about any aspects of his life. Maybe Jemima had been to too many of these things to consider putting more effort in than it warranted. But then they couldn’t just stand here and grin inanely at each other all night. There was only one thing for it.
‘Do you want to dance?’ Adam shouted.
‘What?’
‘Dance? Do you want to?’
‘What?’
‘Dance!’ Louder this time.
‘What?’
‘DANCE!’
‘Yes,’ Jemima said.
Things were looking up. He was a bit of an old twinkletoes on the dance floor even though he said it himself. Well, he usually said it himself because no one else did.
Jemima gave him her empty glass. ‘Champagne!’
Adam took the glass and stared at it. Jemima was scanning the room to see if there was anyone more interesting to shout at.
‘You really haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, have you?’ Adam said quietly.
Jemima turned to him and smiled. ‘No,’ she said.
Chapter Forty-Four
My nerve nearly gives out as I have my invitation checked and walk through the doors to Temptation. I turn and give Cara a sickly-looking wave and realise that I could quite happily jump into her car and scoot straight back home.
I’ve always cringed at those young starlets who display more naked ambition than they do talent or modesty when they appear in the newspapers, snapped at the National Television Awards, dressed only in their underwear and something little bigger than a crisp packet that’s supposed to be a dress. And here I am doing the same thing. I have a vain attempt at making the pink chiffon cross further over my breasts and fail. I blame Liz Hurley for starting it all in ‘that’ non-existent dress and I’m beginning to wish I’d worn something a bit less revealing. But this is hardly the behaviour of Hampstead’s latest ‘It’ girl and so I gird my loins and do all that sort of British stuff that gets us through these situations and I push into the heaving mass of bodies, wondering how on earth I’m going to find Jonathan Gold in the midst of this lot. I had planned to be fashionably late, but old habits die hard and I’m massively early as I always am for everything.
Weaving my way through the chattering glitterati, I give up saying my litany of ‘excuse me’, ‘excuse me’, ‘excuse me’, ‘excuse me’ and just end up shoving inelegantly until I reach the complimentary bar. I’m glad that everything’s free. I’m not sure my bank account would stand the bashing if I had to pay to go to a celebrity party. Cara is being wonderful about putting my rent on the slate at the moment, but I can’t continue accepting her charity for ever. Why should she fork out for the mistakes I’ve made? I can see, at this point, how useful a sugar daddy would be to a wannabe ‘It’ girl.
I take my glass of champagne from the waiter with a tinkling laugh, which I hope disguises the fact that I’m the only person in the room who knows absolutely no one here. It fails miserably. He looks at me as if to say, ‘You don’t fit, do you, sweetie?’ and I give him a cool, disdainful look, but really what I most want to do is push Cara’s quartz crystal up his nose or cry. My friend should have given me a bigger bit of stone – one the size of a house brick, at least – because this one is doing absolutely nothing towards providing protection. Against anything.
I move away from the waiter, only to find I’m surrounded by an ecstatic bunch of air-kissers, who are all clearly bosom buddies, or soon will be, and every one of their mwoa, mwoa, mwoas makes me feel lonelier and lonelier.
I’m used to doing coupley things. For most of my life I’ve been one half of someone else and I’m beginning to think this independence lark is overrated. Doing things on your own is not a lot of fun. Walking hand-in-hand in the park, watching sunsets, paying bills – all infinitely better when shared. Declan and I
would have been giggling intimately over something ridiculous by now and I’d be hanging onto his arm for grim death and just that silly little act would have given me all the confidence I’m now lacking. This is the sort of do that Declan would adore – being seen in the right place with the right people, wearing the right clothing. In the midst of all these half-dressed people, I realise that I am nothing without a publicist to promote me. I am a little inconsequential splash of paint on a big, blowsy Jackson Pollock canvas. It’s an interesting lesson. ‘Interesting’ in a self-esteem crushing way. I squeeze back towards the front of the bar and try to look for Jonathan without staring too overtly at everyone.
This looks like a wonderful and trendy place, but I’m far too stressed to be enjoying it. If I grip my champagne glass any harder, the stem will shatter. A waiter stops by my side and foists some canapés on me that I don’t really want. They’re little circles of raw fish on pumpernickel bread with a blob of pesto poised on the top. I’m not doing them justice, really they look very nice. And fiddly. Reluctantly, I choose one because I haven’t a clue how I’m going to manage juggling my fizz and food. I smile politely, which comes out as a case of rictus, and he moves away.
Elbowing through another happy crowd lingering at the foot of the stairs, I’m jogged by a short man in a suede jacket and nearly end up wearing my food down the front of Cara’s dress.
‘Sorry,’ he says, but he barely pays me any attention and doesn’t look sorry at all and I feel like pushing my fish and pesto in his face.
I climb up a few steps, hoping that it will give me a better overview and I can keep an eye on the door to see the late arrival of my date/business contact/manager/guru/saviour – I have no idea what to call him.
I lean on the banister, eat my fishy bit without tasting it and survey the scene. All the women are showing acres of flesh and rather than feeling underdressed, I feel a bit overdone. Their paucity of clothing serves to make the world their gynaecologist. They are all candidates for indecent Internet exposure and I wonder why it had to happen to me rather than any of them. I only pranced around my bedroom in suggestive outfits, not your local hostelry. I hitch my insubstantial pink chiffon round my chest. How times change. You never know what goes on in people’s lives behind closed doors. We all have secrets, don’t we? And most people seem to manage to keep it that way. Declan certainly gave me no indication that he was going to turn into a complete git overnight.