Authors: Aita Ighodaro
No sooner had she spoken than she regretted it. ‘No, not really. It
is
vintage.’ She flushed deeper red.
‘Oh you comedian, you.’ Alex seemed to enjoy her discomfort. He let her stew for a while longer, then added to her confusion by resting a hand firmly on the small of her back and
asking how she planned to get home.
Seeing that with Alex’s hand on her bottom, Tara was utterly incapable of answering, Abena slurred that they’d hail a cab back to their flat.
‘Nonsense,’ Alex announced. ‘I’m dropping Tara home.’ He smiled at Bertrand. ‘I suppose you’ll see that Abena gets home safely?’
Bertrand returned a conspiratorial smile. ‘Of course I will, Alex. And you can tell your father that I’ll definitely be joining you at the game.’
Abena looked up at this married, forty-something billionaire financier. Through a haze of alcohol, an inner voice whispered ‘Out of the frying pan, into the fire’, but she pushed it
away. Why shouldn’t she have some fun? Before she could change her mind, Bertrand grabbed her hand, and quicker than you can utter the words ‘My wife doesn’t understand me’,
they were in his car and speeding towards his Belgravia mansion.
Once inside the Belgravia townhouse, Bertrand showed Abena into the drawing room and offered to fix her a drink. ‘Sure,’ she replied, half-taking in the varnished mahogany floor, the
high white ceilings and the huge bookshelf crammed with well-thumbed classics that spanned the width of an entire wall. ‘Incredible plaish!’
She perched precariously on an ornate velvet-upholstered chaise longue, which looked like a family heirloom. Bertrand’s formidable-looking wife stared coolly out of an antique silver photo
frame on the mantelpiece. A harbinger of doom. Abena shivered and stumbled towards the picture, then she turned it face down so she could no longer see Mrs Brampton Amis’s accusing eyes. It
was not too late to leave. She tottered in the vague direction of the door but was intercepted by Bertrand, returning with a magnum of Krug. He set the drinks down and folded her in his arms. They
collapsed on a sofa and lay together, holding each other tight. Not moving, not talking, just breathing. Deep and slow, until their breaths were in tandem. They breathed as one. Before long they
were naked, and then they moved together as one.
Tara tried to sleep. She’d been awake all night although she hadn’t left her room, and now it was morning and Abena would be in soon to hassle her about why she was
still in bed. God she was so nosy and miserable these days. She probably wanted Tara out of the flat so she could move someone else in in her place. Maybe Abena would prefer some guy who doted on
her and would cook and clean and be an ideal flatmate. Tara sulked. Nobody seemed to care about her. Her father and mother had become weird and preoccupied and she hadn’t had any action since
Harry.
At least there was heavenly Alex. She thought back to that night after Annabel’s. He’d driven her home, and before speeding off he’d kissed her goodnight. She’d tried to
invite him in, but he obviously didn’t want to take things too fast. His lips had fleetingly moved from her right cheek to her left, tenderly brushing her mouth in between. There was no
mistaking the way he’d stared at her afterwards: he was clearly just taking things slowly. She would simply have to be patient.
But now her phone was ringing – her father again. What did he want? Probably to shout at her to return the money she’d taken. She ignored the call.
After an hour had elapsed, Tara felt she should at least get up and wash her face. Oh fuck, the door was opening; Abena must be home. She scrabbled under her bed for the rest of her cocaine and
snorted it all in six full lines before Abena reached the bedroom door, hurriedly hiding the evidence. She simply needed a little push to get up and face the day. Oh God, why was Abena leaning
sorrowfully against the door? Poor, hard done by Abbi. Why was she such a bloody martyr?
‘Hey, hon,’ Abena whispered, ‘do you want me to turn your light on?’
‘Er yep, yes, thanks,’ Tara muttered. She shot up in a sudden burst of energy.
‘What’s up, sweetheart, we haven’t had a proper chat for ages. Let’s go party somewhere tonight shall we? Let’s get Sarah and Bertrand out. Yeah that’d be
fun. I’m really on form and feel like going out and doing something, and work’s going cool, you know, and getting good feedback from the applications I sent out – and it’s,
yeah, it’s all good. And Tina called to say that her friend Orlando has already brought me a really nice Christmas present – maybe I can flog it for some serious dosh
and—’
‘Hey, hey, hey! Slow down! I’d love to do something tonight but just, let’s relax. Hon, when was the last time you ate something?’
‘What? Oh yeah, I’ll go eat something now,’ Tara snapped.
‘No, don’t worry, I’ll get it. You just look really, really thin, hon, and not in a nice way – you look rough, and your eyes are swollen and red. This isn’t like
you, Tara, you’ve … you’ve got a problem.’
Tara’s eyes darted around the room looking everywhere except at her friend.
‘What are you doing?’ Tara watched, annoyed, as Abena stepped into her bedroom and opened the window before picking up several discarded T-shirts and panties off the floor.
‘I’ll wash these for you. I don’t think you’ve done any laundry for over a month.’
Tara stormed out of the room and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
In Tara’s absence, Abena took a good look around her friend’s room, her heart beating twice its normal rate as she steeled herself for a particularly unpleasant discovery. Before she
could look underneath the bed, Tara’s mobile rang again and the word ‘Papa’ flashed up on the screen. Abena picked it up.
‘Hello, good afternoon, how are you? It’s Abena.’
‘Oh, hello, Abena, I’m well thank you. How are you? I hope you girls aren’t causing too much havoc in town?’
‘Well …’
‘I’ve been trying to contact Tara but I suppose she’s left her phone with you – is she out?’
‘No, no, she’s in, she’s just gone to have a shower.’
‘Oh I see, I see … Well I, er, I called to tell her that I’m coming to London.’
‘Fantastic,’ Abena squealed. There was nothing Tara needed more right now than some guidance from her parents. If they saw her they would surely do something.
‘Are you just visiting for the evening?’ Abena continued.
‘I’m afraid I’ll be expecting to stay rather longer than that.’
‘Oh, right. Wonderful.’ That sounded ominous but Abena didn’t feel it was her place to enquire any further. Perhaps she was imagining things, but she thought that Hugo’s
speech had sounded distinctly blurred.
‘Well, if you could let Tara know that I’ll pick her up for dinner at about eight?’
‘Yes of course, I will do. See you soon.’
‘Take care, Abena.’
Abena was nervous as she hung up the phone, she simply couldn’t tell whether a prolonged visit from Tara’s father would be for the best or if it would give rise to even more
complications.
When Tara emerged from the shower and heard about her father’s visit she seemed mildly surprised.
‘He’s not bringing Tina with him?’ she enquired, wiping her runny nose with the back of her hand.
‘Apparently not,’ Abena replied. ‘But just be ready at eight. Shall I help you get ready? You know, do some make-up for you?’
Tara froze Abena to the spot with her icy stare. ‘I’m not an invalid. I can get myself dressed.’
‘Fine.’
The impromptu visit from her father was the kick Tara needed to pull herself together a little. She arranged for Joe, her dealer, to drop off some more coke, then began to get
ready for her father’s arrival. Her hair was dull and limp so she pulled it back into a neat ponytail instead of leaving it to frame her face as she preferred. She put on a pair of tracksuit
bottoms that she used to go jogging in and then a pair of jeans over the top. Likewise, she layered her sweaters, opting for two thin ones and a thicker baggy one on top. The disguise made her
appear a stone or so heavier, and the November cold would ensure she didn’t overheat. She slathered her face in a slightly darker foundation than she normally used and applied concealer
around her eyes and nose to cover the bags and the puffy redness. Then she added liberal amounts of bronzing powder and blusher in an attempt to create a healthy glow. Surveying herself in the
mirror she decided that she couldn’t be described as ‘hot’ but that it would have to do. At least she didn’t look as rough as she felt. Next she went to work on her room and
stashed whatever she could under the bed before gathering any clothes that had escaped Abena’s audit and throwing them into the bottom of her wardrobe. Finally, she gave the floor a quick
hoover even though she was exhausted.
Lord Bridges arrived just before eight and Tara could smell that he hadn’t bothered to wait for her before starting to drink.
‘Hello, Papa.’ She kissed his cheek and beckoned him into the flat.
‘Tara-Bara,’ he beamed. ‘You look nice. Good God, it’s suspiciously tidy in here.’
‘We’re always tidy, Papa, we’re domestic goddesses,’ Tara sniffed. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Actually we’d better go; the table is booked for eight.’
The two walked arm in arm down the road to the small French restaurant where their table was ready for them.
‘So where are you staying? Where’s Tina?’ Tara enquired while she played idly with a bread roll, tearing it into little pieces on her plate.
‘Do eat properly, dear,’ Hugo grunted.
He beckoned the waiter and ordered a bottle of red wine.
Once their glasses were filled and they had ordered, Hugo took a deep breath and announced to his daughter, ‘There is something I need to tell you.’
Tara put down her glass. ‘Oh?’
‘Your mother and I have decided to separate.’
Tara’s immediate reaction was a sigh of relief. For a brief moment she’d feared that she’d been busted and that she would be packed off to Gloucestershire, locked away and not
allowed any drugs.
‘Oh, oh really? My God, that’s …’
‘It was your mother’s idea of course. She claims I drink far too much, which is, frankly, ridiculous. And of course that silly National Trust fellow, Orlando, hasn’t helped
matters.’
‘Hmmn, no I didn’t like him at all.’
‘So, for the foreseeable future I shall be staying with Uncle Rupert in Fulham.
Tara’s face fell. The last bloody thing she needed was for her father to be in London, wanting to spend more time with her and with her pretty young girlfriends.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Hugo couldn’t bear to see his daughter look so forlorn.
‘I’ll talk to Tina,’ Tara said. ‘You can’t just turn your back on years of marriage. What will I do?’
Tears began to roll down Tara’s cheeks and her perpetually runny nose was streaming violently. ‘Please excuse me,’ she sobbed, rising and running to the bathroom.
While Tara took her time in the loo, Hugo had some fun watching the awkward couple two tables away. Must be a first date. Hugo thought their clothes very odd indeed. The man’s bony elbows
poked out of his shirt. Why was he wearing a short-sleeved shirt instead of a proper one? In November? Surely one just rolls up one’s sleeves if one is hot. She, however, was dressed prettily
in a flowery dress and had sat through the meal with an undisguised look of disbelief, as though her date was not at all what she’d bargained for. That’s the internet for you, Hugo
thought.
Hugo watched the bill arrive and the couple both sit there staring at it for a rather long time, neither of them moving. He wondered why the chap didn’t just get out his card and settle
the thing. Finally the tight-fist reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pair of supermarket reading glasses and squinted at the bill for another few minutes.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘so, OK, so you had the lemon tart and the large glass of vino, but—’
He looked up in surprise as his date threw down enough cash to cover the whole meal and stomped off to get her coat.
‘Oh, er, oh I see, I thought we could go Dutch, or er, just pay for what we had – after all I did have the extra pork and herb sausage …’ he shouted after her.
‘But if you want to do it like this, then fine, I’ll get it next time.’
Put out that this rather amusing drama had ended, he switched his attention to a table in the corner. A pinched-looking husband looked on in silence while his wife ordered for them both with a
voice loud enough to be heard clearly across the room. ‘I’d like the steak and wine pie but without the steak, I’d like it just on the side. And then I’d like some greens,
except not spinach, no leaves of any kind and no peas or broad beans. No, no, you can give me beans, but I’d like the beans to be skinny and not broad. I ’d like a sesame seed roll on
the side and a side salad, but without leaves and no seeds in that. I’d like a French dressing but no vinegar, it’s far too acidic. And give me the Eggs Benedict for my husband but
without the bread and I don’t want the eggs to be poached – I want them boiled so that they’re not runny, and no vinegar for him either, the acid doesn’t help with his bowel
problems …’ And then, ‘Oh and a glass of champagne for me, but hold the bubbles – plays havoc with my digestion.’
After twenty minutes Tara re-emerged, appearing to be more composed. Watching his daughter’s expressionless face as she returned to their table, Hugo breathed an inward sigh of relief.
Given the circumstances, she had taken it exceptionally well. She’d made no comment about his drinking and hadn’t become as hysterical as he’d feared.
‘You know, Tara, once we’ve all had time to get used to the idea, we may be able to arrange it all quite conveniently. There is no need for either of us to move out permanently, not
necessarily. I don’t see why your mother and I shouldn’t be able to take a wing each and live on quite happily. We’ve had separate bedrooms for over a year you know.’
‘Have you? Christ!’
‘Of course, if that doesn’t work,’ Hugo continued, ‘then I want custody of the dogs.’
Tara pouted, then laughed.
‘Shall we go on somewhere for an after-dinner drink? It’s a real treat to catch up with you, dear, even in such regretful circumstances.’