Authors: Simon Brooke
'Great.' I've never been to Rome. 'But what about-'
'Business class and five-star hotel, of course. Separate rooms,
just so there's no misunderstanding ...well, er, unless you wanted there to be but
I'll leave that up to you.' We laugh. 'All right, bud, well done. Speak soon. Bye.'
'That cheque in the post?' I find myself half-shouting at last.
Oh, God, yeah. Sent it the day we spoke. Hasn't it arrived yet?
Bloody post office.'
My mum rings me later that afternoon at work and after checking
for twenty minutes that I have the time to talk to her (by which time I don't) she
tells me that she and my dad will be in London the following Saturday. The daughter
of a friend of theirs is getting married.
'It's only a registry office do but they're having drinks afterwards,'
she says. 'Nice of them to invite us.' I hear my dad, who is already home at five-thirty
mutter something in the background. 'Nothing's wrong with a registry office, I just
think churches are nicer, you know with the flowers and the music. You wouldn't
get married in a registry office, would you?'
'Er, I hadn't really thought about it, Mum.' I know she is thinking
about Helen and the plans she was half-making for us.
'Oh, no, I'm not pressuring you, plenty of time for all that.
Sorry? All right. Your father says to hurry up, as usual. We'll be round about six
or seven if that's OK.'
'Great, see you then,' I say, watching the TV with the sound
down.
'If you're not going out that night.'
'No, don't worry.'
'Don't want to cramp your style.'
I laugh. 'Don't worry, you're not cramping my style. See you
on Saturday.'
When they arrive my mum's face is slightly rosy with drink and
my dad has loosened his tie.
'It was a lovely dress, wasn't it, Derek?' says my mum. My dad
has now switched the TV on and is slumped in front of it. He grunts. 'I think her
auntie made it. Which one was her auntie? The tall lady?' My dad is even less interested
in guessing the identities of this girl's relatives than he is about her dress.
My mum gives me a look and rolls her eyes. 'We were just going to have something
to eat and then get the train back. Do you want to come? I don't want to get in
the way of your plans.'
'Honestly, you're not. I'd love to,' I say, looking at my mum
and realizing that I haven't seen her for nearly two months. 'Where do you want
to go? That pasta place round the corner?'
'That's a good idea. Do you think they'll be able to fit us in?
I know what these London restaurants are like. You have to book weeks in advance.'
I laugh at the idea of the little Italian round the corner with its wipe-clean tablecloths
and wax-strung Chianti bottle candle holders being booked up. Just then there is
a thump outside in the hall and Vinny arrives.
'All right, Mrs C, Mr C,' he says, stifling a burp.
'Hello, Vincent, I mean Vinny,' says my mum. I don't know why,
but she adores Vinny. She's obviously slightly surprised by it herself but there
you go. I think it is partly his dress sense. 'I can't believe he's going out like
that,' she whispers after they meet every time.
'Nice to see you up in town tonight,' says Vinny, just slightly
taking the piss, as always.
'A wedding,' explains my mum. 'Only a registry office but it
was very nice.'
'Oh, right,' says Vinny. 'I went to a registry office do last
month. Beautiful choral music.'
'Oh, lovely,' says my mum.
'They slightly ruined the effect when the clerk turned it off
with a stereo remote control.'
'Oooh, dear.' My mum laughs in spite of herself. My dad smiles
in our direction, out of politeness.
'The continuing secularization of our society,' observes Vinny.
'Mmmm, yes,' says my mum. 'She did have a lovely dress though.'
Vinny can't come out with us, despite my mum's invitation, because
he is going to a party in Stockwell.
'Isn't that near Brixton?' says my mum. 'Bit rough round there,
isn't it? Oh, do be careful, Vincent. Don't talk to any strangers.'
'That's slightly the idea of going to a party, isn't it?' says
Vinny, frowning in amusement. My mum looks confused and then laughs.
'Well, make sure they're nice strangers,' she says.
'That's definitely the idea of going to a party,' adds Vinny,
giving her a wink. She laughs again, even more confused but sure it's probably the
right thing to do.
Much as I love her, my mum always drives me mad inrestaurants.
This particular evening she runs through her repertoire of irritating habits: she
asks me what everything means and then, when I tell her, she says, 'Do you think
so? What do you think Derek?' When my dad says he'll have spaghetti bolognaise she
says, 'Oh, no. I was going to have that, I'd better have something else.'
'Have what you like,' says my dad. 'It doesn't matter.'
'I know but I just ... oh, look, ravioli with lobster. Do you
think it's fresh lobster? That's my favourite, I think I'll have that. Now, are
we having a starter?'
She starts telling me about my sister Rachel and her awful husband
but then falls silent when the waitress approaches, as if she's been caught talking
in class.
'Hi,' says the waitress to me.
'Hi, how are you?' I ask. OK, showing off a bit.
'Very well. Your friend not here?'
'No, gone to a party,' I say.
'Oooh, party,' says the girl.
'I've got the address if you want.'
She laughs. 'No, no. When I finish I am very, very tired.'
'Shame,' I say, tutting. 'That's why we came in tonight – to
give you the address. He'll be really disappointed.' She laughs again, flipping
open her pad.
'I'll have the ravioli,' says my mum stiffly when it's her turn
to order.
When the waitress is gone she says, 'They all know you here,'
half-disapproving, half-proud.
'So that's where your money goes,' says my Dad in mock disapproval,
shaking his head and folding his arms.
When we leave my dad thumps me on the shoulder and says, 'Proud
of you, son.' I give a sort of goofy smile and look down at my shoes. My mum kisses
me then looks at me as if she is going to say something. They turn and walk back
to the Tube station. I watch them for a while. They suddenly look very small.
‘I want you to meet some people,' Marion says, the following
evening, holding her champagne glass in both hands. 'A lot of my friends have been
asking about you and I'd like very much for you to meet with them so I'm throwing
a little party tomorrow night.'
'Throwing a party' - I like that.
'OK,' I say, from the settee opposite her. Anna Maria pours me
some more champagne and puts down another bowl of nuts. Frankly I'd rather spend
an evening with a bunch of Mastermind contestants than Marion's freak-show friends
but it will make her happy and anyway, I might meet some other potential cash cows.
Unfortunate phrase, that.
'You haven't had a chance to meet many interesting people in
your life, I know,' she says. 'It will be a chance for you to meet some of the upper
classes.'
'Can I come?' says Vinny, later, when I tell him about the party
for some reason. The One Aside Indoor football league has come to a temporary halt
after a written warning from the landlord (inspired, no doubt, by Mr Anal Axe Murderer
from downstairs) and a chunk of plaster that fell out of the wall after a spectacular
header by Vinny.
'No, mate,' I explain, handing him a beer and taking a swig from
mine. 'Not enough savoir-faire.'
'Oh, OK,' says Vinny. 'Fair enough. You, on the other hand-?'
'I, on the other hand, am oozing it from every pore.'
'Right.'
'You wouldn't get past the door with those trousers.' Vinny looks
down at his ultra baggy cords, the crotch around his knees. 'Do they pay graphic
designers to dress like clowns?'
'Yes,' says Vinny.
'Oh, actually, I suppose they do, don't they?'
'It's because I'm artistic, mate.'
'Well, your artistic, saggy-arsed trousers won't get you within
a million miles of this glittering soiree.'
'Oh, well,' sighs Vinny. 'I'll just stay at home with Changing
Rooms and a takeaway.' There is a pause.
'Lucky bugger,' I say, taking another swig.
'Ha,' says Vinny with feeling.
Thrilled as I am with the prospect of meeting the upper classes,
I don't want to be there when everybody arrives so on the day of the party I take
the opportunity to earn some brownie points at work by staying late. Sod's law means
that there is absolutely no reason to that day. The office is completely dead. Probably
because it is a Friday in July. In fact when she leaves, Debbie gives me a look
of suspicion rather than gratitude or encouragement. I end up ringing a few friends
but put off seeing them because, as I explain, 'I'm rather tied up at the moment.'
Yeah - with a noose round my neck.
I get back home at nearly eight, ready to get changed. I'm wearing
my best work suit, which is pale grey, singlebreasted, three-buttoned and a pale
blue shirt which I bought specially for the occasion. Yes, that's right. I bought.
Not quite the way I'd planned it but never mind - I do look pretty good, I have
to admit. Cool, understated and, because it's all new (or near enough), rich. I've
even applied a splash of some of the horrible aftershave she bought me in duty free
at Charles de Gaulle.
As I walk downstairs, practising my cool, debonair look, the
door buzzer sounds. I pick up the entry phone and shout, 'Hello?'
'Hi, Vinny, it's Jane.'
'Oh, Jane,' I say unnecessarily. I've been thinking about that
cute little turn of the head when she was doing the washing up and I've been looking
forward to seeing her again but I wasn't expecting her to be here now, this soon.
Why the hell didn't Vinny warn me she was coming over?
'Hello?' she shouts.
'Well, are you going to let her in, you dork?' says Vinny from
behind me.
'Yeah, sure.' I press the door button, open our front door and
a few moments later she appears, stomping up the stairs. 'Oh, hello, Andrew. Was
that you? I thought it was Vinny.'
'Oh, sorry, I wasn't expecting you.'
She is wearing a pale pink T-shirt and a dark blue cardigan,
buttoned up to her bust. She's even prettier than I remembered her from the first
time. She smiles. But it's a smile of kindness more than interest. Perhaps I was
wrong. Arrogant bastard. Perhaps she doesn't like me that way at all.
'You look very smart,' she says, again less out of conviction
and more simply to break the silence, it seems.
'Thank you. So do you. I like your ...' I realise I'm about to
say 'breasts' but I manage to catch myself. 'Your cardigan. It's very nice.'
She looks slightly surprised. 'Oh, thank you. It's just from
a shop at home.' She laughs. 'So, you off out?'
'Yeah, I'm going to a ... thing.' I don't want her to see me
like this, dressed up like Roger Moore.
'A thing?' she says with a sort of mocking indulgence.
'He means a party,' says Vinny. 'They're inviting him because
of his sparkling conversation.'
'Yes, a party, I mean.' Oh fuck! What's the matter with me? I
want to make it clear to her that I would rather spend time here with her, even
with Vinny.
'In Belgravia,' he explains. Shut up, you twat, you're only making
this worse.
'Very nice,' says Jane, quietly. She pats the bottle of cheap
white wine she is holding. 'Well, have a good time. Vinny and I'll probably still
be watching telly and making our own version of sparkling conversation when you
get back.'
'Yeah, brilliant. Well, perhaps I'll see you, then.'
'OK,' she says. There is another pause, as I try and think of
something interesting to say.
What words
would explain my bizarre, tongue-tied behaviour, justify my current poncy garb and
make her realise that basically I'm quite a nice bloke?
I feel Vinny squeezing past me. 'Listen,' he says. 'I know her
name's not on the list but are you going to get out of the way and let her in?'
'Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,' I mutter as I trudge downstairs to the
front door. 'Oh, Christ!'
I realise that our football-suppressing downstairs neighbour
is staring at me, his key poised by the lock. 'Oh, shit!' I tell him.
Marion greets me as if I was the caterer, reminds me I am late
and then turns round to talk to someone else. Fair enough. I take a glass of champagne
from a tray and knock it back partly to give me Dutch courage for this ghastly event
and partly to obliterate the awful memory of my bizarre performance in front of
Jane.
I pick up another glass and wander around a bit, trying to looking
bored and aloof but it occurs to me after a while that in fact I just look a bit
dim like I don't know the point of the party. I start desperately looking for someone
I know. Luckily, by the time I look around the room again it is half full of people.
Everyone seems to be looking past everyone else, probably to see who they could
or should be talking to. Just then Farrah says 'Hi'. We double kiss and she introduces
me to some smooth-looking guy who is dressed in a tweedy jacket and a pink Brooks
Brothers button-down collar shirt. All wrong but he does look rich. We shake hands.
For some stupid reason I say, 'Where's David?'
Farrah gives me a look of what I realise is discreet panic. 'He
couldn't come.' No, of course he couldn't. Not with his replacement here. Perhaps
he's in prison, after all. That thought, together with the one and a half glasses
of champagne I've just downed, cheers me no end. I knock back the remainder.
'Farrah, you look great,' I gush.
'Oh, Andrew, you're the sweetest ever. I could just eat you.
I've just been to see my crystal therapist.'