‘No, darling, CDP. Do you mind?’
‘Whoops, sorry. Well anyway, lovely to see you. Matt found this wonderful building for us, didn’t you, Matt?’
‘Oh yeah?’ Simon managed a rather superior smile. ‘Good work.’
Matt didn’t like him at all.
‘Anyway, drinks over there,’ said Maddy, ‘help yourselves, and later, some lovely little cakes will be coming round. OK? Now I’ve just got to go and do a few last-minute things, so will you excuse me?’
And she was gone.
‘Might as well get a drink then,’ said Simon, leading Matt across to the drinks. The studio was a mass of flashing strobe lights, and the music was already pounding; the only decorations to the studio otherwise were the great rolls of background paper, daubed with colour.
Matt helped himself to a beer and said, ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ said Simon. He took out a cigarette paper and began rather ostentatiously rolling his own from a small silver case. Dope, thought Matt; am I supposed to be impressed or something? He knew what the little cakes would be too, of course; and he wouldn’t be eating one. He’d heard too many horror stories about those cakes and the unevenly distributed stuff in them; a friend of Jimbo’s had ended up with an overdose, hallucinating and trying to jump out of a second-floor window. Matt had smoked a fair bit of dope and quite liked it, although he preferred alcohol; but he avoided harder drugs totally. He knew the smart crowd took LSD and cocaine all the time, but he couldn’t afford risking any trouble: not yet anyway. One day, maybe …
‘So,’ said Simon Butler, draining his glass, refilling it instantly, licking his cigarette paper, ‘you’re in the property business, are you?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Matt. ‘Got a small agency, in the West End, mostly commercial properties.’ He looked at Simon, whose expression suddenly changed from tolerant boredom to a broad smile – maybe he was interested – but, ‘Suki! Darling! Over here,’ and towards them came the tallest, thinnest girl Matt had ever seen, with a pale, pale face and huge black-rimmed eyes, wearing a narrow silk dress that reached her ankles and no shoes. Her feet, he couldn’t help noticing, were filthy.
‘Simon, darling, hello, how awful to be so early, it was now or hours later—’ She looked uncertainly at Matt who smiled and held out his hand.
‘Matt Shaw. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Oh. Yes. And I’m Suki.’
‘And – are you a model?’ asked Matt. It seemed a reasonable assumption, given her shape.
‘Oh – goodness no, no, I sew at Granny’s.’
‘Ah,’ said Matt, ‘yes, I see. Well—’
‘Simon, how are things? Give me a little puff of that, would you? And I’ll just have some water. Oh – thank you, Matt. Yes.’
‘I’m great,’ said Simon, ‘yeah. Agency’s going like a train, got some massive new accounts, we seem to be the only agency who thinks television, you know—’
‘Yeah, I do. Exactly. Guy came into Granny’s the other day and—’
‘Um – what is Granny’s? Exactly?’ asked Matt. Largely because he was buggered if he was going to be frozen out of this conversation.
They both looked at him as if he had asked what date Christmas was.
Finally, ‘Granny Takes A Trip,’ said Suki patiently. ‘You know. The clothes shop. Down at World’s End.’
‘Oh – yes. Of course.’
‘So anyway, Simon, this guy said he wanted a dress made for a commercial and – oh, Christian darling, hello. How are you? You know Simon Butler, don’t you? From CDP? And this is – sorry, Matt, where are you from?’
‘Oh – I’m in property,’ said Matt and then, turning his back on them, went over towards Maddy. He wasn’t going to be patronised by these people. He was not.
Three quarters of an hour later, he wasn’t being patronised; he was being ignored. Everyone seemed to know everyone; and they all worked in the fashion or the advertising business, so there was nothing at all he had to say to them – or they to him. They were bloody rude, most of them, smiling rather half-heartedly while he introduced himself and then turning away from him to continue their conversations; a couple of girls made a pretence of asking him what he did, and then realising there was very little they could say beyond that, excused themselves, saying they were going to get a drink and would be back in a minute, and then weren’t.
He had drunk quite a lot of beer, but it wasn’t helping. He felt totally sober. Sober and extremely stupid. Most of them were posh, but a few were talking an exaggerated cockney; he actually asked one of them where they lived, and got a cold stare and a mumble that sounded like East London – as if anyone would say that who really came from the East End.
He was terribly hot too. He’d have liked to take off his jacket, but he was scared of it being nicked, and anyway, he could see that the ruffled shirt was all wrong. Most of the blokes were in plain white shirts, or even T-shirts, and jeans, some of those admittedly velvet, but black and not, most definitely not, red. Shit. Why had he thought red would be all right? He looked bloody stupid. Twice Maddy had waved at him and asked him if he was OK; and she’d introduced him to her boyfriend, Esmond, who was dressed all in black, black T-shirt, black jeans, and very black hair, and looked as if he was going to die, his skin greyish-pale, and incredibly thin – how did these people all get so thin, Matt wondered, didn’t they ever eat anything at all …
He was quite nice, asked Matt what he did, tried to find something responsive to say in return and actually remembered he had found the building for Maddy. He made hats, it turned out, and had even sold one or two to Granny’s; Matt, seeing his chance to appear as if he knew what was what, asked him if he knew Suki, but Esmond said yeah, he did, they’d been at the College together. Which college? Matt asked, but this was clearly even more than Esmond could stand.
‘The Royal College of Art,’ he said, ‘back in a minute,’ and walked off after Maddy.
Matt, alone once more, looked at his watch surreptitiously; Christ, it was only quarter to ten. Maybe he should try and slip away, without saying anything to Maddy; but then what would he say to Louise and Jimbo, they’d been so plainly impressed by his being invited to this party, and he’d talked it up himself, could he really make up enough of a story to satisfy them on Monday? Maybe if he had one more drink, followed Esmond over to where he was chatting to another guy, he’d find something to say. But – they were starting to dance now, Maddy had pulled Esmond onto the floor and was beckoning to everyone to join them. Suki was dancing with herself, in some kind of trance, and so were a couple of other girls, glassy-eyed – stoned he supposed, and Jesus, Simon Butler was in a corner, half-hidden by a roll of background paper, snogging with another bloke for God’s sake, what on earth was going on, he must be queer, were there a lot of them here then? He supposed the fashion business was full of them, something to tell Louise and Jimbo at least, but, Christ, he really didn’t like it – he might leave, in fact, yes, he would when—
‘Matt! Matt hello, what a lovely surprise, Maddy said she was going to invite you, you wouldn’t get me a drink would you, I’m desperate.’
It was Eliza. She was wearing a black shift, with a large hole cut out of it where her midriff was – in fact, he could actually see her navel, Christ, why were girls allowed to do that sort of thing – and thigh-high black boots. Her hair had grown, it was past her shoulders, and her fringe was so long he could hardly see her eyes.
‘Course,’ he said and disappeared into the throng, then realised he had no idea what she wanted: well, not beer, but red or white wine, or some of that evil-looking punch, probably laced with something. He picked up a glass of red and a glass of white wine and made his way back to her, half-expecting her to have moved on to another group like everyone else that wretched humiliating evening. But no, ‘Oh, thank you, Matt, I’ll take the white if that’s OK, are you having a good time?’
‘Oh – yeah – well you know.’ He took a large gulp of the red. ‘Don’t know many people, but – yeah, I met someone you probably know, Suki someone—’
‘Suki! Suki Warrener?’
‘Not sure. Probably.’
‘Was she stoned? She always is. Cigarette, Matt? No, no, have one of mine. Mad as a hatter, Suki is – talking of hatters, did you meet Esmond?’
‘Oh – sure, yes. Very nice bloke.’
‘Isn’t he? Oh, Maddy, darling, hello, fab party, sorry I’m late, God, look at Simon Butler, God he’s such a tart, bit early to be carrying on like that I’d have thought, tiny bit reckless too, but – oh, now who is that in the PVC dress? We had those in for about a day at Woolfe’s and then they were all gone, terrific success. And how many Maddy Brown dresses are here?’
‘Oh – quite a few. Yes. Oh, God, Suki’s passed out, I’d better go.’ Eliza drained her glass and smiled at Matt. She did seem to be feeling really friendly.
‘Want another of those?’ he asked.
‘Umm – yes – no – oh, listen it’s “She Loves You”, absolutely my favourite at the moment. Matt, dance?’
And she took his hand and led him into the dancing.
She danced well, really well. And she knew it. It began as a performance, and entirely by her; she moved into the music, ignoring him, her head thrown slightly back, her body bending, twisting, turning, her hair flying, her eyes shining, she had a smile on her face that was part pure pleasure, part look-at-me self-confidence. And Matt, nervous at first, demoralised by his evening, simply followed where she led. But then – for he knew he too danced well, really well – he began to perform too, oddly sure of himself suddenly, and she, recognising it, her smile now for him, not her audience, her eyes fixed on his, her body following his, every move, every twist, every turn, pushing double, treble beats into every one; slowly everyone else stopped, staring at them, caught up in what was a virtuoso display and at the end, when the music momentarily finished, when the beat changed, they seemed quite alone together, the evening briefly but entirely theirs, and Eliza stood there, staring at him, her eyes huge and shining, breathing heavily, and he stood too, neither of them moving, caught in a kind of sweet shock, frozen in time.
And then of course, things began again, the music went on, everyone began to dance again, people talking, smiling at one another; and there was a shout of ‘Eliza’ and a tall, blond man was waving at her from the door, and she leaned forward and gave him a quick, half-embarrassed kiss and said, ‘Sorry, Matt, I’ve got to go, we’re only just looking in,’ and the magic was gone and it wasn’t the princess in the story who had changed into a raggedy kitchen maid, but the prince become a nobody once more.
But Matt didn’t care; he left quite soon after that, having thanked Maddy, shaken Esmond’s rather cold white hand, and even felt emboldened to kiss Suki, who was sitting on one of the sofas, weeping helplessly, he had no idea why: and drove most happily home.
He wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but he felt as if things had changed. As if he was – or might become – a rightful person in Eliza’s life, rather than someone she was rather self-consciously nice to; and as if she was a rightful person in his, rather than someone impossibly out of reach. He didn’t quite understand it; but there was sex in there somewhere, that was for sure.
She couldn’t be – could she? Surely, surely not. They’d been so careful; she always was. She had never risked it, never. Some girls did, she knew; threw caution to the winds, when desire got too much for them, and then spent the next two or three weeks sick with fear. Not her. Her life, her perfectly ordered life was too precious to risk for a few minutes’ passion. And she had certainly never allowed any man to take the responsibility, however much they might assure her it would be all right.
But here she was, over two weeks late, with boobs so sore she could hardly bear to touch them.
‘I did tell you,’ the gynaecologist said slightly reprovingly, ‘it’s not one hundred per cent. Nothing is. Except abstinence,’ she added with a sudden smile. ‘Bit late for that, though.’
‘A bit,’ said Scarlett. ‘So – what can I do?’
‘One of two things. Have it. Or not have it.’
‘I can’t have it,’ said Scarlett. ‘I really can’t. Do you know anyone who could – well, help me?’
‘My dear girl, of course I don’t. It’s illegal. And if I did, and I told you, I could be struck off. But there are people. Clinics even. Expensive, but at least not dangerous. To your health, that is.’ She buzzed for her secretary. ‘Could you send in my next lady, please, Mrs Blake. Thank you. Good morning, Miss Shaw. I do hope things go well for you.’
‘Old bat,’ said Diana, ‘and I bet you anything she’s had a couple of abortions herself. Oh, Scarlett. I’m so sorry. You poor thing.’
‘Yes, well. My own fault I suppose.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Are you quite sure?’
‘’Fraid so. The lady toad has laid her eggs.’
‘So bizarre that, isn’t it?’ said Diana absently. ‘To think our pee can make a toad ovulate. That is what happens, isn’t it?’
‘It is, yes. I remember my mother saying in her day they injected a mouse with the wee, and then they had to kill the poor thing to see if it ovulated. At least the toad can live on to be used another day. Anyway—’
‘Sorry, Scarlett, I’m not helping, am I? What bad luck. Oh dear. You can’t – well, you know—’
‘What?’ said Scarlett.