The Godmother (8 page)

I walked into an amazing house, which promised to hold an amazing party, but saw nothing except that Sebastian was not there. All the glitter of potential faded. The party spirit in me vanished. I had to admit to myself then, my first night home had not been a blip: all that brown rice had counted for nothing. No amount of downward dogs was going to change how I felt. All the immaculate miniature food and vats of champagne weren't enough any more. A tall, dark, handsome (young) waiter approached me with a frosted glass of champagne. I took it. It was delicious. Well, maybe champagne would have to do for the time being, I thought, taking another large sip.

Despite my initial grouchiness, it turned out to be a fun party. There were people there I hadn't seen for a long time who were from different aspects of my life. Old colleagues. People from college. Even an old boyfriend, which was satisfying, because I knew I was looking good, and I could tell he thought so. When he later asked me why we'd split up, I caught myself putting an imaginary red line through that chapter and scrawling “Finished business”
on it. What he'd done many moons ago was tell me over a pint that he didn't fancy me. He liked me a lot, he had insisted, just didn't fancy me. That was no longer the case. I made my excuses and moved towards Samira. I looked better now than I had when I was twenty. Perhaps that was something to celebrate. More champagne, please.

We were flying when we left the house in Belgravia. There was a plan to go to a private members bar in Soho. There was a nice-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair who asked if he could come in the same taxi as Samira and me. He was on his own. Then two silly girls made a fuss about being split up and wanted him to go in another. He looked so sad standing on the pavement that I got out too and said I'd wait with him for another taxi, at which point someone else shouted there was a space in another cab and pulled me in. So salt-and-pepper man had to get back in my original cab. It all happened in a matter of minutes. But it is quite crucial for later, so I am giving disproportionate amount of attention to that merry little taxi dance.

Salt-and-pepper man was waiting in the medley of people outside a nondescript door. Apparently, there was a private party on and even the private members couldn't get in. We would have to cross Soho to go elsewhere. Remember—I was in pretty impressive shoes. Walking was not pleasurable. I was beginning to wonder whether gallivanting around town was a good idea. I'd had a great night, it was late. Did I really have to go on somewhere? I certainly didn't need another drink. But the wavering ended when salt-and-pepper man offered me his arm. Of course I needed another drink. I am a weak, weak woman.

Halfway across Piccadilly Circus, my evening took a dramatic turn. We'd actually been discussing the sorry state of modern life which saw kids, boys and girls no older than sixteen, sleeping rough. There was a scary-looking posse of hooded lads sitting around the base of the Statue of Eros. The boys carried cans of lager, the girls sucked on bottles of Bacardi Breezer. And over them all hung a pall of dope. That's when I saw Caspar. A can of Red Stripe in one hand. A spliff in the other. Suddenly nomenclature didn't matter so much as that it was in Caspar's hand, in the early hours of Sunday morning.

I stopped walking and swore quietly beneath my breath.

“What is it?” asked salt-and-pepper man, looking concerned.

“That's my godson over there, and I am pretty sure he's not supposed to be.” Caspar was easy to pick out because of what he wasn't doing. He wasn't chewing some girl's face off with his hand up her skirt. He wasn't crashed out on the ground. He wasn't in any leery group of tracksuited boys challenging tourists to fights. He was sitting on his own, looking glazed, taking intermittent swigs of lager and long tokes of spliff. It didn't look right to me.

“I'll catch you up,” I said, pulling my arm away and heading into the throng.

I sat down on the cold stone. He didn't respond until I spoke.

“Happy birthday, Caspar.”

He jumped, scrambled to his feet and threw away the nearly burnt-out spliff.

“Settle down, I'm not the police.”

“What are you doing here? Did Mum send you?”

“Charming! Do I look like I'd go trawling the streets for wayward teenagers in these shoes? Have a little fashion respect.”

He stared at me nonplussed, swaying gently, like a poplar tree in the summer breeze.

“I'm with friends,” I explained slowly. “In fact, there's a bloke with salt-and-pepper hair who seems quite nice, so please don't puke up on me, it may put him off.”

He tried to fight it, but the smile escaped.

“Then again, I've probably had enough. Maybe it's time to go home. Do you want to come with me?”

He shook his head.

“You'd be doing me a favor. I've promised myself no more one-night stands. You'd be a perfect contraception.”

“That's disgusting.”

“What?” I eyed the nearest couple to us; they were getting steamy right there on the pavement. “Am I too old to have sex?”

“Shut up, Tessa.”

“Don't speak to your elders like that.”

He laughed at the hypocrisy of my statement. I was pleased. I wanted him on my side. I wanted the amusing, clever little boy back, the one that took the piss out of me and got away with it.

“Sure you won't come with me?”

“Sure.”

“Where are your mates?”

“Around,” he said, getting defensive again.

“Do Francesca and Nick know where you are?”

He shrugged. I didn't want to lose what ground I'd won, so I passed him my card with my mobile number on it, and held my nagging tongue.

“Don't tear that up for roaches,” I said as he slipped it into his back pocket. “And don't give it to Zac either.”

Caspar smiled again. I had obviously scored highly with Caspar for not falling for Zac's charms. Having a very good-looking friend can be difficult and I wondered if that was the cause of his moodiness. Caspar had a sweet face, but he wasn't very tall, and he had curly hair. He was more cherub than sex-god, but I knew his looks would catch up with him again, and he'd be fine in the end. His father was the same, and now he was a very handsome man. But I don't suppose that mattered to Caspar; what mattered was now. What mattered was that Zac was probably somewhere surrounded by girls and Caspar was sitting here all alone.

“Have you got money to get home?”

“No,” he said straightaway. I opened my wallet. That was when I remembered the missing £50 note and the day I'd asked Caspar to watch my bag, but I put the unbelievable thought aside and handed him a twenty. He practically snatched it out of my hand.

“That ain't a gift, boyo. You have to clean my car for that. Inside and out. Twice.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled. And I knew I'd lost him again.

I found the club eventually, but not salt-and-pepper man. Every time I was about to leave, someone brought me another drink. And just another fifteen minutes turned into another hour. I finally found salt-and-pepper man but the way the group had gathered it was difficult to get near him. It didn't matter; I was having a grand time without him, but it was nice to occasionally catch his eye and share a smile.

I was having a nice little fantasy about him when he appeared before me and asked me to dance. I must have been really pissed, because I thought that
was a great idea. To the dance floor we went where some pretty steamy dirty dancing followed. He was very tall and nimble and could do all those spinning around moves that only work if you're a professional or drunk enough to go floppy. I fell into the second category. God only knows how I managed to stay upright. At one point I remember walking backwards over the dance floor, beckoning salt-and-pepper man to follow me. I'm not sure who I thought I was—but I fear it might have been Cyndi Lauper. Even so, it was fun and when I wasn't pouting suggestively, I was grinning like an Olympian.

Only trouble was, I didn't know his name and was too embarrassed to ask. He somehow knew mine, which made it worse, and made reference to a time we'd met before. I had no recollection of this whatsoever, but because I'd pretended to remember, I was now buggered. My one piece of luck was that he knew Neil, so I stopped asking investigative questions, hoping I could get the low-down on him through Helen. Perfect. Back to dirty dancing.

Eventually we ran out of fuel, and sort of fell into a slow dance that I would not normally do, but it was dark, and I didn't think anyone was watching, and actually it was nice. I knew a second before it happened that he was going to kiss me. I wasn't going to stop it. Unfortunately the Lord had other plans.

“Tessa! Your phone is ringing off the hook, do you want me to answer it?”

Samira was standing on the edge of the dance floor, holding my phone.

“Honestly, it's rung four times in the last few minutes. Whoever is ringing isn't leaving a message, they're just trying again and again.”

It was three o'clock in the morning; phones don't ring off the hook for any good reason. I pulled away from salt-and-pepper man. It was Caspar's number.

“Caspar? Are you all right?”

“Tessa?”

“Who is this?”

“It's Zac.”

Dear God. “Isn't it a little past your bedtime?”

“Don't flatter yourself. I thought someone ought to know that Caspar is puking his guts up, but fuck it, I was just trying to help.”

“Where is he?”

“Oh, so now you want to talk to me?”

Children. These boys were children and men were babies. I was rapidly going off the idea of conjoining myself to one.

“Where are you?”

“Corner of Wardour Street and Old Compton Street, there's a club, we're going in.”

“Don't leave him, I'm coming now.”

“I'm not fucking babysitting him again.”

Again? “Don't be ridiculous. He's your friend. I'll be there in five minutes.”

“He's covered in puke.”

“Just stay with him.”

“Whatever.”

Bloody idiot. Salt-and-pepper man found me at the coat check. I rapidly explained the situation and ran.

I decided against calling Nick and Francesca as I assumed some cover-up story had already been concocted. I'm staying with mates, my mates are staying with me; the sort of thing parents fall for again and again. So there was no need to alarm them in the middle of the night. But I was alarmed. I should have made him come with me. Sixteen years old for all of one day, and I had left him alone, already under the influence, in Piccadilly Circus. Easy pickings. I knew in my heart how he'd gone from stoned to passed out and covered in puke. My twenty-quid note. Why had I given him that? He was never going to use it on a cab. The sly little toad probably had a bus pass anyway. I had given him that note because I wanted to be popular. For the first time in my life I understood why my mother said parents had to be prepared to be hated by their children. I felt guilty as I ran through the deserted streets of London. Guilty as a parent. It was not a comfortable feeling.

I was angry with myself and right up until the moment I saw him, furious with Caspar. Soporific, he'd collapsed into a dark, dank, urine-stained corner. He was drunk and stoned, that was obvious; he was also alone. Zac was nowhere to be seen. Then I noticed the female officer. She was standing some way off from Caspar, but she was looking at him and talking into the radio on her shoulder. I ran, in those bloody heels, I ran.

“Hello? Hello?”

She turned to me.

“He's mine. I'm so sorry. I'm taking him home.”

She looked at me. “How exactly? He's passed out.”

Shit.

“Taxi?”

“As long as he doesn't get hypothermia before you find one that will take you.”

I looked at Caspar. She had a point.

“Is he all right?”

“He's been very sick, so I shouldn't think pumping his stomach will help.”

Oh hell. “What shall I do?”

“Well, you can't leave him here. Frankly, he looks a little too young to be here in the first place. Did you know he was here?”

“He turned sixteen today, yesterday.”

“Sixteen?”

I knew immediately I'd said the wrong thing. He could have sex, he couldn't drink. Was she going to arrest him now?

“He must have got his hands on some beer from home…”

“And where were you?” She didn't have to wait for an answer, she just looked at my get-up. I was about to protest but then I realized if I did, she wouldn't let me take him home, so I took the disapproving looks and the sanctimonious tone.

“Do you have someone who can come and get you?”

She was just punishing me now. Would I be staggering around Soho in killer heels in the freezing cold wearing next to nothing if I had someone to come and get me! No. I'd have been in bed since eleven with a good book and maybe, if I was lucky, I would have had easy, uncomplicated sex before switching off the light. I would have had someone to hold me in the dark and chat until sleep took hold of me. I would have woken to find a cup of tea on my bedside table—

“Are you all right, madam?”

I snapped out of my reverie.

“I'll be fine,” I said. I'll cope. I do that. I called the taxi firm I used to use with work. I still knew the account number which meant they couldn't refuse.
I knelt down in front of Caspar and tried to get his head up off his knees.

“I wouldn't do that,” said the WPC, a fraction too late. The movement set Caspar's retching off; he vomited all down my front. He didn't even have the politeness to apologize. He didn't even open his eyes. That alarmed me more than the stinking streak of his stomach's contents on my dress.

“Is he unconscious?” I asked.

I think that was when the audience's sympathy turned in my favor. The officer checked him over for me. His eyes didn't respond when we shone a torch in them. He was catatonic. A dead weight. She helped me lower him on to the ground, then put him in the recovery position. People stared at us as they walked past. The jeering would have been worse if it had not been for the presence of the policewoman.