Elegance and Innocence (49 page)

As it happens, she’s already too hysterical to care about my opinion anyway.

‘There’s no food, Evie!’ She grabs me by the shoulders. ‘We have no food in the house!
None
!’

‘What?’

I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems that I haven’t been paying attention to the whole dinner party thing.

I tug off my coat. It lands on top of a pile of other abandoned clothes in the front hall. ‘But I thought Robbie was going to sort it all out.’

I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge. There’s half a pint of old milk, some butter and a carrot. I look in the cupboards. A box of rice, pasta and four bottles of liquor – blue gin, green gin, white gin and a bottle of Cointreau with the cap missing – all of them nearly empty.

A lurching feeling builds in the pit of my stomach.

‘See? Nothing! I told you! What are we going to do?’ Her voice rises to a pitch normally only heard by dogs.

‘OK. We need to be calm.’ (I’m not calm.) ‘How many people are coming?’ (Are there any recipes that serve loads of people using only some rice and a carrot? I wish my mother were here.)

‘It’s us and about a
thousand
men!’ She’s plummeting over the edge. ‘Lindsay’s coming! And that Chicken man, and some guy she buys coffee from in the morning named Carlo and that French girl Pascal …’

‘The one who cries in every scene?’

Imo nods. ‘Robbie thought she would add “colour and an international dimension to the conversation”.’

‘But she can’t open her mouth without weeping,’ I point out, which, upon reflection, isn’t really wise at this juncture.

‘I know! I
know
!’ She’s starting to shake; the two little curlicues bobbing up and down like alien antennae. ‘And Lindsay’s coming! He’s going to be here any minute! We’re fucked! We’re completely fucked, Evie!’

The true horror of the evening Robbie’s masterminded begins to unfold. And the falling sensation accelerates dramatically. Pascal’s crazy. The coffee man barely speaks English. Hughey Chicken has been leaving messages for weeks, all of which Robbie’s been ignoring. And Imo …

Shit!

I fling open another cupboard.

We have three chipped plates, no clean glasses, nothing left to eat or drink, a flat that looks like Beirut and only twenty-five minutes to go.

I hate Robbie; with every fibre of my being, I despise her.

It’s one thing to fuck about with me; to bully me and grind down every last particle of self-confidence I possess.
It’s another thing entirely to harm Imo; to get her hopes up and then to abandon her this way. I could kill Robbie for that.

But right now I have to do something to protect Imo from an evening of unremitting humiliation. I grab her hands. ‘OK, here’s what we do. We’re going to have to cancel. Do you have Lindsay’s number?’

‘What?’ She stares at me blankly, suddenly coming over all Blanche DuBois.

‘We have to cancel,’ I repeat louder, as if shouting will rouse her from this trance. ‘Do you understand, Imo? We have to make them go away!’

She snaps to. ‘But what if it’s too late?’

‘We may just have time. If we call now, they may not have left yet. I can do Pascal and we’ll just have to send Hughey away … and the coffee guy too … hurry!’ I give her a shove. She teeters into her room in search of her address book.

For a moment, I’m rooted to the spot. My most overwhelming instinct is to grab my coat and run. Instead, I focus: try to remember … Where did I put that tiny scrap of paper with Pascal’s number on it? Did I keep it at all? My head hurts. I rub my eyes. Come on, concentrate!

The door opens.

‘Hey! I could do with a hand here!’ Robbie strolls in, her arms full of bags, followed by two Chinese guys carrying large boxes.

I stare at her.

‘What’s all this?’

‘This? Well, this is our dinner party! Thank you.’ They drop their boxes on the long dining-room table and, settling her own bags onto the kitchen counter, she pulls some money from her back pocket and tips them. ‘Thanks for all your help, guys. See you later!’

They smile, waving goodbye as they make their way out of the front door.

I open one of the boxes. Inside, it’s piled high with Chinese takeaway cartons, stacks of chopsticks, fortune cookies, napkins … I watch as she unpacks the bags on the counter; one is full of ice and the other some bizarre beer from Japan.

‘Here.’ She hands me the ice. ‘Put the plug in the sink and dump this in, will you?’

When I’m done, she quickly forces the bottles in between the cubes, until the sink is overflowing with cold beer.

I’m astounded. ‘Where did you get all this?’

She’s unpacking another bag, full of candles, in every conceivable size and shape. ‘Chinatown,’ she answers matter-of-factly She turns to look at me. ‘You didn’t honestly think we were going to cook, did you?’

I turn away. Every time I think I’ve got her pegged, she does something completely surprising. She’s the only person I know for whom the unexpected can be considered business as usual.

I watch silently as she transforms the kitchen, whisking dirty dishes into a bucket she hides underneath the sink and piling the dining table high with fragrant, exotic treats.

It would never occur to me to do anything so bold or extravagant or expensive; there must be at least £100 worth of food and drink here. Yet Robbie executes these grand gestures without even a bat of an eye. Half of me is jealous; if she hadn’t arrived, I’d still be struggling to create a feast out of some rice and a carrot. The other half is pathetically grateful.

‘How did you pay for it?’ I ask sheepishly; by rights we should all chip in.

‘Credit card.’ She drapes a scarlet silk scarf over the paper light shade in the dining room. A soft red glow washes over the room.

‘Won’t your parents be pissed off?’

She looks at me. ‘And what difference does it make to you?’

This is where I should make a move towards reconciliation. After all, what difference does it make how she does things, as long as it works out in the end? But there’s a knot of resentment in my stomach that won’t go away. I open my mouth to form the words but a fresh rush of anger flares up inside me instead. My good intentions evaporate. We have more urgent things to do. I concentrate on helping her lay out the food.

‘My parents live for this kind of shit. I’m providing hours of entertainment and possibly the only bond of intimacy these people will ever share. Pissed off is what they do best,’ she adds pointedly.

Imo rushes out of her room, waving a pink plastic address book. ‘I’ve got it! I found it!’ She stops. ‘What’s this?’

Robbie’s eyes widen. She looks at me in dismay. I can’t help but smile back and the hostility between us relaxes. This is a common crisis.

Piling the candles into my arms, she whispers to me, ‘Why didn’t you tell me she was dressed like Raggedy Ann? You decorate the flat. I’ll sort her out! OK.’ She frogmarches Imo back into her room, ‘This might hurt a little but it’s for your own good!’

The door shuts.

I rush around, filling every bare surface with candles, covering the ugly sofa with a marginally less offensive throw from my bed, doing my best to clear away the full ashtrays, piles of dirty laundry and mouldering cups of stale coffee and tea.

‘How’s it going?’ Robbie calls.

‘I don’t know …’ I stand back, surveying the results. ‘It still looks … bare … like something’s missing!’

She pokes her head out. ‘Here!’ She chucks me her lighter and I catch it. ‘Light all the candles. Turn out the lights. Take my Chanel No. 5 and spray it on the curtains. Put the Billie Holiday tape on a little too loud and then open
a beer. I guarantee you, the place will look a lot better.’ She disappears again.

As I’ve been doing for the past three weeks, I follow Robbie’s instructions one more time. In a matter of minutes the dingy, dark student flat is transformed into a seductive, scented, glimmering den of iniquity, with cosy dark corners, just right for intimate conversations and even more intimate assignations.

I pop the top off a bottle of beer and gulp greedily. I’ve had nothing to eat all day. Then I collapse into one of the black leather chairs. I see myself in the flat, blank television screen opposite; my dyed black hair tumbles down my shoulders in a mass of knots that haven’t been combed through in days. My face peers out, pale and small. Yesterday’s thick black liner and mascara are smudged around my eyes. My arms are twigs sticking out of my white T-shirt and I’ve been wearing these jeans for weeks. I take another swig.

I ought to pull myself together.

If only I had the energy.

‘Ta-da! Here she is!’ Robbie gives Imo a gentle prod into the centre of the room. Her long brown hair swirls around her bare shoulders, showcased in Robbie’s black jersey Norma Kamali dress, which hugs her slim hips, then flares out like a flamenco dancer’s costume. Her face is almost free of make-up; just softly stained lips and long dark lashes. And she’s beautiful, refined; a Pre-Raphaelite
Audrey Hepburn, although she still folds her long arms protectively round her waist. Is she afraid someone might notice she’s not encased in a thousand yards of hand-smocked gingham?

I laugh in delight. ‘Im, you look amazing!’

She grins, turns and plants a kiss on Robbie’s cheek.

The doorbell rings.

We look at one another.

Robbie grabs each of us by the hand. ‘The only rules are, ladies, that we are wonderful, wicked, and witty. Apart from that, nothing else matters!’ Then she sashays into the hallway and pulls the door open. ‘Why, hello! Oh, really, you shouldn’t have!’ she purrs, every inch the New York hostess.

As it turns out, Hughey Chicken, Lindsay Crufts, mad Pascal and Coffee Carlo aren’t the only people Robbie’s invited: Coffee Carlo brings three other guys – all gorgeous Italian students, dead ringers of Michelangelo’s David, only wearing tight jeans and carrying bottles of red wine. Pascal brings her brother, Jean Luc, a Ceroc fanatic who, in addition to jiving with anyone who dares to stand still for thirty seconds, also thoughtfully raided the back garden of the squat where he lives to provide us with some of the most powerful home-grown grass known to man. And Hughey Chicken’s rounded up some musical entertainment, which he promises will arrive any minute.

Best of all, Lindsay shows up wearing a suit and tie,
carrying a bouquet of red roses. Imo shyly arranges them in the three empty gin bottles, while discussing various Chekhov translations and showing off her white shoulders.

The music gets louder and the guys from upstairs come down. We run out of Chinese and order pizzas. Empty beer bottles collect on every surface and spliff after spliff is passed around. One of the Italian Davids tries to make a move on me. And then on Imo. And then on Robbie. And then back to me again. He wanders over, shrugging his shoulders and smiling. ‘I really missed you.’ He settles down next to me with a fresh glass of wine. ‘I like you best, you know.’

The doorbell rings. I make a move, but fail to navigate past Jean Luc, who twirls me under his arm.

Someone else opens it and Jean Luc presses me close, whirling me into the kitchen. I peer over his shoulder to see a familiar figure weaving his way through the crowd.

It’s Jake, carrying a guitar case. He’s not alone. Behind him, a tall, buxom blonde looks disdainfully at the assembled crowd. She’s wearing strappy ankle boots and a flared miniskirt; her T-shirt torn in strategic places, like some video model on MTV.

Jean Luc scoops me up again, tossing me up in the air and catching me. The entire contents of my stomach (three beers and two and a half spring rolls) somersaults inside me. Pulling away, I dive into the bathroom.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. What stares back could easily be one of the witches in
Macbeth
.

Shit.

Why can’t I be the one with the Norma Kamali dress and all Robbie’s expertise?

I grab a comb and start pulling it through my hair.

It’s wrong, I know. The only person I should make such an effort for is Jonny. But I can’t help myself. I’d give almost anything to be the cool blonde trailing behind Jake.

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door.

‘I’ll be out in a minute!’ I shout, splashing my face with cool water. There’s no way he’s going to see me with panda eyes.

More pounding.

‘I’m coming!’ I unlock the door and one of the guys from upstairs falls in, not even bothering to wait for me to leave before he unzips his trousers.

There’s music … live music … grinding rock chords, played with a confidence and skill that’s somehow shocking in the mundane setting of our little flat. Drifting towards the front room, I poke my head round the corner. Jake’s standing near the window, guitar slung round his shoulders, his lean figure almost doubled over with intensity as he plays. The room’s gone quiet; even Jean Luc’s still, mesmerized by this sudden unleashing of raw talent. The blonde is curled neatly at Jake’s feet, looking up at him with the possessive smugness of ownership.

It’s unfair. He’s with her and I’m stuck with boring old Jonny …

Right. I may not have any designer dresses, but I can still do better than this.

I head for my room, open the door.

Someone’s on the bed.

Two people, actually.

And there are groaning noises in the dark.

Great.

I clear my throat.

I cough.

I shuffle my feet, clear my throat and cough.

Fuck it.

I turn on the light.

It’s Pascal and Lindsay Crufts. She’s giving him a blow job. She glares at me, while he, on the other hand, is completely oblivious, head thrown back, eyes shut. She waves me away angrily, as if I’ve been incredibly rude to interrupt them.

I switch the light off and step back into the hallway, closing the door behind me. This is an image that will stay with me for ever; an excess of information I don’t want or need.

‘Have you seen Lindsay?’ It’s Imo, holding two glasses of red wine.

I shake my head ‘no’.

She frowns. ‘He was here only a minute ago.’ She wanders
back into the front room, where Coffee Carlo invites her to sit down, nicking the second glass of wine and wrapping an arm round her shoulders.