Love Is... (10 page)

18.07: with the driver on the 37 bus to Clapham High Street.

20.13: Matthew ‘knighting' a pedestrian with his baguette.

23.03: Group hug with the doormen at Infernos nightclub

When they followed this up with a video of Matthew on the dance floor, sporting the baguette as willy substitute and with Harriet gripping it like Linda Lovelace, I switched off my phone and slumped down onto the sofa. Rupert jumped up next to me. It was becoming increasingly clear to me that I had spent the past ten years building a business around a concept that was flawed to the core. In a cruel twist to my
idealistic plot, I'd been bringing people together only for them to, at best, drift apart, or, worse, destroy each other entirely.

I leaned forward and grabbed my iPad off the coffee table. With Rupert on my lap, tapping at the screen I searched the most recent emails from Dominic. I found the one I was searching for straight away.

Subject title: Eleanor's Itinerary.

I double clicked on the attached document and quickly scrolled down through the list of experts:

I thought about what Nick had said about not knowing what I was holding out for. Maybe my destiny wasn't to merge with the Aryan herd of Clapham. Ten years ago, I'd set out to find the answers, and now all I had were yet more questions. When another selfie of Matthew popped up on Facebook, this time revealing tequila shots and running-man
dancing, I realised that all of us in our own way were trying to escape the truth.

‘Maybe it is time for a change,' I said, and Rupert jumped up and licked my face.

Chapter 8

M
atthew gripped my hand as we hurried to the station. It was cold enough to see my breath in the air.

‘So let's get this straight,' he said. ‘This is your last night out in London, the cultural capital of the world, and you're making us go to Blood Burger?'

‘Blood's is cool.'

Matthew stopped, turned to me and took both my hands in his. ‘Ellie, my darling. You are the sun on my cloudy day, you are the port in my storm, you are the song in my heart. But cool, you are not. So please don't call it Blood's. Next thing you'll be wearing Converse.'

I slapped his arm. ‘Just because I'm not a sculpt-my-hair-into-an-ironic-quiff try-hard, doesn't mean I'm not cool,' I said, continuing ahead. ‘Besides, they do the best blue cheese sauce.'

He laughed. ‘The Yanks invented blue cheese sauce. You're going to drown in the stuff when you go.'

I sighed. ‘Look, it's the only place I know in Shoreditch
and you know Kat's boyfriend won't come south of the river.'

Matthew stopped in his tracks again. ‘Oh God no. You didn't invite Klive with a “K”, did you?' He made his arms into a gangtsa-style ‘K' when he spoke.

I rolled my eyes. ‘You're lucky I invited
you,
considering your behaviour of late.'

‘Fifty quid to eat a burger in a graffitied warehouse next to Mr Kunt with a “K”. I'm starting to wish I hadn't been invited.'

I slapped him again. ‘It's not graffiti, it's street art. Now hurry up. Our table's booked for eight o'clock.'

We arrived at Blood Burger just after eight-thirty. The entrance was via a backstreet, which seemed to double as a urinal. Straight away, I spotted Victoria's ponytail at the front of the queue. It was swinging from side to side while Victoria argued with a door woman who had a bolt through her nose. Matthew and I edged up to them to see what the problem was.

Victoria air-kissed us, then explained the situation.

‘She wants to take my coat,' she said.

The door woman gestured towards the coat check and raised her eyebrows.

Matthew leaned in and stared at Victoria. ‘How is that a problem?'

Victoria looked at me. ‘I'm not leaving it here,' she whispered, leaning in towards us. ‘It's Chanel.'

Matthew started laughing. ‘The people of Shoreditch don't care much for haute couture,' he said.

Victoria glared at Matthew and then glanced around her. ‘Shush,' she said. ‘Or are you going to socialise the value
of my jewellery while you're at it? Provide a full inventory for all the robbers within a one-mile radius.'

He smirked. ‘This isn't
Oliver Twist.
East London has become gentrified since the eighteen hundreds. Didn't anyone tell you?'

It was nearing nine o'clock by the time we were seated at our table. Victoria had eventually been persuaded to hand over her coat after Matthew had promised to reimburse her its full market value should it be ‘lifted' by a pierced staff member or unsavoury patron.

Straight away the waiter approached and handed us menus, along with a stern reminder that we would be expected to vacate the table by 10 p.m.

Matthew ordered several bottles of wine and then waved him away. I looked around the room and then around the table. Matthew fitted in well with his geek chic and Victoria, with her high ponytail and perma-haughty expression was intrinsically cool. But, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that my high-street tea dress could perhaps be mistaken for Portobello vintage, deep down I knew I didn't belong here. Matthew clocked me readjusting the neckline and pulled my hand away.

‘Ellie, no one gives a shit what you're wearing. Just chill out.' Then he leaned forward and squeezed my cheek. ‘The Yanks will think you're adorable, whatever you wear.'

I looked at him, open-mouthed. ‘Was that just a compliment from Matthew?'

He grinned. ‘If you have any faith in their judgement, that is.'

I leaned forward and smacked him on the leg. He put me in a mock headlock.

‘We're going to miss you, Ellie Rigby,' he said, ruffling my hair.

Victoria looked the other way. If I hadn't have known her better, I would've thought she was wiping away a tear.

Matthew suddenly freed me and then grabbed the open bottle of wine that the waiter had just placed in front of him.

‘Let's drink,' he said, pouring each of us a glass.

We'd failed to order within the expected timeline so were forcibly supervised by the increasingly impatient waiter.

Victoria announced that she wasn't in the mood for a burger.

‘Is there anything else on the menu?' she asked the waiter.

He sighed. ‘There's the Blood Spud.'

She screwed up her face. ‘You've really gone to town with the blood theme, haven't you?' she said. ‘And what exactly is the Blood Spud?'

‘A potato.'

‘With?'

‘Chilli mince.'

Her face contorted further. ‘Anything vegetarian?'

The waiter checked his watch. ‘Yes, the blood orange salad.'

‘Fine. I'll have that then.' She let out a deep sigh as though she'd just forfeited generations of accumulated family wealth in one disastrous negotiation.

The waiter turned to Matthew. ‘And for you, sir?'

Matthew, evidently amusing himself at the waiter's expense, insisted he consult with the chef on the gluten content of the entire menu, before eventually conceding that he was not in any way intolerant to gluten. He then ordered a
Double Blood Beaten Burger with a Big Daddy Bap. I could tell he enjoyed saying the word ‘bap'.

‘I'll have the Black and Blue,' I said, conscious time was passing. ‘With extra blue cheese sauce, please.'

Suddenly, Matthew hid behind his menu. ‘Fuck me,' he said.

I stared at him. ‘It's only blue cheese sauce. I didn't order a ten-inch dildo.'

‘No, not that.' Matthew pointed from behind the menu. ‘Them.'

The waiter hurried off and I glanced behind me to see what Matthew was pointing at. I struggled to recognise them at first. Then I realised it was Kat and Klive coming down the stairs. Kat appeared to be wearing an orange sari and Klive was beside her looking like a Masai warrior after a Gok Wan makeover. I looked closer. Kat's hair was scraped back. No, wait a minute…

‘She's shaved her head?' Matthew said, reappearing from behind the menu.

Kat waved. Klive puffed out his chest and glanced around the room, as though he were the guest on a prime-time talk show.

They approached the table and Klive pulled out a chair for Kat. Then he nodded at each of us, as though the matter of presenting our close friend with a freshly shaven head were an everyday occurrence.

Victoria broke the silence first.

‘Please tell me this is fancy dress,' she said, pulling at Kat's robe. ‘You've got a party to go to after, haven't you?'

Kat shook her head.

Klive took Kat's hand and looked at us solemnly.

‘Katrina and I have chosen a new way of life,' he said.

Victoria rolled her eyes and Matthew started giggling.

In the years I'd known her, Kat had assumed all manner of religions and identities depending on whom she was dating. I looked her up and down, vaguely identifying her attire from a Louis Theroux documentary I'd seen recently.

‘So, you're a Hare Krishna now?' I asked.

Kat nodded.

Matthew laughed again. ‘You can talk, you know. It's only Buddhists who take a vow of silence. The Hare Krishnas are a noisy bunch. Always chanting. Are you sure you've fully researched this?'

Klive held up his hand to interrupt Matthew. ‘Kat has been wrestling with demons for years and now she has found her path. As her friends you must respect that, shouldn't they, darling?'

Kat smiled vaguely.

‘Yeah, the path to some hardcore pharmaceuticals, it looks like,' Matthew chipped in.

Klive puffed out his chest again. Next to his dark brown skin, the bright orange sarong looked almost luminous. I didn't recall anyone wearing that ensemble in the Louis Theroux documentary. It seemed less of an ego-transcending statement and more like a well-accessorised Westwood-esque interpretation of Hinduism.

Matthew was glaring at him. Just as he was about to say something, the waiter returned with a tray of cocktails. Matthew handed them out. Kat's smile faltered slightly.

The waiter turned to Klive. ‘Can I get you anything, sir?'

Klive's chest seemed to expand further. ‘Two empty glasses, please.'

The waiter stared at him for a moment. ‘And?'

‘That's all,' said Klive. ‘We've brought our own water.'

The waiter shrugged his shoulders and walked off.

Kat cleared her throat and eventually broke her silence. ‘Swami Peshwani says we shouldn't eat meat. Or drink alcohol,' she said.

Matthew laughed again. ‘Swami Peshwari sounds like the subject of a
Watchdog
investigation.'

‘Peshwani,'
Klive corrected. ‘Not Peshwari. He's a spiritual leader, not a coconut-filled naan.'

‘So what else did Swami P. say?' Matthew downed his drink, then burped loudly. ‘I hope you didn't give him any money.'

Klive's eyes narrowed and he leaned in, placing both hands on the table. ‘He said those who live like you will be reincarnated as a lower being.'

Matthew laughed again. ‘Those who live like me?' he said, reaching for another drink. ‘I'd much rather be driven by instinct than bullshit my way through an unattainable set of standards.' He turned to Kat. ‘I bet Klive didn't tell you that Hare Krishnas believe sex is for procreation only?'

Kat turned to Klive, eyebrows raised.

Klive shifted in his seat.

Matthew wagged his finger at Kat. ‘If he puts his thing anywhere near you, call Swami P. immediately.'

The beginnings of a smirk appeared on Kat's face.

Just as Klive began to explain his seemingly selective interpretation of Swami Peshwani's gospel, the waiter reappeared with our food. Kat stared at Matthew's double blood beater and I saw a flash of longing in her eyes.

Matthew grabbed the burger with both hands and took a huge bite, letting the juices drip down his chin.

Klive stood up, muttering something about Matthew being an ignorant heathen who had no respect for another's beliefs.

‘Oh, come on,' Matthew said, wiping his chin. ‘You've just shoved your evangelical bullshit down my throat with that silly orange outfit, and your judgement on my life.'

‘I'll let Krishna be the judge of you,' Klive said, smoothing down his sarong and placing his coordinating man bag over his shoulder. ‘And it's saffron, not orange.'

A girl with pink hair sitting at the table next to us nodded in agreement.

Klive tugged on Kat's arm. ‘Come on,' he said. ‘We'll make the ten o'clock yoga class if we leave now.'

Kat looked at him, then at Matthew's burger and then at me. ‘It's Ellie's leaving do,' she said. ‘I'm going to stay.'

Klive's nostrils flared. He stared at Kat as though trying to summon her with his will. It wasn't working. ‘Fine,' he said. ‘But remember, sixteen chants per rosary.' He bent down to free one of his sandal straps, which had become tangled around a chair leg.

‘Yes,' Matthew chipped in, ‘or you might come back as a cockroach.' He leaned in towards Kat and whispered, ‘One spelt with a “k” of course.'

Kat smirked. Then when Klive was out of sight, she swiped Matthew's burger and took a huge bite.

It was nearing ten o'clock when the waiter began hovering around us, insisting he clear our plates. However, Matthew, whose belligerence appeared to be escalating with each drink, had deliberately ordered more food and another round of cocktails in an attempt to delay our departure.