Читать книгу: «How To Lose Weight And Alienate People», страница 6
‘You heard right, by the way,’ she says. ‘I did just ask you to be my bridesmaid. Well, I-asked-you-slash-told-you.’
I half twist round. ‘Oh, Dels, that’s so …’
‘So?’
Monday mews again. I put his food down on the floor and immediately his distress signal turns into a joyous high-pitched chirrup, all his years of experience informing him how tremendous the next few minutes are going to be. I stand up and turn to face Adele properly. She smiles at me.
‘It’s all right, Vivian. I know what you’re thinking, and quite rightly so. You’re thinking I’ve gone back on that deal we loosely made …’
‘Erm, I think you’ll find we shook on it. We said that—’
‘I know what we said,’ she interrupts. ‘We said that after the age of twenty-nine, if either of us got married we would never do all that following-each-other-up-the-aisle, telling-each-other-what-to-wear nonsense, because being a bridesmaid …’ I wince as she says the word again, ‘… in your thirties is a bit embarrassing.’
‘A bit? Dels, they’ve even made a blockbuster movie about how embarrassing it is since we had that conversation. The agreement was that we help each other organise everything; hen do, dress, venue, etc., but we’re not officially one of them. I’ll do anything else you want me to that wasn’t on that list too – within reason. I’ll even do a reading from the Bible.’
‘Don’t be silly, you don’t believe in God.’
‘Neither do you and you’re the one wanting to get married in a church.’
She giggles. (I don’t.) ‘That’s not the point, Vivian. Look, I didn’t realise I was going to feel this way, but now I am actually going to be a bride, I want to do things the right way on my big day. All my other close girlfriends are married so they aren’t allowed to be bridesmaids. You aren’t so you are.’
With that she puts one foot firmly in that metaphorical stirrup, ready to mount the moral high horse I can tell she will be riding right up until the big day. Why can’t people get married properly, like Penelope Cruz did in Blow? Off the cuff (and off her head) in Vegas wearing a purple jumpsuit. I had expected more from Adele, but like a shocking number of females who have made a point of swerving dry customs their entire lives she has turned into Anne of Green Gables now she has got a wedding to organise.
‘Fine, I’ll do it. But you better make sure this is the one and only time …’ I smile back at her as I sit down. ‘And you can forget about me wearing anything ten swatches in front of or behind “dusky peach” in the fabric sample flip book.’
She bursts out laughing and idly picks up the pepper grinder from where it is still lying on its side from, er, last night. I watch Monday as he finishes his meal, licks his whiskers, does a few feline press-ups and strolls out of the kitchen without thanking anyone. When I turn back to Adele she has stopped laughing. Her eyes have gone watery again.
‘Stop that.’ I tut at her. ‘You’re not allowed to cry today, or this week, or this month. You’ve shed enough tears over the years. In fact, I am going to lay down a non-negotiable rule now. You are not allowed to blub for your entire engagem—’
‘Stop! Stop being so lovely, Vivian. Look …’ She stares into her tea. ‘There’s something else that I … I don’t know how to tell you. I’ve been dreading this moment so much.’ She stops to take a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’m going to come straight out with it. God. Oh God. Oh God …’
‘Oh God, what?’
Another deep breath. ‘The thing is, I … well, we … as, in James and I … we’ve had a lot to talk about since he …’ She flashes her ring hand at me. ‘And moving forward, we’ve decided to use his place as our base whilst we look for a, er, forever home. Or, at least what I hope will be our forever home … as long as I don’t make a total mess of this relationship like I have done all the others … I mean, he could cheat on me or turn about to be a …’
‘Compulsive liar?’ I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘Christ, remember that one? The psycho you met in that wine bar who told you he was a professional polo coach, and then freaked out when you organised a date horse riding in Hyde Park. Now, what was he called?’
‘I never got to find out his real name, did I?’ she says, slightly boot-faced again at the mention of a previous amour. ‘But listen, about the flat …’
I reach across the table to her. ‘It’s fine. I know what you’re going to say; I need to find someone to move in. Don’t worry, it won’t be too hard. Dane could be up for it. He mentioned the lease on his place is com—’
‘Vivian! Let me finish. Look, I’m sorry, so sorry … but you’re going to have to move out. I’m selling up.’
‘Selling?’
She nods solemnly. ‘It’s time.’
‘When are you going to put it on the market?’ I really don’t like the way she is forced to take yet another deep breath as I ask this. This one is more of a desperate gulp for air.
‘When the work has been completed. To get the best price I need to install another bathroom so there is one for each bedroom. It’s what young professionals expect … so I’m getting a wet room installed.’
‘Where?’
‘Your clothes cupboard. I’ll be staying here to keep an eye on the builders, but you won’t be able to stay in your room with all the work going on.’
‘How long have I got?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Three weeks? Christ, Dels, I’ve spent less time getting ready to go out on New Year’s Eve.’
‘Trust me, I feel awful about the timescale, but the builders who did such a good job of installing the kitchen here and doing my place over in the Docklands had a cancellation, so I wanted to book them in.’
She pulls off her scarf and hangs her face in her hands. When she looks up, I can see a tear is about to slip over the edge of the lower lid under her right eye. I get up and put my arm round her, fully aware that she needs to remember this day as the one she threw her happy news out to the world … not the one I threw Himalayan tea over her.
‘Dels! Remember the rule. No tears.’
‘I feel dreadful for doing this to you.’
I squeeze her tighter. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m extremely resilient. And besides, being made homeless is not the worst thing that can happen to a girl at thirty-four years and three hundred and sixty-four days old.’
She wipes her nose. ‘It isn’t?’
‘Nah …’
‘W-what is?’
‘Being made a fucking bridesmaid.’
‘Vivian!’
CHAPTER TEN
When Luke realises who has buzzed the bell, he flings open the door, picks me up, swings me round, then snogs me for more than a minute.
I untangle myself from his arms. ‘I see you haven’t got round to reading that treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen manual I ordered for you.’ I bend down and pick up the squashy bag I have brought with me containing his laptop, magazines, cables and sweatshirt, as well as the grooming tools I will need in the morning. ‘Adele got back and was being narky about your stuff littering up the lounge so I thought I would bring some of it over.’
‘Ha!’ he laughs, straight at me. ‘I see someone else hasn’t got round to reading the manual I ordered for her on coming up with decent excuses to cover up for the fact that she really wants to spend time with me. Besides, I think we both know that if I was that into you, I would have got rid of these by now.’
He points at the trousers he is wearing. They are my most hated item of all his clothes: knackered army-surplus combats that have a side pocket long and wide enough to hold a family-sized tube of Pringles. Today a red tube is peeking out. Paprika.
‘Yeah, but—’
He interrupts me. ‘The “yeah” is all I need.’ With that he picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, leans down to grab the bag and carries me down the corridor. ‘So, how did the audition go?’
‘I won’t get the part,’ I say with absolute certainty.
‘You reckon? I’m sure you were m—’
‘Stop!’ I reach down and wallop him on his concrete-hard backside. ‘Don’t even try to make me feel better.’
‘Okay, okay. I’m saying nada.’
He kicks open the kitchen door and plonks me down on the floor. The room is a tip. The sink is full of dirty crockery, the bin is overflowing with empty takeaway cartons, the floor is littered with cardboard pizza boxes and all the surfaces are covered in a thick film of biscuit crumbs. It’s like a Disneyland for real mice.
‘Christ, Luke …’
He shakes his head at me. ‘Don’t give me grief. I try to keep it clean but you know what Wozza is like having his mates over the whole time to party. It’s like living within the eye of a storm. I haven’t been around the past few weeks to contain things, have I? Let’s get out of here and grab some dinner.’
‘It’s Friday … eating is cheating. Besides, we’re having dinner tomorrow.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Having dinner on consecutive nights is a crazy Aussie thing, isn’t it? You only have it once a week in the UK.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, pleased he is making a joke. ‘Besides, I had something earlier.’
‘Earlier today, or earlier in the month?’
‘Don’t nag, I had a proper meal.’
‘A proper meal from whose point of view? An adult human or a baby marmoset?’
Now I can tell he isn’t joking, and I am not particularly amused either. The anti-congratulatory way in which he refers to my neatly calculated portion control pisses me off. On The City, Allie Crandell’s boyfriend never said anything about her weight, despite her being so waifish she often wafted into scenes like an apparition. I did eat tonight. I had an Atkins bar. Then I did an hour of Jillian Michaels – Body Revolution. Then I had a vanilla Skinny Cow ice-cream.
‘I don’t know what you’re so worried about, anyway,’ continues Luke, shrugging. ‘There’s nothing of you. Put on a few kilos and there’d be more of you to do bad things to, which could only be a good thing. Guys like something to grip onto.’
I nod as if I am taking on board what he is saying. I am not. He’s speaking like a larger lady who is trying to convince herself that she is happy with her size. Next he’ll tell me that Beyoncé is ‘bootylicious’ (read: bottom heavy) or that Jennifer Hudson looked better with ‘more junk in the trunk’ (she didn’t) or that Christina Hendricks’s curves are ‘old Hollywood’ (i.e., not so helpful when getting roles in this century). But I don’t bother repeating any of this. I can feel them – the thoughts from earlier – lining up, ready to start running through my head again.
‘Why don’t we go clubbing?’ I suggest. ‘Ask Warren to bung us on the guest-list somewhere. He’ll have some gear too, right?’
Luke raises an eyebrow at me. ‘You want to get stuck into the speedo?’
‘You know I don’t do that any more.’ I may have stopped purely not to hear him say that beyond-irritating expression. ‘But I …’
‘… wouldn’t mind doing something to let the wheels come off?’
Yes, I would like to. Maybe an E, but not because I want the wheels to come off. The opposite. When I occasionally use drugs, it is as a tool to get myself back in control. I see it like this: being yourself and convincing other people of this self is a mental marathon. One that does not have a finish line. The stop watch will never go back to zero. Nor will you be wrapped up in a heavily branded silver foil blanket. There is certainly no medal. It’s a hard slog. So sometimes you need time out from the race. For me, that’s what drugs are about: a reprieve from thinking. It’s a trick. Not a treat.
‘Why not?’ I say to Luke, reaching into the bag I brought with me. I get out a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and some beers for Luke (which he will probably ignore in favour of a Dr Pepper). ‘And stop looking at me like that.’
‘Why don’t you just tell me what’s the matter? You’ve obviously had a shit day.’
I prickle, wrong-footed. ‘I haven’t. I simply want to go out and have fun. That’s all.’
‘Fair enough, but I can’t stay out late; I’m working in the morning.’
‘I thought the whole point of your job was that you didn’t do weekends or overtime.’
‘I could do with some extra cash right now.’
‘What for? More cables to add to your viper’s nest?’ I huff. ‘Look, I won’t keep you up for hours. Warren has got some Valium’ – another necessary trick – ‘hasn’t he? It’ll knock me out as soon as we get back.’
‘You’re really not dressing this up as A Night to Remember.’
‘Christ, Luke … live a little.’ I add another huff and untwist the cap on the vodka bottle.
He huffs back at me, then opens the freezer compartment for a bag of ice and half fills two pint glasses with cubes. I pour at least three measures of Grey Goose into one of the glasses. He reaches into the fridge for a bottle of Dr Pepper. When he turns round I can see his face could be about to crumple.
‘Why do you always have to lash out at me like a cut snake?’
I figure this is not the time to pull him up on his usage of Aussie slang. ‘I don’t mean to.’
‘Try harder.’
‘I am trying.’
‘Yes, you are … very trying.’
‘Why do you bother with me, then?’ I nod at my glass. ‘More ice, please.’
He looks at my glass, then at me, chucks the ice on the table, and gently pushes me back against the fridge. ‘Why do I bother? I wish I didn’t feel I had to. But unluckily for me I find your combination of short temper and long legs extremely attractive.’
‘How attractive?’
‘On a scale of one to ten?’
‘Yep.’
‘With one being reasonably do-able if there was no one else around who I fancied the look of and ten being this much?’ He grabs my hand and places it firmly over his crotch. ‘I’d say you’ve got yourself full marks there.’
So, we don’t go out. Luke keeps me entertained in his bedroom. He entertains me on the floor, in the chair, against the door, by the wardrobe and over the mixing desk – we video that bit. Basically, we do it everywhere except the bed because the frame is about to collapse. You can sleep in it but that’s about it. Bar the rickety bed, Luke has made a real effort to make the room comfier over the past year. Although the floor is still covered in cables, he has filled the shelves with candles (bit corny, I know, but the original ceiling light could have been used to perform laser eye surgery), painted the walls, acquired new bed linen (black to hide my fake tan smudges), stripped the floorboards and covered them with a fluffy rug from Ikea, bought a miniature fridge and kettle so I don’t have to go into the kitchen in the morning, and he’s had the window fixed so it can open and his boyish smells aren’t allowed to fester. He also keeps it pretty spotless. Okay, so it’s still not going to merit the cover feature in Architectural Digest but it’s a world away from the dank, putrid cave that is Warren’s bedroom up the corridor.
Before we go to sleep, Luke gives me an early birthday present; not clothes, thank God. Hair straighteners. He says they are for me to keep in his bedroom so I don’t need to bring mine over every time I stay. The tongs are made by ghd, but they are the pink ones, which means that a certain amount of the purchase price will go to a breast cancer charity. Typical Luke; reminding me that having hair with a propensity to kink if left to dry naturally is not the most life-threatening condition that can affect a woman. They make me smile, and a few seconds later I find myself telling Luke about Adele’s engagement and asking him if he minds me staying with him for a short while when I move out of her flat. He reacts as a young spaniel might having just been told he is the new quality-control manager in charge of road-testing products at The Squeaky Ball and Throwable Stick Company. He is as ecstatic as it is possible to be without risking further structural damage to the bed … and I have to admit, that as I lie there under the more than adequately togged new duvet but with just the right amount of cool breeze drifting in through the window, I don’t think it’s the worst idea in the world. Just until I get myself sorted, anyway.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Oi oiiiii! Wozza’s in the hoooooooooouse. Time to get the mother-fuckin’ clown car out the rave garage! Vroom vroooooooooom! Ooooooooooh, this gear is mental. MENTAL! It’s mental continental Avis four-door hatchback seven-day rental chicken orientaaaaaaaaaal!’
At seven o’clock the next morning, Luke’s flatmate Warren – the only living organism to make Scott Disick look complicated – returns home from a night out with his mates. Banging dance music starts pounding through the wall. Simultaneously, the washing machine in the flat above kicks into the planet’s clunkiest spin cycle, so I give up trying to sleep and make a cup of tea. Luke has stuck a note on the kettle.
Happy birthday! As they say in The Outback, ‘Rinse it like a drongo!’ So here’s the plan. From now until 8 p.m. I want you to remember you’re awesome, because you are. Then, at 8 p.m. meet me outside that Spanish place round the back of Bethnal Green Road. We’re going for tapas …
I freeze and immediately stop reading. Christ, really? Tapas is a ridiculous way of eating. Multiple dishes come to the table at random times and nothing on the menu is straightforward, i.e., plain brown, white or green. Bar the olives, I suppose, but even they could be stuffed with an insurgent pimento. I take my tea back to bed and pull the duvet around me. Luke’s room hasn’t got the same kind of feel about it in the cold light of day, with no twinkling tea lights or post-coital glow to bathe in. (Spotting the almost full tape in my video camera makes me cringe slightly.) I listen to the bass pounding away through the wall, and as much as I wouldn’t want to be hanging out with Warren and his gang, I am jealous that they have all been out having fun. The thought of not going to Ibiza this summer – the Promised Land of Fun – makes me disgruntled.
I look over to the mantelpiece. Propped up behind a photo of Luke’s family is the acting card my agent, Terry, uses to send out to casting directors. For someone who resolutely avoided a single picture to be taken of them between the age of ten and twenty, it’s weird how relaxed I appear. The shot is in black and white and I am looking directly into the camera whilst pulling my best smiley yet pouty, serious but light-hearted, angelically devilish face … to show I have a fantastically varied range. I lean forward and try to figure out how old I look in the picture but it’s difficult to tell. I certainly don’t look my age, but then I’m not, not really. According to my birth certificate I am thirty-five today, but in a sense I’m only twenty-five. That dark side period … it obliterated a whole decade of my life. Losing me to it, looking for me, giving up on me to create the new me, getting used to this me … took close to ten years.
My eyes wander back to the picture of Luke with his family; he is laughing as his father pretends to plonk a large prawn on his mother’s head with some barbecue tongs. He must be seventeen, nearly eighteen, at the time that picture was taken – round about the same age I was when I left home. The scene looks like something out of a summer TV commercial for outside grilling equipment, with Luke’s parents cast as the perfect mum and dad. But then Luke thinks his parents are perfect. One of the first things he ever said to me was that the greatest lesson he learnt from them was to be honest with yourself … because then you will be honest with other people. I murmured something resembling an agreement – as I do every time he imparts any other words of wisdom his ‘folks’ have bestowed upon him – because it’s the easiest thing to do. But frankly, their inspirational fridge-magnet approach to life doesn’t sound that far up the well-meaning-but-delusional scale from my mother’s biblical one. Proverbs Chapter 10 Verse 9: Honest people are safe and secure, but the dishonest will be caught … She couldn’t have been more wrong.
I flop back against the head rest. The bed snaps in two like a Venus fly trap, ensnaring me in the middle and sending my tea flying. Wriggling out, I catch my hair on one of the broken springs, which causes unhelpful tangling. So I switch on the do-gooding styling irons Luke gave me last night. But even after a minute they don’t heat up to a level anywhere near as powerful as my own ones that I bought off that stylist. It just goes to show you can’t save lives and achieve a catwalk-ready look. I crawl over some electric leads to get my own straighteners out of my bag. But whilst rummaging, I stop, grab my Nokia instead and quickly scroll down the list of received calls. I find the number I need and before I give myself a moment to change my mind, I phone it. The call is answered on the third ring – I knew she would be up.
‘Ha!’ cackles Barb Silver. ‘You do have a bit of freakin’ ambition after all, kiddo. Maxy will be freakin’ pleased you’re coming. Listen, I’m mid Gyrotonic … I’ll shoot you over the details in five minutes.’
They ping through in three. I am back at home in forty. I am ready in two hundred and twenty-six … and waiting by the window in the lounge for my cab. Whilst I am there, I text Adele, tell her I’m going to a party and ask if I can go into her closet and borrow some accessories – namely, the ones I have already stolen. Monday watches me from the sofa, blinking. He blinks a few more times then wraps his big orange tail tight round him, and settles down amongst the cushions with his back to me.
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