Читать книгу Bad Friends - Claire Seeber, Claire Seeber - Страница 19

Chapter Eleven

Old friends bobbed about the party like baubles on a Christmas tree, the women spilling out of silk and satin, the men preening peacock-like in their best clobber. The air was thick with smoke and music and expensive scent, and the Dutch courage I’d downed earlier meant I was almost starting to enjoy myself, once I realised Alex wasn’t there. I was shouting over the din to my chain-smoking friend Naz, admiring her slinky cream salwar kameez and hearing about the job the BBC had just offered her, when I felt a gentle tap on my back. Gentle, but insistent.

‘Nice dress.’ Fay looked up at me intently as I turned round. ‘Champagne?’ In a funky little black and white waitress number that somehow clung in all the right places, her violet eyes ringed with iridescent silver, her ringlets perfectly sausage-like, she looked stunning. I, on the other hand, was simply stunned.

If Fay noticed that my face had fallen, it didn’t put her off. ‘That colour green really suits you. I’d love a dress like that.’

‘Thanks.’ I tried to collect my thoughts. ‘What are – I mean, I wasn’t expecting –’

‘I’m a Beautiful Bartender.’ She smiled proudly.

‘A what?’ I managed to suppress a deep sigh.

‘It’s great, isn’t it? It’s my other job when I’m not on TV. How funny they wanted me to work tonight, don’t you think? Oh look, there’s Charlie.’ Fay waved merrily at where he lounged against the bar. ‘I’ll be straight back,’ she promised me.

‘There’s no rush,’ I muttered as she floated off, ‘really.’

‘Old friend?’ asked Naz cheerfully, offering me a cigarette. ‘You don’t look too pleased to see her, I must say.’

‘Don’t I?’ I took a drag so deep the acrid smoke made me cough.

‘Nope.’

‘I just don’t quite understand why she keeps turning up everywhere.’

In the middle of the dance floor, Bel and Johnno were kissing, oblivious to their pogo-ing neighbours, oblivious to everyone around them. I wasn’t envious. I really wasn’t. Taking a slug of my cocktail, I was surprised to find my glass was empty. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m just being paranoid.’

‘Why? Who is she?’

‘She was on the coach when it crashed, and now – well, she just keeps turning up all over the place.’

‘Like a bad penny.’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘I know what’ll cheer you up.’ Naz grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the Ladies. ‘Come on.’

‘I’m fine, Naz, honestly.’

She was determined. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoilsport.’

‘I’m not. I’d rather have a drink, that’s all. You go. I’ll be at the bar.’

Fay sidled up to me as I waited to get served. My foot was throbbing painfully from bashing it outside Charlie’s office door.

‘I’m off now, Maggie. I was only booked for the first two hours. Got a party of my own to go to now.’

I felt inordinately relieved.

‘My new agency – their party.’ Fay said the first words with great pride.

‘Oh right. Well, have a good time.’ I resisted the temptation to slide my finger through the middle of her perfect ringlet.

‘I always do.’ Fay took both my hands in hers and squeezed them rather like a vicar might. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

‘Champagne, darling?’ Charlie’s hot breath caressed my naked back and I shuddered, watching Fay skip towards the stairs.

There followed an hour of polite-if-rather-dazed listening to Naz’s friends from one of the big channels. They were all wired, admiring themselves in the mirrored walls with the complete assurance that they had never looked better, slimmer or taller than right now. Frantically they jostled for air-time, each absolutely convinced that what they had to say was far more fascinating than the next person’s offering. I stifled a yawn. The only thing more boring than taking coke was listening to people bang on about it.

‘Let me talk,’ one heavy girl with a thick black fringe kept insisting, scowling if anyone interrupted her. I felt like the needle in the middle of a badly tuned radio, voices vying for attention. ‘No, no, listen,’ the girl was saying now. I realised hazily that she was talking to me. ‘Naz told me you’re doing the Renee Owens show. I don’t know how you can work on that rubbish, I really don’t. It’s so bloody rigged.’

‘Rigged?’ I really couldn’t be bothered to defend myself. ‘And what do you do?’

‘I’m series producing this year’s X Factor,’ she announced proudly. ‘It’s a corker – beating Strictly hands down.’

‘What, and X Factor’s all about the talent?’ Naz scoffed. ‘Come on, Nat! Pull the other one.’

‘It is based on talent!’ Natalie was outraged. ‘Absolutely. And, God, Simon’s such a scream to work with.’

‘Whose talent?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Sharon Osbourne’s? You’re shoving the walking wounded straight into the cannon’s mouth.’

‘We only –’

I zoned out. The couple next to me couldn’t keep their hands off one another; the bloke kept thrusting his hand down the back of her jeans. Mournfully I thought of Alex and looked away.

‘You do look fab, Maggie – just like a Christmas present,’ Naz said kindly. ‘Someone’s bound to tear you open soon!’ Only her streaming nose rather ruined the sentiment. As her boyfriend snaked a lascivious arm around her, I fled to join Bel on the dance floor.

She was extremely drunk. After some rather terrifying disco-squats she ricocheted round the dancers surrounding her, finally cannoning into me so that I fell against a group standing on the edge of the dance floor. An arm shot out to steady me.

‘Sorry.’ I staggered in the heels I wasn’t used to, my bad foot sore again where I’d awkwardly righted myself. ‘Ouch.’

‘Do you want to sit down for a second?’ The dark-haired man who’d just caught me led me to a seat tucked in the corner, where I plonked myself down inelegantly and slid my shoe off. ‘Oh God, that hurts.’ I rubbed my toes. ‘Thanks for saving me.’

‘No problem.’ He offered me a hand. ‘Sebastian Rae. Seb.’

‘Maggie. Maggie Warren.’ And then I looked up at him directly as I took the proffered hand, and for the first time since Alex, the first time in such a very long time, I felt a surge of something, something like life, and it almost winded me. I looked up at this man again, and afterwards I had the horrible feeling I might have been mouthing stupidly, sort of fish-like, saying nothing.

He was studying me intently, his dark eyes inscrutable. So intently. I looked away again very quickly and prayed I hadn’t just blushed like a schoolgirl.

‘You all right now, then, Maggie Warren?’

‘Oh yes, I’m fine.’ He was going to walk away. Please don’t walk away. But he moved off – and then he turned and looked at me again.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

Oh God, absolutely. ‘Oh, thanks – if you’re sure,’ I mumbled.

I liked his suit. It would have looked rather odd and out of place on anyone else amid this mayhem, but something about his leanness, about his stance, meant he pulled it off. I’d quite like to pull it off, I decided. I looked at my feet, and back up again. He was still waiting.

‘What’ll it be then?’

‘Oh, sorry! I’ll have a – a glass of red wine please.’

By the time Seb had battled to the bar and back I’d had time to come to my senses. I definitely wasn’t ready for this again. And he – well, he wasn’t Alex. He sat beside me, his dark hair tousled, his shirt very white, and I stared at the razor-sharp creases in his grey trousers and tried desperately to think of something interesting to say.

‘What do you do?’ I’d failed. The flashing lights and the banging music were beginning to confuse me; I breathed deep and tried not to succumb to his crooked smile. Trust in myself and any ability I had to choose a man well – a good man – was long gone. My heart was still lumpen in my chest, still jagged and torn. I couldn’t imagine a time when it would be whole again.

‘I’m an actor, actually.’ He raised his glass to me. I had the uncomfortable feeling he was sizing me up.

‘How exciting.’ Did I sound star-struck? I’d met so many celebrities in my job, but he seemed a little different; somehow aloof from it all. ‘I thought you looked a bit familiar.’

He had a very small scar running vertically above his upper lip, the skin there paler than the rest. I sat firmly on my hands, resisting the temptation to reach out and touch it. ‘Have you been in anything I’d have seen?’

‘Oh, you know. EastEnders, The Bill. The usual crap.’ He smiled, and I smiled back. I liked the way the corner of his mouth twisted as he grinned. I liked the fact he had a sense of humour about himself, which most actors I’d met lacked, and most of all I liked his dark eyes, eyes that were almost black in this dim light. Like melting tar on summer roads. I looked away.

‘I’m about to do some Shakespeare actually.’

‘Oh really? Personally I never really got to grips with the great Bard. Too much flouncy language, not enough sex.’ Where had that come from? I winced at myself. Quit while you’re ahead, Maggie, a little voice muttered.

‘No, well, he’s not everybody’s cup of tea. But, actually, there’s quite a lot of sex, I’d say. A lot of people ruined by broken hearts and jealous lovers.’

Me too, I nearly said. I am utterly ruined by my last love. My lost love. I caught myself: drunk and maudlin, a fatal combination. I tried to focus; to place his accent. Very faint. A burr, maybe Midlands, West Country perhaps. I felt a pang for Pendarlin again.

‘Which play are you doing?’

‘Twelfth Night.’

I vaguely remembered it from A-level English. I could just see him as the handsome angry prince who bangs on about music being the food of love, fighting desperately for the girl he wants. How romantic. I found I’d drained my wine.

Seb grinned. ‘Actually, if you want a bit of sex, there’s even some cross-dressing going on in Twelfth Night.’

‘It’s not sexy, cross-dressing, though, is it?’ I frowned, concentrating hard. ‘I thought it was about disguise and hiding. You’re not playing the one who burps, are you?’

‘Sir Toby Belch? No, not this time, sadly. He’s very funny, though.’

‘Or the one that wears yellow socks?’ I hiccuped gently and contemplated him. ‘I see you more as Hamlet, you know.’

Seb smiled inscrutably. ‘I guess most of us “thesps” like to think we’ve got him in us.’

I was steeling myself to ask whether Seb would like another drink when he stood up. ‘I’ve got an early start.’ He smiled at me as I bit down the disappointment, squinting up at him. ‘So, Maggie Warren.’ He was very gorgeous, and I was a bit drunk. I might be ruined by Alex, but I was still capable of rebounding heavily. It was definitely better that Seb left immediately. There was no telling what I might do when I was in my cups. My C cups. I started to smile.

Taking my hand, he held it for a minute. Or perhaps it was my imagination; perhaps it was a mere second. His skin was very cool against mine, which was burning hot. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

I stood up too. ‘Oh, yes. Likewise.’

He stared at me for a second, and then he grinned. ‘And watch out for that dance floor. It’s got a mind of its own.’

This time I did blush. ‘Oh yes, I will. I mean, it was Bel. You know Bel when she gets going. She knocked me over.’

But he’d already been swallowed up by the heaving throng, which was getting wilder by the minute. I gazed after him – and then suddenly Bel and Johnno were standing before me – or, rather, Johnno was standing, holding a slumped Bel upright. ‘Bit tired and emotional, you know. I think I’d better take her home.’

‘Who was that?’ she slurred.

‘Seb. Sebastian Rae. The actor.’ His name sounded unwieldy on my lips.

‘Oh yes,’ she nodded, then turned a gentle green. ‘You know, I actually really don’t feel too good. At all, actually.’

After Johnno had removed Bel in some haste, I realised I had little inclination to join the hysterical shrieking fracas that was the last hour or two of a good party. There was really no one left who I even wanted to talk to. For one insane moment I contemplated calling Alex. Because of that, I knew I must go home to bed. Grappling with my coat and bag at the cloakroom, Charlie wafted up beside me and scooped up the confetti packets I’d just knocked off the side. ‘Oh.’ I gazed at one sadly before plopping them back in the bowl. ‘We forgot to throw the confetti.’

‘What a shame,’ Charlie said insincerely. ‘Need a lift, darling?’

‘It’s the wrong way, isn’t it?’ I concentrated on not slurring. ‘A cab’ll be fine, thanks, Charlie. There’ll be loads around I expect.’

‘Suit yourself.’

It was freezing outside, the frenetic hubbub of nearby Piccadilly not lessened by the late hour. On the edge of the kerb I shrugged my coat round my shoulders and looked hopefully for a taxi, for the usual hustlers hoping for a fare. Of course, tonight there were none to be found. The cold air made me realise just how tired and hazy I really was, and I was suddenly desperate to be home now; for the quietness and serenity of my own room and the sanctuary of my father’s house.

A car snapped on its headlights, catching me in the blazing beam. I put a hand up to flag it, and in response he snapped his lights again to full-beam. The glare was so strong it blinded me. I threw my arm up to shield my eyes against the light, relieved to have found a cab, stepping towards the edge of the kerb to wait for him to pull up alongside me.

There was a huge roar as the car over-revved. ‘Easy, tiger,’ I was about to mutter, but through the glare I could make out that the vehicle was moving – fast now, too fast – driving directly towards me.

Confused, I took a step back. Disoriented by the headlights, I staggered in my spindly heels. I could smell the diesel now as I smacked into the lamppost behind me, and somehow I lost my balance and suddenly found myself falling, falling forward toward the acrid stench of fumes. I shouted something in desperation, I don’t know what – but I knew I was about to go under the wheels, wheels that moved relentlessly toward me –

‘I’ve got you.’

An arm grabbed mine and pulled me back. Charlie – Charlie was holding me up now, and I clutched him as the car roared past. With a screech of tyres it took off round the corner. I stared after it, Charlie’s signet ring biting into my naked arm. When he took his hand away, his fingerprints had stained my pale skin.

‘Bloody boy-racers,’ he swore. For once, his slicked-back grey hair was dishevelled, falling across his face. He pushed it back irritably as, dazed, I let him lead me to his silver Alfa. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’

‘I think – that car, it was driving straight at me.’

‘Don’t be so silly.’ He manoeuvred me down into the low seat. ‘You’re pissed. It was just some kid showing off.’

The lights of London slid by outside. Buckingham Palace was an oversized dolls’ house, the road around it a great red skating-rink, Big Ben as magical as ever beneath a silver moon. For a moment I imagined I was Peter Pan silhouetted against the clock-face, flying off into Neverland.

I heard my mobile ring in the depths of the bag at my feet, but by the time I’d hauled it out it had stopped and the screen just read ‘one missed call’.

And gradually, as my pounding heart slowed, I began to feel safe; like I was in a David Gray video, muffled from the cold, driving in a car so smooth it felt like floating in an armchair, anaesthetised from my own pain by alcohol – until suddenly I realised I was far from home. In Vauxhall, in fact – outside Charlie’s penthouse on the river.

‘I’ve had rather a lot to drink, darling, thinking about it.’ He smiled at me wolfishly and bleeped the security barrier with the control in one apparently steady hand. ‘I forgot you were staying out in the sticks. Come up for a snifter, and I’ll call you that cab.’

In the lift up to his penthouse, he moved a fraction nearer – or perhaps it was just the gentle bouncing of the shiny lift. I backed into the corner anyway, feigning interest in my appearance. My reflections in the many mirrors showed me rumpled and slitty-eyed from booze, and as the lift door pinged open I rubbed a fuchsia kiss-mark from my cheek. Charlie stayed close by me as we walked into his flat, as if he was worried I’d make a sudden break for it.

I gazed around, intrigued. All this time I’d known him, and yet I’d never seen his lair. It was so very masculine, such an archetypal bachelor pad, that I nearly laughed out loud. He put some music on, easy listening I think they call it, and dimmed the lights. Above the living fire, two naked women rolled on the stone-coloured wall, wrapped tightly round each other. I tilted my head, trying to focus on the print. Perhaps they weren’t rolling: perhaps they were fighting instead.