Читать книгу Girls’ Night In - Jessica Adams - Страница 8

Freya North

‘Lady – is your nose itching?’

Finty McKenzie took the palm of her hand from the tip of her nose, where it had been doing all manner of pressing, rotating and jiggling, and looked up. Locating the owner of the husky mid-Atlantic drawl, he who had posed the question, she alighted on an elderly man, clad in plaid.

‘You got an itchy nose, huh?’ he pressed, not waiting for an answer. ‘Honey! Doncha know? You’re gonna kiss a fool!’

The exclamation mark soared instantly from floor to ceiling of the plush hotel bar, but it was the word ‘fool’ which reverberated; the ‘f’ having been expelled from teeth and lips like a bad taste, the ‘1’ lingering on a very spiked tongue tip. The aged American chuckled extravagantly (because he knew what he was talking about), Finty whooped with sudden laughter (because she hadn’t a clue what he was talking about), but Brett, the man sitting next to her, he who had been bedding her these past three months, gave no hint of reaction.

To prove a point, but not quite sure what, or to whom, Finty affectionately kissed Brett in front of the American. This served to make the man guffaw so heartily that a fit of coughing befell him and expedited his exit from the bar.

‘What a character!’ Finty laughed.

‘Shoot me when I get like that,’ Brett said measuredly. Immediately, Finty experienced a quite violent reaction which she had come to term ‘a moment’. She’d never had one until she’d met Brett. Every so often, something he would say or do would, for a moment, alarm her so severely that it would course through her blood like acid. The searing horror came as much from self-disgust that she could be with such a man, as from his crime itself. However. Here she still is. These were but moments. And she wasn’t sure from where they originated. Head or heart. And which should rule which? These were but moments. Wasn’t she just looking for things to throw at the relationship? She’d scold herself for sabotaging something that might well be very good indeed. More tolerance, that’s what’s needed. But from him or her? She had justified the thinly veiled racist comment he had once made as but a momentary aberration. And he’d only been joking, of course, when he’d asked her to make his bed the morning after they’d first slept together there. And he had a migraine that night he left her stranded in Soho in the early hours. It had been OK. She’d found a cab almost immediately, just a street or three away. And Brett had phoned the next day to explain that he suffered from migraines. That they made him do strange things. Like leave people in the centre of the city at an unseemly hour. Of course, of course. All forgiven.

‘Brett gives me a fucking migraine,’ Sally said, peering into the oven and wondering if it was the slightly grimy door that made the Marks & Spencer luxury cheese puffs look golden or if they were indeed ready. ‘How long?’

‘Three months, must be,’ said Chloë distractedly, rocking against the radiator as if forgetting how hot it was each time her bottom met it.

Sally stared at her. ‘The cheese puffs,’ she said with theatrical kindness, raising an eyebrow at Polly and fixing Chloë with a look of exaggerated pity.

‘Oh, them,’ said Chloë in a bid to patronize Sally for ranking cheese puffs higher in the grand scheme of things than Finty and Brett, ‘almost eight minutes.’

‘But they look ready,’ Sally protested, saliva shooting around her jaw and her stomach reminding her that crisps and a pot of coleslaw at lunch had not hit the spot.

‘You leave them be for another four minutes,’ Polly warned, brandishing the empty carton for emphasis and opening a bag of hand-cooked vegetable crisps in a futile bid to lure Sally away from the oven. ‘Here. And wine while you wait. It’s my bloody oven.’

It was Polly’s turn to host the Gathering. Though, as hostess, her responsibilities were minimal apart from ensuring that ready-made luxuries were in the oven, that the corkscrew was foolproof and that any live-in lovers had been banished. The Gathering was a monthly institution, founded instinctively three years ago when all four girls found themselves dumped and depressed and desperate to do voodoo. They had convened with a need to exhaust their repertory of expletives, to drink much vodka and perform a cleansing ritual Chloë had read about which entailed the burning of a bunch of sage and much chanting. The swearing and the smoke from the sage gave them giggles, they soon found themselves quite drunk on spirits bottled and natural, and their sense of personal justice and order in the world was restored. Where their hearts had hurt at the beginning of the evening, now their sides ached from laughter. They decreed that such a restorative tonic should not be restricted to times of crisis but should become a mainstay of every month. Raucous in Richmond at Polly’s place or dancing in Dean Street until the proprietor told them to leave; chilling out at Chloë’s or conversing animatedly at a Conran restaurant; a few sniffs rapidly devolving into mass sobbing at a chick-flick at the Leicester Square Odeon, or getting stoned and saying not a lot at Sally’s. Wherever they were, their sense of togetherness could make a month make sense. In or out, they’d shake it all about, kiss each other liberally at home time and look forward immensely to the next gathering.

‘I think I’m planning my life, and doing the things I’m doing, safe in the knowledge that I can always Workshop-Through-It at our Gathering,’ Polly had once said, to much nodding all round. Which was why Finty’s absence was so unfathomable. Rather insulting. Just a little worrying, too.

‘Don’t like,’ said Chloë, wrinkling her nose.

‘I’ll have yours, then,’ said Sally, fanning her mouth and eyeing Chloë’s cheesy puff.

‘Brett,’ Chloë said. ‘Don’t like him.’

‘You’ve only met him once,’ Polly protested.

‘As have you,’ said Chloë, ‘and did you like him?’

Polly gave Chloë a swift smile of defeat. ‘No.’

‘Ditto,’ said Sally who’d burnt the roof of her mouth but couldn’t possibly admit to it and therefore took another cheesy puff. ‘I don’t like what he’s doing to her.’

‘Do you mean that he’s taking her away from us?’ Polly, who feared this to be the case, asked.

‘No,’ Sally said, ‘not that. More, I feel that he’s detrimental to her self-confidence; which is why she jumps to his beck and call.’

‘Forsaking us for him,’ said Polly.

‘Yes,’ Sally clarified, ‘but I can’t believe it’s because she deems him preferable, nor that she’s taking advantage of us.’

‘I think he’s a harmless creep,’ said Chloë, ‘way way out of Finty’s league. I think she’ll figure that out soon enough. When the novelty of new sex abates.’

The three women fell silent.

‘However, I, for one, cannot believe that sex with him can make up for his questionable personality,’ Chloë continued, ‘nor for it taking precedence over the Gathering.’

The three women fell silent.

Was their concern for their friend’s welfare with this man? Or that they rued the fact that their hitherto sacred coven might be fallible? An era ending? If they conceded that this was the case, weren’t they investing a harmless creep with more power than they felt he warranted?

‘My point is,’ Sally said, using her hands for emphasis to prevent herself from succumbing to a fourth cheesy puff, ‘Finty should be here, not there. I think it’s indicative of a floundering relationship that she isn’t. It’s only one night a month. She has a duty. I mean, when have any of us ever rejected a Gathering?’

‘You did, you old tart!’ Polly cajoled. ‘When you first started seeing Richard. When he was going to seduce you with his culinary skills.’

‘Yes,’ Sally said patiently, ‘but he did. And then I married the man.’ She peered into Polly’s fridge and brought out reduced fat guacamole and humous. ‘See me now – banning husband from home on a monthly basis – grounds for divorce, surely! Mind you, if he ever objected – well, grounds for divorce, surely.’

‘Oh God!’ Chloë exclaimed. ‘Please don’t let Finty marry Brett!’

The girls made noises and gesticulations of a mass vomiting session and then giggled guiltily. Perhaps Finty really was in love with the man. Perhaps he was a really lovely chap who wasn’t very confident in company. Or merely had an awkward manner, rather than no manners at all, which is what they all suspected. Perhaps he was to be on the scene for months, even years. He would remain great gossip fodder – as long as Finty remained oblivious to the fact. Suddenly, along with the vegetable crisps and rather luminous guacamole, the three women also passed around a smile steeped in slight suspicion and discomfort. It occurred to them that perhaps their own partners had been the subjects of such unfavourable scrutiny. Maybe still were. No. Surely not. Richard was such great company. William was sensitive. Max always had them laughing. And the fundamental difference was that these three men were openly at ease with their respective partners and her friends. Whereas Brett had stiffened when Finty had kissed him in front of them and he’d squirmed when Sally had burped, when Polly had sworn, when Chloë had touched his knee in a bid to extend welcome, to establish familiarity.

‘Where was he taking her anyway?’ Chloë asked, uncorking a bottle of Semillon and giving Polly the thumbs up at the bumper bag of oven chips held aloft for their approval. ‘Where have they gone that could possibly be preferable to oven chips, low fat dips and our delectable company?’ She burped under her breath, as demurely as she could. Sally responded with one that made the rafters tremble.

Peanuts. Finty detested peanuts. She hated the taste and she couldn’t abide the smell. And now Brett reeked of peanuts. But more loathsome than this was what he was doing to them. He was snatching little handfuls by contorting his fingers over the bowl like the hands of an Action Man doll. He was then bouncing his clutch up and down in his palm as if panning for gold, before pushing his whole hand against his mouth. His trousers. He was wiping his fingers over his trousers, leaving salt there, before doing Action Man Hands and reaching for the bowl again.

This is nuts. This is crazy. I want Marks & Spencer finger-food.

‘How about sashimi?’ Brett suggested. ‘There’s a place near here. We use it for business lunches. They know me.’ For Finty, who’d never ordered anything medium rare in her life, let alone raw, the thought of it turned her stomach at a slightly faster rotation than the peanuts. ‘Stop rubbing your nose,’ Brett said, irritation in his voice manifest in the way he swirled the ice around his glass. ‘Go and blow it, for God’s sake.’

Ladies Toilets. Haven. Peace and camaraderie. Hair products and perfume and mints laid out by the basins. An attendant handing out paper towels and a part-of-the-job smile behind sad (part of the job) eyes. Finty locks herself in a cubicle and sits there awhile. Her nose itches but there’s nothing to blow. She pulls the chain though there is nothing to flush. She washes her hands automatically and checks her reflection. If there’s sadness behind the toilet-attendant’s eyes, Finty’s gaze is underscored with a flatness. It shouldn’t be so. She should be having a wonderful time. She’s on a date. Being wined and dined. Whined at and to dine on foodstuffs she doesn’t like. But there’ll be sex too. That’s to look forward to. Though she’ll close her eyes and conjure Brad Pitt.

‘Gorgeous skirt!’ marvels a stranger.

‘Thanks!’ Finty replies, all smiles.

‘Nice bloke too,’ says the stranger’s friend, ‘but doesn’t he like his peanuts!’

‘Yeah!’ says Finty, wondering why she’s lacing her voice with a hasty approximation of affection, or possessiveness; and suddenly craving her own girlfriends desperately.

Must call them. Just to say hullo.

The entrance to the bar is the foyer of the hotel and, though Finty has both battery and strong signal on her mobile phone, she eschews privacy, opting for the payphone.

‘Hullo?’ Polly answers, with a voice suggesting outrage that there is such an intrusion on a night when she’s gathered her soul mates around her.

‘Hey!’ says Finty with commendable bounce.

‘Finty!’ Polly shrieks and suddenly the phone has been given to Sally, then Chloë, before all three attempt to listen and chat en masse. Finty says something about peanuts and her nose and an old man clad in plaid. But the girls are too eager to tell her that she should be there with them, on the third bottle of wine, now called vino-darling, with her stomach full of fancy morsels.

‘I’d better go,’ says Finty all breezy, ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Have fun.’

‘We are!’ they sing. ‘We are!’

Finty replaced the receiver and rested her head against the side of the booth momentarily before quite literally pulling herself together.

‘Young lady!’ It was the elderly American gentleman. ‘Your nose still itching?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘So you wised up and dumped the guy?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘Steak!’ The man proclaimed, ‘I’m going out to get me a steak. Aberdeen. Angus. Horse. I got to have steak – why don’t you join me?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘More nutritious than peanuts,’ he said. Giving Finty a shrug and a wink, he had the doorman summon a taxi. Comforted that he knew about the peanuts, Finty returned to the bar.

‘It’s half-eight and she’s phoned,’ Chloë assesses.

‘Wonder why?’ Sally contemplates.

‘Hmm,’ Polly ponders, offering more wine and oven chips.

‘Any ketchup?’ Sally asks. Polly shakes her head and begs forgiveness.

‘Did Finty say where she was?’ Chloë asks. Polly shakes her head. The three of them had forgotten to ask. Unforgivable.

On approaching Brett, who was very obviously cleaning his teeth with his tongue, Finty was pleased to see the peanut bowl had gone. But it was returned, replenished, just as soon as she sat down. Brett winked at the waitress. And then he winked at his girlfriend. His Action Man hand reached for the peanuts. Finty diverted her gaze for fear of hitting him and scanned the bar with a half-smile fixed to her face. She tuned in to the sounds surrounding her. Animated chatter. Music. Bursts of laughter. Clink and clank of glasses and china and ice. Brett munching peanuts, rubbing his salty fingers on his trouser legs. Her involuntary sigh was loud, but the silence between Brett and her was louder. Sally, Chloë and Polly had each, at some point, marvelled to Finty how wonderful silence between partners could be. Chloë had termed it ‘the ultimate in communication’. Polly had defined it ‘proof of compatibility’. Sally had proclaimed it ‘a seal of safety’. For Finty, it was as uncomfortable as the fake smile she was forcing upon her lips.

It’s not even a loaded silence – of things left unsaid, or wounds being licked or issues being brooded over, Finty realized, it’s the result of there being very little to say. Soon enough he’ll say, ‘Another drink? Shall we eat?’ and after that, sex and sleep.

‘Another drink?’ asked Brett, ‘or shall we go and eat?’

‘What’s your favourite colour?’ Finty asked him, turning her body towards him, making an effort and really wanting to know.

‘What?’ Brett replied, because he really didn’t understand the question. He frowned at Finty and winked at the waitress who sauntered over with notepad and attitude.

‘Film!’ Finty tried. ‘What’s your favourite film?’

‘Another G and T?’ Brett asked her, now perplexed to the point of irritation.

‘Never heard of that one!’ Finty said lightly, nodding at the waitress to affirm her drink.

‘I’m going to the bog,’ Brett said with fatigue, as if to suggest it was a place far preferable to Finty’s company and Top Ten questionnaire.

‘Desert Island Discs?’ she implored in vain as he rose and left.

What are mine this week? She pondered, enjoying how impossible it was to select only eight pieces of music. And then it struck her that she would really rather be on a desert island with no music at all than with Brett, even if he placed the world’s jukebox at her disposal. She glanced around the room. A couple, much her own age, sat locked in each other’s company; no limbs touching, just engrossed, obviously stimulated, undoubtedly in love. Near to them, a group of four women. A gathering, a girls’ night out – replete with the essential alternation between whispering, giggling and shrieking ‘No! Oh my God!’ Their conversation was shared naturally, their laughter and interaction unforced and obviously highly cherished. Finty didn’t want to be on a desert island; she didn’t want to be in the West End. She wanted, desperately, to be in Richmond. The waitress arrived with the replenished drinks. Finty glanced at her watch. It was gone half nine.

‘Do you think we could have some more peanuts?’ Finty asked. ‘A large bowl?’

‘No!’ PoUy laughed.

‘Oh my God!’ Sally shrieked, hiding behind her hands.

‘Oh yes indeed!’ Chloë confirmed. ‘And I’ll tell you something for free, it was weird at first – but bloody amazing before long.’

‘You old slapper!’ Polly said, clapping.

‘Sexual deviant, more like!’ Sally laughed.

‘I’m a bit pissed I think,’ said Chloë, theatrically forlorn.

‘You’d have to have been,’ Polly snorted, ‘to have done that!’

‘Better have some more vino-darling,’ Sally said, all doctor-like. ‘Here’s to you, you dirty, dirty girl!’ The three women raised their glasses and drank.

There was signal and battery on Finty’s mobile phone but again she went to the payphone in the foyer.

‘Lady! Let me guess, you’re calling for the rescue services!’ the now familiar American voice called softly to her as she was about to drop coins in the slot. Finty turned and regarded him quizzically. ‘Hey! You could have the fire brigade drench him with water, the police lock him up, or an ambulance take him away to a very special hospital.’

‘Look,’ Finty remonstrated, though it was against her better judgement, ‘he’s my boyfriend. You’re offending me.’

‘No,’ said the man, ‘I’m not offending you. Unnerving you, maybe. Offending you – no. I just had a terrible steak. I left most of it and, for some goddamn reason, a large tip too. I’m going to my room. Come use the phone from there.’

Finty didn’t think twice about following him into the elevator. But she did think of Brett. Fleetingly. And then she remembered the peanuts and the waitresses to whom he could wink, and she knew he’d be OK. For the meantime, at least.

‘I’m Finty,’ she introduced herself before disembarking the lift on the sixth floor.

‘And I’m George,’ the American said. They shook hands and he led the way to his room.

Rooms. The American had a suite.

‘Are you drunk?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Finty rued.

‘Hungry?’

‘No.’

‘Want to make that call?’

‘Please.’

‘Would you like a gin and tonic? And some room service?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Dial 9 for an outside line.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Hullo?’ Polly answers the phone. Finty can hear singing in the background. She knows it is Chloë doing her Gloria Gaynor. She can almost see Sally collapsed in a fit of giggles on the couch. She can envisage Polly sitting cross-legged on the floor with the telephone crooked under her chin while she rolls a joint.

‘It’s me again.’

‘Finty!’ Polly trills. Suddenly, the other two join her in a wonderful, if dissonant, chorus of ‘Finty McKenzie! Finty McKenzie!’ The volume is such that Finty holds the receiver away from her ear and the cacophony wafts into the room much to the delight of George.

‘Are you having a lovely time with Brat?’ Polly asks while Chloë in the background hisses, ‘Brett! It’s Brett.’

‘I’m not with him any more,’ Finty says. ‘I’m with George, in his hotel room.’

There is silence. She hears Polly repeat her last sentence verbatim, but with dramatic full stops between each word, to the other two.

‘Who the fuck is George?’ she can hear Sally gasp.

‘Where the fuck is the hotel?’ she can hear Chloë implore.

‘Are you OK?’ Polly says, suddenly sounding sober.

‘Ish,’ says Finty. ‘Can you come and get me?’

Sally, Polly and Chloë stare at each other. They are in Richmond. Not so much drunk as utterly sozzled and somewhat stoned to boot. They have a friend in need holed up in a hotel room with a man called George and a boyfriend called Brett in the bar beneath. The information is too much to digest, let alone act upon.

‘Finty,’ says Polly.

‘George,’ says Sally.

‘We need a cab,’ says Chloë.

Finty replaced the receiver and became engrossed immediately in the chintz of the curtains because it seemed like a safe place to be; lost in the swirls and details of something other than her own life. She was vaguely aware of someone unfolding her clenched fist and placing a glass in her hand, a plate on her knee; of someone stroking her hair and patting her shoulder. When the hand was removed, her shoulder felt chill and so she reached for the hand and placed it back there. She hadn’t the energy to swallow down the lump in her throat, or the wherewithal to prevent a large fat tear glazing and stinging her eye before oozing itself out to splat against the glass in her hand. The noise brought her back to the present.

‘Spoiled,’ she said quietly.

‘Hey,’ said an American voice soothingly.

‘But I have,’ she shrugged, as if it was a fait accompli. ‘I’ve spoiled his evening, your evening, their evening. And my own.’

‘Horse shit!’ George protested. ‘And bullshit!’

‘But the Gathering,’ Finty stressed, ‘it’s sacred. I turned it down for a man with a penchant for peanuts and the ability to make my nose itch.’

‘Well, hon,’ George said after a thoughtful slurp at his glass, ‘I guess you won’t be doing that again.’

‘A Man Called George!’ Sally proclaimed to the concierge, giving the counter an authoritative tap. ‘Please.’

The concierge bestowed upon her a look of great distaste, followed by a withering glance at Polly and Chloë who were sniggering behind the faux fig tree in the foyer.

‘George Who?’

‘He’s expecting us,’ said Sally, refusing to drop eye contact.

‘He’s American,’ Chloë added helpfully.

‘And he’s wearing plaid,’ Polly announced as some kind of open-sesame password.

‘Hi, I’m George,’ says George, ‘and she’s in there.’

‘Hullo, George,’ Sally says, eyes agoggle at his unexpectedly advanced years.

‘Hullo, George,’ says Chloë, eyes agoggle at the extent of his plaid-clad attire.

‘Hullo, George,’ says Polly, eyes agoggle at the opulence of his suite.

‘Hi, ladies,’ says George, ‘she’s in there. She’s expecting you.’

‘Finty!’ the girls cry with love and sympathy, rushing to embrace their friend.

‘Finty!’ they marvel, looking around and spying two bottles of unopened champagne on ice and platters boasting crustless sandwiches and miniature pastries.

‘Girls’ Night In,’ Finty says, very matter-of-fact. ‘George says we should gather here.’

They all look at George. He reminds Sally of her late grandfather. Polly thinks he must be a fairy godfather and then she thinks she must have had one joint too many. Chloë wonders fleetingly what on earth they are doing here in the sumptuous suite of a kindly stranger at gone 10 p.m. Finty wonders where on earth to start.

‘It all began when my nose started to itch,’ she tells Sally, Chloë and Polly who are gathered about her, wide-eyed and jaws dropped as if teacher is about to tell a story.

‘Champagne?’ George suggests, dimming the lights, opening a bottle and pouring four glasses.

‘Aren’t you joining us?’ Sally asks.

George looks rather taken aback, and clasps his hand to his heart for emphasis. ‘God no! It’s a Gathering. Out of bounds. Girls only. Anyway, I have business to attend to.’

And he leaves. He leaves them in one of the rooms of his suite, furnished with champagne and sandwiches. And pastries. And warmth. He leaves the girls, who are now giggling, wrapped around each other on a capacious settee. He has work to do.

The bar is still full and Brett is exactly where George last saw him and where Finty left him over an hour ago. Not that he seems to have realized. His winks at the waitress have provided fast-track service for his gin and tonic to have been frequently replenished. He’s thought only fleetingly of Finty because, in the three months they’ve been together, he’s only ever thought fleetingly of Finty anyway.

‘Peanut?’ George asks.

‘Why not,’ Brett responds.

‘Some advice?’ George asks.

‘Why not,’ Brett responds.

‘Don’t date women with itchy noses,’ George says, with a slap to Brett’s shoulder blades, ‘they’re not your type.’