Читать книгу Revelry - Lucy Lord - Страница 7

‘Wow Bella, that smells fantastic. What’s cooking?’ asks Charlie, dipping a slightly podgy finger into the rouille I’ve just prepared. I slap his hand away and smile at him. Thick, sandy blond hair frames his good-natured, ruddy-cheeked face. He’ll have a double chin in ten years’ time, you mark my words.

‘Bouillabaisse.’

After boozing all day yesterday, an early(ish) night was in order, so I got up at the supremely civilized hour of 10.30 to go to the market. There I had a lovely time trading banter with the stallholders and getting their recommendations on what was freshest in. I spent most of my childhood holidays in Mallorca (where Dad still lives in a thirteenth-century hermitage) so my Spanish is passable. I stocked my pretty wicker basket high with prawns, mussels, clams, scallops, red mullet and the scraps of small fish that are so essential for depth of flavour in a good fishy broth. I’m not actually making bouillabaisse, which is of course indigenous to the south of France, but a kind of generic Mediterranean fish stew.

I love cooking. I’ve chopped onions, garlic and fennel, skinned and seeded some overblown, sun-infused old tarts of the tomato world, and glugged in some Pernod, saffron and thyme. Now the fish is simmering away and I stop for a fag break.

The insistent chirruping of crickets vies for attention with my friends’ laughing voices wafting through the balmy air from the terrace outside. The old stone floor is cool against my bare feet as I pad about the enormous room, wishing my tiny kitchen in London could compare. There is a huge scrubbed oak table in the middle, piled high with the usual holiday detritus of suntan lotion, shades, hats, wet towels, cameras and unwritten postcards. All the cupboards are finished in the same oak, the walls are whitewashed and the white enamel double sink has elegantly curved stainless steel tap fittings. A fireplace vast enough to roast several ten-year-olds is stacked with currently redundant logs, giving the room an almost cosy feel, despite its size.

I’m feeling wonderfully wafty in my new multicoloured maxidress, fondly imagining I’m channelling a Seventies socialite, Talitha Getty/Bianca Jagger vibe as I float through the French windows – only to trip over the hem and fall flat on my face at Ben’s feet. Everyone creases up laughing.

‘Ow, that bloody hurt. Shut up, you buggers, it’s not funny.’ I sit up and rub my knee, where the skin has split and a purply bruise is starting to form. I pretend to laugh but am actually feeling a bit stupid and in genuine pain.

‘Shit, that looks nasty,’ says Ben, crouching down beside me. ‘You need to clean it up. Does anyone have any antiseptic?’

‘There’s some Savlon in my sponge bag. Poor love.’ Poppy bends over to kiss the top of my head as she makes her way inside the villa.

Ben helps me to my feet and I go hot all over. I can’t help it: his proximity is overwhelming, even after all these years.

‘Have a drink, darling,’ says my father, pouring me a glass of wine as I sit down at the table. ‘Best anaesthetic there is.’

It turns out that Dad heard from my mother that we were on the island, so he thought he’d pop over to surprise us. It’s only a short ferry ride from Palma, after all. Feeling mean not to have mentioned it to him, I immediately asked the others if they’d mind if he stayed on the sofa for a couple of nights. Everyone seemed to be cool with it, though I thought I detected some sniffiness in the Alisons’ corner. No surprise there then. As it happened, Dad didn’t need the sofa as he was travelling, as he often does, with his trusty hammock and sleeping bag – ‘I much prefer to sleep under the stars, angel face.’

‘Here you go,’ says Poppy, handing me the tube of Savlon, a roll of lint and a packet of plasters. Trust her to come prepared. It just wouldn’t occur to me to bring first aid stuff on holiday.

‘Let me do that,’ says Ben, crouching down again, gently pulling my skirt up over my knees. I can barely breathe as I glance over at Kim, but she seems entirely unperturbed, twinkling and laughing at something my father’s just said. She and Dad have been all over each other all day, and while it’s pretty obvious what he sees in her, it’s also, sadly, all too obvious what she sees in him. My father’s a photographer, you see, and a pretty influential one at that. In the Seventies he ran amok with Bailey, Donovan et al., and was never without several pretty girls on either arm. It’s amazing his marriage to my mother lasted as long as it did.

He’s shot everyone from the Stones to Iggy Pop, Gwyneth Paltrow to George Clooney – and got pissed with them all afterwards too (except for Gwynnie, whom he called ‘lovely to look at, but probably the most boring woman in the world’). He’s stayed for nothing in the best hotels in the best locations, and is endearingly blasé about high-end glamour, preferring to rhapsodize over waterfalls or deserts. When he occasionally emerges from semi-retirement in Mallorca, the glossies fall over themselves trying to persuade him to shoot for them. Kimberly’s in the process of proving herself to be nothing more than a nasty little opportunist, and while part of me is delighted she’s showing her true colours, I’m mortified that my father should be the cause of it.

I’m also pretty sure this is why Ben is being so unusually solicitous, but am not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Now he tenderly cleans my wound, looking up at me with those delicious blue eyes, and it’s all I can do not to grab him right here and shove my tongue down his throat.

I am distracted from my lascivious reverie by the sound of Kim squawking, ‘Oh my God, Justin, you crack me up. You’re just sooooo witty,’ and laughing as if my dad were Peter Cook and Dorothy Parker reincarnated and rolled into one. When she smiles, her pink pointy tongue peeps through her teeth, in a cutesy manner she clearly imagines is both endearing and provocative. It might just provoke me into a spot of GBH. Dad smiles smugly and relights his spliff.

Dad and Kim are both sitting with their legs propped up on the table we’ve laid this side of the luminously turquoise pool, just to the left of the French windows. This is Dad’s default position so it doesn’t bug me too much. For Kimbo it is another excuse to show off the length of her horrible legs. She is wearing a cream backless jersey minidress, cut away at the sides and held together with a large gold ring that showcases her pierced belly button and matches her gladiator sandals. She’s piled her copper curls up in a faintly Grecian style that emphasizes both her height and the swanlike quality of her neck. Her skirt is so short that the legs-on-table pose is a blatant invitation to look at her knickers. Oh well – at least she’s not going commando. One must be thankful for small mercies.

Poppy’s perched on one of the sun loungers, a very contented-looking Damian sitting on a fat cushion on the ground between her legs. He occasionally turns his head to kiss her slender fingers, which are massaging his shoulders. In denim hot pants and a little white broderie-anglaise camisole, her surfer girl hair streaked white by the sun, Poppy is the picture of butter-wouldn’t-melt gorgeousness (if you discount the fag in her hand and enormous margarita at her feet). Damian is his usual understated cool in long shorts and a close-fitting Superdry T-shirt.

To the other side of my father leers Neanderthal Mark, resplendent in crotch-hugging Daniel Craig-as-Bond shorts and a grey marl racer-back vest with ‘sit on my face’ emblazoned in neon pink lettering across his enormously worked-out chest. He and Dad have worked together on several shoots and were having a lovely time reminiscing about various tits, arses and pudenda they’ve come across (if you’ll pardon the expression) until Kim appeared, fresh from her ablutions.

Alison and Alison are in their usual sun loungers, engaged in a crisis meeting as the woman making Skinny Alison’s wedding dress has had the temerity not to be available at the end of a phone twenty-four/seven, even though Skinny is on holiday herself.

‘I mean, I’m paying her enough,’ she’s fuming. ‘I just want to know that everything’s going according to plan. That’s not really too much to ask, is it? It’s absolutely vital that we get the second fitting done the minute we get back. Oh God, I shouldn’t have come to this bloody island. There’s just too much to do. And I do want everything to be perfect on my big day.’

‘Of course you do, sweetie,’ says Plump Alison, who is awfully wet but the only one showing the self-obsessed hag any kindness, I suppose.

Indeed Andy seems blissfully unaware of his fiancée’s latest gripe as he sits playing chess with Charlie at the circular stone table in the bar. Andy is quite a good-looking man, in a saturnine sort of way. Tall and rangy, with short dark brown hair and rectangular, dark-framed specs, he looks exactly like the hard-hitting investigative reporter (or ‘proper journalist’, as Poppy puts it when she wants to wind Damian up) that he is.

Though you wouldn’t guess it given her asinine wedding obsession, Skinny Alison is a high-flying lawyer. She too is tall and dark, with a severe black bob and droopily melancholy features set in a long face. She looks surprisingly elegant with her clothes on, I have to admit, clad tonight in white linen palazzo pants and navy and white striped boat-necked T-shirt, her lips defined with a slash of scarlet that matches the silk scarf wrapped around her narrow waist. The fact that she isn’t pouring with sweat in such a get-up is testament to her reptilian cold-bloodedness. She and Andy must have awfully grown-up, intellectually superior dinner parties, I reflect, as I eye them over my drink and wonder what on earth they have in common with my darling, laid-back brother. I’ve met Andy on and off over the years and he’s always struck me as nice enough. But still.

‘How’s that?’ asks Ben as he gives my knee one final wipe and sticks a plaster on it.

‘Much better – thanks so much.’ I will him never to stop manhandling my legs. ‘I’ll just have a fag out here, then go back and finish the food.’

‘Great, I’m starving,’ says Charlie from the bar. ‘What’s the ETA?’ So they can hear what’s going on from there, then. Interesting.

‘God, Charlie, do you ever think of anything but your stomach?’ says Skinny Alison. ‘You really should start looking after yourself. You’re not getting any younger, you know.’

‘Well, I love him just the way he is,’ says Plump Alison in a rare moment of defiance. She walks over and gives him a cuddle from behind.

‘Thanks babe,’ says Charlie, kissing her forearm. ‘Does that mean I can have seconds?’ He roars with laughter. He’s a pretty good sort, as Sloaney accountants go.

‘I’ve never had to worry about my weight,’ says Kim smugly. ‘I guess I’m just lucky – good genes? My mom and grandma both had great skin too? And they both look soooo young for their age? My guru says you get the face you deserve, and I’ve been so lucky I always try to give something back.’ She beams around complacently.

‘So, what’s the score tonight then?’ interjects Poppy – who’s never had to worry about her weight either – into the flabbergasted silence. ‘Dinner in – what? – twenty minutes or so, Belles?’ I nod. ‘Cool, then we’ll just chill for a bit, then hit Ibiza Town, then … does anyone have any particular debauchery in mind?’

We ascertain that Mark wants to hit the Rock Bar, as the Brazilian twins said they might be there, Damian needs to score from some bar in the gay quarter and the rest of us are keen to go to Amnesia as it’s Manumission night. I finish my fag and go inside to put the finishing touches to dinner, Poppy hot on my tail.

‘Christ, have you ever met such a self-satisfied, vacuous little tart,’ she rants, opening the fridge in search of another bottle of tequila. ‘OK, tall tart.’

‘Hmmm … let’s think.’ I put my head on one side and pretend to consider it. ‘Nope, can’t say I have. Surely even Ben must be starting to realize that by now?’

‘Well, I don’t think he was ever after her mind.’

‘My dad and Mark slavering over her like a couple of randy old dogs isn’t helping much either,’ I ponder gloomily. ‘God, I’d like to wipe that smug smile off her face.’

‘Oh well, let’s not let the bitch ruin our holiday.’ Poppy brandishes the tequila bottle. ‘How about a couple of mind-sharpening shots?’

‘The shot glasses are in the bar. Can you really be arsed to go through and pour shots for everyone?’

‘Nope. But I’ve found the perfect substitute!’ cries Poppy triumphantly, producing a couple of egg cups from one of the cupboards. Giggling, we find the salt and lemon (right next to the stove as I was about to use them to season the stew) and embark on the ridiculous ritual beloved of party animals the world over.

‘Eurgh,’ I wince, screwing up my eyes and shoving the lemon wedge in my mouth as quickly as I can to get rid of the taste. Once the gagging reflex has stopped, I’m suffused with a warm glow and set about completing the fish stew with renewed vigour.

‘I’ll set the table, shall I?’ offers Poppy, heading back outside.

‘You’re an angel.’ I really mean it. The first stirrings of pissed sentimentality are creeping up on me, and Poppy certainly looks angelic tonight, with her lovely smile, big almond-shaped green eyes and perfect, straight nose, all framed by that silky, golden mane.

When Pops and I were at school, we were inseparable and a trifle eccentric, not part of any of the cool bitchy girl gangs. It was just us against the world – and the world of an all girls’ school can be horribly unkind if you don’t conform. Poppy and I existed in our own little world of make-believe. After our Enid Blyton stage, we became obsessed with the 1920s and 1930s and devoured books by Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford, Agatha Christie and P. G. Wodehouse, dressing in homemade flapper dresses, cloche hats and character shoes. My fourteenth birthday present from my mum was an old gramophone player with a horn and a pile of dusty 78s that we played over and over, dancing the Charleston and giggling till we were breathless. We even spoke like characters from the books. Things were either ‘beastly’ or ‘vile’, ‘divine’ or ‘too, too happy-making’. Our catty, boyband-obsessed classmates had no idea what to make of us, but we were absolutely content in our anachronistic, self-contained bubble. We never felt the need to befriend anybody else in that stuck-up girls’ school.

By the time we’d hit the sixth form and discovered booze and boys, our shared obsession had died down a bit, but we were still both terribly excited at the idea of Poppy going to Oxford, and all the Brideshead-style punting shenanigans that this would entail. But the first time I went to visit her, towards the end of the Michaelmas term, I was in for a shock. Poppy had always had a pretty face, but the mouse-fair shoulder-length bob and old-fashioned clothes that swamped her tiny body meant that up until now her prettiness was very much of the girl-next-door, unthreatening variety.

The stunning undergraduate holding court in the Christ Church bar, surrounded by sycophants seemingly hanging on her every word, was a different proposition altogether. Her recently highlighted hair had grown, and now flowed – silky, blonde and streaky – down her back and over her shoulders. In keeping with the Britpop look of the time, khaki hipster cargo pants and a black crop top showed off her pert tits, flat brown tummy, narrow hips, and … Good God, she’d had her belly button pierced! And she was smoking! I was in such a state of shock at Poppy’s transformation that I just stood there gawping for a bit, until she noticed me and squealed, running over with her arms outstretched for a hug.

Pops did her best to make me feel welcome that weekend, but there was a definite change in her. The way she spoke, the way she lit her fags and tossed her hair – it was as if that first term at Oxford had bestowed on her an unshakeable sense of self, a glamorous patina that has not left her to this day. Her fellow students, still high on the glory of having been chosen as the crème de la crème of the country’s intelligentsia, were clearly not impressed by me, a shy, somewhat dumbstruck, London art student. We never did get to go punting.

Back at Goldsmiths, things were hardly better. I’d been so excited about the prospect of art college, imagining I’d meet all sorts of interesting, like-minded people, my head full of romantic notions of Art, and Beauty, and Love. But once I was there, I couldn’t believe how full of themselves everybody was, how obsessed with being trendy. If I’d thought my all girls’ school was cliquey, this was ten times worse, in its shallow, sniggering, look-at-me arrogance. I was horribly conscious that I’d never be skinny enough to be properly fashionable. Not that I’m fat (a perfectly reasonable size 10–12 for my five foot seven height), but you had to be pretty bloody emaciated to make the outlandish garments favoured by my peers look anything other than downright hideous.

No doubt, if they’d realized who my father was, things would have been different. But Brown’s a pretty common surname, and I was buggered if I was going to ride on Dad’s coat-tails. Actually, I lie. I’d gladly have ridden on his coat-tails, but couldn’t exactly start saying to all and sundry, ‘Don’t you know who my dad is?’ without looking and sounding like a total dickhead.

Part of me hated the lot of them; another part, the insecure eighteen-year-old girl part, longed to be accepted. Sometimes I’d drink too much to kill my insecurity and make a complete arse of myself in the college bar. Sniffing out vulnerability the way a shark sniffs blood, my male contemporaries soon realized that I could easily be sweet-talked into bed; pathetically naive, and longing to be loved, I fell for it every time. Disappointment inevitably followed crushing disappointment.

By the time Poppy returned from her round-the-world travels and came to live in London, I had a pretty low opinion of both myself and the entire opposite sex. I was temping at a post-production house in Soho; the married boss, a loathsome piece of work with a shaved head, goatee and penchant for black polo-neck jumpers, had already tried to shag me. Pops took one look and kindly swept me up in her groovy new life, introducing me to her terrifyingly successful new friends as ‘Bella, my best mate ever’. Slowly I began to be assimilated, to develop my own style and something approaching confidence. I’ve never shaken off the feeling that if it wasn’t for her, I’d still be that twat embarrassing myself in the Goldsmiths bar, desperate to be loved and accepted.

I owe Poppy a lot, I think now with a huge rush of affection, as I taste the fish stew. It’s sublime. The basic Mediterranean triumvirate of tomatoes, onion and garlic underpins the delicate sweetness of the fish, whose variety yields a beautifully complex balance of textures and flavours. I have elevated my ambrosial mire to heady aromatic heights with saffron, thyme and the aniseedy kick of fennel and Pernod.

I go out of the door at the back of the kitchen to get some flat-leaf parsley from the herb garden. Away from the floodlights of the pool, the stars are stupidly bright, twinkling their little hearts out against the velvety purple sky. Pulling up great leafy handfuls (I’m a strong believer that more is more when it comes to herbs), I notice a shadowy figure making its way in the direction of the outdoor loo. Having known that figure all my life, I recognize my father instantly. I’m about to say something when I hear a ghastly giggle. Stepping back into the shadows, I watch as Kimberly grabs him from behind, running her long fingers over his crotch and biting the side of his neck.

‘Kimberly?’ asks Dad, his voice hoarse with lust. She continues her lewd manoeuvres for what seems like minutes but is probably only thirty seconds or so, until Dad says, ‘You shouldn’t have followed me. It’ll be too obvious what we’re up to.’

‘This is just for starters, big boy,’ breathes Kim. ‘We’re going to have a ball later.’

And she turns on her elegant heel and saunters back to the party.

I wait until Dad has continued towards the loo before bolting back into the kitchen, feeling deeply queasy. You’d think I’d have become inured to my father’s various peccadilloes over the years, but actually witnessing the full sub-porno horror, and with somebody I hold in such low regard, is unpalatable on every level. And then there’s the little matter of darling, gorgeous, soon-to-be-cuckolded-by-a-much-older-man Ben.

I chuck the parsley down onto the worktop and start chopping furiously.

‘Jesus, what has that poor parsley ever done to you?’ says Poppy, then stops when she sees the look on my face. ‘Christ Bella, what’s up?’

I tell her and she starts to laugh. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, but you must admit it’s quite funny. I mean, look at Ben. I can tell you with my hand on my heart that this is going to be an entirely new experience for him.’

‘I know, that’s what makes it so awful. Poor Ben …’

‘Oh I don’t know, it’ll probably do him good, vain bugger. Come on, Belles, you know what he’s like! Mr Irresistible …’ She starts laughing again. ‘It’s really quite priceless.’

‘But it makes Dad look like such a silly old fool. It’s not as if she can actually fancy him more than Ben, and for him to think she can is so deluded. Aaaaargh, cringe!’ I light myself a fag and puff away like something demented.

‘I’m not sure your father’s that stupid,’ muses Poppy. ‘He’s been in the game for years, and he’s just taking advantage of the situation. Most men would probably do the same – silly fuckers, the lot of ’em. No, let’s be realistic, babe. The only person who comes out of this badly is Kim … Big Boy, indeed!’ And she starts spluttering again. This time I join in, feeling an awful lot better. Thank God for Pops, I think, giving her a grateful hug. She hugs me back, then says, all brisk and business-like, ‘Right, let’s get this food sorted. And don’t worry your pretty little head about things. It’ll just add to the evening’s entertainment.’

I take another couple of drags on my fag before stubbing it out and picking up the chopped parsley. I watch the emerald confetti cover the surface of the pan in a grassy blanket, then give the whole lot a good stir. A hefty grinding of black pepper, a final squeeze of lemon and it’s ready.

I carry the vast pot out to the table that Poppy has laid beautifully, with candles, proper napkins and jugs of flowers nicked from the garden. A couple of crusty white loaves, fresh that morning from the panadería, share table space with a happy clink of bottles, red, white and rosé. Managing not to trip over my hem this time, I put the stew in the middle. It does look and smell sensational, if I do say so myself.

‘Who’s my clever, beautiful, darling girl?’ says Dad, reaching up to give me a hug. I hug him back, seething with mixed emotions.