Читать книгу Mhairi McFarlane 3-Book Collection: You Had Me at Hello, Here’s Looking at You and It’s Not Me, It’s You - Mhairi McFarlane, Mhairi McFarlane - Страница 46

I’ll say one thing for entering your third decade and your life falling apart, it does shift the pounds before a party. As diet plans go, though, it might be a bit extreme. The old red dress I haul out for my flat warming suddenly fits quite well and skims over my ‘twin airbags and side impact bars’, as my ex-fiancé had it.

It gets screeches of approval when Caroline and Mindy arrive with their other halves, plopping overnight bags inside the door. Caroline asked to stay over as she’s booked an induction at a city centre gym for half nine the next morning (nothing changes) and when Mindy found out, she demanded to stay as well.

‘Mindy, you live ten minutes’ drive away,’ I said.

‘If she’s staying, I want to stay too,’ she insisted. ‘It’ll be like old times!’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ I said, remembering when we stayed up talking until dawn in our halls. These days, I need my sleep. Mindy settled the issue by saying there was easily room for three in Rupa’s bed, and I couldn’t deny that.

‘Rach, this is Jake,’ Mindy says, as a slight, dark-haired, nervous-looking man follows the done-up-to-the-nines Mindy into the flat. I don’t like to think we look old, but he does look young.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. He blushes. Yep, very young.

Mindy does a pirouette in a black sequin dress. ‘Does this say Studio 54 – or “fifty quid for him to watch”?’

Before I can answer, Ivor butts in. ‘You could never look that cheap, Mind.’

She puts her tongue in her cheek and turns to him. ‘Wait for it.’

‘It says “a hundred pounds for him to watch, plus dry cleaning, and not on the face”.’

‘Zing!’ Mindy says.

Ivor holds up clanking bags to me. ‘Where?’

‘Over there,’ I say, pointing to the pink lady fridge.

‘You’re trolleyed already, aren’t you, Rach? Is that boozer’s flush I see?’ Graeme says.

‘It’s rouge,’ I say. ‘Going for the Palace of Versailles look.’

The only way to deal with Graeme is to play along. Or at least, that’s the only way to deal with him when he’s married to one of your best friends.

Graeme peers into the sink.

‘What the devil’s going on here?’

I’ve put the plug in and filled it with white flowers, peonies, lilac and roses, their stems coiled and bent under the waterline. I saw this piece of stylistic flash at the gathering of a fashion writer once and always wanted to copy it. It wasn’t on the cards when I lived with Rhys. He’d have demanded to know where he should put the dregs of his lager and, most likely, I’d have told him.

‘Did you run out of vases?’ Graeme asks.

‘Gray,’ Caroline says. ‘Stop being a wind-up merchant.’

‘Vases are for gravy,’ Ivor says.

Graeme looks nonplussed.

‘You’ve done a great job,’ Caroline says, looking round and, if I do say so myself, I really have. I’ve run ‘landing strips’ of tea lights in clear glass holders along every straight line and there are vertical explosions of white gladioli in glass tanks dotted around the room. I was never much of a fan of gladioli when I lived in Sale, but there’s something about their imperious legginess that suits this apartment.

‘Funeral parlour minus the corpse,’ Graeme says, with what he imagines is his roguish twinkle that exonerates all sins.

‘One could be arranged,’ Caroline says, crossing her arms.

‘So,’ Graeme fixes me with a beady look, ‘Our Lady of the Ruinously Expensive Tastes, what’s your rent here?’

‘None of your business,’ I say, hopefully sounding sweet.

‘I’m only thinking of you. You’re going back into the housing market with a single income, and six months here is a chunk of your deposit gone, I’ll bet.’

I look to Caroline to silence him, but she’s already stalked off to get a drink.

‘I can’t buy yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’ve split up with someone I spent half my life with and I don’t know what I want or where I want to live.’

‘You’ll always need a roof over your head, won’t you? You’re not going to join a Bedouin tribe?’

‘You can’t always do what makes absolute practical sense … I’ve got a drink, Caro, you’re alright.’

She nods, hands Graeme a glass, sips from her own, eyes downcast.

‘Living for the day is all very well in your twenties, you’ve got to start planning for the future sometime,’ Graeme continues. I know what he means is, no one else is going to do it for you now. ‘Things don’t fall into place by accident.’

‘Maybe.’

As he launches into another monologue, I interrupt: ‘Graeme. Par-tee. Noun, two syllables, a social gathering for the purpose of pleasure.’

Ben, Olivia and Simon arrive while I’m busy mopping up a spilled drink and Caroline lets them in.

She leads them over to the kitchen, and as I join them Simon’s saying to her: ‘… Had cocktails at a bar on Canal Street, or should I say Anal Treat. Ben said it was mixed straight-and-gay, then the only woman in the place had an Adam’s apple like a tennis ball. They were all the sort who could select scatter cushions, I’m telling you.’

Never mind Adam’s apples, I just hope Simon’s tongue is in his cheek most of the time.

‘We brought you a homophobe, and this,’ Ben says to me, as Olivia hands over a Peace Lily in a gold lacquered pot, ‘to help warm your flat.’

Ben’s wearing washed-out-to-look-old-but-new grey jeans and a black sweater. As ever: phew. Olivia’s in a delicate grey wrap dress. Between the two of them, they must love grey. He leans in and does that double kiss thing again. I’m better prepared for it this time but I still get flustered, glad of the distraction the plant affords.

‘This is amazing,’ Ben says to Olivia, looking at the flat, putting an arm around her. ‘Isn’t it, Liv?’

‘Your house is even nicer and your house is really yours,’ I say to Olivia, with feeling, and she beams.