Revelry

‘Hello, darling. Can you think of anything that rhymes with erection?’

‘Hi, Mum. How are you?’ My mother writes erotic poetry and I love her to bits.

‘Rough as a badger’s arse, I’m afraid.’

I laugh. ‘Lovely expression, Mummy.’

‘I think it’s rather good – I only learnt it recently. Anyway, it sums up how I feel perfectly, but it’s entirely self-inflicted so I’m trying not to feel too sorry for myself.’

‘What have you been up to?’

‘Well, Tabitha and Valentine came to stay for a few days, which you know is always lethal. She’s done something quite groovy to her hair. Then yesterday that ghastly little man with the squint – I think he’s the new postmaster or something – wanted me to sign some horrid petition so I fobbed him off with a couple of large whiskies. And then Auntie Charlotte rocked up on her motorbike – and, well, as you can probably imagine, it all went downhill from there. Anyway, what was I ringing for? Yes … erection …’

‘Erm … deflection? Reflection? Rejection?’ I proffer.

‘Not really the mood I was after …’

‘Perfection?’

‘That’s it!’ she cries triumphantly. ‘Thanks, darling. Love you! Speak later.’

I hang up and laugh. Mum can’t really concentrate on anything else mid-poetry and I know she’ll call back later. We speak at least once a day.

They were fabulous tabloid fodder in the early Seventies, my parents. Dad, the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, shagging his way round London on the strength of his winning way with a camera; Mum, the outrageously beautiful but seriously impoverished posh bird dabbling in modelling to try and boost the family fortunes. There are some wonderful photos of her in my old home near Oxford, all sepia-tinted, doe-eyed, floppy-hatted early Biba and Ossie Clark stuff. I think they really did love each other, but no one in their right mind could put up with my father’s womanizing for long. Still, my childhood was happy enough. They divorced before I was old enough to realize what was going on, and Max and I had the fun of a dual existence, spending term time and Christmas with Mum in the English countryside and Easter and summer holidays with Dad in lovely, warm, beautiful Mallorca.

Forgetting all about the binding for a few blissful minutes, I decide to have a quick look at my emails. Ooh – a Facebook notification.

Ben Jones has tagged a photo of you on Facebook.

I click on the link with the usual just-been-tagged trepidation. Unlike my luminously photogenic mother, I either look absolutely horrific or surprisingly pretty in photos – nothing in between. People, even Ben, whom I’d forgive most things, shouldn’t be allowed to tag one without one’s consent, really they shouldn’t. Facebook opens and I see that he’s posted an entire album of holiday snaps. Christ Almighty. I click on the first one, which features Damian, Poppy and me sitting around our lunch table that day at Sa Trinxa, several empty bottles and ashtrays between us. Poppy and Damian are smiling into the camera, their usual shiny, gorgeous selves. I appear to be eating, drinking, smoking and cackling with laughter, all at the same time. My wet hair is plastered to my scalp and my halterneck bikini top has rucked up on one side, making my boobs go all wonky. It is quite hideous, something akin to a Hogarthian gin hag.

Frantically I detag myself, trying not to feel too depressed as I remember how attractive and confident I was feeling that afternoon. That’ll teach me. Aware of the possible damage limitation now necessary, I start to click through the rest of the photos, most of which, I can’t help but notice, are of Ben himself, unfailingly gorgeous in every one. Surely he didn’t keep asking us all to take photos of him with his own camera or phone?

An adenoidal whine punctures my musings.

‘Bella? Have you finished binding those presentations yet? You do know we need them for a meeting in ten minutes? Surely whatever you’re doing can wait till afterwards?’

It’s Stella, the other director’s PA. Thank fuck she can’t see my monitor from where she’s sitting. She’s right, of course, but I don’t enjoy being spoken to like that by someone five years my junior who is content to organize someone else’s diary for the rest of her life. Nor one who thinks, ‘Oooh I’m such a cheap date – a glass of wine goes straight to my head’ is an acceptable conversational gambit.

Gina gives me a sympathetic glance as I hurry back to the printing room.

Roll on 5.30.

I heave an enormous sigh as I walk out. Being stuck in that place on such a beautiful day really pisses me off. There aren’t even windows in my corner of the office. Last week Stella told me off for dressing ‘like you’re going to the beach. We wear smart business attire in this office.’ ‘Smart business attire’ – now there’s a phrase to strike ice into your heart in the depths of summer. I’ve compromised with my old black interview jacket over a pale pink shift dress with platform court shoes. God I’m a rebel. The black kills the baby pink stone dead but I’m buggered if I’m going to waste money on another suit jacket. Now I take it off and replace the uncomfortable platforms with a pair of flat leather sandals. It’s not exactly cutting edge but at least I feel as if I’m in the land of the living. The land of the summer living. I shove the despised items into my handbag, which now bulges so alarmingly I have to carry it in my hand rather than over my shoulder.

If my current place of work has one saving grace, it’s its Mayfair location, the majority of financial institutions being stuck in the City, or, worse, stranded in the vampirically bloodless no-man’s-land that is Canary Wharf. East London may be hip but the Square Mile depresses the hell out of me – except at weekends, when you can appreciate the buildings without the suits.

Not wanting to waste a moment of sunshine, I decide to walk home. It’ll only take an hour or so and I’m not meeting Poppy till 7.30. People are beginning to throng the pavements, spilling out of pubs and bars. I amble through the grand streets of Mayfair to Hyde Park and the rose gardens, whose overblown beauty at this time of year transports me to some far-off fairyland. Then the long walk past the Serpentine, teeming with ducks, geese, swans, gulls, runners, Rollerbladers and tourists. By the time I hit Portobello Road I’m thoroughly invigorated by the sheer buzz of London in the summertime, Stella and binding far from my thoughts.

When I first started coming to London with Poppy, in our teens, we’d always hang out on Portobello Road – initially to browse the market for 1920s and 30s memorabilia, then to gaze at cool boys in pubs and bars. Neither of us had the confidence to chat to them in those days. Anyway, I always loved the area, and was determined that it would be my home one day.

It wasn’t as simple as that, but a couple of years out of Goldsmiths, living in a grimy flat-share in Balham, I saw an ad in the ‘For Sale’ section of the Standard for a ‘tiny, run-down one-bedroom flat with balcony in the heart of Notting Hill’. Balcony? This was beyond my wildest dreams. So I hopped on the Central Line on a lovely summer evening and went, heart in mouth, to the address I’d scribbled down on a Post-it note. The location was perfect – a winding side street off the dodgy end of Portobello Road, with a row of pastel-painted terraced early Victorian houses. ‘Run-down’ was accurate enough, though. The pink stucco was peeling badly and it smelt as if the rubbish hadn’t been taken away for weeks.

Yet up four flights of rickety stairs lay the flat of my dreams. Yes, it was tiny, and yes the swirly carpet was hideous and the kitchen units painted the most revolting orangey salmon pink, but there was a little stone balcony leading out from the kitchen with views over the rooftops of West London and I just knew I’d be happy there.

My darling nan (my mother’s mother is still ‘Granny’) had left me a small nest-egg which just covered the deposit. When she died, she was still living in the terraced house on the Hoxton/Dalston borders where my dad was brought up, one of the few slums to have survived Hitler’s bombs. Dad offered to buy her a nice place in the country but she always stubbornly refused. The East End was what she knew and loved. It came as an enormous shock to discover she’d squirrelled away fifty grand to be divided equally between me and Max, her beloved grandchildren. Dad inherited the house, which he rents to Max as premises for his hugely successful bar/restaurant business. Funny how Nan was sitting on a goldmine for all those years. I still miss her.

Now I let myself in and look around contentedly. One of the first things I did when I moved in was to rip out that horrible carpet and paint the floorboards white and, though I say so myself, the effect is pretty damn cool. There wasn’t much cash left for decorating, but I replaced the salmon-coloured kitchen units with some inoffensive ones from Ikea, laid blue and white mosaic tiles over the splash-back and put up some French art nouveau posters in second-hand frames. With my little herb garden on the window ledge and balcony door open so you can see all my flower boxes, I like to think the effect is artfully bohemian.

My living room is a mishmash of old and new, but that’s the way I like it. There are books everywhere. One wall is completely lined with bookshelves but that’s not nearly enough, so they tend to pile up on the floor. A zebra-print Sixties beanbag and sheepskin rug look incongruously Austin Powers against the antique chandelier, huge fake Venetian mirror and chaise longue I’ve picked up in the market over the years. I found my most recent acquisition, a fairly nasty repro Forties chest of drawers, in a skip. Now that I’ve painted it bright lacquer red, changed the handles and put some gorgeous chinoiserie silk under a sheet of glass on its surface, I adore it. I’m considering upholstering the chaise longue similarly, but that might drain my beer resources.

White muslin curtains flutter around the sash window, which looks out onto a window box crammed with colourful geraniums. My beloved oils hang from the walls that are not lined with books, and overgrown houseplants take up probably more floor space than they should.

I go into my bedroom to get changed and my smugness evaporates. Christ, the mess. When my flat is tidy it can look very pretty indeed. I tidied up the living room yesterday. But it’s so small, and OK, I’m such a slut, that mess does accumulate extraordinarily quickly. I start rummaging through the clothes on the floor in search of something to wear. Poppy said that Damian and Ben might be joining us later, so I need to look good. Or, at least, not like a Hogarthian gin hag. After trying on and discarding several options, I settle on a short halterneck floral tea dress in shades of mauve, navy and white that shows off the remnants of my Ibiza tan. I’ll pair it with my old navy Converse to stop it looking too girly, but in the meantime I wander barefoot to the fridge and pour myself a glass of wine.

I pick up my phone to look at the time. It’s only 6.45; still plenty of time before I meet Poppy at The Westbourne, so I go out onto my balcony and gaze over the treetops. It really is a gorgeous evening. I do a lot of my painting out here – so much so, in fact, that I’ve probably exhausted this particular view. I really must get a studio sorted, but I’m absolutely broke, especially after the Ibiza shenanigans. And there’s Glastonbury, Bestival and all sorts coming up. Priorities, Bella. Sometimes I wonder how much I really love my painting if I’m happy to spend so much time and money partying. If I could dedicate my life to lotus-eating, would I? I probably need to be way more dedicated to ever really succeed, especially in the current dreary climate. On the other hand, artists are meant to be hedonistic, aren’t they?

Suddenly I laugh. Come on, Bella, snap out of it. Artists are meant to be hedonistic indeed! A pretentious excuse for getting off your tits if ever there was one.

I go inside to redo my make-up, brush my hair, drain my glass, shove my feet into my battered Converse and pick up a denim jacket in case it gets chilly later. Money, keys, fags in pocket. No need for a handbag as I’m not going far.

As I head towards The Westbourne, it strikes me how much the area has changed since I moved here. I still love it. The architecture is fab and nothing beats getting one’s vegetables from the market on a Saturday morning (if one is up, that is), but the fabled ‘cultural diversity’ has become a bit of a joke. Whatever you may feel about American bankers, culturally diverse they are not. And now half of them are out of work, the streets are crawling with them, like expensively shod vermin. (Actually, running with them, as they can no longer afford their gyms. The heart bleeds.) Still, while Notting Hill’s no longer the in place to live, for me it still has that slightly arty loucheness that an entire plague of penny-loafer-wearing Chad Jnr IIs would be hard pushed to destroy.

The USP of The Westbourne is its relatively sizeable beer garden, all too rare a commodity in central London, which opens directly onto the street for maximum posing potential. It’s predictably heaving, but Poppy has managed to secure a table outside. The cream of London’s beautiful people jostles for standing room on the pavement, spilling pints of expensive lager on Sass & Bide jeans. A white E-type Jag, circa 1972, provides some much-needed extra seating. Three skinny girls perch on its bonnet and a ridiculously handsome black guy grins from the driving seat. This summer a disproportionate number of people are wearing Stetsons. Wild West London indeed.

Poppy stands up and waves enthusiastically. She’s wearing a very short navy and white striped Christopher Kane bodycon dress with outrageous vintage Vivienne Westwood silver platforms. And a trilby. No cloned headwear for my best mate.

‘Hello lovely, how are you?’ She envelops me in a bear hug with a strength that belies her tiny frame, a result of the boxing lessons she’s been taking for the last couple of years.

‘All the better for seeing you. Horrendous day in the office, as usual. Save me from those people!’

Poppy laughs. ‘Awww, try and rise above it, sweetheart. It’s only a couple more weeks now, isn’t it, till you’re free again? Just think of all that lovely money.’

I smile. She knows me so well. There are two large bottles of Magners on the table, with their accompanying ice-filled pint glasses. ‘Is this for me?’ I ask, and she nods, so I sit down.

‘How are you anyway? Looking gorgeous as ever. I love the hat.’

‘Hides a multitude of sins. Heeeeavy night last night.’ Poppy grimaces, miming shooting herself in the head, and I laugh sympathetically. Within seconds the grimace is replaced with a radiant smile. ‘But I’ve got some good news – I’ve just been promoted!’

‘Oh yay, well done Pops. Congratulations!’ I lean over to give her a hug. ‘But I thought you were promoted only a couple of months ago?’

‘I was,’ she grins. ‘And they’ve decided to promote me again! You’re looking at the new Deputy Head of Production for Europe.’

‘Fucking hell, Popsicle. That’s brilliant! I’m so pleased for you. This calls for champagne. Don’t go anywhere.’ And I elbow my way through the packed pub to the bar. I certainly can’t afford to be buying champagne in pubs, but if ever an occasion called for it, this does. I am hugely impressed by Poppy’s achievements and not jealous in the slightest. OK, there may be a teensy bit of salary envy, but overall I’m delighted.

After waiting for about fifteen minutes, I am finally served by the way-too-attitudey staff. I lug the champagne bucket back outside and plonk it on the table. ‘Sorry to take so long. It’s mad in there.’

‘Don’t be silly. And you shouldn’t be buying me champagne either – I’m the one with the obscene salary.’ She tries to give me a couple of twenties, but I wave them away. ‘No no, this is on me.’

‘OK, but drinks on me for the rest of the night.’

‘It’s a deal.’ Big relief.

I pour the champagne and we clink glasses.

‘Cheers!’

‘To Poppy’s staggering success,’ I intone solemnly.

‘To my staggering success,’ she concurs, knocking back the glass in one. ‘God, I needed that. I only had three hours’ sleep last night.’

‘Anything exciting?’ I top her up again.

‘Oh, just some naff awards do. Angelina Jolie was there, minus Brad and weird rainbow tribe. She’s a bit gaunt in the flesh. Very pretty, though. I got through a lot of caipirinhas. Funnily enough, Damian was also invited, in misogynist hack capacity, but obviously we were put on different tables. He kept pulling faces at me, trying to make me giggle while I was schmoozing the big cheeses at Channel 4. Prick,’ she finishes fondly.

‘You know you love him really.’

‘Yeah I do. Great big kid.’ Poppy laughs.

‘So what does the new job involve? What was the title again? Deputy Head of Production for Europe? Isn’t that a new area for you?’

‘Well, yeah, as far as Europe’s concerned.’ She shrugs. ‘I’ll need to brush up on my French, Italian and German, of course …’ All three, you notice. ‘But in principle it’s the same thing I’ve been doing over here – I just have to research the markets thoroughly. The main thing is, it’s going to involve a lot of travelling – yippee! Via Condotti, here I come.’

‘You lucky bugger.’

‘Actually, there was one thing I wanted to suggest.’ She sounds serious for a moment. ‘As I’ll be away quite a lot during the week, how would you like to take over my spare room as a studio? It’s a bit of a hike, I know, but the light is great and you’d have loads more space than on your balcony. I’ll give you a spare set of keys and you can always kip over if it gets late and you can’t be arsed with the journey back.’

‘Bloody hell, that is so weird! I was just thinking earlier how bored I’m getting with the view from my balcony and how I should get a studio sorted. Oh Pops, I’d love it! Thanks so much. Psychic, or what?’

‘Or perhaps I’m just getting as bored with the view from your balcony as you are,’ Poppy laughs, winking from under her hat.

‘Ow, bitch!’

‘Not really, silly. But it is about time you had a studio, don’t you think?’

‘Didn’t I just say so? Thanks again, from the bottom of my heart.’ And I stand up to give her the third hug of the evening so far. Then something occurs to me:

‘Are you sure Damian’s cool with it? I would hate to be an imposition …’

‘Oh, he’s fine about it. He’s always flying off to do his dreadful “interviews” with Z-list slappers, anyway.’ Poppy does the inverted commas fingers gesture. ‘And, as I pay most of the rent, he wouldn’t have much say in the matter … even if he did object, which he doesn’t,’ she adds hurriedly.

Poppy and Damian, being a million times cooler than I am, live in a huge warehouse conversion overlooking Hoxton Square. It is a bit of a trek from here, but she’s right about the light in the spare room. The windows are enormous and, joy of joys, it has a skylight.

We discuss the practicalities of the studio for a bit, until I remember something.

‘Oh Pops, I’m sorry. I should have asked as soon as I saw you. How’s your dad? Didn’t you go to see them last weekend?’

Poppy’s father has Alzheimer’s, and in the last year or so his decline has become much more apparent. It was a particularly cruel twist of fate a few years ago that led him, a doctor, to diagnose himself with early symptoms of the disease, acutely aware of the long-term implications. For Poppy, always a daddy’s girl and an only child to boot, it was devastating. They shared the same keen intelligence and Dr Kenneth Wallace was always so proud of his clever little girl, encouraging her to apply for Oxford, planting the seeds of the self-belief that has served her so well as an adult. Despite her devastation, Pops has until recently remained staunchly upbeat about it, researching new breakthroughs in treatment and medication, and supporting her mother Diana with as much of a positive outlook as she can muster. Ken still lives in the family home, looked after by Diana (with the help of carers), but it’s becoming increasingly apparent that this won’t be possible for much longer.

‘Not great, to be honest. Oh Belles, sometimes I can hardly bear it when I remember how he used to be.’ Poppy’s large, almond-shaped green eyes fill with tears, which she angrily wipes away. ‘It’s such a bloody horrible disease.’

‘I know, lovey, I know.’ I reach over and squeeze her hand, thinking of the tall, bespectacled gent with his wonderfully dry wit and endless thirst for knowledge. It was always hugely entertaining around the Wallace dinner table, even when we were kids. ‘He did … recognize you, didn’t he?’ I falter, as it’s the big one; the big, big horror that one day her own father won’t know who she is.

‘Oh yes, he still recognizes me, bless his dear old heart.’ Poppy smiles sadly. ‘It’s just the other things he doesn’t recognize that are so scary.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like last weekend we were watching telly – that’s all you can do with him any more, really, as conversation is so bloody impossible – and he thought the people on the box were outside the window, trying to break in. He got quite agitated about it and I just had to keep saying, “Dad, it’s the TV, we’re watching telly, remember?”’

‘Oh Pops.’ I squeeze her hand again, not knowing how else to proffer comfort.

‘I honestly don’t know how Mum copes. Remember I told you she was feeling guilty for getting irritated because he kept repeating himself?’

I nod.

‘Well, it’s way beyond that stage now. He isn’t really a properly functioning human being at all any more. Jesus, Belles, if I ever get like that, please just give me a lethal injection.’

‘You’re on. And vice versa?’

We shake on it and Poppy continues.

‘Dad hates the carers – keeps going on about what are all these strangers doing in my house, which you can’t blame him for really. But he’s very fond of the chap in the mirror. Keeps introducing his “new friend” to Mum. When he waves and smiles, the chap in the mirror waves and smiles back, you see.’

‘Oh Pops, your poor mother. Surely it must nearly be time for him to go into residential care?’

‘From a purely selfish point of view I’d like him to stay at home until he dies.’

‘Why?’

‘Because sometimes we can pretend things are like they used to be – say if Mum and I are cooking Sunday lunch and we’ve put Dad in front of some documentary on the telly. But it’s simply not fair on Mum the rest of the time. She’s being a complete bloody martyr though – reckons it would be a betrayal to put him in a home.’

I think of blonde, soignée Diana, an ex-Radio 4 presenter, still glamorous at sixty-two. Jesus. What a life sentence. For both of them.

‘Damian’s been looking into residential homes that specialize in dementia,’ Poppy continues. ‘Even though they are, by their very nature, fucking grim hellholes, some are so much better than others – actually the discrepancies are astounding. There’s one he’s found near enough home for Mum to visit daily that looks quite promising. We’re going to go and have a look the weekend after Glastonbury.’

‘He’s a good chap, your man.’

‘My rock.’ Poppy faux-swoons, then visibly cheers up. ‘Ooh look, talk of the devil. There he is with Mark! What does the sexist cunt think he’s wearing?’

I follow her gaze and laugh. Mark’s huge chest is clad in a T-shirt announcing 10 reasons why beer is better than women. The last time I saw something similar was about twelve years ago, on an ill-advised student trip to the Greek island Ios. It involved an awful lot of booze and shagging randoms, and my (only) Goldsmiths friend Emma and I ended up running out of money and sleeping on a roof for a week with an entire rugby team from Halifax. Happy days.

‘Is it meant to be ironic?’ Poppy asks as she stands up to greet Mark.

‘I’ve been telling him it’s crap,’ says Damian. ‘But he insists it will get him birds. How are you anyway, my lovely?’ As ever, he looks effortlessly cool in dark jeans and a close-fitting scarlet T-shirt by some obscure Japanese label, his eyes hidden by yet another pair of expensive shades. They get the pick of the latest designer kit at Stadium, the magazine they work on, which makes Mark’s choice of garb even more baffling.