Revelry

‘I’m already regretting it.’ I look up at him through teary eyes. ‘I seem to have sobered up in the last couple of minutes.’

‘Silly bitch deserved it, going on at you and Pops like that. Oh, I know I was nice about her stupid favours, but I was bored shitless by the conversation and it seemed the only way to bring it to a close.’ We both laugh.

‘Well, goodnight then,’ I say reluctantly.

‘Don’t be silly, I’m walking you home,’ says Ben, and my heart starts to beat alarmingly fast. Don’t be silly, Bella, he’s just being nice. Remember what a gentleman he is.

He lights us each a fag. We turn right into Portobello Road and continue down through the market-stall debris, under the Westway and finally into my street. Ben is talking easily about Poppy’s promotion, laughing about Mark’s appalling behaviour, bitching about Alison. I am tongue-tied, but happy to listen, nod and laugh when required.

‘Well, here I am then,’ I say stupidly. ‘Thanks for looking after me.’

‘It was my pleasure, darling.’ Ben smiles that knee-trembling smile again. And very slowly, bends his head to kiss me. His lips are soft yet insistent. Involuntarily my own mouth opens just a fraction and he lingers a moment longer, running his tongue ever so lightly against my trembling bottom lip. Reluctantly, it seems, he pulls away, holding me in his electric blue gaze.

‘You looked very pretty tonight, you know.’ Then he turns on his heel and walks back down the street, turning once to blow me another kiss.

Bugger me.

Chapter 6

Remember waking up on Christmas morning when you were a kid? That manic overexcitement that got you out of your own bed and into your parents’ at 5 a.m., only to be told to go back to sleep for a couple of hours? Well, that had nothing on the hyperactive frenzy I seem to have worked myself up into this morning. I am a Ritalin-dependent attention-seeking seven-year-old, without the compensating cuteness.

For today we are going to Glastonbury. It is a glorious, glorious sunshiny day, I’ve been packed since 8 a.m. and Poppy and Damian are picking me up in half an hour. I always get excited about Glastonbury, even when it’s raining, but this year is different. This year I have been kissed by Ben, and the next four days stretch out in front of me, reverberating with romantic opportunity.

I haven’t seen or spoken to Ben since he walked me home the other night, and neither have I told anyone about the kiss. I don’t know why. Normally I’d be straight on the phone to Poppy, but she is so much closer to Ben than I am because of Damian that I’ve never really confided in her about my feelings for him, though I imagine she has a pretty shrewd inkling. No fool, our Pops.

It’s my wonderful little secret. Again and again I play over those few seconds. ‘It was my pleasure, darling.’ … Smile. Kiss. ‘You looked very pretty tonight, you know.’ He called me pretty! He kissed me! I realize I’m possibly reading too much into what was most likely just a drunken flirty moment, but I don’t care. I’ve been on Cloud Nine for the past week and am full of joyous optimism for what the next few days may bring.

Unable to sit still for a second, I go over my packing for the twentieth time to see what I’ve forgotten. Three bikinis (did I mention the joyous optimism?), four pairs of knickers, three vest tops, two miniskirts, black leggings in case it gets cold, black polo-neck jumper ditto, yoga pants, T-shirt and hoodie for sleeping in if I get the chance, waterproof jacket and trousers, wellies, which take up far too much room in the rucksack but I’m not taking any chances after last year, flip-flops. I am wearing ancient cowboy boots and a white sundress printed with red cherries.

Satisfied that my clothing covers every eventuality, I turn my attention to sundries. Wipes, wipes and more wipes; toothbrush and toothpaste; moisturizer; sun block that I’ll forget to use; dry shampoo that after a couple of days my greasy barnet won’t allow me to forget to use; deodorant; make-up. Come on, I’m hardly going to be slumming it to that extent, especially with Ben around. Strapped to the outside of my rucksack are my sleeping bag and pillow. Yes, a real one. I don’t care if I look a pillock, it makes the biggest difference in the world to comfort. Oooh, bin bags and loo paper! I suddenly remember and dash to the kitchen and bathroom. I’m out of both. I’ll have to remember to get some from the Tesco megastore we always stop at on the final leg of the journey. A 1.5-litre bottle of Evian and 1.5-litre Evian bottle filled with vodka as glass isn’t allowed on site; 3 grams of coke and 12 pills secured inside my bra, the only place security won’t look if I’m unlucky enough to be stopped; 60 Marlboro Lights.

I look at the time on my phone. Still twenty minutes until they’re due, and Poppy and Damian aren’t the most punctual of couples at the best of times. I pick up an old copy of Stadium, Damian’s magazine, and go out onto the balcony to kill some time. The cloudless sky is already a medium denim hue and it’s only ten past ten. Feeling the sun warm on my shoulders, I heave a deep sigh of satisfaction. The next few days are going to be fabulous. Trying to quell my impatience, I flip through Stadium. It falls open randomly at 17 things you should have grown out of by now. Hmmm, let’s see. No. 3. Pretending to find older women attractive. Let’s face it, nineteen is their optimum age. Saggy tits and wrinkles are never a good look. Oh charming. No wonder Mark’s like he is. I have a look at the tiny by-line to see if Damian’s responsible. No, not this time. I’m sure Poppy would have something to say if he were.

Slightly depressed now, I shut Stadium and gaze out over the leafy view for a bit, before going back inside to pick up the card I’ve made to thank Poppy for offering me her spare room as a studio. On the front is a highly stylized pen and ink illustration of Pops herself, hair in a ponytail, jaunty scarf around her neck in the manner of a 1950s fashion drawing, heading towards an old-fashioned aeroplane, an old-fashioned suitcase with labels spelling out Paris, Barcelona, Milan and Capri swinging from her hand. On the back, in the same style, is a drawing of me standing at my easel, wearing a checked artist’s smock and a headscarf around my head like a turban. Inside, in large, glittery writing, I simply wrote, Thanks, dear friend xxx.

I love making cards for people. I like making presents too. Last Christmas I found an old dolls’ house in a junk shop, which, I decided, with a bit of TLC, would make a perfect present for Milly, my Goldsmiths chum Emma’s five-year-old daughter. I painted it white, with a pink roof, and big, blousy cabbage roses around the door, getting carried away with a riot of hearts and flowers on the shutters and climbing up the side of the house. After spending a happy afternoon seeking out remnants in the fabrics and wallpaper departments of Peter Jones, I hung pretty pink and white gingham curtains at the windows, and had a real blast with the interior, wallpapering each room in different shades and patterns of pink and even laying tiny bits of cream carpet. The pièce de résistance was the installation of battery-operated fairy lights throughout, so that the house lit up when you pressed the switch on the back. Of course it was beyond kitsch, but Milly absolutely adored it, and the delight on her face when she opened it was worth every penny I’d spent on it (in the end, it worked out significantly more expensive than it would have done just to have bought her a new dolls’ house).

I felt slightly sheepish about the hours I’d put into my labour of love – let’s face it, it was a pretty bloody twee thing to do – and was reluctant to tell Poppy and the others. As it happened, I needn’t have worried. They all thought it was brilliant, and Pops even insisted Damian drive me all the way over the river to Emma’s terraced house in Stockwell to deliver it, all wrapped up with a pink bow on top, one cold December evening. Mark did take to calling me Polly-Bella-Anna for a few weeks afterwards, and often asked if I’d done my good deed for the day, but all the piss-taking was affectionate.

My phone rings. I look at the display. It’s Poppy.

‘Hi babe, we’re downstairs.’

‘Yay! You’re early! I’ll be down in a sec.’ I lock the balcony door, plonk a pair of oversized shades on my nose, heave my rucksack over my back – fuck me, it’s heavy – pick up my tent and card and stagger down four flights of rickety stairs.

I love Damian’s car. He bought it last year when he was upgraded from staff writer to features editor and columnist on Stadium (Poppy refers to the promotion as ‘the Faustian pact’). It’s a navy blue convertible late Sixties Merc and today will be the first time I’ve been in it with the top down. Hendrix is blaring from the stereo. We are going to look like such a bunch of wankers rolling up to Glasto. I can’t wait.

Poppy jumps out to give me a kiss. She looks fantastic as ever, in her Ibiza denim hot pants, cowboy boots, sage green long-line vest and the trilby she had on the other night. If anything, she seems even more hyper than I am, chattering away at such speed I can barely follow what she’s on about.

‘If you can shut up for one moment, I have something for you,’ I say, proffering the card. Pops looks at it properly and a big smile crosses her lovely face.

‘Oh Belles, you are so talented. I wish I could draw like that. Look, darling, at what Bella’s made for me.’ She shows it to Damian.

‘Bloody brilliant. You’ve captured my missus perfectly, gorgeous little jet-setter that she is.’ He gives the card a kiss and props it up on the dashboard.

‘Thanks guys!’ I bask cheerfully in their praise.

Poppy opens the boot and there is just enough room for my rucksack and tent.

‘’Fraid you’ll have to put Mark’s stuff on the back seat,’ she says. ‘Never mind – you can put it between you like a wall to stop his groping hands.’

‘I really don’t think Mark’s going to be interested in groping me,’ I say, still mindful of what I just read in Stadium and thinking, irritatingly, of the Brazilian twins and the young intern with the pierced nipple.

Damian laughs, the sun bouncing off yet another pair of designer shades. ‘You’re female, aren’t you?’

I get into the back of the car via Poppy’s passenger seat. We get going and within minutes I am rummaging for something to tie my hair back with. Driving west out of London is great. People in other cars hoot and the odd pedestrian waves. My elation is building to a disquieting crescendo and we haven’t even started on the intoxicants yet.

‘So where are we picking Mark up from?’ I shout over the wind and music.

‘Richmond,’ shouts back Poppy.

‘How very respectable,’ I laugh.

‘I know – seems unlikely, doesn’t it?’

‘By the way, Bella, big respect for what you said to Alison the other night,’ shouts Damian. ‘The look on her face when you chucked your drink at her! She started ranting about getting you to pay for dry cleaning after you’d left.’

‘Oh, she wants more than that. She wouldn’t contact me directly, of course. She told Andy to tell Max that her shirt was ruined and she wants me to replace it. It was Jil Sander apparently. Fuck knows how I’m going to afford that.’

‘They’ve got identical shirts in Primark for a fiver,’ says Poppy. ‘And you can cut the label out of my old Jil Sander coat if you want. Bet she won’t notice. Insensitive bitch.’

We all crack up at this. God, life is good.

‘So what’s this shoot Ben’s on tomorrow?’ I ask, unable to resist the temptation of talking about him.

‘Abercrombie and Fitch,’ says Damian. ‘He said the last one was great – the director got them all stoned, then just filmed all these pretty young things laughing unselfconsciously together. Money for old rope if you ask me.’

‘Yeah, like you work your fingers to the bone. Comparable to mining is the life of a Stadium columnist,’ says Poppy, as I try to banish from my mind the image of Ben getting stoned with a load of nineteen-year-old natural beauties. I really wish I hadn’t picked up that bloody magazine.

After a while we turn into a tree-lined street of semi-detached Edwardian houses with perfectly kept front lawns behind box hedges. It’s the sort of street where dads wash their cars on a Saturday morning.

‘This can’t be where Mark lives,’ I say in bemusement. ‘It’s so … so … suburban.’

‘Oh he’s all talk and no trousers, our Marky,’ says Poppy. ‘Underneath all the bullshit, he’s as conventional as they come.’

Mr Conventional swaggers out of No. 42. Bare-chested, he is wearing very tight, very faded jeans, a leather thong around his neck, Aviator shades and a cowboy hat.

‘He sooo waxes his chest,’ says Poppy under her breath.

‘Auditioning for the Village People, Marky?’ shouts Damian.

Mark grins. ‘You’re just jealous I can carry it off,’ he shouts back, and makes his way over to the car, pausing to say hello to a couple of little girls on tricycles.

He chucks his huge rucksack into the back seat as effortlessly as if it were made of foam, then saunters back inside and returns with a crate of Stella, which he throws in on top of the rucksack. Winking at me, he mouths, ‘Hello gorgeous.’ I smile. For all his manifold faults, there is something about Mark you can’t help liking.

We resume our journey and soon excitement is mounting again.

‘Beers, anyone?’ says Mark.

‘Better not mate,’ says Damian. ‘But the rest of you go ahead.’

‘Poor love,’ says Poppy, leaning over and helping herself. ‘I’ll drive on the way back.’

‘Yeah, when a drink’ll be the last thing you want,’ laughs Mark.

‘Dammit, you’ve rumbled my cunning plan.’

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