hair, perfect oval face, golden-coloured. I expected some variant on feminine perfection and Olivia looks like she sweats Chanel No. 5, no surprises here.
If I was going to be a cow – and obviously, I’m not, but if I was going to be – physically, she’s the tiniest bit safe, as a Ben choice. His university ones were usually dynamic, healthy, strapping, widescreen-smile Carly Simon sorts. That type of mega-wattage vivacious beauty where trying to deny it was like trying to look directly into the sun without squinting.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she says.
‘Nice to meet you too. Thanks for inviting me.’
‘Come and say hello to the others and I’ll get you a drink.’
As I follow her I see she’s wearing a clinging, draped jersey top and tight-but-flared trousers in shades of grey. Not darks-wash-accident grey, of course, the ones called things like moonstone, graphite and slate that hang in sinuous slivers on padded hangers in shops with the ambience of New York nightclubs. The sort I didn’t dare enter this afternoon, expecting to be chased out of at the end of a broom. She’s so understated and sophisticated, suddenly my try-hard tart frock makes me feel as if I’ve wandered out of an ’80s instant coffee ad.
Olivia leads me into a living room that opens on to a dining room beyond and guides me over to do my hellos with a tall woman with highlighted, vanilla-and-toffee hair. She looks like she’d have been in the Goal Attack tabard in the rival school’s netball team and marked you so hard you’d have fallen over in fright. My eyes move to the man next to her, who’s shorter, stockier and wearing a salmon-pink shirt that accentuates his tanned flush.
‘Lucy, Matt, this is Rachel. And I think you’ve met Simon …?’
Simon, inspecting the bookshelf, raises a flute glass in greeting and ambles over. He still looks like he’s dressed for the office.
‘Can I offer you a champagne cocktail, Rachel?’ Olivia says.
‘You can, and I will accept,’ I say, trying to strike the right partyish note and coming off as a cock. ‘Your house is lovely, Olivia. I can’t believe you’ve not been here for years.’
This is a proper grown-ups’ dwelling, no doubt about it. The oatmeal carpet underneath our feet is thick and soft, church candles are twinkling in a cavernous original fireplace and there are framed black-and-white photographic prints on the walls of Barcelona or Berlin or wherever they went on romantic breaks while courting, wielding the Nikon.
‘Oh, we’re still at sixes and sevens, we’ve dimmed the lights to cover it up,’ Olivia calls, over her shoulder, as she ducks out to the kitchen.
‘Liv is being modest; she trails order in her wake like most people trail devastation,’ Ben calls, from somewhere near the oven.
The table beyond is set with coordinated aqua napkins and taper candles, the centrepiece is a moth orchid in a pebble-filled tub. Some ambient-chill-out-dub-whatever drifts out of a Bang & Olufsen stereo. If Ben’s still climbing the ranks, Olivia must be quite a high-flier, I decide, taking in the atmosphere of plushy serenity and discreet wealth. I picture my old home in Sale and realise what different circles Ben and I move in. My mind wanders back to the reassurance Rhys would offer at my side but I quickly start to reassess whether it’d be worth it. His hackles would be right up at this advertisers’ vision of cliched contentment and I’d be hoping he didn’t drink too much and get ‘nowty’.
Olivia returns and puts a champagne flute in my hand, raspberries bobbing in the liquid.
‘Is this everyone now, Liv?’ Lucy asks.
‘Yes.’
‘OK, so a – toast. Welcome to Manchester, Liv and Ben.’
‘Cheers,’ I mumble, clinking glasses.
‘Cheers Ben!’ they call, as he’s in the kitchen.
This is everyone? Six of us, two couples, two singles – Simon and I are being set up. It’s not merely a rumour: this kind of crashingly unsubtle matchmaking actually happens. Is Simon equally uncomfortable to have me sprung on him? Lucy and Matt are looking at me curiously. I’m going to have to brave this out by pretending it’s not happening. My usual modus operandi.
I turn towards Simon in desperation, with a rictus grin.
‘How are you?’ I ask.
‘I’ve spoken to Natalie and she’s definitely up for the interview,’ he says, and I’m grateful to have a topic in common.
‘Great.’
‘I’ll get back to you with a date. OK to do it at her house?’
‘Ideal.’
‘All right if I come along?’
‘If it’s OK, I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m not being rude—’
‘Oh really? Where does this rank on your scale?’
He deadpans and I laugh despite myself.
‘If you sit in,’ I say, ‘she’ll be on edge and looking to you for approval all the time and the whole thing will be stilted. I know it’s a big story but she’s not Barbra Streisand. It’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Simon says, smiling.
‘Those are my terms,’ I say, smiling back, hoping this isn’t too much sass. ‘Good luck taking your terms to the nationals.’
Actually the nationals would bite Simon’s hand off to the elbow. I feel reasonably sure from what Ben said that Simon’s going to keep his sense of humour, and stick with me.
‘What do you do for a living?’ Matt interrupts.
‘I’m a court reporter for the local paper. You?’
‘Management consultancy. Mainly blue chip firms.’
I can’t think of any follow-up question, so Matt interjects: ‘What’s the naughtiest thing anyone in the dock’s ever done?’
‘Er. Naughtier than serial killing?’
‘No, bizarre stuff. Funnies.’
‘You lawyers probably see more of them than me?’ I say to Lucy.
‘I’m in litigation, like Liv,’ Lucy offers. ‘So no. Leylandii and partition walls.’
‘Sit in, everyone,’ Olivia says, and we all take our seats, Lucy and Matt making a beeline for the middle, Simon and I left with no choice but to flank them, facing each other. Why didn’t Ben warn me? It isn’t like him. You don’t know what ‘like him’ is any more, I remind myself.
Wine flows, I gulp to finish my cocktail, and salads are put in front of us. I try to remember what polite small talk involves and try to make sense of the ‘Ben Plus Olivia Equals Lucy and Matt as Friends’ equation. Part of the wonder of mine
