be expected in the circumstances, and I dived for a snout to see me straight. Lucy looked at me a little ruefully and then at Tom. ‘Er, Frank, sorry to be a pain, but would you mind if you didn’t? It’s not for us, of course, but you know what they say, “We’ve got someone else to think about now”, and …’ Lucy couldn’t bring herself to look at me. There was a tiny, important pause as I fought myself like a lion, lighter in one hand, fag cocked in the other. To my amazement, and to that of Tom and Lucy, I got all reasonable out of nowhere.
‘Sure, no problem, mate. Do you mind if I slip into the garden and have one?’ Or are there some particularly sensitive fucking lupins you’re worried about? I saw myself out thank you and sat in their stony high-walled courtyard really getting stuck in to my Lucky. I had undoubtedly scored valuable points with this charmingly executed act of selflessness, but wondered whether they would compensate me adequately for the damage I was doing myself by holding it all in. Already that comma of protein in Lucy’s guts was exerting so much power, and not even sensate yet.
As I blasted away, I fixated on it marinading away with its proxy ASH membership, and plotted future godfatherly daytrips to Longleat, the two of us locked inside my car, me chaining my way to emphysema: ‘No, I’m sorry, Jemima/Hugo/Candia/Alexia/Moon Unit, you can’t open the doors in a safari park, or you’ll get your face ripped off by a mandrill. We’ll stretch our legs in an hour or two. Would you like one while we wait?’
This thought gave me sufficient succour to re-enter the house without a scowl on my face, but I knew that I wasn’t going to be particularly perky that evening.
By seven-thirty there were about sixteen to twenty people gathered there, almost all of whom I’d met before. Six or seven were in fact veterans of the university parties. I no longer saw any of them apart from at Tom’s. They certainly didn’t stop by at O’Hare’s that often. The remainder were Tom and Lucy’s workmates, but indistinguishable in outer appearance from the old guard; tall, with a money sheen rising quietly from their hair and skin and clothes, like vapour from an oil puddle.
I wandered over to Lucy and asked her which girl was the one they’d set aside for me. ‘Sadie, over there by the stereo.’
There was a glamorous girl in black with Italianate hair and make-up. I was fearful but excited.
‘What, with the black dress?’
‘Nononono. The girl next but one to her – in the jeans. Sadie, she’s my cousin, down from Gloucestershire to do teacher training. My uncle’s a farmer and she was bored with the rural grind. She’s fun, I think you’ll really like her.’
She was wrong on three counts. Firstly as she was ginger, there was absolutely no way I could fancy her. Not a chance. I can’t stress to you strongly enough how far off my radar gingers are. Secondly, she was a public sector worker. This is a big problem for me. I don’t gel with the vocational mentality. Mainly it’s because they’re all left-wing and skint, which just won’t do at all. Thirdly, I didn’t deserve her. One look was enough to establish that.
I turned to Lucy. ‘I’m not sure she’s quite right.’
‘Don’t be so negative, Frank. Also, she wants a Christmas job, and I said you might be able to get her in at the restaurant. What do you think?’
‘Fuck. I probably could actually.’
‘Brilliant! Let’s go and let her know.’
‘OK then.’
My heart wasn’t really in it, but we went over. Sadie was in a group of five or so by the stereo. She looked bored and restless. She was about eighty per cent scruffier than everyone else, which made her about twenty per cent sprucer than me.
‘Sadie, this is Frank I was telling you about.’
‘Hi.’
Uninterested, now she’d actually seen me.
‘Yes, he thinks he can get you a couple of weeks at his restaurant.’
‘Oh really! Great!’
I shuffled around uneasily and stared at the carpet. It was the colour of marzipan.
‘Yerr, we get pretty busy over the holidays. Have you got any experience?’
‘A bit.’
‘More than enough.’
‘When shall I turn up?’
‘Dunno. Can you do tomorrow?’
‘Yes!’
‘You won’t get paid much.’
‘As long as I get something, I’m not that arsed.’
‘You’ll get something.’
‘Sorted, then.’
We were on the fringes of the stereo group. I was too sober as yet to join the conversation. Whitney Houston was doing her airbrushed Brünnhilde act from the speakers. I scanned the CD rack. Opera highlights, U2, Motown’s Greatest Hits, the odd jazz sampler. Music for people who don’t like music. I felt a soft jab in the ribs. God, ginger, a public employee and sexually voracious, what a nightmare.
‘Hello, Frank.’ Friendly and open, but maybe with a whiff of patronising irony.
It wasn’t Sadie.
‘Oh, hi, Sophie.’
A power Sloane from Oxford days. She moved to mwah me, but I evaded. A tanned man I didn’t know in a sharp cornflower blue shirt was holding court. Sadie and the other two were maintaining shit-eating smiles. If he was boring this lot, he obviously had some special talent for awfulness.
Sophie put a bony arm gently round my back.
‘I don’t think you know anyone.’
Don’t remind me.
‘This is Nick and Flora …’ The shit-eaters mouthed silent hellos.
‘This is Sadie …’ I couldn’t bring myself to look at her, but kept my head high to prevent my double chin pouching too badly.
‘And this is my husband Colin,’ indicating the cornflower ponce.
‘Oh, Colin. Like Colin Bell, the footballer,’ I said mock-brightly as we shook on it.
He scowled a little. ‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s a family name, actually – Scottish.’
‘You don’t have much of an accent. What part of Scotland are you from? Govan?’
Nick and Flora snickered. I still hadn’t looked at Sadie, so couldn’t judge her reaction.
‘No, not Govan, but quite near Glasgow.’
‘Celtic or Rangers?’
‘Chelsea, actually. I went to school near London.’
‘Near Slough, no doubt.’
‘Hmm.
