Кэрри Фишер – The Love Island: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you have to read this summer (страница 13)

When we got to the front steps, Jonathan ushered me forward. I’d noticed before that black tie made men more chivalrous, and Jonathan was no exception. One of the Filipino staff – ‘Patri’s Fillies’, as he called them with a cavalier disregard for political correctness – answered the door. Cher tottered across the marble foyer looking as though she was fresh from a performance in the Big Top. A feather boa curled round her neck and her long dress was slashed almost to the waist. Her taut face contrasted with a décolleté that had spent too many summers frying in baby oil on the Costa Smeralda.

‘Happy New Year, everyone. Hi, Alicia. Go on up, Loretta’s upstairs with a few friends. They’re on the karaoke machine.’

I waited for Alicia to ask me to come with her but she gave me a little wave and headed off across the hallway, long limbs under her miniskirt like a baby giraffe.

Cher launched into a stage whisper. ‘So glad you came, Roberta. I told that husband of yours to sling his hook. Us girlies have to stick together, don’t we, ladies?’

I hoped Scott wasn’t sitting on his own working his way through his collection of single malts. Perhaps he’d have gone out with the chaps from the rugby club. I hadn’t spent a single New Year’s Eve away from him since we met. I wasn’t sure I wanted to start a new tradition now. I forced my thoughts away from next door.

Gold bangles jangled as Cher swept us into the drawing room. About ten other couples were already standing among clusters of red and silver balloons. Several Filipino maids were weaving about with platters of goat’s cheese crostini and trays of Kir Royale. It felt so odd to be here without Scott, I almost baulked at the door. He was the one who dived into social situations, shaking hands and sweeping me into the centre of things. Octavia gave me a little wink and walked ahead. I braced myself for a chorus of ‘Where’s Scott?’ but Cher had already rescued me on that front. Sometimes indiscreet friends were an advantage.

Patri came striding over, sunglasses balanced on his head, quite the ageing rock star with his velvet jacket and greying shoulder-length hair. ‘All right, Octavia, Jonathan? Roberta, darling. You look gorgeous, not a day over twenty-one. A lot to celebrate in the coming year, then?’ He took my hands in his.

‘Celebrate?’

Frankly, I felt like throwing myself on the log fire that was crackling away behind me.

‘Yeah, getting rid of that husband of yours. Never did like him. Couldn’t understand what a classy girl like you saw in an oik like him. My granddad was a peasant, worked the fields. Me dad was a brickie, but we was brought up to treat women nice. You’ll find someone who deserves you now.’ He took a big drag on his cigar and blew a smoke ring upwards. He stopped a waitress. ‘Here, have some bubbles.’

‘He had his good points, Patri. It was as much my fault as his.’ I wondered if my desire to defend Scott would ever wear off. How many more people were going to come out of the woodwork now and say they’d hated him?

‘Don’t do yerself down, girl, I know what that Scott was like, his way or the highway. He should of recognised his good fortune when he had it. Anyway, cheers, doll. All the best to you.’

He raised his glass to me and off he went, slapping the blokes on the back and the women on the bottom.

I clinked glasses with Octavia and Jonathan, and tried to contain the gathering force of sadness wrenching its way up my chest. Jonathan, with a rare flash of empathy, tried to help me out. ‘I know Scott had his moments, but he could be great company when he was in the right mood.’

Octavia couldn’t quite contain herself. ‘Yes, but the right mood had become rarer and rarer of late.’

I forced my lips into something like a smile and dabbed my little finger at the tears stinging my eyes.

Octavia shook her head. ‘I’m not going to be nice to you in the interests of your mascara.’ Before I could escape to the loo, the Lawsons from a couple of doors down spotted us. Michelle’s two topics of conversation were the catchment areas for good senior schools and her IBS. On the upside, if we were locked into a discussion about too much or too little fibre, there would be less airtime for anyone to investigate the demise of my marriage. We were soon in a kissy-kissy bump-noses-and-cheeks fiasco that the British never mastered properly.

Michelle said, ‘How are you?’ as though I’d been through a gruelling operation to have an embarrassing lump removed and was on the road to recovery. After a cursory greeting, Michelle’s husband, Simon, a forceful man who thought he was wittier than he was, turned to Jonathan to rant about government cuts in the health sector.

Before we became too engrossed in the merits of rice milk, Cher banged a huge brass gong and waved us through into the dining room, where an enormous oak table shone with crystal and silver. She searched me out and showed me to my seat. ‘Roberta, I’ve put you next to Patri. He’ll look after you.’ It hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t be next to Octavia. I resisted the urge to cling to her and make everyone swap places.

‘Lovely, thanks.’ I took another gulp of champagne and waved to Octavia as she took her seat down the other end of the table.

I kept my hands in my lap, staring at the pattern on the elaborate silver cutlery. I didn’t want to look up in case people were whispering about me. I wasn’t sure I could even pick up my wine glass without knocking everything over and shattering Cher’s finest Waterford.

Michelle sat opposite me. As always, Patri – who loved a bit of pomp and ceremony – had had menus printed up. The waitress handed one to Michelle, who immediately called her back. ‘Has the mushroom soup got cream in it? I can’t eat venison. It’s barbaric. Did Cher organise any alternatives? Butternut squash risotto? Rice doesn’t agree with me. Could you see if they could make it with quinoa?’ The poor girl backed out to the kitchen, promising to see what she could do.

My heart sank as Simon plonked himself next to me. ‘Patri on the other side of you, is he? A rose between two thorns.’ He looked over at Michelle. ‘Alright, Miche? Better bring a packed lunch for you next time. Don’t want you eating the wrong thing and farting us out of the room.’

Simon looked round at Patri and me for approval. Patri clicked his tongue and frowned. Michelle hissed back at him whilst I concentrated on buttering my roll.

He turned to me, nodding at the bread in my hand. ‘Nice to see a girl with an appetite. Better not overdo it, though. Being back on the market and all that. Don’t want to get too chubby. Men like a bit of flesh, but not too much.’

I looked down at his stomach. It bulged out like a cushion between his braces. I slathered on a little more butter and ignored him, although I soon realised he was like a dog that creeps out from under the table to mount your leg as soon as the owners aren’t looking.

‘So. Approaching the New Year as a single girl, then.’

‘It’s early days. I’m still coming to terms with it.’

‘Must be a bit lonely.’

Patri saved me by banging his spoon on a wine glass with a satisfying ching. ‘Before I get too piddled, Cher and me would just like to welcome you all to our New Year’s Eve dinner. I did too much waiting on tables when I was younger, so I’m not doing it any more. In this house you’ve got to help yourself, or ask one of the Fillies.’ He pointed his cigar at the rows of wine on the sideboard. ‘On the plus side, you can have anything you want. If you go home saying, “Christ, that was a dry old do,” then you’ve only got yerself to blame. Buon appetito!’

Patri sat down, stubbing out his cigar on his side plate. ‘It’s me lucky night tonight, doll, sitting next to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You doing OK? Where you living?’

‘I’m staying with Octavia at the moment. I discovered Christmas Day wasn’t a terribly good time to look for a house to rent.’

Simon was practically dipping his chin into my soup to catch the conversation. He stuffed a large piece of bread into his mouth. ‘Come and sleep in my spare room any time. You can pay me in blow jobs. Haha.’

He guffawed away, specks of olive ciabatta landing in wet blobs on my bare arms. I didn’t dare look at his wife. I tried to think of a suitable response, if such a thing existed.

But Patri wasn’t having any of it. ‘Simon. Shut up. Have a bit of respect.’ He’d put his spoon down and turned towards him, elbow on the table.

That familiar queasy feeling started to rise, panic that confrontation was on its way. I smiled, blocking Patri’s view of Simon. I caught sight of Michelle’s pursed lips out of the corner of my eye. ‘It’s fine, it was only a joke, Patri, come on.’

Simon patted my arm, not the slightest bit abashed. He drained his glass. ‘Roberta knows how to have a bit of fun, don’t you, sweetheart?’

Patri settled back in his chair, but his gold signet ring tapped out irritation on the surface of the table. I glanced over at Michelle. She touched her spoon to her lip before pushing the bowl away. It was going to be a long evening. I looked down the table for Octavia. She had her head thrown back, laughing at some new friend’s joke. Even Jonathan looked jolly for once, though he usually cheered up when he was drinking other people’s Pouilly Fumé rather than his own supermarket special.