Revelry. Lucy Lord
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.
‘Well, apart from this Neanderthal seriously compromising my street cred, I’m fine,’ says Poppy equably as she gives her boyfriend a hug.
‘Just you wait,’ says Mark.
‘Actually, I think it’s hilarious,’ says a voice, and my heart jumps into my throat. It’s Ben, looking like a film star. ‘I especially like number six – a beer still looks as good in the morning as it did when the bar closed.’
‘All right, mate,’ says Damian, as they high-five each other.
‘What’s this in aid of?’ Ben picks up the nearly empty champagne bottle.
‘Poppy’s been promoted,’ I say, as she doffs her trilby and says ‘Deputy Head of Production for Europe to you, sir.’
Ben breaks out in a big grin and lifts her off the ground in a great bear hug. ‘Oi, put my missus down,’ says Damian, as I try to ignore the brief stab of jealousy in my heart. I’d die for Poppy’s casual flirtiness with Ben. It’s easier when you’re already taken, I suppose.
‘Aren’t you going to congratulate her?’ he asks Damian, who laughs.
‘She actually found out a couple of days ago. We celebrated then, didn’t we, sweet thing?’
‘Oh, we most certainly did.’ Poppy smiles and puts a finger to her lips. Even after five years, the chemistry between them is obvious.
‘Enough, enough – I so don’t want the sordid details,’ says Ben camply. ‘Who’s up for beers?’
He goes to the bar and returns minutes later with three pints of Stella.
‘That was quick. It took me bloody ages to get served,’ I say.
‘I think the barman took a shine to me,’ Ben smiles, and he’s probably right. He’s looking absurdly handsome in a slim-fitting navy blue suit with an open-collared white shirt that shows off his tan and incredible blue eyes. The narrow lapels and old-skool Adidas trainers neatly sidestep any suggestion of banker wanker.
‘What’s with the whistle, mate?’ asks Damian.
Poppy groans, ‘Get him with the Mockney.’ Damian’s Welsh lilt has just about had all its curves sanded down to standard men’s magazine estuary, which is a shame. Occasionally it resurfaces when he’s tired or upset. I imagine Ben’s accent disappeared the moment he walked through RADA’s doors (though he can apply it on demand, just as he can Scouse, or Geordie, or Glaswegian).
‘Audition. A new BBC sitcom – it’s being touted in the biz as the This Life of the new decade, and I haven’t a hope in hell of landing a part. But it would be churlish not to try.’ His boyish modesty is so endearing it makes me want to race right over to White City and shake the execs by the scruffs of their stupid necks. How can they be so blind not to realize what delicious gold dust they’re in danger of letting slip through their fingers? But he’s probably got it down to a fine art.
‘Don’t be a cunt,’ says Mark. ‘You know you’re in with a chance with your big blue eyes.’ He tries to widen his little brown ones to illustrate. ‘Talking of big blue eyes, I shagged the work experience girl last night.’
‘Poor little thing,’ is my immediate response, and he grins. ‘Yeah, I gave her a fucking nosebag full, put on some porn and soon she was letting me piss on her.’
‘What?’ Even Damian looks shocked. ‘Sweet little Amy?’
‘Not so sweet, mate.’
‘But why did you want to piss on her?’ I ask.
‘Never heard of golden showers, darlin’?’
‘Good God almighty, you really are a wanker, aren’t you?’ says Poppy.
‘Not really. I made her laugh.’
‘Yeah right.’
‘No really, I did. I couldn’t piss because of the coke, so she had to put the bath taps on full flow to encourage my full flow. She was giggling all over the place, little minx.’
‘I hope you were nice to her in the office today,’ I say sternly.
‘She called in sick.’ Then, seeing our combined horror and amusement, he adds, ‘C’mon, it’s not like she’s a kid or anything. She knew what she was letting herself in for. She probably just had a hangover.’
‘I’m just wondering how much lower you can sink,’ says Poppy. ‘Never mind, let’s at least give the poor girl the dignity of not being discussed like this any more.’
‘But tell us what her tits were like first?’ says Damian, leaning back nonchalantly in his chair, one foot crossed in his lap. Poppy slaps his leg, laughing.
‘Fucking gorgeous.’ Mark makes melon-squeezing gestures with both hands. ‘Pierced nipple too. See, I rest my case for the defence – not so sweet.’ Everyone laughs and I have a hideous moment of clarity.
Is this what we have come to?
I am actually quite shocked by Mark’s revelation, and feel hugely sympathetic towards the work experience girl. I remember myself at that age, vulnerable and desperate to please, and can only imagine how ghastly she must be feeling today, to the extent that she couldn’t face going into the office at all. Being peed on, for God’s sake?
‘Oooh Ben, loved the Ibiza Facebook pics,’ says Poppy, snapping me back into reality.
‘Except I had to detag myself in that one of us at Sa Trinxa,’ I say grumpily. ‘That was possibly the worst photo I’ve ever seen of myself.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad,’ says Ben, laughing.
‘You know which one I mean, then?’
‘Well, I know which one you detagged …’
‘Ben, it was an awful photo,’ says Poppy. ‘Don’t worry, Belles, you look nothing like that in real life.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile at her. ‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’
‘Talking of Ibiza, mate, did you ever hear from Kimberly again?’ Damian asks Ben.
The day after my encounter with the dwarf, Kimbo and my dad said their goodbyes and left the island, leaving me hot with vicarious shame.
‘Nope,’ says Ben, grinning.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I say, ad nauseam. ‘I can’t believe Dad did that. No, scrub that. I can perfectly believe Dad did that, but I really can’t believe that Kim did.’
‘Listen Bella.’ Ben looks into my eyes with such sincerity I could melt. I wish I’d bothered to pluck my eyebrows before I came out. ‘It’s not your fault your father’s a randy old goat. And it’s certainly not your fault the bird I was shagging turned out to be such a gold-digging slag. So, for the last time, stop apologizing.’
‘OK,’ I smile.
‘In fact he did me a favour. Veronique was hot as fuck,’ he goes on, and my heart sinks again.
‘Have you kept in touch with her?’ asks Damian, taking a swig of his pint.
‘Well, let’s just say she has an interesting interpretation of the text medium.’
‘Meaning?’ asks Mark. ‘Photos? Videos?’
‘Both,’ says Ben smugly.
‘Go on, show us,’ pants Mark.