Behaving Like Adults (19 page)

He ordered a smoked tuna sandwich. I ordered a coffee and a steak and chips.

Dr Bottomley fidgeted when I said ‘steak and chips'. I realised that the albatross round his neck named chivalry meant that he felt obliged to pay for our dinner, but he didn't want to have to cough up more than a tenner. So I scrolled down the wine list and ordered a bottle of their most expensive champagne.

After a heavy silence, Dr Bottomley asked if I enjoyed my work. I was about to say ‘yes' when Dr Bottomley embarked on a lengthy tale about
his
work, not his profession, no, plenty of time to fill me in on that later, but his committee work. He was a member of several committees and I watched his mouth move and thought that he was the worst sort of person to be on a committee, a person who needed power over others to assert his own importance.
Just
the sort of person you get on committees. I was wondering how to make my escape, when I became aware of his great grey face leaning into mine. I gave a small squeal, and jumped back. ‘Fancy it?' said Dr Bottomley.

‘What?' I snapped. He'd leant across the table, his face had felt closer to mine than it was. I told myself to calm down, but I was shaking and sweating.

‘I said I recently purchased a new Volvo. A V70. Would you like to come for a drive?'

I was certain his foot caressed my ankle under the table.

A blank in my head again. And then, pulsating panic, black fear, the terror of being restrained with an iron grip, hard to breathe, clothes torn, pain shooting through me, it was really happening. It was
me
that this had happened to, it really
was
me. I staggered to my feet, gasping for air. I must have made a sound because everyone in the café turned and stared. Dr Bottomley rose to his feet, grasped my upper arms and shook me, hard.

‘Get off me!' I screamed, and shoved him. Fury suffused his face. I blinked, remembered where I was and took a deep choking breath. The white walls of the café blurred, I blinked and blinked to get them back to normal.

‘Now look here,' began Dr Bottomley in an indignant tone.

‘No,' I shouted, ‘
you
look. How
dare
you paw me – how dare you. I'll have you charged with assault. And how dare you lie to me – say you've no romantic designs, then grope me at every opportunity. I was going to introduce you to a woman, but I'd
hate
for any woman to meet you, you're a disgusting pervert with no respect for anyone.'

As I sped from the restaurant, people gaped. Dr Bottomley stood frozen with horror, the focus of communal disdain. On my way out I noticed that the waiter he'd ordered to carry my coat was totting up the bill with relish. I didn't know what to do. I didn't feel able to waltz into the Girl Meets Boy corner. I didn't want to see anyone. I thought that episode was gone, dead and buried. But it had escaped from its coffin and roared back to life like the killer at the end of a film, vengeful, stronger, worse. I was in
Nightmare on Elm Street
, captive to the horrors of my imagination. I locked myself in the toilet. I closed the seat, laid paper on it and sat in a ball, eyes fixed and staring (who knew what I'd see if I closed them?), hugging my knees and rocking gently. I want my mummy, said a five-year-old. Look what you did, chided another voice. Nearly left Elisabeth to the mercy of that creep. Thank God it was you and not her. See, this
is
what happens. You must warn Claudia and Nige immediately.

At some point I unlocked the toilet and rushed into the bar. The Girl Meets Boy corner was bare, except for Nige and Claw, clinking their wine glasses in a toast.

‘Where is everyone?' I gasped.

Their looks of irritation quickly faded.

‘So you tore yourself away from the coffin dodger, did—
fuck
, Hol, are you alright?'

‘I wouldn't have thought he was your type – Jesus, Holly, you look like you're about to faint, what happened? Sweets, it's twenty past eleven, they all went home ages
ago, it was a storming success, if I say so myself. Many
many
matches were made, but Sweetie, angel, what's wrong with you?'

‘Stuart,' I said, and burst into tears.

I THOUGHT I'D
puke at the sound of his name in my mouth. Claw had a quick murmured discussion with Nige, then jumped into a taxi with me. She didn't say a word, asked no questions, which was lucky because I was as dumb as a post. She tucked me into bed, fed Emily – ‘
Don't
rub your grotesque furred abdomen against my black wool trousers, cat, please, ugh, oh, what's the point?' – and slept in the spare room. The next morning, she ordered me to stay at home.

‘Nige and I will take care of everything for the rest of the week. You're overtired and you need a break. It's been too much for you, what with Nick and now Stuart. I don't know
what
you were doing with Professor Creepy – well, of course we snuck down and spied on you, what did you expect? – I'll expect the gory details when you feel up to it. But don't worry. It's all going to be okay. Now, I want you to stay in bed, eat whole packs of biscuits, drink pints of hot chocolate, put that flea-ridden creature to use as a hot water bottle, read
Hello!
and
Heat
, and watch your video of
The Princess Bride
. You've got to be well enough to attend your birthday party this Friday, do you understand?'

I nodded, and shut out the world for three days. Once you've slept and washed and checked the locks and done a few circuits round your house with a knife, gee, well, the time just flies.

Friday lunchtime, five minutes after I put the phone back on its hook, the world intruded in the form of Rachel who
rang and shrieked, ‘Happy birthday, babes. I've been trying you all morning. Well, twice. How are you? Claudia says you've had a mini-breakdown, and that your parents are now staying with her. She didn't sound thrilled. Now, festivities begin at 7.30 I'm told. Do you know who's coming?'

‘Parents. Claw. Nige. Manjit, maybe. Nick, I
doubt
. Sam, one of the girls from the agency, we've sort of become friends. Gloria—'

‘Who's Gloria?'

‘A friend, she also cleans for me—'

‘Oh
God
, Holly. The girl who spilled tea down me. You're such a champagne socialist.'

‘And you're a revolting snob. Mm, who else? Issy. Frank, Issy's husband.'

‘He can't make it.'

‘Who?'

‘Frank.'

‘Oh. How do you know?'

‘Claudia said so, silly. How are you getting to the restaurant? Would you like a lift?'

I smiled. ‘Ooh, that would be nice. Yes, please.'

‘Good. Can you be ready by seven?'

‘Rach, how ugly do you think I am?'

‘Funny. What are you going to wear?'

‘I don't know yet.'

‘I could lend you a—'

‘Please no, I'll find something.'

I put down the phone, leapt out of bed and foraged through the wardrobe. I
ought
to wear pink, it was my birthday. I felt mean for taking the phone off the hook. Em and Dee (our petnames for Mum and Dad) would have tried ninety times, keen to sing the entire Happy Birthday song down the line in a tuneless wail, and assure me that if I didn't like my present they'd take it back to John Lewis.

But I'd needed the silence. The memories of Stuart, shoved deep into my subconscious, had sprung from some
dark internal attic into broad daylight, stunning me. It had taken me three days to jam them back.

So far, it had been a peaceful birthday. I'd opened all my cards, all six of them. The older you get, the more meagre your pile of cards. (On
his
thirtieth Nige sent himself ten enormous cards, as he'd got to know his postman by name and hated the possibility of the man thinking he was unpopular. In fact, Nige devoted so much time and effort into trumpeting the occasion that on the actual day he received thirty-two cards, not including his own.)

Nick hadn't sent me anything. But Claw had hinted of a surprise, so perhaps he'd show up at my dinner. Preferably without Elisabeth. I rang Claudia as I was poking through my underwear drawer, trying to locate some celebratory knickers. No one was going to see them, so what did it matter? I couldn't be arsed (if that was a joke, I apologise) to encase my behind in fancy lingerie for
me
, even if it was the politically correct choice. I chose granny pants.

‘Claw?'

‘Birthday girl. How you feeling? Happy bee-day! Issy rang to say Frank can't make it – work, yawn – but apart from him' – Claudia said ‘
him
' in a disparaging tone, she doesn't fully trust Frank, she says he's the kind of man who can wear linen and not look crumpled – ‘everyone's going to be there, it's going to be a laugh. What?
What?
Oh yeah, hang on, Nige wants a word—'

‘Hell-o, Sweetness, how are you? Many happy returns from the new star of the Courts ad, as seen on TV! Yes, yes, I know, I can barely believe it. I'm a slut, I really shouldn't. It tarnishes my art, it's worse than being an extra – well, darling, the entire point of acting is to be
noticed
, the entire point of being an extra is
not
to be noticed – if you're pure of soul you refuse to do it, but me, I freely admit to being a tart, it's yet another crime I've committed, but
tant pis – it's a rich man's world!
Now remind me, twenty-nine? Remember, until you're thirty-one, you're not technically in your thirties. Hugely looking forward to tonight, I plan
to dress dramatic, a cheap grey suit and yellow shirt
peutêtre
, to case myself into the part. I'm just warning you. So we'll see you at what, seven thirty? Looking forward, big kiss!'

I was thrilled for Nige, although he was plainly going to be insufferable for the next fortnight. It was impossible not to smile after talking to those two. I rang my parents at Claudia's, assured them that my chances of survival were high, then spent a glorious chunk of the afternoon reading
The Glass Lake
by Maeve Binchy. (Like knickers, I believe your reading matter should be chosen for your benefit, not anyone else's. A good book is a friend to be made yours, to be dropped in the bath, smeared with chocolate crumbs,
enjoyed
. The most depressing exercise in the world – apart from real exercise, that is – is skimming the
Observer
's annual list of pompous people's holiday reading. Why, not a Jackie Collins or John Grisham among them! It's all Kafka, Beowulf and
The Iliad
, untranslated.)

I finally emerged from the pages of Maeve – like disengaging from a warm hug – and strode to the wardrobe. I hold the world record for time spent standing in front of a wardrobe or fridge, staring into it. An ice age came and went and I picked out a shocking pink halter-neck dress, sixties style. Then I washed my hair, used curling tongs to burn in some bounce, and applied pale pink shimmery lipstick and black and white eyeliner. I assessed my reflection. I looked like Panda Barbie, so I wiped it all off, and changed into black trousers and a brown shirt.

Rachel rang the bell as I was trying on shoes. When she saw me she screamed.

I jumped. ‘What!'

Rachel made horrified eyes at my outfit. ‘You look like the Brownie Guide section of the SS.'

I sighed. ‘I'll change.'

Rachel smiled. ‘Good. Here. Many happy returns.' She had a bottle of Tattinger in one hand and a smelly plastic bag in the other, both of which she thrust into my arms. On
inspection, the bag contained about a ton of oysters and two greasy tubs, one of foie gras, the other of caviar. Three foods you couldn't
pay
me to eat. I'm a bit of a wimp compared to Rachel. At the height of the Mad Cow crisis, we went to dinner at her favourite place, the Dorchester.
I
ordered fish. Rachel boomed at the waiter, ‘I'll have the steak tartare!'

‘Rach, this is gorgeous—'

‘I know, don't say a word, foie gras, boo hoo for the goose, but worth it, the taste is
bliss on toast
!'

I held my tongue. Rachel has a jacket in her wardrobe made from the pelt of, God help me, a snow leopard. Her great-uncle was a furrier. Rach
says
she no longer wears the jacket, but I don't entirely trust her. Once or twice I've noticed her shoot Emily a look, and I'm relieved she's a splotched moggy, not a white Persian. It would only take the party-organising business to dip, and we'd have a Cruella De Vil situation on our hands. We
cannot
discuss animal welfare; we end up not talking. For this reason I've avoided the subject of fox-hunting in Rachel's presence for twelve years. I fear that knowledge of her opinion on the issue would mean the necessary termination of our friendship.

I stuck the cruelty/bacteria bag in a remote corner of the fridge, washed my hands, then ran to my bedroom and picked the pink halterneck off the floor. Slowly, I removed the SS outfit and tugged on the dress. I walked out of the room, blanking my reflection.

‘Gorgeous, babes. Shall we go?'

I surrendered my fate to Rachel's motoring skills. She drives a car like it's a tractor. Fortunately, in London the traffic jams are such that her refusal to go over 30mph is less of a hazard. She once drove me on the motorway to Surrey – a house-party weekend, this intrigues me about posh people, they never tire of spending
time
together, an evening is never enough, the socialising has to suck up your whole life – and I've never been so petrified. I concluded
that Rachel simply couldn't
see
other road users. She was wearing a blazer and her mobile phone was in the left pocket. Every time it rang, she'd take her right hand off the steering wheel to answer it and swerve the car. If she became animated in conversation, she'd forget to press down with her foot, and slow to 20mph. She didn't use signals or wing mirrors – perhaps she thought they were common.