Behaving Like Adults (57 page)

The next time I saw him was at Isabella and Frank's anniversary party. And he did look different, older. He was dressed smartly, in a suit, but a rather
modish
one, if that word doesn't make me sound about sixty-five. There was colour in his cheeks. He had a pen tucked behind his ear and was in animated conversation with Rach. Always a fan of his cooking, she'd asked him to try out as catering manager. Add this to his other role as Mr Elephant and she was paying him, as she'd told me with her usual indiscretion, ‘a fuck-off salary'. I didn't want to think about who exactly was being told to fuck off here.

I was glad I'd made an effort for the party. I was back to my normal weight and it was good to feel substantial again. I was wearing a red Grace Kellyish cocktail dress and pink mules. Even now, when I watch
The Wizard of Oz
(which tends to be every other Christmas but feels like every second month), I itch to own Dorothy's sparkly red shoes. My pink ones are a modern, funkier approximation – skinnier, higher heels, open toes, and an elegant band of hot pink fake crocodile skin. Now I've described them, they couldn't be more different, but their aura is identical. You could wish for anything and get it, in those shoes.

My first thought on seeing the ballroom was that Frank had a grudge against minimalism. If the central chandelier were to fall on anyone's head, they'd be crushed to the thickness of a wafer. I made a mental note never to pass beneath it. There were monster displays of flowers everywhere, big fat ostentatious blooms and so many it was as if
we
had been transported to the rainforest rather than the other way round. The pink lilies, I recognised and breathed in their cheap heady scent; the others I steered clear of, they looked red and ferocious, as if they might try to take a bite out of you when your back was turned.

In a corner lit by – what would you call these things, fire cones? – a man in a stripey hat was handing out pink candyfloss with whirly gestures like a magician performing a trick. I accepted a stick, because it suited the decadent atmosphere and matched my shoes. Nige appeared – a dead ringer (he hoped) for Jay Gatsby – clutching a bowl of champagne, and swiped a wisp of fluffy cloud without asking.

‘Can money buy you love?' he murmured. ‘That is the question.'

‘Hamlet never said that,' I replied. ‘Anyway, glad as I am to see you, who invited you? Surely your girlfriend wouldn't abuse her position?'

‘That entirely depends on which position she's in,' said Nige, adding a Sid James cackle in case I was too pure of mind to get the joke. ‘No. Frank invited everyone, darling. Look at Sam and Bernard over there, lowering the tone – village high street
fash-ee-own
ahoy. The trouble is, when people like Sam and Bernard invite you to their wedding, you become embroiled in a ceaseless round of counter invitations that – unless you can qualify for a witness protection programme – dog you for the rest of your life. Talking of unwanted invites, my new D-grade celebrity seems to be working wonders. I'm
so
popular, Hol. My old tutor rang my agent last week –
simpering
, he said she was. Having been perfectly content to ignore my existence for twelve years, she's suddenly gasping for me to attend some lecturey dinnery thing at the college. I suspect her to be motivated by money, rather than by sudden recall of my super personality. Academics obviously don't know how much stage actors get paid.'

I shook my head. ‘Aren't people embarrassed to be so openly shallow?'

Nige grinned. ‘Why should they be? Without the lubricant of insincerity, society would grind to a halt. Bernard! Samantha! Two of my favourites, what an absolute
treat
! Kiss kiss!' – said with not the slightest attempt to perform
the action – ‘Samantha, a vision, where did you get that dress? I must have one! West End play? Oh! Just a little thing I do! No, no, let's talk about
you
! Bernard, old chap, how the devil are you? What? Orange juice? Good lord, am I the only alcoholic here?'

I left him to it and went to say hi to Claw and Camille. Camille was wearing a floaty khaki green dress which went surprisingly well with the butterfly tattoo on her upper arm. I knew she was looking for a new job – having resigned when the firm dithered over moving her to another position – and I was wondering whether she'd fit in at Girl Meets Boy. I decided to say nothing before discussing it with Claudia. After all, my recent experiments with nepotism had not been a success. Best to let Claw make the choice.

‘Em and Dee are alright, aren't they?' said Claw as I approached.

I glanced over to where our parents were gazing at a huge ice sculpture of two cautiously entwined figures – presumably Frank and Isabella, but easily mistaken for Mr and Mrs Shrek. Mum and Dad, in their 1974 wear, looked underdressed amid all the sequins and beaded designer flounce of the other guests (who, sartorially, were years ahead – 1982 at least). They were holding their champagne bowls a distance from their bodies in a wary fashion, as if they were mobile phones.

‘Aw, they're fine,' I said. ‘Just a bit stunned at Frank's . . . style. Have you introduced Camille yet?'

‘Yes,' grinned Camille, squinting at Claw. ‘That's why she's asking if they look okay.'

I widened my eyes. ‘How was it?'

Camille and Claw glanced at each other and, without any visible change in expression, glowed with joy. I felt a great sense of relief. Not because the meeting had plainly been a success, but because my little sister was so thoroughly in love, and her love was so obviously reciprocated with such an honest and open heart.

Claw had always been restless, jumpy, shifting from one phase, trend, job, to the next, and no matter how vivacious and witty she seemed, you always sensed her dissatisfaction simmering below the surface. Now, I saw, she had found a destiny that suited her, and it showed. Her fidgetiness had been replaced with a mood of calm. (That said, the vampire teeth were as sharp as ever, and her dress sense remained the same, which I found reassuring. The day I see Claudia and she isn't wearing an item that makes you blink, is the day I'll start to worry.)

Smiling round the room, I spotted Frank and Issy. I don't think Issy
had
told Frank his cover was blown. She'd certainly fluttered her lashes and arranged her mouth into a neat O when we'd all jumped out from behind the flowers yelling ‘surpriiiiise!' Even Nige had rated her performance. And now, they were standing in the centre of the dancefloor, just out of range – I was pleased to note – of the killer chandelier, and Issy was resting her head on his shoulder. I was proud of her (she was two inches taller than him, so it was a generous concession). Eden was stealing pink sugar roses off the cake and squashing them in her Hello Kitty purse, but I think Issy had spent just enough on her dress not to mind.

I slipped out of the room, passing a famous rock star – who
should
have died of shame at the fact he was playing at such an event – and after a good five minutes trekking down corridors, found the exit to a central courtyard. It was quiet and pretty, with jasmine tumbling down the brickwork, more Paris than London. I sat on a wooden bench and closed my eyes. This was a triumph in itself. A month ago I'd only dare close my eyes when there were two Banham locks, three bolted doors and a large kitchen knife between me and the open air. I felt the breeze on my skin, and breathed deeply, sinking my shoulders and trying to relax.

I could be cynical about Frank and Issy's anniversary party but there was no denying it was a room shimmering
with hope. Some had already found happiness, others tentatively reached towards it. I counted myself somewhere in the middle. Perhaps, if I wanted to make progress, I'd have to make some tough decisions. Well, one. Nick had talked several times about selling the house but done nothing about it. I was loathe to, partly because moving house is a monstrous affair (you're at the mercy of other people's incompetence), but mostly because it would, in the most concrete way possible, signal the end of Nick and me.

‘Still trying to tan your eyelids?'

And there he stood, watching me. I laughed. A private joke. Me, on every holiday, determined to tan my eyelids (because, after all, it's the small achievements that make life such a blast). It had never worked. Without suncream they went bright red and peeled and I looked like a salamander. With suncream they swelled up and I looked as if I'd been crying for a week.

I shaded my eyes from the gentle evening sun and gazed at Nick. His smile faded. ‘Ah,' he said. ‘Don't. I know what you're going to say.' He sighed. ‘You're going to be sensible and suggest we sell the house.'

NICK WAS SHOVING
gobbets of chicken around the pan as if he was trying to get them to leave a nightclub.

‘“All it needs is a lick of paint”,' he growled. ‘How dare she? They weren't even interested. All they wanted was a
nose
. I feel as if I've been defiled!'

I watched him bully the dinner and flapped shut my copy of
Elle Deco
. I had to agree. ‘The house has been on the market for two weeks, and already we're stressed,' I said.

‘And why is every estate agent in the world called Jeremy? I can't wait for all of these people to be out of my life. I've been patronised by four idiots in
one
day!'

I could tell by his voice that the chicken was suffering. So was I. I'd asked Nick to be present when people came to view the house after it became clear that our estate agent was more than happy to disappear to the pub and send me round an axe murderer who hadn't even bothered to put his house on the market.

Nick and I were being civilised about it – hence the dinner – but it was proving hard to spend time with him. I kept thinking that in a few years he'd be doing this with some other woman, whipping up dinner, while
she
sat at her oak table (made of reclaimed wood salvaged from the banks of the Thames), flicking through
Elle Deco
(although not in the catatonic state of depression that I did – it would be a friend's copy,
all
her stuff would be ‘flea market finds'). She'd have wacky pictures of the Queen and Jesus tacked up around the place and everyone would think how cool she was. I didn't know who she was but I wanted to kill her.

I was holding my breath for Nick to drop into conversation the name of a girl, or the word ‘we'. He hadn't yet, but I wasn't complacent. He wouldn't be short of offers. Women liked Nick. There is a time, after a love affair ends, when you feel proprietorial. Even when your ex presents with a new squeeze, you cling to a sense of superiority. Yes, you silly little thing, with your low slung trousers and pierced belly button and media training, you may have snogged in a nightclub, shagged back at your Camden-ethnicky pad, then trolled out your thruppence-worth on the meaning of life. That, dear, does not a relationship make.

I could cling to my scorn for a few months. Yes, but you don't have what
we had
. I know more about him than you ever will. Issy once told me that after nine years of marriage, and being a mother, she had no patience with people who got engaged and were excited about it. ‘It's so
babyish
,' she'd said. Being engaged myself at that point, I couldn't empathise, but I would happily apply her logic to the potential new girlfriend situation. And yet.

What if the ‘we need to talk' with Ms Pierced Belly Button never came? What if the years rolled on, and Nick developed a taste for, oh what,
floor cushions
, and they moved into a loft apartment in Hoxton, or worse, went travelling for a year to Africa and New Zealand, my ascendancy would be slowly erased. It would count for less and less, until I was barely an acquaintance, and if they ever sent me a Christmas card it would be one of those pointedly insulting We-Are-Family photos of their kids in fancy dress and signed by
her
from both of them. I boiled with rage, as I considered the magnitude of the affront. Why – to quote her devoted husband – she might as well have sent me a pooh in a parcel. And he, the smug bastard, had done nothing to stop her!

I stood up, scraping my chair. ‘I don't WANT any chicken!' I shouted. ‘It's for people too stupid to know what they really like to eat!' Then, feeling blushy about
having repeated something I'd heard a chef say on
Ready Steady Cook
in a desperate attempt to be mass-audience controversial, I thundered up the stairs, ran into our – my my
my
why couldn't I get that into my head? – bedroom, and banged the door.

I heard footsteps on the landing. Nick bawled, ‘Holly! I'm confiscating
Elle Deco
! It's not good for you! You always get like this when you read it! I'm throwing it away! Right! I'm going downstairs! I'm in the kitchen! I'm placing my foot on the bin pedal! The lid is up! The magazine is going, going . . . It's gone! Goodbye
Elle Deco
! I'm sorry, she cannot cope with you' – he raised his voice – ‘even though I always tell her every house in that evil publication is a film set and does she not think that when the owners know
Elle Deco
are coming round they scoot off to Notting Hill to buy antique chandeliers and Venetian mirrors and get the stain on the ceiling painted over and stuff all their junk from IKEA in the cellar and lock the baby in the attic and light twenty diptyque candles to mask the smell of cooking oil and old nappies and wet dog and light every gas ring on the hob to try and raise the temperature in the house above freezing because ripping up the carpets to reveal all those marvellous wooden floorboards have turned it into a miserable draughty ice box . . . Holly? You listening to me?'

‘No I'm not!' I roared. ‘Eat the chicken and go!'

‘Fine,' said Nick, losing patience. ‘Grumpy cow.' He certainly paid more attention to what I said these days. He ate the chicken and went. When I crept down to the kitchen to see if he'd left me any, the pan was scrubbed and resting on the draining board, and the fridge was bare and smelt of ripe cheese (not in a good way). Emily was sitting on the windowsill looking well-fed and washing her face with a paw. I ate twelve slices of toast while staring at the wall with a sour expression and wondering if piercing your belly button hurt.