Cause Celeb (4 page)

“Wonderful? I hate Joel,” Oliver said. “So what happened to the farming? Why aren't you struggling with lamb's afterbirth and moaning about hedgerows and subsidies?”

“I did work on a farm for a few months after my finals, but then I missed Joel and went up to London to live with him in a commune in Hackney. I worked in a pub and then got a job doing market research on deodorants.”

“And what was Joel doing? Knitting lentil stew and smoking joss sticks?”

“Pretty much. He was out of his head most of the time.”

“And you were earning the money?”

“Not very much. Anyway, after I had been there for eighteen months I went to a party with Joel at Ginsberg and Fink and Sir William Ginsberg took a shine to me.”

“I bet he did, dirty old devil.”

“No, it wasn't like that,” I said indignantly. “He asked if I would like a temping job for the summer with the company, so I took it.”

“When was that?”

“Last summer.”

“So is Joel still around?”

“Well, no. It was awful really. My grandmother left me a bit of money so I put it down on a flat. And Joel said I had reverted to my capitalist patriarchal roots and that I was a worthless, superficial trollop.”

“A worthless, superficial trollop,” he said. “I see. And when was all this?”

“I bought the flat in January.”

“Ah, thank you, Roberto.”

Having finished the champagne Oliver had ordered a bottle of red wine. I was feeling light-headed already and couldn't drink any more but Oliver seemed completely sober. People in the restaurant kept looking across at him, and an elderly gentleman came over apologizing lengthily for interrupting us, said he knew this must happen all the time and asked for Oliver's autograph for his daughter who was studying at the Slade. Oliver was charming and gracious but got rather cold when the man didn't have a pen, and then extremely cold when the man started saying that the daughter would like to talk to him about working in television. The man left looking bewildered and sad. I took off one of my earrings, which was hurting.

Oliver ordered us brandies and then he spotted another celebrity, Bill Bonham, sitting across the room and went off to talk to him. Bill Bonham was an actor who usually played intelligent thugs in TV plays. He was a director as well, and was always appearing on chat shows, making it clear he didn't suffer fools gladly and swearing a lot. He was almost bald and had cut the rest of his hair very short to match. He always wore a leather jacket and jeans which fitted below his paunch and often seemed on the verge of showing bottom cleavage. I watched in admiration as Oliver chatted to him intensely. Then the two of them disappeared to the loos together.

“I don't think Bill is more famous than you.”

“Well, maybe Bill isn't but Julian is,” Oliver muttered, and sniffed a few times.

“No, he isn't. Have you got a cold?” I said tenderly.

“Oh, he is. It's completely unfair but he is,” said Oliver morosely, sniffing again with one nostril.

“He's a different sort of famous. You're an arts commentator and Julian Alman's a film star.”

Oliver was on his third brandy now. His tie was loose, and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone so I could see his dark chest hair.

“But what you do is far more worthwhile,” I encouraged. “People see you as an authoritative, intelligent figure.”

He wrinkled his nose fondly and squeezed my knee under the table.

The waiter was clearing up the crumbs with a minivacuum, and I realized that he had scooped up the earring I had taken off. I was too shy to say anything to him so I whispered what had happened to Oliver and he roared with laughter and masterfully sorted it all out.

When the bill came I got out my checkbook and offered to pay half, and Oliver leaned forward, tweaked my nose and got out his gold American Express card. He then performed a tour of the restaurant, saying good-bye to all the famous people, with me on his arm.

When we got to my door Oliver stopped the car, turned off the ignition, loosened his seat belt. “So. Are you going to ask me in for a coffee?” he said.

I was nervous and dry-mouthed again as I climbed the stairs with Oliver following. I was proud of my new flat. I thought it rather Parisian. But once inside he burst out laughing. I laughed along gaily trying to join in the joke but it went on too long for me to sustain. “What's so funny?” I said eventually.

“It's so small and twee,” he said.
“Sweet.”
He wandered into the kitchenette. “This gets better and better,” he said. “You have
mottoes
on your wall.” He was looking at a picture my mother had given me which said, “Dull Women Have Immaculate Houses.”

“Hmmm. I see what you're trying to justify.” He was in the living room now. “God. You'd drive me mad with all this mess.”

“What mess?” I said, genuinely puzzled.

“Your cassettes are all out of their boxes and your books are all over the place and what's this?” he said, picking up a hair elastic that was wrapped round itself. “It looks like a ringworm.”

I was crushed. I had been brought up to think that people who had a place for everything, and no buttons and pencils in dishes, were a bit odd. “I'll make the coffee,” I said. I felt oddly depressed when I went into the kitchen. It was all the unaccustomed booze, which didn't seem to have affected Oliver at all. He followed me into the kitchen and, as I was plugging the cord into the kettle, came up behind me and put his arms round my waist. I forgot everything I had been thinking, turned round to face him and we kissed properly. It was ecstasy to be able to touch him, when I had so much longed to touch him for so long. After a while his hand moved to my waist, down my thigh and started to lift up my skirt. I didn't want him to undress me because I was wearing tights with a stout reinforced top, and white knickers which had been in the wash with a blue sock, so I took his hand away and put it on my breast, for want of somewhere better to put it. We kissed some more but I was slightly unbalanced and thought I might lurch over. Oliver brushed his mouth against my cheek and whispered, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“I'm not sure.” I was suddenly nervous.

He started kissing me again. “Come on, don't be silly.”

Then I was worried that I seemed immature, so I said, “Mmm, I'll go and get ready,” which I considered would be a very adult thing to do and had the added advantage of giving me a chance to do my legs and get rid of the blue knickers. I shot into the bathroom and grabbed off my clothes, shoving them in the airing cupboard, to be tidy. I couldn't use hair-removing cream—no time, vile smell. I thought I had a razor, frantically emptied everything out of
the cupboard under the sink, couldn't find it. I heard Oliver going through to the living room and knew a full leg shave was out of the question. I ran my hand down my shin, it wasn't too bad if you ran the hand down not up. I washed. I put perfume on key areas. I brushed my teeth. I realized my powder-blue wrap was in the wash, wrapped a towel round me, put my head—only—round the door, saw him, gorgeous in my living room, smoking, in my chair.

“Ready,” I said, beaming excitedly. He looked up. I dived into the bedroom, put the bedside lamp on the floor, and got into bed with the covers up to my chin because I was shy.

He came in, stumbling slightly, carrying the ashtray, put it down on my dressing table. He stubbed out his cigarette and sat down. He was turned away from me, bending to unlace his shoes, like a husband. It seemed rather unromantic not to acknowledge me, but still . . . He stood up and took off his shirt, lifting it over his back without undoing the buttons. I watched the line of muscle which ran from his arm to his waist. I was watching him bit by bit, not taking in the whole. He undid his trousers and stepped out of them, with his back to me. He folded the trousers, and put them on the chair. Then he folded the underpants, which alarmed me momentarily, placed them neatly on top of the trousers and climbed under the duvet.

I turned to face him and we kissed and it was fantastic to be naked against him. He moved down and kissed my breasts. I gasped, ecstatic. Then he rested his head on me and I stroked his hair and he lay quite still on top of me with his arms on either side.

After a few moments I became puzzled as to what was going on. I shifted position slightly and he lifted his head and moved up to my mouth and started kissing me again. His breathing was very heavy. He heaved himself over, easing my legs apart with his knee, kneeling between my thighs. He put his hand down and then he slipped himself inside me, straight in. I was longing for him so much, beside myself, arching my back, crying out, writhing with pleasure. But slowly, in the midst of the excitement I began to realize that Oliver was not moving at all. He was resting his weight on
my body and his head in my neck, completely motionless. Gradually I stopped moving so that I was lying quite still too. And then he began to snore.

Once I had got over the shock, I laughed. I thought of the people downstairs listening. “Oh, oh, oh, oh, HGNUURGH, oh oh, HGNUUURGH. Oh.” I had to wake him to move after a while. I thought I was going to be asphyxiated. His mood was very black now, his brow furrowed. He got up and went into the bathroom and I heard him go into the living room. After a while he came back in and started getting dressed.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“I'm going home. I've got an early start tomorrow.”

A set of kitchen knives fell down through me from my throat.

“Don't even
think
about it,” I said. “Get back in the bed.”

“But—”

“But nothing. First, you just don't
do
that, second, you are beyond drunk and if you go anywhere near your car I shall ring the police, third, you have just fallen asleep on top of me at the start of what was meant to be a first night of passion. And you snored. Now get back in this bed.”

This was before Oliver had broken my spirit and turned my sexual confidence into a wizened little pea. His mouth tightened. He was staring at me oddly, then he started nodding, as if agreeing with one of his own thoughts. He moved the duvet and looked at me. Then he undressed again to reveal, astonishingly, a new erection, and climbed back onto the bed beside me. And when it was over I was full of pride and joy because I, Rosie Richardson, had made Oliver Marchant come.

Some time later, when he had fallen asleep, I lay awake looking at him, with his long dark eyelashes resting against his cheeks like two furry caterpillars. I was happy now, all misgivings pushed to the back of my mind. I couldn't believe that Oliver Marchant was actually in my bed. I knew instinctively that he was one of those men who was disproportionately protective about their sleep, but still I risked a little kiss on the cheek and snuggled up to him affectionately.

“Oh, for God's sake, you're behaving like a five-year-old,” he said, and turned his back on me.

The lure of the bastard—I was a sucker for it. “Changeable women are more endurable than monotonous ones,” I read somewhere. “They are sometimes murdered but seldom deserted”—exactly the appeal of the male bastard. You know they'll never tie you down or silt you up. It's the excitement and absorption of pursuit: pitting yourself against their harsh nature, trying to turn it around. Even when I discovered what his nature really was I still thought I could transform Oliver. I thought he just needed a bit of love and care and he'd soon get the hang of things. I thought I could love him out of his character.