Cause Celeb (5 page)

My friend Rhoda, who was older than me and American, said that I was suffering from a dangerous addiction and shouldn't touch someone like Oliver with a barge pole.

“OK, so long as he can touch me with his barge pole,” I said giddily.

Later she said that Africa was just another version of my masochistic bastard complex and I should stay in England, learn to love myself and go out with bores. But I said she'd been reading too many American self-help books, and should get a few drinks down her and lighten up.

T
he start of an affair can be a dodgy time for everyone: it's like learning to water-ski—once you get up it's fine but there's far more chance of falling over and getting wet and cross than getting up. Picture the scene, three days after that night with Oliver. No phone call. Zilch. But being young and in awe of him, I failed to think the sensible thing, which was “What a rude man.” I wasn't
quite
stupid enough to sit at home in the evenings and do psychopath eyes at the phone. But it would have been acting equally neurotically to leave the answerphone off. So I had the crisis of coming back to no message when I got home at the end of the evening. Or coming back to three messages, and finding two of them were from Rhoda, and the other was from Hermione, asking why, in heaven's name, I hadn't told her that Cassandra had left a message that afternoon saying Perpetua wasn't coming to dinner.

Finally on day four in the office, his call came, in a manner of speaking.

It was an irritatingly kindly female voice.

“Hel
lo,
is that Rosie Richardson?”

“Yes.”

“Hel-
lo,
Rosie. This is Oliver Marchant's assistant, Gwen.”

His
assistant
? Why his assistant? Within seconds I was into an Oliver-in-hospital fantasy.

“Oliver was wondering if you were free tonight.”

“Yes.” There was a delicious, tempting rush in my stomach.

“Good. He was wondering if you would like to come to the Broadcasting Society Awards at the Grosvenor House tonight.”

“Yes, that would be—”

“Super. Black tie six-thirty for seven. Oliver will pick you up at six-thirty. Could you let me have your address, Rosie?”

This style of romantic follow-up to a sexual encounter is the kind of thing crushes allow you to put up with, which is why they are monstrous afflictions to be fled from like vengeful beasts.

We were seated at a round table in a vast hotel ballroom. Above us, four gigantic chandeliers twinkled down on the mass of bare shoulders, sequins and cummerbunds, the TV lights, the giant screens, and the production staff scurrying round holding yellow scripts, looking self-important, verging on hysterical. The proceedings had not yet begun. Everything was already running late. Onstage a troupe of sparkling dancers were practicing, rushing at the audience doing starburst jumps, then turning and high-kicking off in the opposite direction, heads still turned towards us over their shoulders with air-hostess smiles.

On my right was Vernon Briggs, a portly man with a broad Yorkshire accent. He was an executive at Channel Four, the company televising the awards ceremony. On my left was Corinna Borghese, Oliver's co-presenter on
Soft Focus.
Corinna's thin dark-red lips were pressed together with visible high pressure. Her pale face under its sunglasses and spiky hennaed crop was trembling like the steel ropes of a suspension bridge.
Soft Focus
had been nominated for an award and Corinna, to Vernon's disgust, was insisting she go up and collect it with Oliver.

“The point is, I have as much creative input as he does. I ought to have a producer credit anyway, but the point is if he goes up there on his own for it then it's like Oliver Marchant is the face of
Soft Focus,
right? And I simply don't think that's representative.”

“Listen, love, shall I tell you what you do in your job? You sit on your little arse in front of the autocue and you read out what it says.” Vernon was leaning towards her with his enormous red face
and bulging eyes, wagging a finger. “Reading out loud, that's what you do. Like in school. Oliver is the editor of the program.”

“Oliver has a penis is what you mean, right, and I will not be addressed as love,” she managed to get out from between the clamped lips.

I was having a lot of trouble keeping my dress under the table. It was part of a converted bridesmaid's dress, silk with a springy, sticky-outy skirt. Once, the dress had been long and peach and worthy of Kate Fortune, but I had had it dyed and altered so that now it was short and black. I had suffered a panic attack while getting dressed. When the doorbell rang I was standing on the bed, trying to see myself full-length in the mirror, wearing a black lycra miniskirt over a swimsuit. At that precise moment, and at that precise moment only, the bridesmaid's dress seemed a good idea. I realized later that one must never, ever go anywhere looking even faintly reminiscent of a shepherdess, even a shepherdess who has just been in a coal hole. The skirt misbehaved continually, springing about in an unmanageable manner. It was now protruding on either side of me, and interfering with the knees not only of Corinna Borghese but also Vernon Briggs, who had now turned his back on both of us.

“Sorry about this,” I whispered conspiratorially to Corinna. “I wish I hadn't worn this stupid frock. I tried on about eight things before I came out and panicked. Do you do that?”

“Actually no,” said Corinna. “I try to keep my clothes simple.”

Dinsdale, who was sitting across the table, gave me a sympathetic look and offered me a cigarette, which I took, though I did not usually smoke.

“Please do not smoke next to me,” said Corinna.

The evening had not started well. Oliver had not arrived to meet me. Instead he had sent a driver in a hat, who told me that Oliver was running late in the studio and would meet me at the Grosvenor House. I had twenty minutes of horror in the celebrity-stuffed foyer. People were staring at me, but I knew it was with pity because of the insane dress. It was Dinsdale who rescued me again.
When he caught hold of my arm I had been to the ladies' twice, stared at the seating plan for eight minutes, pretending it took that long to find “Oliver Marchant and Guest.” Only then did it occur to me that Oliver must have known he needed a date for this occasion weeks ago. Could it be that I was a last-minute fill-in? Had some other girl dropped out? Some beautiful, accomplished critic perhaps, an authority on the death of Essentialism in the Mittel-European novel, with a bottom like two snooker balls.

An old stand-up comic, Jimmy Horsham, had started talking to me and wouldn't go away. The fact that he had a room in the Grosvenor House for the night had already come up several times. When Dinsdale appeared he slunk off sheepishly.

“My darling, my darling. Whatever are you doing with that filthy old bore? Whatever can he be thinking of? Preposterous idea. Come along, come along. Let's go and nibble at the canapés. I'm trying to avoid Barry,” he whispered confidentially. Barry Rhys was another theatrical legend, and Dinsdale's best friend. “He's got that absolute sea elephant of a wife with him. Who are you here with? Is it that dirty old devil Ginsberg?”

“No. I'm with Oliver Marchant,” I said, happily.

“But wherever is he, my darling? Why has he left you here to be prrrrryed on?” Dinsdale stared at me ferociously, his brows almost covering his eyes in consternation.

“He's late in the studio.”

“No, my darling. No no no. He is over there, look,” said Dinsdale, concern oozing from every facial feature.

I felt a stab of hurt. There was Oliver, dark-suited and tieless, sharing a joke with Corinna Borghese—well, telling a joke more like. He was leaning over her, waving a hand expressively. Corinna was staring straight ahead, with an indulgent half-smile playing on her lips. Dinsdale caught hold of my hand and started pulling me along towards them.

“There he is, my darling. Come along. We'll soon have you sorted out.” I felt like a child whose parent hadn't turned up at school to pick her up.

Oliver looked startled for a second when he saw me. “Rosie. Hi,
how are you? I was looking for you.” He smiled, and bent to kiss me. The scent of him brought heady thoughts of the night of passion, but Oliver gave no sign that he remembered. “Do you know Corinna Borghese?” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. I was getting the hang of Famous Club introductions now.

“Thank you,” said Corinna.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“So how are you?” said Oliver.

“I'm fine, how are you?”

“Fine.”

That was about the level of it.

An hour later everyone was seated for dinner and I was praying Oliver wouldn't look across at me and see that I was failing to talk to anyone. He looked across at me, and saw that I was failing to talk to anyone. I tried to smile but it was a most unnatural smile. It felt like the smile of a devil child, with bits of bread roll in the teeth and yellow eyes.

“You OK?” he mouthed. I nodded gaily, and decided I'd better have another go with Corinna.

“Well, this looks nice,” I said brightly, looking at the menu. It offered Gravlax, Chicken in Its White Wine and Cream Sauce with Its Ravioli, or Fresh Tuna Steak with Pommes Parmentière, followed by White Chocolate Mousse in Its Sugar Cage.

“Pommes Parmentière—I suppose that means instant mashed potato,” I said.

“This is utterly ridiculous,” said Corinna.

I thought she meant having to sit next to me.

“A vegetarian cannot eat this meal. Where is the waiter?”

“Do you not eat fish?” I said. “There's tuna.”

“Tuna?” she said with venom, looking at me incredulously. “You do
know
what happens when they catch tuna, don't you? You've heard about the dolphins?”

Our conversation did not improve. It was a relief when, as the last of the Sugar Cages were being cleared away, the big TV lights snapped on. The assembled celebrities rustled, swelled and settled
themselves like a flock of pigeons. I was thrilled. I had watched these occasions so often at home on the television, and now I was here. There were trumpets, there was a shouty announcement, more trumpets, and a short fat floor manager, wearing an earpiece and a lot of electrical equipment strapped to his bottom, started clapping his hands bossily in the air while bending his chin onto his chest and talking into a microphone. Everyone applauded obediently. Noel Edmonds strode onto the platform and stood behind a lectern, motioning us to stop clapping.

Meanwhile a thin dark young man with glasses had come up to Corinna.

“Hi. How are you?” he said in a low, confidential voice, kissing her, his eyes darting around the room.

“. . . is someone who has been delighting audiences on both sides of the Atlantic for many years . . .” went Noel Edmonds.

“Dire,
isn't it? Have you spoken to Michael? Howard's over there. Jonathan's going to get it. Definitely. Just going to talk to Jean-Paul about his intro.”

“I'll come with you. I'm not staying here if he's going to go up and get it. Blatantly sexist,” said Corinna, and stood up and left.

The applause was just beginning to die down after the director's acceptance speech for the Best Drama.

“Great. Fucking great,” muttered Bill Bonham. “He thanks the writers, he thanks the lighting cameraman, he thanks his fucking wife, and then, only then, he thinks of mentioning me. Great. I only played the fucking lead. I mean, great. Thanks.”

The Lord taketh away even as he giveth. Our table of resentment seethed and sizzled with those blessed, as if by a laying on of hands, with riches and fame, yet blighted by bitterness at those who got a bigger share.

Onstage, Vicky Spankie, a young RSC actress, was accepting her Best Actress Award. She was slight, extremely pretty, with dark hair cut in a bob, and was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. She had recently been all over the tabloids after her marriage to a rain forest Indian.

“You give, and you give, and you give, and you give, and all the time this terrible fear is eating away at you, and you want to shout, ‘Look, I am human. I am afraid,'” she was explaining.

“Oh, puh-lease,” said Corinna, who had decided to come back, and had maneuvered herself into the seat next to Oliver.

Vicky Spankie was still going on.

“I wonder if something really kind of spiritual could happen here? Where we could all think for a moment and send some kind of waves of love and sanity out to the Brazilian government, who are allowing, every single day, thousands of acres of forest to be cut.”