Vanity (30 page)

‘YOU FUCKING BITCH!' Damian shouted at the screen, remembering his conversation with Poppy the previous night. She had probably been with them then, all three of them laughing at him behind his back. Absolutely overcome with pain, humiliation and anger, he threw himself at the bare brick wall, kicking and punching it until his feet and knuckles bled. Then he collapsed in a heap against it, clutching his dark head, sobbing.

After a bit, he picked up some kitchen roll to wipe up his blood, then went back to the computer to torture himself some more. He had two new messages. First, he opened the one from Poppy, every finger joint hurting as he worked his way round the mouse and keyboard.

Oh darling, I've been trying to call you all morning. I've got something to tell you, but you mustn't take it the wrong way …

Everything misted over and he couldn't bring himself to read any more. Lying little bitch. He remembered her looking him in the eye and saying, ‘Yes, I would,' when he asked her if she'd like a threesome with Ben and Jack.
Fuck her.
He deleted her message and opened the one from Lars instead.

Man is my head heavy. Don't cancel anything – your phone is still at the Gansevoort. You really don't remember? Ha! Are we still meeting tonight to watch your beautiful wife on TV? Maybe we can meet earlier? I need beers and I need them fast. Lars

Damian typed back:

I may need something stronger. Read this:

He attached the link to the webpage and pressed
SEND
with his little finger, the one that hurt the least. A few minutes later, Lars's reply flashed up:

Meet me at Stone Street in 15 minutes. I'll order drinks. Don't jump to any conclusions. But man, that journalist is one motherfucking BITCH.

Poppy checked her phone again, frantic with worry. Damian hadn't replied to her email and still wasn't answering his phone. Maybe she hadn't explained enough in the first email. She tried again:

Listen darling, whatever you may have seen in the gutter press, there is absolutely NOTHING going on between me and Ben. He is actually IN LOVE, would you believe it? And guess who with? NATALIA, of all people!!! Oh sweetheart, please pick up your phone (if you've managed to find it) so we can have a good old gossip about it. I've got so much to tell you! I'm really, really sorry if you're upset, but really, all Ben did was rescue me when he thought I was in danger, which was quite nice of him really, wasn't it darling? I love you xxxx

Damian and Lars were sitting nursing beers with whiskey chasers on brown leather upholstered chairs at the Stone Street Tavern, a spit-and-sawdust bar that was, most evenings, packed with secretaries trying to pick up bankers. In the daytime, it was frequented pretty much solely by those made recently unemployed by Wall Street. As Lars had said to Damian, on a jollier occasion, ‘It's when you see your former CEO here that you really have to worry for the economy.'

Now he said, seriously, ‘Man, you must give her a chance.'

‘She's had enough chances: I gave her a chance when I took her back, I gave her a chance when I fucking married her, I gave her a chance when she was canoodling in the toilets with Jack fucking Meadows, I even gave her a chance after she said she'd like to have a fucking threesome with the two vain cunts!'

‘I think maybe you put the words in her mouth that time,' said Lars mildly, taking an enormous swig of his beer and trying not to let his belch involve schnapps-flavoured vomit. He had heard a slightly different version of the story from Poppy.

‘Makes no fucking difference. You saw the article. She didn't have to go back with the two of them. Why
did
she go back with them, Lars? Why did she do it?' His voice was different all of a sudden, pleading like a little boy's. Then it hardened again. ‘Anyway, maybe she
should
be with them. They are both much more her type anyway. How did the article describe me again? An unemployed journalist who lost his job on a failed magazine earlier this year … A recluse who resents his wife's success … A
loser …
Yeah, that pretty much sums me up.' He took a large swig of his whiskey and blinked back the angry tears that had sprung into his eyes.

‘Man, you must pay no more attention to that cocksucking bitch of a journalist.'

Damian laughed drunkenly. It hadn't taken a lot to top up the previous night's alcohol intake.

‘It was definitely written by a woman, wasn't it? Fucking cunts, the lot of 'em.'

‘That journalist, yes. And my little whore from Romania. Yes, she loved the banker more than the man. That is true of them, and many more of them. But I do not think it is true of your Poppy, Damian. I think she loves you …'

‘Oh, for fuck's sake, don't tell me even you are taken in by her? Her
big green eyes
…'
He opened his dark eyes wide and shook his head about, putting on a horrible gooey impersonation of either Poppy herself, or the men who were meant to be falling at her feet, Lars wasn't sure. ‘Whose side are you on, mate?'

‘If it must be sides, then I am on yours, of course. But surely you should speak to her?'

‘No. If I do, I know I'll let myself be fooled –
yet again
– by that angelic fucking face. Or voice. Or whatever.'

‘So what are you going to do, my friend?'

‘I, my friend –' Damian put his hand on Lars's shoulder – ‘am going to take a little holiday. She's not the only one with prospects out West, you know. SKOL!' He raised his whiskey at his enormous friend.

‘Skol.'

Lars had never said the word so quietly. Partly because he was so worried about Damian, but partly as his hangover was threatening to kill him. He had pains all around his back (liver and kidneys, he assumed) and would have gladly gone home to lick his wounds had his friend not needed him so badly.

Damian got up to go to the bar again.

‘Same again?'

Lars nodded, resigned to his alcoholic fate. His phone rang, and as he picked it up, he saw that it was Poppy. Glancing over at Damian, who was ineptly trying to chat up the barmaid, he walked outside, gesturing that he was going to have a fag.

‘Yes?'

‘Lars? Are you with Damian? I can't get hold of him, and I think he thinks I've done something awful, but I haven't … I haven't …' She sounded as if she was crying, and Lars, ever the gentleman, felt his loyalties dividing again.

‘He's not happy about the photos, Poppy. Why did you go with that dickhead you broke his heart with last year? Whatever happened, you cannot deny the photos …'

‘Oh
,
fuck, I know. Oh
,
Lars, I can't explain. I thought
Ben had saved me from being killed, then I realized it was only a fucking crucifix, and then I won the award, and it was all so exciting, and Marty told me I had to go to the party, and then Ben told me he was in love with a mutual friend of ours, and I-I suppose I just didn't think …' Her voice trailed off miserably. ‘But I love my husband so much. Pleeeease tell him? I didn't do anything wrong,
I promise
…'

‘I'll see what I can do.' Lars marched back into the bar, full of goodwill, holding his phone up to Damian. ‘It's your wife, and she needs to talk to you.'

Damian – maddened by anger, hurt, jealousy, booze, the idea of being cuckolded, yet again, and pretty much everything else that a man can be maddened by – grabbed Lars's phone and shouted into it.

‘Just fuck off, you whore. I never want to see you again.' Then he smashed the phone onto the bar, smashing and smashing the device to smithereens.

‘That was my phone, asshole.'

‘Oh, fuck, Lars, mate. Oh, I'm so sorry.' And Damian started weeping copiously once more, sobbing and sobbing against the bar. People around were looking on with some interest, but not as much as one might imagine – after all the recent job losses, scenes like this had become pretty commonplace in these parts.

‘Luckily for you, I have a back-up phone, and insurance,' said Lars, steering Damian back towards their table. ‘I think we need another drink, yes? For tomorrow is another day, my friend.'

And the good-natured, big-hearted giant steeled himself to feel even worse the following day.

‘Well, this is a bit more like it.' Bella smiled across the white-linen-clad, ice-bucketed table and raised her wine glass at Andy. ‘Cheers, my darling!'

‘Cheers, my darling too. In fact, I should probably say,
salut
,
santé
and
bonnes vacances!
'

Andy's brilliant scoop being published had coincided with Bella finishing the painting she had been working on for the last couple of months: a portrait of a very rich socialite's very spoilt cat, sitting on a pink velvet cushion. Bella had loved the cat – an adorable tabby whose parentage had to have been all over the place – and had done justice both to her tawny colours, she'd thought, and to her exceptionally pretty and equally tawny eyes. The socialite (a charming man of a certain age who dabbled in antiques and would have been called a confirmed bachelor in different times) had loved the painting so much that he had given Bella a couple of grand extra, just for ‘seeing the real Mimi'.

Never terribly practical when it came to money, Bella had made a spontaneous decision to blow it on a dirty weekend in Paris to celebrate Andy's scoop. So here they were, sitting outside a bustling bistro on the rue Soufflot, just south of the Panthéon, in the Latin Quarter on the Left Bank. (Left Bank, or
Rive Gauche
, always made Bella think of the perfume her mother used to wear in the seventies.)

Paris was enjoying an Indian summer, so she was able to wear one of her favourite frocks – a sixties-inspired pale pink sleeveless A-line minidress that showed off her legs and skimmed over her tummy. Which was just as well, as she was planning to make the most of all the yummy French food over the next couple of days. The diet could start again on Monday.

‘Oh, this weather is so gorgeous,' she said happily, feeling the sun hot on her bare arms. ‘I'm sorry I've been such a misery guts all summer – I think this is what I've been missing!'

‘You can stop apologizing now.' Andy smiled. ‘Yes, you've been a complete pain in the arse, but I did neglect you, so we're probably quits …'

‘It was certainly worth you neglecting me to expose that
repulsive Lubanov character. I'm so proud of you, my
darling – you are going to get so many awards for that.'

‘Maybe.' Andy smiled. ‘But the main thing is that no one else can suffer at his hands now.'

‘Yes.' Bella shuddered. ‘It's quite horrific to think about what all those girls had to go through.'

‘Well, let's not think about it at the moment. I don't want anything to intrude on our romantic weekend. In fact, Belles, how about we both switch our phones off for the next twenty-four hours? No Facebook updates, no emails, no BBC News, just us? In the
city of lovers
.' Bella could hear him putting quotation marks around the last phrase, as he tilted his head to one side and smiled at her through his geeky specs.

‘I think that's a brilliant idea. Oh, I love you so much.' She leant across the table to kiss him and at that moment the waiter arrived with their food: duck confit, served on a little wooden board, for Andy, carpaccio for Bella, with a bowl of frites and a green salad to share.

‘Oh,
pardon
,
pardon
.' Bella grinned up at the waiter as she sat back down.

‘
Non, non
, you are in Paris.' He smiled back at her. ‘Enjoy!' Why did they always have to reply in English when you were trying to do your best French?

‘God, I love French food,' said Bella, after the waiter had gone. ‘Not terribly original, I know, but I just do!'

‘Sweet, enthusiastic thing you are,' said Andy, thinking of the cycling holidays he and Alison had taken in Brittany, when she'd had a habit of complaining about pretty much everything.

They finished their lunch, and the ice-cold bottle of Sancerre, at a leisurely pace, then wandered hand-in-hand down to the Jardin du Luxembourg. The trees that lined the graceful paths were just starting to turn golden, and elegant Parisians were sitting on chairs and benches in shirtsleeves and shift dresses, soaking up the sun.

‘So different to London,' said Bella. ‘In Hyde Park, people would be lying on the grass in bikinis, showing off their horrible pink and white bodies.'

‘
Vive la difference!
' said Andy, and Bella laughed.

They walked on through the park, past the beautiful Medici fountain, with its deep rectangular basin lined with spectacular bronze-and-marble Italianate statues. They walked along the neat gravel pathways, past colourful formal gardens that reflected the French love of order and harmony; past the magnificent Palais du Luxembourg with its Tricolore waving proudly in the light breeze; past games of boules and exquisite sculptures and the octagonal lake teeming with toy sailing boats – all overlooked by those beautiful green and golden trees.

‘Did you know that Hemingway used to shoot pigeons here, when he was a starving writer in the twenties?' said Bella. ‘He used to hide their poor, dead bodies in a pram.'

‘What a fantastic story. Where on earth did you hear it?'

‘I think Mum told me and Max, when we came here as kids.'

‘Should have guessed,' Andy said affectionately, kissing the top of her head. ‘You and your absurdly spoilt childhood …'

‘We weren't spoilt.' Bella's tone was mock-cross. ‘Half the time, Mum was trying to make up for the fact that Dad wasn't there. We stayed in a really horrible
pension
near Montmartre, and I can still remember being woken up in the middle of the night by a cockroach climbing over my face …'