Vanity (9 page)

‘Born to be wild, man,' said Damian, not really aware of what he was saying.

‘YEEEEESSSSSHHHH!!!' shouted the mad Swede, like a blond Brian Blessed on acid, and soon the three of them were up there on the stage with their air gee-tars, shaking their heads and belting out the theme tune to
Easy Rider
.

Poppy sat in the sun outside the second-hand bookshop and sipped her freshly squeezed orange juice in total contentment. Her shopping trip had been an unmitigated success, partly thanks to Sandra's recommendation of this bookshop, which had been run by a lovely old gent called Louis for the past forty-five years. Dapper in pink shirt and chinos, he had smilingly told her that ‘books are my life', before helping her find exactly what she was looking for.

Inside, the shop was comfortable and welcoming, all polished wood bookshelves and slouchy armchairs, in one of which resided a very sleepy and affectionate tabby cat. Outside, a few rickety tables and chairs had been set out on the pavement under the trees. Louis' daughter baked a couple of cakes every evening and brought them around the next morning for Louis to serve to his customers (today's selection was carrot or lemon drizzle). Louis himself squeezed the oranges and brewed the coffee in a little kitchen round the back. It was just heavenly, thought Poppy.

She took a bite of the scrumptious carrot cake and turned her attention to her purchases. Aside from the Halston dress for Bella, she'd also found her a beautifully bound 1920s edition of
The Collected Short Stories of Dorothy Parker
, which she knew her friend would love. She was aware she was being excessively generous, but her new job paid obscenely well and she still hadn't got over her guilt over her fling with Ben. For her mother (who had been a proper, bra-burning seventies feminist), a first edition of
Fear of Flying
and a pair of Art Deco jet-and-emerald earrings, with a necklace to match.

Poppy had had to stop herself buying a first edition of
The Grapes of Wrath
,
which her father, a lifelong lover of Steinbeck, would have treasured were he still in his right mind. He would have no idea what it was now, and it was seriously expensive. Just for a second her gaze misted over, then she shook herself and turned back to her bags of goodies.

For herself, Poppy had picked out a 1930s eau-de-nil silk slip edged with coffee-coloured lace, which she planned to wear as a dress, and an original hardback version of
To Kill A Mockingbird
, though that might just be on loan to herself. It would be a lovely thing to give her daughter, were she ever to have one; she remembered devouring the book when she was about 12.

The Collected Works of Hemingway
, published in 1961 (the year the great man died, as Louis had helpfully pointed out), was a perfect present for her scrivener husband. Poppy savoured the word
husband
, still loving the sound of it. She'd pop into Macy's on the way home for a few more bits and pieces for him. Damian was a joy to buy clothes for, his lean build and dark colouring lending themselves well to most styles. It was like having her own life-sized Ken doll, she thought fondly. She was looking forward to introducing him to her boss tonight.

Poppy wiped her fingers on a paper napkin and took another peek in the bag containing the fabulous Halston dress. She hoped Bella would take it in the spirit it was meant, that it wouldn't scream
guilt gift
too loudly. She and Bella had been inseparable best friends since they first met as new girls at school, aged 10. Shagging Bella's boyfriend would have been unforgivable under any circumstances, but when you considered that Ben had been the first person Bella had really thought herself in love with, it was just too awful to contemplate.

When Bella and Ben had first got together, Poppy had been unreservedly delighted for both of them. So when Ben had started flirting with her (very subtly at first – the odd text or Facebook message), she thought she must have been imagining it. After all, he was her boyfriend's best friend and her best friend's boyfriend. All very neat and symmetrical. But by the time Ben upped the ante and started coming on to her in person, Poppy was already out of her mind with grief about her father's illness, and using coke heavily to numb her feelings. Unfortunately, it also numbed her finer feelings.

It all came to a head after the first occasion on which her father didn't recognize her. Poppy had dealt with it (not very maturely, she knew) by going on a massive bender. It was during this bender that Ben had called her, suggesting they meet one night he knew Damian was going to be away; he had told Bella he was flying to New York for a modelling shoot. Scheming fucker.

If Bella hadn't walked in on them, maybe nothing more
would have happened, maybe … well – who knew what
would have happened? But Poppy still couldn't bear to think about how much she'd hurt Damian and Bella, and was still amazed that either of them had ever spoken to her again (they weren't so forgiving towards Ben). It was only once she'd shacked up with the vain bastard that she'd realized how incompatible they were, how much she missed Damian. Both Poppy and Ben needed an audience, someone to adore them unconditionally. They'd ended up irritating the shit out of each other, two massive egos both clamouring to be heard loudest.

Whereas, Damian … Poppy smiled fondly again as she thought of Damian. Dear Damian, so cool and laid-back about most things. How she'd missed his dry sense of humour and (OK, she admitted it) pretty much unconditional adoration. They had a great relationship, complemented one another perfectly.

Though it was funny that somebody so laid-back in most areas of his life could be so sensitive professionally. Despite his success in the men's magazine world (until now), Poppy knew that Damian was highly ambitious and wanted greater recognition. He was a damned good writer, after all, she thought proudly. Probably the best of the lot of them on
Stadium
, which had showcased his wit and left-field humour perfectly. She sincerely hoped that this recession would prove an ill wind that blew him some good. Who knew what opportunities New York would throw up?

She took her iPhone out of her new Marc Jacobs handbag and called him, just to hear his voice. It rang for ages but there was no reply. Strange. Damian always answered his phone swiftly, just in case it was a commissioning editor (or Poppy herself). She tried again. Still nothing. Oh, well. Instead, she sent a text.

Hope you've had a great day darling husband. Looking forward to seeing you at L'Ambassadeur at 8. Wifey x

She finished her cake and orange juice and went inside to say goodbye to Louis. She'd better go home and get changed. She wanted to make a good impression tonight.

Damian was having the time of his life. Ever since he'd hit London in the late nineties he'd been obsessed with obscure dance and indie music, keeping up with the hippest DJs and latest bands, always to be found backstage at gigs and festivals. None of his friends or men's magazine cronies would believe it if they could see him now, singing along to cheesy Queen hits with the wild abandon of an alcoholic uncle at a wedding. ‘Don't Stop Me Now' was going down particularly well.

He and Lars were cheered along by the motley crew of fellow daytime karaoke aficionados that made up their audience. Actually, it was no longer daytime, but most of them had been there since lunchtime. Once the song was over, they prepared to descend from the stage, despite cries of ‘More!' and ‘Encore!'. The time had come for another drink.

‘Thanks, guys,' said Damian modestly, taking a bow. ‘But now I think it's time for somebody else to … to … to … RRRRRRRIP UP THE FLOOR!' By the time he got to the end of his sentence, he was shouting and waving his mike in the air, to rapturous applause.

‘Darren, my friend,' slurred Lars. Damian couldn't be bothered to correct him. ‘Am I glad to have met you, man.' And without further ado, he slung Damian over his shoulder in a fireman's lift and carried him to the bar.

Through tears of laughter, Damian started to sing ‘New York, New York' again, the words muffled against Lars's huge back.

Lars joined in from somewhere around Damian's knees, and the rest of the room happily shouted out the chorus. Then there was much shushing as the next singers had mounted the stage, about to give their performance of a lifetime.

‘What you drinkin thish time, man?' Lars asked Damian, putting him back to his feet like a dishevelled half-Indian rag doll in designer jeans.

‘No no no, it's my round,' said Damian, reaching into the wrong pocket for his wallet, and pulling out his phone instead. ‘Ooooh, look, messssage … oh,
fuck!
Shit, Lars, what's the time?'

‘Wasssshamatter, old buddy?' Lars furrowed his blond brow, putting a heavy hand on Damian's shoulder.

‘Lars, mate,
what's the time
?' Damian had forgotten he could check the time perfectly well himself on his phone. Not to mention his watch.

Lars looked at his enormous Rolex.

‘It'sh twenty hundred hoursh. But why, my friend?'

‘Because I've just been reminded where I'm supposed to be,
right now
. D'you know a place called L'Ambassadeur?
'

‘Do I know L'Ambasshadeur?
'
Lars smiled broadly. ‘Man, I have sharesh in that place.'

‘Is it far from here?'

‘I'll take you there, my friend. Who ya meeting there?'

‘Oh, only my wife. And her boss. And his wife.'

Both men stared at each other for a second, then started roaring with laughter again, slapping backs and thighs in total male harmony.

‘So you see, Poppy, it is vitally important that we don't feed our kids dairy. Cows' milk is for kiddy cows. We don't express
our
milk and feed it to those kiddy cows, now do we?' Eleanor, Marty's wife, gave a nervous laugh and Poppy tried to make her own laughter sound sincere. She had to admit Eleanor had a point (if not a vocabulary that included the word
calves
), which might, at a pinch, be interesting, but all she had talked about since they'd arrived at L'Ambassadeur had been child-rearing. And not the fun stuff that Poppy's few friends with children back in the UK talked about – the very sweet things they sometimes said or did, or the anecdotes of
embarrassing
swearwords coming from little mouths in public. Oh, no.

Eleanor's party chitchat ran the gamut from children's nutrition to pre-school education to ‘downtime'. Her only son, Hammond (Why did so many Americans have names that should be surnames?) was 18 months old. Poor little bugger. Poppy didn't think Eleanor was a bad woman, but she was just so bloody earnest, so desperate not to get things wrong. She had a face that hovered between plain and pretty. Her smile was sweet, her jawline delicate and her pale skin flawless, but her forehead was just too narrow, her eyes just too small, her lips just too thin for her to be a proper beauty. Her light brown shoulder-length hair was side parted, very straight and very shiny. A beautifully cut Narciso Rodriguez beige silk shift dress, a few shades lighter than her hair, skimmed a slender body that bore no visible signs of childbirth. Apparently, she'd been a trader on Wall Street, pre-Hammond. Poppy found this very hard to believe.

Marco, the assistant director, who was short, swarthy and good-looking, with several piercings, was wearing skinny black jeans with a corduroy biker's jacket and a vintage Alexander McQueen skull-printed scarf around his stubbly throat. His partner, Chase, a model for Ralph Lauren, was dressed entirely in Ralph Lauren and as
ludicrously
handsome as you'd expect a Ralph Lauren model to be, with a broad jaw, high cheekbones and golden-blond hair swept back from a magnificent brow. He appeared to have about as much personality as the shop dummy he resembled.

The conversation had not, so far, been what you'd call sparkling. For the first time since she'd been in NY, Poppy was missing grey old London enormously.

A waiter came to the table.

‘Can I take your order?'

‘We're still waiting for one of our guests,' said Marty, who was wearing a black T-shirt under a black Armani jacket and heavy-rimmed glasses that he thought made him look intellectual.

‘It's OK, Marty, order without him,' said Poppy. ‘I'm so sorry Damian's so late. It's very unlike him.' Inside, she was seething.
Where the fuck was he?

‘No, we'll wait for your husband,' said Marty, smiling at his latest protégée, who was looking gorgeous in a sage-green suede sleeveless minidress that matched her eyes and showed off her coltish brown limbs. With her streaky blonde hair loose around her shoulders, he thought she was just delicious. ‘In the meantime, why don't we get some wine?'

‘Sounds great. A white and a red as some of us are having meat, and some having fish?' Poppy looked around the table.

‘Two bottles?' Eleanor looked horrified.

‘Hey, it's only a couple glasses each,' said Marco, kicking Poppy under the table. Poppy remembered Fabrice's tales of Martinis, crystal meth and amyl nitrate with Marco the night before and hid a smile.

‘My nutritionist says there's so much sugar in wine. And sugar is
poison
.'

Marty laughed heartily and patted his wife's hand.

‘Eleanor's been a lot more aware of her mortality since we had Hammond. Kids do need their moms to be alive, after all.'

Everyone laughed weakly.

‘What about their dads, Marty?' Poppy couldn't help it, even though he was her boss.

Marty looked taken aback.

‘Sheesh, well, of course they need their dads too! But their dads can handle their poison as they
bring home the bacon –
' he did an excruciating Cockney accent – ‘while their mommies stay home and look after them. And you don't want a poisoned mommie in charge of the kiddies now, do ya?'