Do You Want to Know a Secret? (19 page)

We walk on in silence for a bit, with him dragging the pace down and me trying to speed it along, mind you
the
combination of my high heels and the cobblestones don’t help. Still two more streets before we get to the bloody car park.

Then he speaks again.

‘So I take it you don’t want to come to my friends’ wedding in July?’

‘Eddie, I’m so sorry, this is just all happening a bit fast for me.’

‘OK, OK, you need time, that’s fine, hey! Cool. Not a problem,’ he says, but in the same upbeat kind of tone that people use when they’ve discovered a way to solve a particularly annoying problem that’s been at them for ages. Oh shit, he’s just not giving up, I think. There was me politely asking him to back off a bit, under the misguided impression that I was doing his future girlfriends a favour, but now I’m beginning to realize he thinks I was referring to him and me and that I might just come round if he only slows it down a bit.

Oh bugger, I wish I could ring Barbara, she’d have this awful, icky, messy situation sorted in about ten seconds. Then I remind myself about the almighty law of attraction and how, just like my famous book says, it just doesn’t come with a pause button. Somehow I attracted this guy into my life, for a reason yet to become clear to me, and now, guess what, here he is. And un-attracting him mightn’t turn out to be as easy as it sounds.

On we walk, me willing us to go faster, like some kind of missile in sling-backs, him walking at a funereal pace. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the Saturday night crowds start to thicken considerably, and I can’t figure out why, until we turn a corner and I realize.

Oh shit, I do not believe this.

Of course, it’s the late-night outdoor movie that Daniel has talked about, and all these crowds are on their way home from it. Part of me is thinking, supposing we bumped into him? I’m half-attracting it and half-dreading it, given the situation I’m in, but as the book keeps on reminding me, the universe doesn’t have a sense of humour. We’re just turning a corner when we walk right into a gang of people, almost knocking each other over.

I look up, and wouldn’t you know it?

Daniel Best, with a big gang of his friends.

Chapter Twelve

The Butterfly’s next meeting. May
.

IT’S SATURDAY, EXACTLY
a week later, and high time the three of us met up again to give each other progress reports. The bad news is that convening in my house is sadly out of the question, on account of Useless Builder, wait for it, actually accomplishing something, even if it is only scraping the stippling off all my ceilings and then plastering them. Don’t get me wrong, I am of course thrilled that he managed to put down the racing pages for long enough to achieve this incredible feat, but the downside is that, apart from my bedroom, there’s not a single square inch of the house that isn’t at sub-zero temperatures, at least for a few days, until the plaster completely dries out.

‘So,’ I patiently explain to Laura and Barbara, ‘unless you fancy contracting TB from the damp and spending
the
next week coughing and spluttering and sprawled out on a chaise longue like one of the Brontë sisters, maybe we should try to hook up somewhere else?’

Barbara’s flat is sadly even less suitable than before, as her flatmate, Angie, is now in the throes of a mad, passionate affair with probably the only straight make-up artist in the entire acting profession, who has pretty much moved himself into their tiny flat for the duration of said affair. Now, as Barbara says, it’s virtually impossible to get any kind of privacy, ever, in their flat and it’s seriously beginning to drive her nuts.

‘I mean, I can never even get into the bathroom any more, and when I do, he’s used up all the hot water
and
the loo roll. He eats all our food, runs up our phone bill, then at night, the two of them are snuggled up on the sofa, all loved up watching
HIS
programmes on TV and there’s me, sitting on the floor cos there’s nowhere else to go, gooseberry of the millennium. I mean, for Christ’s sake, Vicky, if I’d wanted to live with a guy I would have. In fact, this carry-on would almost drive me into moving in with the next fella that asks me, anything just to get out of there.’

Not for nothing have Laura and I nicknamed said flatmate Evil Angie, and not only because of this latest twist. We both have a long list of grievances against her, the main one being that, even though she’s an actress too (so far this year, she’s done two commercials, three
voiceovers
and a small part in one of those fringe shows where the cast dress in black and cluck around the stage pretending to be chickens), she never
ever
tells Barbara anything that’s going on, and is for ever sneaking off to auditions then acting all surprised whenever she gets jobs. It’s particularly unfair as poor Barbara always passes on information to her about castings and open auditions, but gets absolutely nothing back in return; and bear in mind that theirs is a profession that runs pretty much entirely on word of mouth.

Many, many margaritas have been knocked back while Laura and I patiently try to point out to Barbara the general horribleness of Evil Angie’s behaviour, but Barbara, loyal soul that she is, will never have any of it. The two of them trained at drama school together and as far as Barbara is concerned, Evil Angie is her closest friend in the acting business. Friend, frenemy, Barbara won’t hear a word said against her. She’s just one of those people. Those she likes can do no wrong.

Anyway, I suggest we meet in a nice discreet restaurant where we can chat/de-brief each other freely and without interruption, but Laura vetoes it on the grounds that she’s smashed broke and can’t afford to eat out, so her house it is. We’ve no choice. Even our failsafe blanket excuse doesn’t work: ‘But don’t you fancy a night off from the kids?’ Her mother’s out to dinner
tonight
and, as it’s Saturday, she hasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a babysitter.

I drive Barbara there, and as ever, am amazed at how spotlessly spick and span Laura’s house always looks given the stress that she’s constantly under. Barbara and I shake our heads in wonderment as we park in her perfectly tidied front driveway, every shrub obediently blooming beside her freshly mowed patch of grass, and look at each other as much as to say, ‘How does she
do
it?’

Her house is right at the end of a modern, suburban cul-de-sac and it all looks very flowery and very Wisteria Lane, that is until a gang of boys start circling around us on bikes as we clamber out of my car, shouting at Barbara: ‘Hiya, sexy, great jugs, what are you doing later?’ She’s just about to shout something suitably obscene back at them (Barbara’s well able to give as good as she gets and, no, before you ask, even being under age is no defence against her sharp tongue), when we realize that one of the be-helmeted yobbos is actually George Junior.

‘This is your godmother you’re talking to!’ she splutters at him as I ring the doorbell. ‘It’s not that long ago I was changing your dirty nappies!’

Laura answers, Baby Julia crying in her arms, looking as tidy and scrubbed as she always does, just very, very tired, God love her. We all hug, and I simultaneously
hand
her a bottle of wine and take the baby from her as she marches down the driveway to deal with George Junior and his gang of thuggo friends. Now, I don’t know what he says to her, all I can hear, clear as crystal, is her reply. ‘If you speak to me in that tone once more, I will consider it strike one. I do not CARE where all your friends are off to, you’re not going anywhere until you’ve finished all of your household chores. Now get off that bike, wash the car and this time, USE WATER.’

Baby Julia is squealing and trying to wriggle out of my inexperienced child-carrying arms when Laura’s mother comes out of the kitchen.

Oh
shit
and double shit.

Barbara and I shoot a panicky look at each other, but there’s no avoiding her, given that the hallway is about the same length and width as your average toilet cubicle. ‘Oh, there you are, girls, well, three guesses why I was summoned here this evening,’ she says, crisply putting her cheque book away and snapping her handbag shut. ‘Honestly, there are times when I feel like some sort of cash-dispensing machine.’

‘Hi, Mrs Lennox-Coyningham,’ we both mutter, instantly reverting back to a pair of teenagers. I don’t know why it is, but Laura’s mother just has that effect on us. She’s one of those women who, when you meet them, your accent automatically upgrades to several degrees posher and politer, and you almost feel you
should
be curtseying, as if they’re minor royalty. She looks a bit like Princess Michael of Kent: tall and imperious, impeccable and be-suited, with a knuckle-duster ring on every finger and a permanent whiff of Chanel No. 5. In fact, no matter where I am – airports, theatres, any public place you can name – all I have to do is get the slightest sniff of that perfume for my ‘fight or flight’ hormones to immediately kick in, and I immediately start darting around looking for places to hide from Mrs Lennox-Coyningham. And I’m thirty-four years of age.

She also has the most intimidating way of looking down her nose at you that just makes me regress to the time, aged about nine, when I was sitting at their vast, scary dining-room table, too afraid not to eat the fish supper, even though I have a chronic allergy, while Mrs Lennox-Coyningham bragged on about how Laura got straight As in her exams, top of the class as usual, and how did I do? ‘Two Cs and 4 Ds and an F,’ I muttered in a tiny, frightened voice. To this day, I’ll never forget the look on her face, it was as if I’d befouled her immaculately polished parquet floor. And I wouldn’t mind, but for me, that was a particularly good result. In fact, my parents celebrated by taking me to McDonald’s and generally acting like they had a Stephen Hawking in the house. Anyway, ever since then, as far as Mrs Lennox-Coyningham is concerned, I’m her daughter’s
thick
, loser friend. And Barbara is her permanently unemployed, waster friend.

They’re our labels and we’re stuck with them, whether we like it or not.

‘So, Barbara dear, when am I going to see you in something?’ she asks, as usual sensing a weak spot and going in for the kill. ‘Very soon, I hope. It’s been quite some time now, what is it, two, no three years, since that production of
Lady Windermere’s Fan
which you played the maid in?’

‘Dunno, Mrs Lennox-Coyningham,’ says Barbara, suddenly acting like she’s chewing gum, even though I happen to know she’s not. ‘I’m doing a lot of hard-core porn these days. Tough gig, but it pays the rent, and at least my nights are free.’

Barbara, as you can see, is an awful lot better at handling Mrs L-C than I am.

We’re saved from the misery of having to come up with any more small talk when Laura comes back inside and takes the baby from me.

‘Well, we won’t delay you, Mum,’ she says, pale and stressed-looking. ‘Thanks for . . . helping me out, and I hope you and Dad enjoy the law society dinner.’

‘Oh yes, well we always enjoy an evening with Martha,’ she beams, her mood changing like mercury. I’m not kidding, she’s actually
smiling
. ‘Her friends are such wonderful, stimulating company, all doing
so
well
for
themselves at the Bar, and somehow Martha always manages to get us the very best table at the Inns, you know.’

Martha, I should tell you, is Laura’s sister, younger by a year, rising young barrister and general all-round pain in the face. In school, her nickname was ‘Laura-lite’ because every single thing Laura ever did or achieved, Martha copied. Never as successfully, though, she didn’t have Laura’s natural brilliance, and try as she might, couldn’t live up to her promise; but now that Laura is a full-time mom, her parents have decided that, actually they’d been wrong all along, and that Martha was the horse they should have bet on to pursue a glittering political career and generally keep the Lennox-Coyningham tradition alive.

‘Drippy, boring Martha,’ as Barbara often says behind her back. ‘I’m telling you, if that stupid cow ever ends up running the country, that’s it, I’m emigrating.’

Mrs Lennox-Coyningham lets herself out, saying, ‘Well, I’d better fly.’ A cue to Barbara to mutter something under her breath about how brilliant it must be having a broomstick to get through the traffic that bit quicker. Laura bangs the door behind her, and the atmosphere lightens considerably now that she’s safely out of the way.

‘You know, I can physically see the thought-balloon coming out of my mother’s head every time she
mentions
my beloved sister,’ she says as we follow her into the kitchen. ‘Martha, the daughter who
didn’t
turn out to be such a sad disappointment, Martha, the daughter who
didn’
t ruin her life by getting married to a worthless git when she was barely out of college.’

‘Absolutely not true,’ says Barbara, plonking down at the kitchen table and helping herself to some neatly sliced ciabatta bread. ‘Although it does my heart good to hear you refer to George as a worthless git.’

‘Oh come on,’ I say, defensively. ‘You’re the one who gave your mother four beautiful, perfect, wonderful grandchildren.’

On cue, Emily strolls through the kitchen, with her iPod on, totally ignoring us as she wafts through one door and out another, only stopping to shout over whatever she’s listening to, ‘I don’t want any dinner, Mum, I ate mints and now I feel fat.’

‘I won’t even attempt to dignify that comment with an answer,’ says Laura, turning back to the cooker the minute Emily’s out of the room. ‘Nor will I embarrass you by initiating an argument/screaming match with the little madam and generally turning into Momzilla, but, by God, if I could only afford a decent boarding school, that would soon knock corners off her.’

Dinner is very Laura, that is to say, absolutely perfect. Wholesome, healthy, meat-and-two-veg mammy food, only slightly ruined by Emily picking at the corners of
hers
(and that only under extreme duress and a lot of grade two nagging from Laura), then telling all of us about her friend in school who cut out all wheat, refined sugar and dairy and managed to lose thirty pounds.