I Never Fancied Him Anyway (16 page)

‘OK, darlings,’ says Marc with a C, ‘time for me to say BFN, bye for now.’

‘But you can’t just leave, sweetie,’ says Charlene pleadingly. ‘I absolutely, positively
need
you to come back to the mansion and help me for this evening. I’m totally
relying
on you.’

‘Help you?’ says Jo incredulously. ‘Charlene, you have a maid, a housekeeper, a full-time cook and a butler. And on top of that, you’re probably hiring caterers in for the night. What help could you possibly need?’

‘I need help getting into my outfit,’ she replies, not looking even vaguely embarrassed about it. ‘It’s a basque. Vintage Vivienne Westwood. And besides, my staff never tell me the real truth about how I look, like you guys do. And I’m tired of relying on digital cameras all the time.’

Jo rolls her eyes to heaven but says nothing.

‘Oh, come on, pleeeeese?’ says Charlene, batting the
eyelids
at Marc with a C. ‘I mean, otherwise, what’s the point of having a gay best friend if you won’t help dress me?’

‘OK, OK, you emotionally guilted me into it,’ he says, getting up to go. ‘I’ll call round early and be your personal dresser, if that’s what it takes for you to get a husband, O girlfriend with an agenda. One condition, though: after I’ve finished kitting you out, I’ll need enough time to dash back home and put on my Tanfastic. Last time I went out without my false tan on, some smartarse asked me how much I charged to haunt a house.’

‘Where are you off to in such a rush?’ I ask him, faux-casual, as he gathers up his stuff to leave, hoping against hope that we can talk about something other than Jack Hamilton. Middle East politics, the price of oil, the state of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s relationship, for the love of God,
anything
. ‘You haven’t even told us your week’s news yet.’

‘I’m taking my granny to the beauty salon for a wash and blow dry.’

‘Marc with a C, I am
so
proud of you,’ says Jo, beaming. ‘I always knew there was a caring, civic-minded, upright member of the community inside you, just bursting to get out. Maybe when you’re done at the hairdresser’s, you’d like to pop in to help me at Oxfam for the afternoon? I could always do with an extra pair of hands.’

‘Ehh . . . bit of a crossed wire here, Jo,’ he says, looking
a
bit embarrassed. ‘It’s just that there’s a hot hot hottie from the gym who takes his granny to the salon every Saturday too and I was kind of hoping to bump into him. And you know how I’m still healing from my last disastrous liaison, so as I always say, if you wanna get over someone, get under someone.’

‘Come on, Jo, I’ll give you a hand,’ I say, taking a last gulp of coffee and reminding myself of the soul contract I made with the Universe that if I got my gift back, I’d help her out every Saturday and
not moan
.

‘Good girl,’ Jo says appreciatively as she throws us all our bags and coats, which are strewn around the table under us.

‘Sweetie, do you mind not manhandling my bag?’ Charlene says to her. ‘That’s a limited edition Hermès Birkin. I had to go on a waiting list for it.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, it’s a handbag, not a hospital bed,’ says Jo, dumping it unceremoniously on the table in front of her.

‘Right then,’ sighs Charlene, slinging it over her shoulder, ‘I’m off to meet Anna Regan for a snipe of fizz. I want a second opinion about Jack from someone who tells me what I want to hear. And to work out a table plan for this evening,
naturellement
.’

Marc with a C, Jo and I all shoot panicky glances at each other. There’s an awkward pause. It’s a known fact that none of us can
stand
Anna Regan, who is probably
the
richest, snottiest and most spoilt of all Charlene’s trust-fund-babe pals. And that, believe me, is really saying something.

‘
She’s
going to be there?’ says Marc with a C dismally.

‘Of course, why wouldn’t she be?’ asks Charlene innocently. ‘And her . . .
fiancé
.’ She’s barely able to get the word out. ‘And all of her gang.’

‘So why are you asking us then?’ Jo demands. ‘You know how we feel about her and you know the way she looks down her nose at us. Are we part of some poor-friends outreach programme you’re running or something?’

Then it hits me. Finally. The one amazingly simple, clear-cut way to get all of us off all hooks. Especially, if I’m being really honest, me.

OK, so maybe not a brainwave worthy of Stephen Hawking, but it’s the best I can come up with under pressure.

‘You know, Charlene,’ I say, ‘none of us will take the slightest offence if you want to keep tonight just, ehh, wealthy pals. You know, friends who can talk about their limited-edition sports cars and ski trips and houses that cost millions, all of that stuff. It might be better all round. I mean, Jack can meet up with us any time, can’t he? For a coffee or a drink or . . . something a bit less formal. More relaxed and low key. Not to mention cheap. None of us will take the slightest offence if you want to leave us out. Honestly.’

Brilliant. I’m officially a genius. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?

‘Fab idea, love it, great, let’s do that,’ Jo and Marc with a C almost sing together, both looking at me very gratefully.

‘Sorry, honey, too late,’ says Charlene firmly, getting up to go. ‘I’ve already given a final guest list to my housekeeper. Besides, I think you’re all aware of the lengths I’ll go to for even seating.’

‘I really couldn’t feel sorrier for Jack Hamilton,’ Jo says for about the tenth time, as she, Marc with a C and I share a taxi on our way to Charlene’s that evening. ‘Anyone care to place a bet on how long the poor unfortunate will last tonight?’

‘No takers, honey,’ I answer dismally, absolutely dreading the night ahead and only hoping the three of us can leave as early as possible without it seeming rude. Like the minute the dessert course is over or something – that would be OK, wouldn’t it?

Oh hell, who am I kidding? It’ll be midnight at the earliest before we can scarper. Last time Charlene had one of her excruciating dinner parties, the guests arrived so late it was well after eleven before the main course was even served. And, just for the record, by ‘main course’ I mean yet more champagne, which is mostly what her pals seem to live off. Charlene, in her defence, is well
able
to put away a burger and chips with the best of us, but her friends appear to survive solely on weeny bits of lettuce with shavings of cheese. Apparently all you’re allowed to eat if you’re a bona-fide trust-fund babe.

Besides, I remind myself, let’s face it, I am going to be working with Jack for the foreseeable future. So I’d better start getting used to nights like this, hadn’t I?

‘Can I please get something off my chest? Something that sounds incredibly disloyal, but would be on my conscience if I didn’t say it aloud?’ Jo says slowly.

‘Go ahead,’ says Marc with a C. ‘I’ll try not to judge you. Besides, every time I do, you all remind me that I used to work out to Milli Vanilli.’

‘I know Charlene is our friend,’ says Jo, ignoring him and looking deadly serious. ‘But, Jesus, at times like this she really, and I mean
really
, drives me nuts. I can put up with all her superficiality, I can put up with her complete and total self-absorption, all I’m saying is that there are times when she
really
pushes it a bridge too far. Viz, tonight.’

‘I know just how you feel, sweetie,’ says Marc with a C, patting her knee, ‘and you all know there’s nothing I love more than a good old-fashioned bitch-fest, but friends love each other unconditionally and that’s what we all have to remember.’

‘Besides, she does have a heart of gold,’ I add. ‘If you scratch deep enough.’

‘I know, I know,’ Jo sighs. ‘If you scratch deep enough, you can see her . . . right the way down to the surface.’

‘Remember the time I broke up with Greg from the gym because he didn’t call me for three weeks and then when we did meet, he reintroduced himself as if he didn’t even remember who I was, and to save face in front of everyone I had to say, “Oh yes, Greg. I seem to remember an answering machine that went by that name,” just to avoid the public humiliation?’ says Marc with a C. ‘She was such a support to me after that. Flying me to the Bahamas in her dad’s private plane and everything. You know, so I could heal my wounded heart and get a tan at the same time.’

‘You’re only using that as an example because you ended up dating the co-pilot,’ says Jo wearily. ‘You big rebounder.’

‘Don’t get narky with me just because I bounce back quickly. OK, rebound, if you will.’

‘Then there was the time you and I had flu,’ I remind Jo, ‘and Charlene came round with homemade vegetarian soup for the two of us. Remember?’

‘Cassie, you have a highly selective memory. She came round with her personal chef who rustled up the soup for us. While she sat on the edge of my bed slagging off my swollen glands and calling me, if memory serves, the Elephant Woman.’

‘Anyway,’ I repeat firmly, ‘you can’t deny it. The girl
does
have a heart of gold. What about all that money she gives to charity? Remember the time you were stuck for sponsorship so she completely financed the entire Amnesty team to run the city marathon? You were over the moon with her then. Not to mention the fact that Oxfam practically survive on all the designer clothes and bags and shoes she donates. And she’s never even worn most of the stuff.’

‘I wholeheartedly agree,’ says Marc with a C. ‘There are bag ladies who shop at Oxfam walking the streets in haute couture entirely because of Charlene. When the chips are down, there’s no one like her. And let’s face it, the high-maintenance carry-on just makes her all the more adorable. My love for her is just like my appendix scar. Ugly, but permanent.’

‘I know, I know,’ says Jo, still staring out of the window. ‘I just had some irritation/anger issues that I needed to express, that’s all. I do love the girl as well, you know. It’s just that, right now, I love her like a cold sore.’

‘I don’t know what you’re getting so het up about anyway,’ he goes on. ‘This is hardly like the time you caught her wearing real fur.’

Jo shoots a daggers look at him, clearly illuminated by the lights of a passing car. Animal fur and the people who wear it are strictly taboo subjects with her. At all times, always.

‘NOT REMOTELY funny,’ she practically growls at him.

‘Oops, sorry, hon.’

‘Oh, it’s OK. All out of my system now. Don’t worry, guys, I’ll go in there and beam at them all and be perfectly false all night.’

‘I just have one thing to add and then I’ll shut up,’ says Marc with a C. ‘Now, I may not have been in a serious relationship for a long time, but I do read a lot of chicklit and I would confidently like to venture a prediction for what lies ahead.’

‘Go on,’ says Jo dully.

‘It’s little short of a racing certainty that when Jack Hamilton sees what our darling little Tipsy Queen has laid on for him, he’ll run for the hills and she’ll have a seizure. Mark my words: there will be bloodshed in the mansion before the night is out. On a carpeted area, possibly, you know, for added drama. What do you think, Cassie?’

But I’m hardly listening to him as the taxi has just pulled through the enormous gates of Charlene’s house and my jaw has almost dropped. She’s had lanterns tastefully arranged all up the stone steps that lead to the front door and has dotted the immaculate front garden with, literally, dozens and dozens of twinkly fairy lights. I’m not joking; there are runways at Heathrow less brightly lit than this.

‘Wow,’ I say, stunned. I mean, we all knew Charlene always goes to trouble when she entertains, but
bloody hell
. . .

‘I’ll see your wow and I’ll raise you a wowee,’ says Marc with a C, equally knocked for six.

The only one of us who’s acting completely normally is Jo, bless her. ‘Right then,’ she says as we pay the driver and hop out of the taxi. ‘How much do you dare me to go in there and ask the butler for a lump of cheese string and a can of Bulmers?’

The house is buzzing. There’s a roaring fire lit in the huge marble hallway and Charlene’s housekeeper is busy circulating around guests, carrying a silver tray loaded down with champagne. No sign of our hostess, no sign of Jack and no sign of the awful Anna Regan (thank God) but as the three of us all shed coats and bags we unexpectedly bump into Charlene’s father.

Shit
.

He’s obviously flown back at the last minute from his tax-exiled hillside paradise in Monaco to check up on his only child, something he’s prone to springing on her without any prior warning.

Did I tell you about Charlene’s father? His whole life is almost like something you’d see on the Biography channel: the eldest of ten kids, he left school at fourteen to support his family, got a job as a window cleaner, worked his way up to the top, eventually
buying
the company, then bought a hardware company, then invented and patented a new type of water-resistant shower-curtain ring, and the rest is history. The kind of history you can read in the
Financial Times
, that is. In person, he’s tall, imposing and peers down at you through those very scary-looking half-moon glasses which, behind his back, we all reckon he doesn’t actually need at all, but only wears to intimidate people.

That’s the other thing about him. Like a lot of business people who scale the heights, in manner he can be tough, uncompromising and cutting, occasionally to the point of rudeness. Particularly with Charlene. He gives her an unbelievably miserable time over just about everything: her chronic overspending, lack of career focus, lack of motivation, complete inability to live within a budget, you name it. Honestly, there are times when you really have to feel sorry for the poor girl.

‘Hello, Mr Ferguson.’ We all smile lamely at him, trying to act pleased to see him. Even though we’ve known him for so long, there’s no question of ever calling him by his first name, like everyone does with my dad. Trust me, you just wouldn’t dare.

‘Evening.’ He nods curtly before looking around in that cold-eyed, calculating way that he has. ‘So what do you all make of this? How much is tonight costing, is what I’d very much like to know. I come home to see
Charlene
and discover that not only has she lost a job which I had to pull a lot of strings to get for her, she’s also wantonly throwing my money down the toilet on pointless, extravagant soirées like this. You still working at
Tattle?
’ he fires at me, catching me off-guard.