Pear Shaped (18 page)

The wives, the wives. Trophies growing tarnished. The average age of the men I’d put at sixty-five, the women fifty, but with the foreheads and wardrobes of 28-year-olds. Full beauty queen make-up cannot hide their strained expressions.

Their heads swivel, glancing at their neighbours’ earrings, necklaces, brooches. Heads left, right, down. Fingers stretch and clasp, stretch and clasp, like they’re warming up for a concerto. Rubies and emeralds and Christmas-cracker diamonds glare off each other. Between them they must be wearing £10 million in rocks.

None of them speaks. I have never seen four more miserable looking women in my life.

Up on the screen the new face of L’Esteeme is projected.

Noushka. Russian, 5’ 11’’. Discovered in a Moscow shopping mall: long dark chestnut hair, too-wide pale blue eyes. Her face is all angles as if drawn with a set square by a German engineering student. Cheek bones to jaw – jaw to chin. A nose so sharp you could pop a balloon on it. Pow!

It is a striking face. Hard. Determined. It is not a face I envy. It is, in fact, a weird face but it shoots well on film. But the point of Noushka is not the face. It is the body. Known as ‘Legs’, she has, of course, the most perfect legs. Genetically blessed, shapely, endless, not a trace of fat but not too musclar, ending in perfect ankles at one end, a
perfect bottom at the other. The bottom you see on the anti-cellulite ads that you convince yourself must belong to an 8-year-old boy or else life is too unfair.

The picture has probably been retouched, these things always are nowadays. James is staring at the screen as the letters spelling ‘L’Esteeme’ curl out from between Noushka’s knees, snake between her thighs and crawl to rest across her bottom.

‘Oh Lordy, who did the graphic design?’ I say. ‘It looks like the ‘t’ is going right up her arse.’

He looks plagued with irritation.

‘What?’ he says.

‘Great legs,’ I say smiling. He continues to look as if he needs a Rennie.

The photographer Seyon comes out on stage and wanks on for five minutes about what a privilege it has been to work on the job. Yes, a $20,000 a day privilege, to be sure. Then he introduces Noushka herself, who comes out to a standing ovation made up entirely of the men in the audience.

In real life she is thinner – they always are. And the angles of her face that work so well in print are over-exaggerated in the flesh. She looks as if she’s harbouring a bread stick in her lower jaw. Unlikely.

She waves to the audience, proper, practised Miss World wave, and her elbow slices back and forth through the air like the apex of a wishbone.

James is staring at her in a way that I have never, ever seen him look at me. It is the way he sometimes looks when he is driving his car too fast.

Up on stage Seyon is introducing the behind-the-scenes footage. There are sound bites of Seyon shot on the beach in Cape Town, talking about the challenges of shooting 70 dernier stockings in 80 degree heat. God, Afghan minesweepers have got nothing on you, love.

Then there is Noushka, sitting on a yacht, her long, frizz-free hair blowing in the humid breeze. She is cradling some sort of ratty handbag dog, waving the dog’s paws to the camera. ‘Say hi to everybody, Mona-Coco,’ she says to the dog, before kissing it on the mouth.

I look over at James and roll my eyes. ‘Mona-Coco?’

‘Monaco, Coco Chanel. Be quiet,’ he snaps.

‘How would I describe my personality?’ she asks herself, in a surprised voice. ‘I love jewels. High heels. And of course stockings. I am sensuous Russian woman.’ The ‘s’s of ‘sensuous’ hiss out of her mouth like poisoned gas. ‘When I was little girl, I have dream that one day I will be Russian Cinder Cror-ford.’

‘Wow, it’s like Martin Luther King all over again …’ I say, wishing Laura was here with me to witness this nonsense.

James turns to me, exasperated. ‘Why do you have to be so bitchy?’

‘Oh come on! I love jewels and high heels? That’s not a personality, that’s a shopping list.’

‘She’s a sweet girl. You’re just jealous.’

A kind boyfriend would laugh at my joke, or tell me I’m way more gorgeous than Noushka, even though we’d both know he was lying. Actually, one time in New York, Nick and I had sat in McNally’s on the next table to Cindy Crawford. He had looked at her only once, in passing, and only because she was sitting next to the bass player in one of his favourite bands. Even when I’d commented on how much more beautiful she looked in real life than in magazines, he’d just shrugged: ‘too skinny’.

I miss Nick.

‘Noushka’s actually very bright, very driven. She’s launching her own brand of toenail polish in Eastern Europe,’ says James.

‘Toenail polish? Just toes, not fingers?’

He nods. ‘Toenails need a thicker consistency than finger nails … I don’t know.’

‘What bollocks, nails are nails,’ I say.

‘Give it a rest, Soph. Why are you attacking her?’

Why are you defending her? I take a deep breath, force a smile. ‘I’m going to the bar, do you want anything?’

‘Actually, I’m going to pop backstage and speak to the guys.’

‘Which guys?’

‘Those guys,’ he motions at the stage, as Noushka kisses both her palms and shakes them goodbye at the crowd.

‘Shall I come?’

‘I’ll be two minutes,’ and he’s off, weaving his way through the crowd.

‘I thought IWCs never broke?’

‘What?’

‘That was a long two minutes.’ I am alone at the bar, three gin and tonics and a large bowl of Japanese crackers down.

He shrugs. This man has never apologised for anything. Ever. ‘You’ve not been too slow with the drinks, Soph. And what was in that bowl? Not shy with the snacks tonight either, are you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘We’re going to Cecconi’s for drinks and dinner with the Bonders. You know that.’

‘And how has me eating 32 Japanese peanuts got anything to do with that fact? Or with you?’

He pulls his head back as if I’ve belched.

‘Are you going to be this aggressive all night?’ he says.

‘No. No, I’m not.’ I snatch my bag and step down from my bar stool, clutching the seat tight. My heels are high but my legs aren’t quite long enough. – Okay, landed okay.

‘Where are you going?’ he asks, suddenly conciliatory, almost forlorn.

‘Away from here,’ I say, exhaustion and rage making me sound like I’m in a South American soap opera.

‘What is wrong with you?’ He looks genuinely confused.

What indeed.

You have spent seventy minutes backstage with Noushka when you said you’d be two.

Yes, I can and have fended for myself, talking to various dullards about joint ventures/venture capital/capital gains tax/why taxing the rich at 50% is sooooo unfair.

But I would rather not have to.

And more than anything I think you want that perfectly thin young Russian model to be by your side instead of me.

‘I’m just tired,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’ It’s his big night. I’m ruining it, I’m being a brat. It isn’t about me. I’m paranoid, over-sensitive, insecure.

Maybe. But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

Be the bigger person. Be gracious. ‘Look, why don’t you take Noushka to Cecconi’s with the Bonders instead, it’s business after all …’ His face lights up like it’s Christmas. I know I am making a giant tactical error.

‘If you’re sure, I’ll text you when I get in, I’ll give you some money for a cab …’ He’s frantically looking for his wallet, desperate to rush backstage and grab her before she heads back to her hotel.

‘I’ll pay for my own cab. Have a good time.’ He nods, and I leave him there with his £20 in his hand.

I’m lying in bed. It’s 2.44am. He hasn’t texted. Cecconi’s will have shut by midnight, I figure. Even with a late night drink with the Bonders he should be home by now.

There’s no possible way I can text him to say ‘goodnight’ without looking like an insecure freak.

He’s probably on his last drink of the evening; they’ll have gone to Soho House or some other club …

You have to trust people. How else can you be in a relationship? I do trust him.

I turn my phone off. The lack of the flashing blue light is bugging me more than a flashing blue light. If I turn it off, he’ll text five minutes later. That’s often happened with him.

When I wake up at 5.30am, I immediately turn my phone on.

No messages.

I have a weird tingling feeling in my arms. My instinct is entirely telling me something is wrong, but I don’t trust my instinct any more because I think I’m paranoid.

I get out of bed and go for a run round the block to try and clear my head. I manage ten minutes, then come home, shower, and lie back on the bed.

I am going to have to wait for him to call me this morning, and when he does, I’m not going to be able to have a go at him, because if I do I’ll sound like a fishwife.

I make it through to midday without hearing from him, feeling increasingly sick with anxiety. This is so entirely,
entirely ridiculous, I think. We’re moving in together. He is with me. He is with me. Why am I scared to text him after nearly a year together? That in itself is weird, and the problem must be me. Think positive.

I text him: ‘Sore head?’

A minute later he calls me, and I pretend everything is hunky dory, and he is at his desk and very perky and says he had quite a fun evening, and what am I doing tonight, he’d like to see me.

My stomach drops. He’s going to dump me. I can feel it, I know it, I absolutely know it.

‘Why do you want to see me?’ I say.

‘I want to take you somewhere nice for dinner,’ he says. His voice sounds slightly guilty.

He’s not going to dump me in public, surely.

‘I can’t do tonight,’ I say.

‘Okay then, tomorrow?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘… Okay.’

‘Well, sorry, yes, tomorrow’s Thursday, sorry, got my days confused …’

‘Okay.’

The following day he picks me up at 8pm. I am so wracked with paranoia that I feel sick.

‘Hungry?’ he says.

‘Where are we going?’

‘It’s a surprise.’ That doesn’t sound like I’m en route to a dumping.

We head into town and I stare out of the window as we drive through Regent’s Park, thinking: I have to learn to say when things bother me. I’ve bitten my tongue too often in this relationship.

‘I’m really sorry but I need to ask you something,’ I say.

He looks panicked.

‘Why didn’t you text me when you got in the other night?’

‘I was tired … it was late … I forgot …’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Actually, not okay. It can’t be all of those three. Which was it?’

‘It was late …’ He is rubbing his thumb against his middle finger, and it’s setting off another alarm in my brain.

‘Your body language is weird,’ I say. ‘Look at your fingers …’

‘You’re reading far too much into this.’ People always say that when you’re on to something.

‘– So you had a good time with the Bonders, that’s good, I’m glad,’ I say.

I swallow it, but it sticks in my throat, another stone.

He parks off Berwick Street and takes my arm in his. He stops outside a Spanish restaurant that I’ve been desperate to try for months. ‘I hope you haven’t been here already, you mentioned it the other day …’

‘Good choice,’ I say, as we’re seated at a small corner table looking out onto Soho. It’s so cosy we’re practically sitting on each other’s laps, and James puts his arm around me.

‘Isn’t this nice,’ he says, smiling and taking my hand.

Ridiculous. There is nothing wrong, and I’m basically mad, and I need to learn to not be paranoid anymore.

We have such a great night, it’s like our first date. It’s so weird, but almost every date has been like that first date, apart from the unfortunate night of the outburst. If we weathered that storm and can still sit here blissfully, we’re going to be just fine, I think.

When we get home, I have a bath, and by the time I get out, James is asleep in my bed. But when I get in, I feel his arm snake around me, and a moment later we are kissing and then he is on top of me in the semi-darkness and I am thinking ‘this is how love is, natural and close and intimate and beautiful’.

My legs are bent, my knees up towards my shoulders, and after a while James looks down at me, and then moves my right leg down. For some reason his action sticks in my mind over the following days. It reminds me of those ‘How to Sunbathe and Look Your Best’ articles they used to run in
Just 17
: Put your arms over your head to lift your breasts. Stomach in. Chin down. Legs just so.

There I go, reading too much into things …

‘Happy birthday, Soph,’ says James, handing me a Harrods bag with a box inside it. ‘Don’t shake it, just open it!’

‘Shouldn’t I read the card first?’

‘Nah, present. More exciting.’

I rip off the paper.

‘I knew you wouldn’t buy it for the kitchen ‘cause you think it’s too extravagant, but you said they were the best …’

‘A Bamix! I love it.’ Bamix are the best, best handheld blenders in the business. They’re expensive but they’re worth it.

‘And it comes with a 30-year guarantee.’

If only
you
did too, I think. ‘Let’s keep it at yours, save it till the kitchen’s done. I’ll use it the night I move in.’

‘Good idea,’ he says.

He starts picking up my other birthday cards from the side.

‘Who’s Will and why is he making you a cake?’

‘Just a supplier,’ I say, grabbing the card off him. ‘His chef’s making me one, not him.’

‘And who’s this? From, ‘Z’, ‘I know one day you’ll change your mind!’

I laugh. ‘My secret lover, Zoltan …’

‘Who is it?’

‘My friend Zoe who works in the fridge, I think she has a crush on me.’

‘Really?’

‘Some people do find me attractive you know, James!’

‘No, I just … lesbians …’ Every other boyfriend I’ve had would immediately say ‘Can I watch?’ But instead James proceeds to outline his theory about why all lesbians are predators.

‘Women crave attention more than men, and they’ll take it from any source …’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Seriously. Lesbians take advantage of that …’