Pinstripes (7 page)

Tonight, Virginia waited
to speak to Madame. “I just wanted to tell you I’m really enjoying the course,” she said shyly.

Her teacher smiled.
“You are the best pupil I’ve got.” They laughed, and as Virginia had now collected her weekly compliment, she left. She didn’t think about how sad it was that the only person in the whole world who was nice to her was her French teacher; she thought that at least she had someone to be nice to her.

She drove home, had a shower and went to bed. The difference between the French night and any other night was that after the class she went to bed smiling.

***

Clara looked at the screen again. It was changing constantly, but she didn
’t know why. She hated numbers. Tim was away on business in Paris, but would be back tomorrow with perfume, chocolates and a story about French whores. She could hardly wait.

Sitting at her desk, she checked her calendar and realised that she had to go to dinner with her family tonight. She checked her bag and felt relieved to find a wrap of cocaine sitting at the bottom. At least she would be able to cope with her parents. She called James and checked that he would be joining them. Clara had had what she thought was a good day, but wished that Toby would stop looking at her in that lovesick way – she still felt guilty about him.

Clara knew that she had a problem. She knew she was an addict. She believed she was addicted to sex. Ever since she had experimented with her roommate at boarding-school, Clara had been insatiable. She had climbed out of her bedroom window on numerous occasions to meet boys from the nearest boys” school. In the holidays, she slept with her brother’s friends, much to James’s annoyance, and when she was sent to Switzerland, she developed a predictable liking for ski instructors. But it had always been controlled. Clara had always liked sex, but she had been discerning about whom she slept with: only the boys she liked at school, only the best-looking of her brother’s friends, only the young ski instructors. Now she had slept with a number of men in London and was no longer in control of whom she took to bed. In fact, if you asked Clara how many men she had had, she would tell you that it was far too many to count. Clara knew it was in London that she had developed an addiction to sex.

Occasionally she wished she could control it, and in Toby
’s case, she did. He was nice and he was hurt. Most of the men she slept with didn’t deserve her sympathy. There were rich businessmen who treated girls as trophies. There was Tim, who had so little respect for women she couldn’t give a stuff about him. There were a couple of family friends who were out-and-out playboys, and although in the past they had asked Clara to marry them and promised to give up the wild lifestyle, she knew they didn’t mean it. There were strangers. Now there was Toby. Toby was sweet, Toby was her friend, and now she was feeling guilty. Clara’s one foray into unrequited love had taught her how it hurt. But although she often hated herself for hurting people, she knew she couldn’t control her addiction.

There were only two ways she could resolve the problem with Toby. One, she could have a relationship with him, which didn
’t appeal to her, or two, she could find him a new girl to lust after. Her eyes lit up. She would find someone to make Toby happy again. Then she would be rid of the guilt.

Clara decided to talk to Alexandra Poole, a secretary she liked. She was blonde and pretty, and ideal for Toby. She walked over to Alex
’s desk and told her that she had heard Toby was interested in her. Alex looked over at him and proclaimed him “cute”. Clara persuaded her to e-mail him and ask him out.

The plan worked perfectly, Clara watched as, that afternoon, Toby left his seat, went to Alex
’s and obviously arranged the date. Clara hoped she would be invited to the wedding.

At six she left her desk and made her usual evening visit to the ladies
’ loo on the accounts floor. She had her fix, went back to grab her bag, said goodbye to everyone and skipped out of the door.

As she arrived at Claridges to meet her parents, she was still in good spirits. She walked into the bar and straight away saw her immaculate mother. She was wearing a cream suit, probably Chanel, her dark hair was streaked with light brown, a Chanel handbag sat on the table, and Clara knew instinctively that she was wearing matching shoes. The same pearl jewellery that Clara received on birthdays and at Christmas decorated her throat, wrist and ears. Clara thought her mother dressed predictably, like all middle-aged rich women. Her father sat opposite her mother, looking tall, grand and grey. They were both sipping champagne.

Clara took a deep breath and approached them. “Mummy, Daddy. How are you?” She kissed them both and sat down.

“
Fine, darling. You look tired – do you think she looks tired, Paul?”

“
You do look tired, Clara. It’s all this work nonsense.” He poured her a glass of champagne. Clara knew what was coming next. “I’ve decided to give you a bigger allowance.”

“
But, Daddy, I don’t need one. I’ve got my fund interest and my wages.”

Her parents tutted.
“That’s my point. If you have a bigger allowance, you won’t need wages.” Her father smiled, her mother smiled, and Clara knew that she didn’t need wages anyway.

“
And, darling, I know you think you look professional in your suit, but you can wear suits to lunch too, you know,” her mother pointed out.

Clara wondered how such a stupid woman could have conceived her and James.
“I like my job,” she protested, although she cringed when she thought about telling them how she had got it, or how she kept it.

“
Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t send you to finishing-school to become a career woman. Look at your mother. At your age, she was married with James. You should be thinking about doing the same,” her father growled.

Clara was always pleased to see her brother, but never more so than at that moment. James strode confidently to their table, shook his father
’s hand, kissed his mother then his sister, sat down and poured some champagne. Clara envied him. Envied and loved him. He was tall, good-looking, sweet, bright and hard-working. He was also male.

The conversation soon turned to business, as James and his father debated the future, the past and the present. Clara sipped her drink and watched her mother, who had cultivated the perfect wife qualities. She was decorative, classy and, most of all, she had an intent look of interest on her face as the men talked business, even though it was not only boring but double-dutch to her. If her mother understood a word of what was being said, Clara would eat her fur coat.

Eventually she had had enough. “Do you want to hear how my business is?” she asked, trying to get her father’s attention and to sound important.

“
Of course,” James replied.

“
No,” her mother said.

“
Clara, I wish you’d stop pretending and give up that silly job of yours,” her father said.

Clara beamed at them and excused herself to go to the ladies
”, where she put a much-needed line of cocaine up her nose.

As the powder hit, the sensation took away the desire to scream, and replaced it with calm. Nothing mattered. Everything was under control. She could handle it. She knew her parents only wanted her to turn into a carbon copy of her mother; she knew they would never appreciate that she needed something of her own. She herself could barely understand it. She was doted on, adored, lusted after and wanted. No one had ever expected anything from her so she didn
’t know what she should expect from herself. She knew she didn’t want to end up as her parents wanted her to, but she was also dangerously close to it. Her parents thought she was too pretty, rich and stupid to work. She hated the thought that they were probably right: that being pretty and rich had got her the job, and although she denied that she was stupid, she didn’t understand what she did.

At finishing-school her teachers, who had all loved Clara, were bitterly disappointed that, unlike her mother, she had been so uninterested in their classes. She had not learnt to play a musical instrument, or the art of dressing a dinner table and she certainly couldn
’t cook. They felt she was useless.

Clara
’s father had been upset. He had wanted the school to turn Clara into a good marriage prospect, and he belonged to a generation who believed that women should have talents. Brazenly Clara told him that she would hire a cook, a table-dresser and a musician. To which her father replied that women had to oversee their staff and if they could not do their jobs, they would not know how to supervise them. Clara replied that she would marry a man with no class who would never know, and her father said she was a waste of space. The row was never resolved. Clara’s mother watched them, fiddling with her pearls and never quite catching Clara’s eye. Eventually Clara stormed out, went to find James and cry in his arms.

That was how Clara had sunk into her confusion. She moved into a three-bedroom flat in South Kensington, which her father had bought her after a particularly nasty row. From the moment she started living there Clara loved London. She caught up with old friends and made new ones. She discovered the joy of parties, shopping, drugs and men. Clara
’s life involved being out all night, sleeping all day and occasionally going for lunch with friends. She had a different man every night, and every night she was at a party or a club, and she was as high as a kite. She did what her parents expected her to do.

Her parents thought this was a good development. She was mixing in the right circles and would find a suitable husband. They were pleased she was having fun; a girl in her position was expected to settle down in a couple of years. (Clara
’s father was of the mind that as he was so rich and successful, he should choose Clara’s husband. It irritated him that arranged marriages were no longer acceptable.)

Clara soon tired of this lifestyle. She had been through most of the men in her circle, and the girls were getting on her nerves. All they talked about was hooking Britain
’s most eligible bachelors (and Clara had already slept with all of them), shopping and doing the season. Clara wanted more from her life and decided to get a job.

As Clara
returned and sat down again, her parents were making moves to go out to dinner. They left Claridges and went to the Ivy, her parents” favourite restaurant. Clara didn’t touch her food, or speak much. Her father was questioning James on the business again as her mother twirled her pearls. Clara thought the whole thing was so painful and felt freshly determined that, whatever she did, she would not turn into her mother. Even if it meant that she would have to learn how to do her job. At that moment, Clara realised that having a job was not going to make her successful, but being good at it would.

When dinner was over, her parents went home in their chauffeur-driven Bentley, while Clara jumped into James
’s Ferrari, and revelled in the envious stares of a couple of passing females. Not only was the car hot, her brother was too.

“
Clara, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” James asked.

Clara pouted.
“Nothing. I don’t know what you mean.”

“
Look at you. You’re jittery, you hardly said two words this evening and you didn’t even argue with Dad. That’s not like you.”

“
I couldn’t be bothered and, anyway, we had our usual row before you arrived. Look, James, I’m tired, I’m working hard, and the parents think I should just get a twinset and find a suitable bridegroom. God, the thought of turning into Mother makes me feel sick. The woman is a walking tomb.”

“
That’s my mother you’re talking about. And you’ll never be like her, you’re a career girl.” James smiled at her proudly. He was pleased with the way Clara had proved herself at SFH and been promoted. He would probably have crashed his Ferrari into the nearest wall if he knew how she had got the promotion.

“
Jamie, she’s a zombie and Daddy’s a pig. They aren’t the faintest bit interested in me. All they care about is how successful
you
are, and how
I
can’t boil an egg. Christ, I really don’t know why I don’t just excommunicate them. They make me feel so unloved and so fucking inadequate.”

“
Well, I know you’re none of those things. Listen, when you’re ready you can come and work with me. We’ll be the best brother-and-sister team the business has ever seen.”

“
Daddy will never allow it.”

“
Daddy will have no choice,” James said, as he pulled up at Clara’s house. He jumped out of the car, opened her door and kissed her on both cheeks.

“
Love you, Jamie,” Clara said.

“
Love you too,” he replied, got back in and drove off.

Clara let herself into her flat, dropped the keys on the floor, pulled off her coat and kicked her shoes at the wall. She felt desolation welling up. She felt the walls closing in on her – life closing in on her. She ran to the bedroom, fell on the bed and sobbed uncontrollably. She always ended up that way after a Hart family dinner.