Ralph's Party (30 page)

It had been hard at first, getting his attention. 'Come on/ she'd wanted to shout at him, 'come over here, take a look at a real woman, look at what you're missing -you can have me, I'm yours. I promise you, you'l never look back, never be happy with a fat woman again.' But

to no avail. He looked at her, he smiled, he said 'Morning' when they passed in the entrance or on the street, but he didn't 'notice'

her. And the more he didn't notice, the more she wanted him. It became almost an obsession, deciding what to wear in the mornings, listening out for the slam of his front door, ensuring that their paths crossed at least once a day. She'd folowed him once, wondering where he went every evening at six o'clock in his Hawaian shirts and peg trousers, and had discovered that he taught a dance class. At last, a connection, a way in. She could jive, her father had taught her when she was a little girl. She'd waited until the class finished and then folowed him home again, coliding with him at the front door and engineering a conversation towards an invitation to join his next class.

Even then it had been hard. She'd turned up every Tuesday and summoned every ounce of her passion to inject into the childish steps of the dance, ensuring that she always partnered Karl, that every move she made shouted
'sex?,
lassoing him with her eyes, hooking him with a grind of her hips, and smiling, always smiling.

But stil, nothing. He would compliment her on her dancing, express his gratitude that at last he had a partner who had a true appreciation of Ceroc, buy her a beer, walk her home afterwards.

But nothing. Siobhan this, Siobhan that, he talked about her al the time and eventualy she understood that if she wanted Karl she would have to take him. So she did. But she'd soon tired of him.

And now he was famous -rich and famous. And where was her credit, her glory? Where would Karl be now if it hadn't been for Cheri? Just another low-profile, anonymous D J on local radio, that's where.

It wasn't fair. Al her life Cheri had dreamt of fame had dreamt of being a prima balerina, until she'd sud-denly shot up to five foot ten and realized that she wasn't going to be the next Margot Fonteyn, she wasn't going to be showered with roses and pursued by milionaires. And as far as she was concerned, her unwanted growth spurt was the only reason why Darcey 'bitch-face' Bus sel had ever made it; it should have been her.

It wasn't right that Karl was famous and she wasn't. that she received no recognition, stuck in the chorus line of undistinguished musicals in London's less dazzling theatres while Karl was partying it up with celebrities al over town. She was twenty-six, talented and beauti-ful, but she wouldn't be for ever - it would be too late one day; she'd be old and ugly and her chance would have gone.

The more Cheri thought about Karl and his sudden fal into the lap of celebrity, the more she wanted to take up her role. She was, after al, the woman referred to constantly in interviews with Karl, in newspaper articles, she
was
that 'disposable woman'. In a way, she was famous already - famous for being a marriage wrecking bitch from hel.

And, then, one day the previous week, she'd had a sudden revelation. She'd been watching something on the tely, about a woman who regretted her part in breaking up some relationship or other, so had plotted and planned and brought them back together, and then everyone thought she was wonderful. She could do that!

Of course she could. And then
she
would be famous. And famous for being good, not for being a bitch, famous for bringing Karl and Siobhan back together. She'd be a heroine, everyone would love her. She could already

imagine the stories in the newspapers:
'34- 24- 34 beauty Cheri
said she could bear the guilt no longer, "I never meant to hurt
anyone, "she said today from her Battersea penthouse, "I was
just lonely. All I want now is for Karl and Siobhan to be
happy"'
Cheri knew how the media worked - a griefstricken D J

publicly emptying his soul over the airwaves was great, great press; the unnamed ex-lover suddenly emerging from the woodwork to mend his heart was pure media nectar.

Cheri felt a smal shiver of excitement fizz down her spine - this might just work! Al she had to do was work out the logistics.

Where was Siobhan? How could she contact her? How would she convince her that she had her best interests at heart? It would mean playing the 'nice girl', she realized that, but she reckoned she could pul it off.

Cheri let the curtain drop and curled herself up on the sofa with a mug of fragrant peppermint tea and a bottle of pale-oyster nail polish. She had some thinking to do.

Siobhan had been a wreck when she and Karl had first split up, as the ful realization of what had happened began to sink in. It was over, she and Karl were over, and for the first week she'd done nothing but pul Rosanne to her and cry into her fur. Karl had kept phoning and kept phoning and she'd resolutely refused to take his cals even though a soft, aching part of her heart was desperate to talk to him, to hear his gentle voice and make him feel better. She'd heard his radio show and listened to every single song he'd played for her, sat and hugged her knees in her old bedroom while Karl shared their most intimate memories with half of London. She'd talked to his voice on the radio, hoping that he'd answer back, and when he hadn't she'd cried and cried.

Her mother had tried to reason with her, tried to persuade her to take Karl's cals. It was a mistake darling, she'd said to her, that boy realy loves you, you know that, why can't you give him a second chance Siobhan knew that part of her mother's wish for a reconciliation was an instinctive maternal fear that her daughter would be left on the shelf, that she was thirty six years old and Karl might be her last chance, but she also knew that her mother was talking sense. After the horror of discovering Karl's secret had faded away and she was left, alone, in her draughty old bedroom in her mother's house in Potters Bar, it did occur to Siobhan that Karl should be forgiven, that she could, probably, learn to trust him again, that he did love her as much as she deserved to be loved and that the two of them could repair the damage and stil make a beautiful life for themselves in the flat in Battersea. But something stopped her thought processes from advancing beyond these vague notions, something stopped her from taking his phonecals or picking up the phone or packing her bags and driving back to the flat and saying 'Darling, I'm home.'

She was haunted, haunted by images of Karl, naked and sweating, pumping up and down and in and out of Cheri. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined it, Karl's rump clenching and unclenching, quivering and wobbling, ramming and pounding, driving himself in and out of Cheri, deeper and harder and faster. It made her feel sick. It disgusted her. And try as she might, she couldn't exorcise the image. It was with her every moment of the day, inexorably linked with her thoughts

of Karl, tainting every attempt she made to be reasonable about the whole sorry situation. It was like someone had spilt a bottle of ink over al the wonderful memories she had of Karl and their life together.

So she didn't cal and she didn't go back and she stayed in her room in Potters Bar growing more and more unhappy, waiting, she supposed when she thought about it later, like a princess at the top of the tower, for Karl to come and rescue her. But he didn't. He talked about her to half the entire population of London, about them and their relationship, he tried to talk to her on the telephone. But he didn't come for her.

Then, one Sunday evening, at the end of January, she picked up the phone in her mother's halway and she caled Rick. It was a most unexpected thing to have done. She hadn't realy thought about it, hadn't given herself a chance to feel nervous about what she was doing, she'd just picked up the phone and dialed. She supposed, in retrospect, that she'd needed a lift, an ego boost. Her confidence levels had never been so low, and the only thing that lifted her spirits was the memory of that night in Scotland and the way Rick had looked at her, touched her, made her feel.

She and Rick chatted for half an hour, about how cold it was, about how dreary Potters Bar was, about Christmas and New Year, family and friends, Fulham and food. It was an ordinary conversation, it was ful of smal talk and inconsequentialities, but it was warm and bound together with unspoken words of friendship and caring, and after Siobhan had put the phone down she'd felt better than she'd felt for weeks.

They'd chatted a few more times after that and then, one day in mid-February, Rick had suggested she get

out of Potters Bar for a night, come for a night out in Fulham; he'd take her to the Blue Elephant because she'd mentioned that it was her favourite restaurant, and she could stay at his, in the spare room, of course

It hadn't sounded like a date when he'd suggested it, just an invitation from a friend, worried that another friend was about to die of boredom. He'd come in for a cup of tea and utterly charmed Siobhan's mother. 'What a delightful, delightful young man,' she'd said, with a slightly girlish tone to her voice, 'and so handsome. And fancy driving al the way from Fulham to Potters Bar to pick you up.

Not many men would do that, you know,'

Rick had raved about how much weight Siobhan had lost — which she had; she couldn't eat when she was unhappy and had gone down to a healthy size fourteen. 'Not that you weren't gorgeous before, of course!' he'd smiled. They hadn't talked much in the car on the way into London, just listened to music and grinned at each other a lot. 'It's so good to see you,' Rick kept saying, 'so good.'

And Siobhan had smiled and told him how good it was to see him, too. Which it was. Absolutely wonderful, in fact. He'd put his hand over hers and squeezed it, beaming at her and then beaming to himself.

In retrospect, Siobhan could see that it was realy quite strange.

After al, they didn't realy know each other, had only actualy met once before, but there had just been so much
warmth
between them, they were like old friends. It had felt so comfortable sitting there in the passenger seat of Rick's new BMW, not talking, just listening to music and smiling at each other. It was as if they'd known then that they had al the time in the world, that this was just the beginning.

Rick had parked outside his house and then they'd walked, arms around each other and terribly slowly, like new lovers do, down Fulham Broadway, towards the Blue Elephant. It's easy to gauge the newness of a relationship by how slowly a couple walk together.

Siobhan and Karl had reached the medium canter of the established couple years earlier, their motivation for walking becoming a desire to get from A to B rather than a chance to spend time together.

But even though any passing stranger might have assumed that they were brand-new lovers in the first blissful throes of romance, as far as Siobhan was concerned,
they weren't
on a date. They just weren't. She was stil raw and in pain, and the idea of a date, of getting involved in another relationship was quite out of the question.

She was enjoying Rick's company more than she could possibly have imagined, but she was stil in love with Karl.

Which is why, after the tiny little Thai waitress had taken their order and removed their menus, the first question Siobhan had asked Rick was, 'So, how's Karl?'

Rick had shrugged, wryly. 'You tel me.'

What - haven't you spoken to him?'

Rick shook his head.

'Realy?'

'Of course not. He blames me, doesn't he?'

What for?' Siobhan was confused.

'For you finding out about his affair. Because it was me who gave him
that
tape recorder.'

What?! God, that's so pathetic! So unfair. You didn't make him take it home with him, you didn't make me press the Play button and you
certainly
didn't shove his dick into that slag!' Siobhan looked around her as she

realized that she'd started shouting. 'Sorry/ she said And then she'd started crying. Tm sorry. It's just. .,t just hurts so much.'

Rick had passed her a tissue, made a joke, made ha smile through her tears. He'd ordered champagne and they'd talked al night, about Karl, about Tamsin, about love, about life, about everything.

It was the first chance she'd had to realy talk about her feelings, to put into words the disgust that she felt about what Karl had done with Cheri. None of her female friends were single and they were al Karl's friends, too. She hadn't wanted to put them in an awkward position. But it was different with Rick.
He
was different.

'OK,' Rick had said as they left the restaurant three hours and two bottles of champagne later, 'enough tali-therapy — you need some fun. You need to drink a lot more champagne and get horribly drunk.'

'Oh, Rick, I don't know,' Siobhan had laughed. 'Look what happened last time you and I drank too much champagne together.'

They'd both giggled, but then Rick had turned ' held Siobhan's hands in his and looked into her eyes, 'Siobhan,' he'd said, 'you know how I feel about you. And I have to say that nothing's changed. I stil think you're the most amazing woman. You're ...

you're ... wel, you know. But right now you don't need that of me.

You need a friend. And I realy, realy want to be your friend Hey!'

he smiled, 'I'l be your girlfriend, if you like! I can do that!'

'What?' Siobhan had laughed.

Yeah! Come on. Let's go back to mine, have a couple of Sea Breezes and get tarted up, and then we'l go to a club and see who can pul the ugliest person, and then

we can come home, put on our dressing-gowns and moan about men over a cup of decaff! It'l be excelent!'

So they had. Rick had put on a Boyzone CD, they'd drunk more than a couple of lurid-pink Sea Breezes and danced around his flat together while they got ready, Rick camping it up ridiculously: 'What do you think -does this make my bum look fat? Beige chinos or the khaki chinos - or do they clash with my hair?'

They'd caught a cab to a dive of a club off the New King's Road, ful of foreign-language students, Australians and South Africans, and Rick had ordered them white-wine spritzers at the bar.