About Last Night - Chapter 4
"You must wonder why, in the end, I go to the party. I wish I had an answer for every stupid decision I’ve made in my life."
Catch-up on Chapter 1, Chapter 2, and Chapter 3.
December, 2017
I’m drinking my way through my cupboard (which, disappointingly, consists of half a bottle of Metaxa and an expired bottle of eggnog), trying to decide on an excuse not to go to Amy’s New Year’s Eve party. I even google “how to lie your way out of party” until the screen becomes fuzzy.
As the alcohol softens my resolve, I tell myself that, despite the tangle of feelings I’ve been busy repressing since she called my name, there is something comforting about having Amy back in my life. I feel less fragmented around her. Besides, what pulled us apart happened a very long time ago, the memory of it yellowed like the edges of an old photograph, I continue, daring to think that maybe we can do this. Maybe we can pick our friendship up from where we’ve left it. But then, on second thought, the unresolved mess of it all still feels like a freshly-applied punch in the gut.
You must wonder why, in the end, I go to the party. I wish I had an answer for every stupid decision I’ve made in my life.
When my Uber arrives, I struggle to get in. The driver lets out an audible sigh and helps me into the back seat. He mentions, pulling out into the traffic, that there’s a phone charger in the back and a bottle of water. I say no, thank you to both. We drive in silence for a while, while I entertain the thought that maybe Amy’s fiancee and his party don’t exist, and instead, Amy is staging an intervention. Maybe I want her to, I think, as my eyes become droopy and I begin to drift off.
The driver shakes me awake. ‘We’re here, Miss.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I say, attempting to exit the car, but failing majestically and landing on all fours. Upon inspection, I note that the heel of my sandal had gone bust, and I am pretty sure I’ve twisted my ankle. I have also grazed both my knees.
Amy, having appeared out of nowhere, rushes to inspect my injury. ‘Damn it, Helena,’ she snaps, no doubt smelling the fumes of alcohol on my breath. ‘We need to put some ice on this ankle and some antiseptic on your knees.’ Then looking at my busted sandal. ‘And get you some proper shoes to wear.’
‘But this…’ I cry as I fumble for words to describe how my chiffon dress can only co-exist with the sandals I am wearing. ‘This…’ I take a deep breath and finally conjure Carrie Bradshaw to the rescue. ‘This is an outfit.’
‘Not anymore,’ sighs Amy and props me up. ‘Wait here,’ she says as she climbs the narrow set of stairs to the front door and starts rumbling through an outside cabinet.
She finds a pair of orange trainers and makes me wear them. They are at least one size bigger, and I complain about it. ‘Not to mention this ghastly colour,’ I add, scrunching my face with disgust.
‘Be happy they’re not a size smaller. Or we would have had to cut off your toes, Cinderella,’ she says. I can tell she’s pissed off with me, but it’s entirely her fault I am here.
‘It was the Ugly Sisters who cut up their feet, not Cinderella,’ I moan, as I put on the trainers and stand up.
She sits there, tense. We’ve always had this gap between us. Amy even told me once, a long time ago, that she was an Ugly Duckling next to me, but I never saw it. We’re all people, beautiful in more ways than one. Mentioning the Ugly Sisters was not a good move, but my sober self is not here to reprimand me.
My ankle hurts, but I can actually stand on both legs if I lean on my good foot. It’s probably only a minor sprain. Amy insists on putting some ice on it as she opens the door to the flat.
‘Here we are,’ she says, and it’s like stepping into a John Lewis Christmas advert. Bright warm colours, the smell of conifers, mistletoe, decorations, a fire crackling in the fireplace and the aroma of mulled wine. I am hardly surprised when an angel appears out of nowhere.
‘This must be Helena,’ he says, extending a hand towards me.
The angel is called Christopher. He tells me so as he shakes my hand with his divine fingers. He’s dressed in a simple grey sweater and jeans and towers above Amy and me. First, I thinks he is hovering above the floor as angels do, but he is, in fact, over 6 feet tall. His face is angelic, too. Thick brown eyebrows frame the slits of his jade eyes, and his blond hair is gelled and combed back. On second thought, maybe he is not an angel but a very tall elf. Minus the pointy ears and bow and arrow, he is Legolas.
I am unable to do anything other than smile stupidly.
‘Helena had an accident on her way here and sprained her ankle. We need to get her some ice,’ says Amy, snapping me out of my reverie.
‘I’ll bring the ice,’ says Angel/Elf/Christopher. ‘You, girls, get cosy by the fire.’
The living room is huge, and it features a green velvet sofa with tasseled cushions, an ochre carpet, scented candles and a freakish sculpture of a Michelangelo’s David with a Darth Vader mask. If it were up to me, I’d have rolled out the ochre carpet before the party. Lord knows red wine loves finding its way into expensive, light coloured things, and I have a few ruined Ted Baker dresses to prove it.
‘Are you ok?’ asks Amy, seeing me slumped on the sofa.
‘Great sofa,’ I slur, running my fingers on the rich fabric.
‘Pudding, can you also make a large coffee?’ she shouts at Christopher, whose machinations in the kitchen can be heard over the crackling of the fire.
‘Coming right up, Carrot Cake,’ the angelic voice responds.
When I half-listened to her elocutions on the subject of Christopher’s charm and dedication with blade-wielding juveniles, I imagined him to be nothing but an awkward geek. And now that I’ve seen him, I am plagued by disbelief. Could he really have fallen for someone like Amy, who’s still going for the Emily Dickinson look with her hair up, in her old-fashioned frock, and, by all accounts, still biting her nails? Her gaze floats around the room, a visible line between her eyebrows.
Christopher appears with a copper tray, carrying a cup of coffee and a bag of ice. ‘Nothing a good strong coffee won’t sort,’ he says, implying that my sobriety has taken a bigger hit than my ankle.
I take the ice and apply it to my suffering joint, under the approving gaze of Amy and Prince Charming. The latter excuses himself. He has one more tray of canapés to finish. My eyes rest on his departing buttocks.
‘What kind of straight man looks like that, makes his own food and owns a velvet sofa?’ I laugh, but Amy doesn’t. Me and my humour, always touching on a nerve. ‘I’m joking,’ I say, desperate to make amends, just as the bell rings. ‘He’s wonderful,’ I continue, but Amy doesn’t hear that part.
She goes to the door, welcoming in a gay couple with a tray full of brownies and matching tops that say ‘Powered by plants’. Their hair is impeccable and they both wear thick-rimmed designer glasses.‘Powered by plants’ is made out of multicoloured sequins, like little girls’ embroidered tops.
‘You look fabulous,’ says one of them, planting a kiss on Amy’s cheek. ‘And look at this delightful vintage dress you’re wearing,’ he says, removing a designer-looking scarf from around his freshly-shaven neck. You can tell there is a lot of hair underneath his clothes by the black dots visible on his skin.
Amy takes his coat and places it on a hanger. ‘Thank you, Pedro. But it’s not vintage,’ she says as she runs a hand down her dress. ‘I made it.’
Pedro emits a sound of excitement. ‘How very delightful,’ he says, taking Amy’s hands into his. ‘I knew Christopher met the right girl the moment I first saw you in that enchanting yellow dress. Did you make that one, too?’
‘Yes,’ says Amy. ‘I make all of my dresses.’
No surprise, I think. No respected high-street shop would sell those frumpies.
‘How delightful,’ he repeats, stuck on delightful like a broken record, and continues in a conspiratorial tone. ‘Between you and me, I’m not sure Emma was as pleased I was. She always said Christopher was her back-up plan if she didn’t get married by thirty. And she’s already thirty-five.’
I think I see a shadow going across Amy’s face, but she resumes her hospitality smile before anyone else notices it. Pedro’s partner is now standing in front of me with a practised smile on his face.
‘Justin, wait for me, honey,’ says Pedro and pushes past Amy, joining us into the living room.
‘And who do we have here?’ says Justin, evaluating me, like I’m a race horse up for auction.
‘Justin, this is Helena. An old friend from school,’ says Amy. Still pissed off with me for joking about Christopher, no doubt.
‘An old friend from school doesn’t capture it, but I’m not entirely sure what we are? Really?’ I say, biting back.
Amy throws me an angry look. Maybe I am pushing her too far.
Justin’s lips curve up, and he raises his drink. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, old friend from school.’
‘Great meeting you too,’ I say, taking a gulp from a large glass of Bordeaux that I suddenly find myself in possession of. The wine travelling down my throat feels like a lover’s embrace, and I need it now that I’ve almost sobered up after Christopher’s nuclear coffee.
‘How come we’ve not seen you before?’ says Justin, narrowing his eyes at me.
‘Helena and I have lost touch for a while,’ says Amy, with a tone that implies she isn’t going to say more on the subject.
‘What do you do?’ says Justin, continuing his interrogation, while I focus on his ever so slightly receding hairline he is not trying to hide yet.
I let out a quiet burp. ‘Excuse me,' I say. The wine is beginning to make me giddy, pleasantly tickling my insides. 'I work in advertising. You?’
‘I am an art dealer,’ says Justin, puffing up his chest.
‘Then why don’t you tell me about this hideous sculpture here,’ I say, pointing at Darth Vader.
‘That, my dear,’ says Christopher with bemused eyes as he materialises from the kitchen, ‘is the most famous sculpture my father ever made.’
The wine goes the wrong way and I start coughing. Christopher taps me on the back of my neck.
‘I’m okay,’ I say with some difficulty and make towards the sofa.
‘Poor darling,’ says Pedro, approaching me cautiously.
‘Thank you for you concern, but I’m perfectly okay,’ I say, coughing one more time to prove the exact opposite.
Amy kneels next to me. ‘Let me check that ankle of yours,’ she says and removes one of the orange hideousness. ‘Don’t embarrass me, please,’ she mutters under her breath, as she massages me and pulls at my ligaments with surprising force.
I raise my gaze towards Christopher, who is leaning against the arm of the sofa, ready to help Amy with her doctoring if required.
‘I’m awfully sorry I judged your sculpture before getting to know it better,’ I say, trying to figure out which of his features make him look so divine. Is it the narrow hooded eyes? The light jade colour of his irises? The thick eyebrows? The strong jaws?
Christopher makes a dismissive gesture. ‘Don’t worry about it. I know it’s not exactly lovable. But it’s worth a lot of money.’ He laughs.
I feel terrible to ask his father’s name. He may be some obscure artist, but I imagine I am expected to know it.
‘Christopher’s father is Douglas Hermann,’ says Amy, letting my ankle go. I groan softly under my breath from the pain she’s just inflicted.
‘Douglas Hermann is your father?’ I say, unable to conceal my surprise. My agency has just bought one of his pieces. They placed this gigantic resin gorilla in the main atrium of the office building and had the official reveal only a few weeks ago. They said something about how it symbolised the next level creativity or some bullshit like that. I don’t remember much else. I’d been at the bar since it opened.
‘Yes, he is my father,’ says Christopher. He puts his hand on Amy’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly. She covers his hand with hers.
I decide not to push the matters further, but I am a little cross with Amy for omitting such an important detail about her beau. I can’t believe she went on and on about his social work and not once thought to mention he is the son of Douglas Hermann, only the most successful modern artist to ever come out of Central Saint Martins. I tell her as much as I hobble after her in the kitchen, on the pretense that I need a glass of water.
‘I didn’t think it was relevant,’ she says, taking out a set of gilded plates from the cupboard.
‘Not relevant?’ I stamp my good foot on the perfectly finished wood floor. ‘Your guy is a millionaire.’ I throw my hands in the air.
‘No, he’s not,’ says Amy. ‘He refuses to take any money from his father.’ She spreads the plates on the counter top.
‘Surely he can’t afford a place like this from his counsellor salary,’ I say. ‘I can barely afford the mortgage to my one-bedroom flat and mine’s a shit hole above a kebab shop.’
‘He has his mother’s inheritance,’ she says, taking a tray from the fridge and placing canapés on the gilded plates. Sushi rolls, salmon blinis, caviar. I watch her, mesmerised. I had no idea she was a domestic goddess. I suppose it shouldn’t come as a shock that someone who makes her own dresses is equally equipped to make her own food. I feel like I have literally just met Amy, though twenty years ago I knew her inside out. We were practically extensions of each other until that awful night. My knees suddenly buckle and I prop myself against the kitchen island.
‘So where is Douglas Hermann now?’ I say, straightening myself up.
‘He lives in Geneva.’
‘Geneva?’ I say, exasperated. ‘Amy?’ I grab her hand, making her drop a sushi roll. ‘Who are these people?’ I look her in the eye, and she holds my gaze defiantly. We used to make fun of people like Clara Ridge, who got driven to school by a chauffeur in a Bentley.
‘I’m not sure I like your tone,’ she says, frowning, and takes her hand away from my grip. She removes a tray of cocktails sausages from the oven, smothers them in honey and turns to me, looking me dead in the eye: ‘You’re not my only friend, you know. We’re not twelve anymore.’
She sprinkles sesame seeds on the drowned sausages and puts a plate in front of me. ‘And don’t forget you’ve lost your right to judge the day you bailed on me. Take these into the living room, please.’
I look at the plate, and feel anger or shame, or both.
‘Go on, then,’ says Amy, shaking her head towards the sausages.
I want to tell her why I left, why I had to leave her and everything behind, but words still fail me. ‘I’m not sure I feel safe dangling sausages in front of the powered by plants duo,’ I say instead.
Amy lets out a snort, and the earlier tension between us dissipates. ‘You’ll be fine. They’re vegetarian sausages,’ she says and pushes me into the living-room as she returns to her sushi rolls.
‘There she is,’ says Christopher, seeing me shuffling in with the tray. ‘Helena, come over, let me introduce you to Patty and John.’
‘Enchanted,’ I says and make a little painful curtsy, assessing the newly arrived. ‘May I offer you a meat-free sausage?’
‘Nah,’ says John, giving Justin a mocking look. ‘I, for one, am powered by animal protein.’ Patty punches him gently on the shoulder.
‘You are the end of the planet, my friend,’ says Justin with a smile, patting John on the back.
‘If you don’t get to it first,’ says John and they both laugh. I gather from their subsequent conversation that Justin’s some kind of an oil heir, as well as an art dealer. Go figure. Now I get the vegan propaganda.
Midnight approaches, and my ankle hurts. Justin has made a powerful punch from which I serve myself earnestly, as the evening progresses. Newly arrived Ross is conspicuously pushed my way. Unfortunately for Ross, he stands no chance. I am past caring about being polite and he has nothing interesting to say. I inform him of both. To make up for it, I extend a few friendly words towards Jenny, a fellow spinster with a pixie haircut and thick-rimmed glasses who has magically manifested next to me. She wants me to know she takes the source of her veal seriously.
‘There’s only one secret to a good steak,’ she says. ‘That the cow has had a happy life.’
I nod, I blink and I drink.
Amy is the perfect hostess, but I see tension in the strained corners of her mouth as she presents plates of mini-tartlets and salmon blinis to her guests. Stop trying so hard to make them like you, I want to scream. If only I can pause the room from spinning for a moment.
‘Seriously, Justin. Are you telling me that you agree with Brexit?’ says Patty, her shrill voice drilling holes into my ear.
‘You know I voted against it, but it is the will of the people after all,’ he says, repeating the mantra that’s been in the news of late.
‘The will of deluded people,’ says John.
‘A politician’s son,’ says Patty with mock disgust.
‘That has nothing to do with it,’ says Justin.
‘I can’t believe it,’ says Patty, turning to John and making fists around the fabric of his sweater. ‘All those days and nights we spent handing out leaflets to stop this disaster from happening, only to be betrayed by friends. Now I know how Caesar felt when he was stabbed in the Senate.’
‘Luckily for you, I left my knife at home,’ quips Justin.
‘Judas,’ says Patty and turns her gaze away, theatrically.
‘I think you mean Brutus,’ smiles Justin and offers her a glass of champagne. She punches him in the shoulder with a crooked grin and asks John to follow her in the kitchen.
There is something about these people I love and hate in equal measure. They may be pompous twats with Eton and ‘Oxbridge’ credentials, but, God help me, I envy them. I have been alone for so long, I have forgotten how it feels to be connected to somebody like that. To be of the same mind, to crack the same jokes, to be accepted for everything that you are, the good, the bad, and the ugly. The only friend I ever had is busy being the perfect hostess in her perfect new world, with her perfect new fiancée, and I am nothing but a blast from the past, a shameful reminder of a something that, like me, she must be trying very hard to forget.
If I listened to reason, I would go home before it’s too late. Instead, I find myself stepping towards Justin and poking him with my empty glass.
‘Why would you care about what happens after Brexit?’ I say. ‘I’m sure your father has seen to the family’s safety in dark times, come what may.’
He indulges me with a smile meant for a child, but the corners of his mouth tense up. ‘You know nothing about my family,’ he says, his voice suddenly serious.
I feel a rush of heat invading my veins. ‘I know enough,’ I say, noticing I am beginning to slur my words. ‘I know that you and your friends will be just fine with your cottages in the Cotswolds and your duplex apartments in Knightsbridge, sipping champagne with Roger Fucking Moore from Chinese vases while the rest of us go down the drain when Brexshit hits the fan.’
Everything is silent except for the constant buzz in my head. Justin has a condescending look on his face. Jenny is frozen mid-way through chewing her tartlet. I hear Patty and John having an argument in the kitchen. A blonde girl who had just entered the room is stifling a giggle, a mountain of a man behind her.
I catch a glimpse of Amy’s face. She looks at me with horror, and I feel sick to the core. I heave once, and I know what’s coming next. A mixture of vegetarian sausages, wine, coffee, punch, eggnog, and cognac all over Christopher’s Darth Vader sculpture, to which I am holding on for dear life.
Stay tuned for Chapter 5 next week!
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