Cause Celeb (65 page)

“Bloody load of hogwash,” roared Barry. “Errant, woolly-minded, self-indulgent, and
poorly enunciated.
Absolutely crazy.”

“Don't, my darling, don't,” said Dinsdale. “I absolutely can't
beaaaar
it when you get like this. The boy looked divine and you know it. Those rrrobust little thighs silhouetted thrrrrough sodden, clinging, heavenly rrrrobes. Oh, look, there's that
divine
young Indian, writer poetry chappie,” said Dinsdale, spotting Rajiv Sastry stomping towards them, shoulders hunched in his Oxfam overcoat.

“How are you, darling boy?” shouted Dinsdale flirtatiously.

“Fucking angry, actually,” said Rajiv. “Sends me tickets to the show then doesn't invite me to the fucking party. Fucking classist unnecessary manipulative—”

“But, my darling boy, do not fret! You must come as my escort. What in the
world
could be more charming?!”

Dinsdale feigned surprise as a pair of elderly ladies asked him for an autograph. “My autograph? But I would be honored, I would be thrilled, I would be delighted. Bless you, my darlings. But surely you would like to ask my distinguished friend and colleague here too? Barry Rhys?”

“Oh, for God's sake, you bloody fool,” thundered Barry, furious. “You've been doing this to me for forty bloody years. It wasn't funny the first time and it's not funny now. I'm going to the bloody party.”

“Hello, Dinsdale! How are you?” I said when the ladies had gone.

“Hello, my darling, what can I do for you?” He turned to me, expecting an autograph.

“Rosie Richardson,” I said.

He looked at me blankly for a second.

“Rosie Richardson. Ah, er . . . I used to do your publicity at Ginsberg and Fink?”

He threw open his arms and grasped me in a theatrical embrace. “My darling, how
maaaa
rvelous to see you! You look wonderful.” He still didn't remember. “And have you met the most gorgeous, the most talented boy in the whole world?” he said, gesturing vaguely towards Rajiv.

“How are you, Rajiv?” I said.

“Great. Yeah. It's going really well. We've got the first read through on Thursday.”

“What did you think of that
maaaa
rvelous show? Wasn't it simply the most divinely, exquisitely outrrrrageous thing you have evah, evah seen? Of course, my darlings. Bless you. Who is it to?”

Another old lady was asking him for an autograph.

“Lovely to see you, my precious,” he said in a tactful dismissal, over her shoulder. “Bless you.”

“Bye,” I said, obediently, with a sinking heart. Dinsdale had been one of my big hopes. I made my way over to Julian, who was still standing in the entrance to the theater, anxiously rubbing the portable phone against his chin. A young girl in leggings and a bomber jacket was about to corner him, holding out a notepad.

“You really cheer us up, right?” she was saying. “It's like when you're on, like, everything seems, like, really funny, right? Like, no worries, right?”

He caught sight of me over her shoulder. “Janey just doesn't understand that I have to be whole within myself before I can form a relationship,” he wailed. “But hang on.” He started dialing the number again.

I took the phone from him. “Let's go to the party,” I said.

“Hey, thanks, right?” said the girl, looking puzzled.

*

“Awesome to make himself spiritually naked in that way. I was humbled, genuinely.”

“Totally lost it . . . end of his career . . . like, I really love that man.”

“Veree, veree rare to see that kind of raw courage on stage.”

“What an asswipe.”

“I mean, what do you say to the guy?”

The walls of the banqueting room in the Café Royal were lined with stands selling New Age merchandising, crystals, runes, feather items. A Perspex pyramid was suspended on wires above one of the most spectacular Famous Club turnouts I had ever seen.

“I don't know where to start,” I said to Julian. “Who do you think I should ask?”

“The thing is, it
is
very nourishing when we're together,” Julian replied, “very nourishing. But then, I wonder, why do I need this support in my life?”

We had been talking about Janey since Julian rang my doorbell, only interrupted by
The Healing of the Chakra Energies.
Janey had a baby now. She had discovered she was pregnant just after they had split up. Julian had insisted on calling the child Irony. My efforts to bring up the crisis in eastern Nambula had been met with distracted stares.

“Oh, my angel!”

Heads turned as Kate Fortune fell on a young girl holding a baby, threw back her hair, seized the baby, and cradled it in her arms. Flashguns flashed, cameras clicked, the paparazzi surrounded her in a scrum.

“It's Romanian,” said Julian. The phone rang. “Excuse me a minute. I'll catch you up later,” and he scurried off into a corner.

I spotted Corinna Borghese curling her lip at Gloria Hunniford's back, running her hand over her spiky head. Let Corinna try to do her patronizing right-on number on me now, I thought. I wasn't just Oliver's bit of stuff anymore. I'd done things.

I made my way over to her.

“Hi, Corinna. How are you?”

She peered at me. “Sorry? Have we met?”

“Rosie Richardson.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Hi. Haven't seen you around for a while.”

“No. Been in Nambula actually, working in a refugee camp,” I said airily.

Corinna tossed her head. “Oh, God, not more neocolonialism. Do you realize we're on the brink of a third world war because of these patronizing Western attitudes to the Arab states?”

“Excuse me. Do you mind?” Kate Fortune was trying to get past me, with the nanny following on, holding the baby.

“Hello. How are you?” I said.

“I'm sorry?” She flicked back her hair and looked at me, distracted.

“Rosie Richardson. I used to . . . be with Oliver Marchant,” I finished lamely.

“Oh, oh. Yes, of course,” she said doubtfully. “I know, isn't she gorgeous? I brought her over here from Romania, as I expect you've—I can't tell you how she's changed my life. How are you? I'm sorry I'm just trying to find my—”

“I'm fine. Listen, have you got a minute? I wanted to ask you about an appeal I'm trying to organize for Africa.”

“Of course. If you talk to my agent she'll send you something, now I'm sorry I have to find—”

“No, the thing is, I've been working in a refugee camp and we've got a problem and I'm wanting to get everyone together to do a fund-raising program and I wondered—”

“Well, I'm really putting all my energy into Romania now, with the baby and so on, but if you talk to my agent . . .”

“But it's a real emergency.”

“Sweetie, give my agent a ring in the morning and I'm sure you know . . . Anyway, lovely to see you again.
Really
good to see you. Ciao.”

I turned back to find Corinna staring at me. This was going to be harder than I'd thought.

“Mmmmmm. Give me a hug, my darling. Give me a hug.” Richard Jenner's wiry little body thrust itself against me. “Now, darling. What was your name again? Tell me, remind me.”

“Rosie Richardson, I met you when I was with Oliver.”

“Of course. Of course. You were the girl who was sick on the table! Hahaha. Let me get you a drink. Don't throw up this time, will you? Hahaha! What did you think of Bill? Isn't it just garishly tragic? Paul and Linda are here. Have you seen? Over there. No, look over there. Oh, my God, there's Neil and Glenys. We must say hello. Come along.”

He seized my hand.

“I need to talk to you,” I said. “The last few years I've been working in a refugee camp in Africa and we've suddenly got a famine on our hands. No one seems able to help us.” He was pulling me along towards Neil and Glenys.

“I'm listening, I'm listening, keep talking.”

“No, stop a minute.”

Richard stopped and turned around.

“It's urgent. It's why I've come back to England. I need some help from . . . you and the people here that you know,” I finished lamely. I was starting to feel a bit of a fool.

“What kind of help? Are you looking for money, or what is it that you want help with?” His eyes were flicking towards Neil and Glenys, who were moving away.

“We need money but more than that we need publicity. I want to do a TV appeal—maybe take some people out to Africa.”

He caught hold of my arm. “Look around the room. No, just look, darling. Look around the room.”

I looked.

“You see Kate Fortune over there with the baby.”

I nodded.

“Romania. Dave and Nikki Rufford?—rain forests. Hughie?—Terrence Higgins Trust. Benefit show on Friday. I'll give you a check, my darling. I'll gladly give you a check. Call my office in the morning and they'll sort something out. But a benefit? No, darling. No. Unless you've got months and months to do it properly. No. It'll crater. Completely crater. No. Anneka! Give me a hug, sweetie. Mmmm, mmmm.” He winked at me over Anneka's shoulder. “Call my office in the morning, darling. I'll let them know.”

This was awful. I decided to head for the stands at the edge of the room to give me something to pretend to be doing, then try to find Julian. I was almost at the edge of the room and then, through a clear parting in the sea of heads, I found myself looking straight at Oliver.

His head jolted back as if he had stopped suddenly. We stared at each other like rabbits caught in headlights. Then the crowds closed in again and he disappeared. I turned to the stand beside me, shaken, and pretended to look at the crystals, feather items and leaflets. “In-terior design with FENG SHUI,” offered one. I picked up another, which said, “FASTING WALKS AS A ROUTE TO PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT.” I suddenly had to get out of the room.

I pushed my way out through the throng, and into the cool and
quiet of the ladies' loos. I found myself a cubicle, locked the door, put the seat down and sat on it. Then I heard the door open outside and someone come in.

“Have you seen that girl's back?” It was Corinna's street-cred drone.

“Oh, you mean that girl who used to be with Oliver,” came the sugary tones of Kate Fortune. “Isn't it embarrassing, poor thing?”

“Crippling. Like, anyone would think she's the first person to go and work in a relief camp.”

“Oh, it's a complete nightmare. You know, you want to help, but really . . . one can't do everything.”

“Quite. And, like, talk about Roberta Geldof. I mean puh-lease.”

After they'd gone, I sat staring at the cubicle door for a long time, traumatized. I could see how they felt. Arrive at a first-night party and some git you hardly remember turns up with a suntan and starts demanding shifts in your diary. A vision of the camp came flooding over me: O'Rourke's advice, the refugees on their way. Debbie, Henry, Betty, Muhammad, waiting to see what I could do. And it wasn't going to work.

I went out feeling anguished, and stupid, and looked for Julian. I couldn't find him. I decided the best thing to do now was go home. I had just put on my coat and was walking towards the stairs when Oliver emerged from the gentlemen's cloakroom. He was the same—the face had filled out a little, the hair was a touch longer, but the same.

“Rosie!” He came towards me, smiling, poised, charming, no sign of the earlier loss of composure. “You look wonderful.” He bent to kiss me and the familiar Oliver scent, the dark stubble on his cheek, the lips just touching mine, set off the old chemical alert. Atoms and particles started rushing around, WARNING! WARNING! All systems to throb again.

Oh, no, I thought. Oh, no. Not this. Not now. Not still. Please, no.

I moved a few feet away. “Hello.” Unnatural squeak. I cleared my throat. “Hello,” I said, in a very deep voice now. “How are you?”

“Plumpkin,” he said, and folded me in his arms. “I've missed you so much. How was Africa?”

He was all tenderness. We caught up. I told him why I was here.

“. . . and so the upshot was there was nothing more I could do out there, I'd tried every single thing I could think of. This seemed like the only option left.”

His eyes were kind. He was biting his bottom lip and putting his head on one side sympathetically. “You're right,” he said simply. “We should do something.”

I looked at him in astonishment, my mind racing. He must have changed. If Oliver was willing to help, then I could probably pull off the appeal. He was the one person I knew I ought to avoid, and he might turn out to be my best chance.

“What do you need?”

“An airlift. Two, three airlifts if possible, maybe more.”