Dog Handling (34 page)

“Bye, guys. Love you all. Couldn’t do without you.” And she vanished into the humid afternoon leaving her troops without a leader, but all secretly relieved because they’d been wondering all day how they could broach the subject of her hair. Which was, to say the least, not the best.

The evening sun left only a glow on the golden sandstone walls of the church, and after the taxi driver stopped to let Liv and Alex out he wolf-whistled them and they turned and curtseyed to him.

“Good on ya, girls!” he called out as he drove away.

A man walking his dog on the other side of the street got himself into a bit of a huff because while he didn’t mind the gays moving into his street if they were professionals and worked in advertising and the like, he did object if they came lowering the tone with their frocks and women’s clothing and such. But thankfully Liv and Alex only looked like transvestites from a distance to shortsighted old men. Up close they were divine. Made in Barbara Taylor-Bradford Land Lingerie Queens of all the knickers they created. They walked arm in arm along the candle-lined path towards the church with their hair high and expectations soaring.

“Do you think there are many people there yet?” Liv asked nervously as a taxi pulled up to the curb and two black-twined women with Dior bags stepped out.

“They might just be going to a dinner party down the road,” Alex muttered as they kept walking bravely towards the door of the church.

“No, they’re coming here. Help.” Liv’s kitten heels clicked
FEAR
in Morse code on the path. “Are you okay now?” Liv asked Alex as the Dior bags shuffled cautiously behind them. Well, they’d heard of some outré venues, but this one? This one took the low-fat biscuit and no mistake.

“I’ll survive. Then tomorrow I’ll have a nervous breakdown. But Laura was sweet and said some really useful things this afternoon,” Alex said, and Liv wished she’d persuaded Laura to have a pyre for her self-help manuals this morning so that they wouldn’t be handed down to her best friend. Who would swiftly become her ex–best friend if she so much as mumbled the word
closure
in her sleep. “I forgot to ask you what you thought of Tim and,” Alex began, but the Diors had crept up on them and the door of the party loomed large.

“This isn’t some sort of Rocky Gothic Horror party, is it?” the first Dior, who happened to be the chief buyer for an American department store, asked.

“God, I hope not. McQueen had one last week in London. Never want to see another black olive as long as I live.”

The second Dior replied, “By the way, this is the Victoria Loftes show, isn’t it?”

As Liv pushed open the heavy door she detected not a whiff of mildew. Merely an overwhelming draft of Annick Goutal scent gracing the assembled fashion tribe and the low throb of James’s dance music.

“Weellllll,” said the first Dior ambiguously as Liv and Alex stepped among the fray. The room was now a mission statement for Greta’s Grundies: the walls were dreamily awash with views from the Bridge of Sighs, the chestnut trees along the banks of the Seine, and on the back wall above the altar a vision of hell, all red and raw and in flames, and the bar was cleverly disguised as a G-string, which you actually had to lean across if you wanted to be served any number of champagne cocktails. The little bit of leftover accountant in Liv shuddered as she noticed the beautifully clad young women knocking back the booze as though they’d mistakenly read that you should drink at least two litres of champagne a day, rather than the customary mineral water, for clear skin and thin legs. But they did at least seem to be having an amazing time. Charlie had pulled out the stops and brought along every single member of his polo team and a handful of young squillionaires, so the boy–girl dynamic was working out very well. Especially given the high quotient of boys who like girls with thin legs and girls who liked boys to buy them things. The presence of the G-string and alluring red of hell no doubt fuelling the erotic ambience and improving everyone’s chances of pulling. So far Liv hadn’t seen a single person she recognised, but she took that as a good sign.

“Drinks methinks,” Alex said as she led Liv towards the bar.

“For sure It’s going well, isn’t it?”

“It’s what the Americans call a fanny bumper,” Alex said. “Why don’t you go and circulate and I’ll bring your drink over.”

“Okay,” Liv said reluctantly. Circulate? She didn’t know anyone and these people probably had no desire to have her crash their conversations about what happened last night at the International or who was dressing Nicole Kidman for the Oscars.

“Liv, this is awesome.” It was Amelia, looking stunning. Looking so good that Liv would contemplate taking her home tonight, not to mention what every man in the room wanted to do with her. Her skin shimmered in that damp modelly way that Liv remembered was always described as dewy. Her hair had sheen; she reflected light and beauty like a human sequin.

“You look great,” Liv said simply.

“Thanks.” Amelia inhaled the compliment. “So what’s all this about Rob and Alex splitting up?” Amelia asked without bothering to lower her voice even though Charlie’s soap star was standing inches away from them, chatting into her mobile as usual.

“Who told you about Rob and Alex?” Liv asked, thinking erroneously that she was the only person in the world to share in the secret, not just of their breakup but of their affair.

“Oh, you know I knew. I told Alex that he was the best bloody catch in Sydney. She’s a fool if she gives him up,” Amelia said as she scanned the room for the photographer.

“You meant Charlie was the best catch in Sydney, didn’t you?” Liv whispered.

“Did I buggery. Jesus, he’s got ears like the World Cup. No, Rob’s the man; he’ll make a great father, too.”

“Yeah, but he’s not exactly, well, rolling in it, is he?” Liv tried to be tactful, but she thought that Amelia was bright enough to realise why Rob wasn’t going to be the husband and father that Alex needed. “And the thing is that Alex has these family reasons for needing to be—”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you? Robbie not rich enough. Where did you get that from?” Amelia had to hold onto her glass for support as she shook with laughter.

“Well, he can’t make much money as a stable hand, can he?” Liv said, lowering her voice even further as she saw Alex approaching with the drinks.

“Stable hand.” Amelia clearly thought this the best joke since Bill Clinton and nearly fell off her heels.

“What’s so funny?” Alex approached, a smile stretched across her face, but there were visible signs of sadness; she looked tired and older than usual.

But before Liv could divulge all, Amelia was snapped up by the photographers who wanted to take her picture next to the G-string, so she never got to share her mirth with Alex.

“Have you spoken to Ben yet?” Alex asked as she and Liv clinked glasses on their venture and the minor triumph that was not having to host the party in a room full of rats and bats . . . though given the assembled photographers and fashion hags . . .

“I’ll go and say hello when he’s stopped talking to that girl over there,” said Liv.

“I’d go over now if I were you, Livvy. That girl’s Helena Christensen.” Liv looked over and, indeed, resting her arm lightly on Ben’s was another dewy temptress. Lord, the world was peppered with them.

“Well, I suppose I should just say a casual hello so people don’t suspect.” She looked over at him all crisp in his white shirt and the casual way he was chatting but not leering at Helena and her heart simply soared. She felt light and happy and awash with warmth. If not love. “I suppose if I completely ignore him that’ll look even more suspicious,” she said while praying for an instant five-inch height spurt. By the time she’d arrived at Ben’s right elbow it still hadn’t been granted, so she stood on tiptoes instead and smiled warmly at Helena.

“Hi, Liv. Great party,” Ben said, and winked at her discreetly.

“Thanks. I’ll see you around then.” She was shaking and could think of nothing else to say. She swore he was laughing at her nervousness but felt she’d already overstepped the mark. But what the hell, she leaned over and patted his arm. “Good to see you,” she added. She knew she’d be rendered asthmatic at her obviousness tomorrow, but right now she was, if not the Greta of Greta’s Grundies, then at least the power behind the pants. And tonight she looked the part—she’d washed the sand out of her hair for once and was swathed in a long pale blue dress, her hair was pulled up into a froth of curls, and her lips were a very kissable ruby colour. Not bad for a lass from just outside Basingstoke, basically.

“You look beautiful,” Ben whispered as Helena turned to grab a canapé.

“Thanks. So I’d better mingle, I suppose.” She smiled.

“I’ll see you later. I really can’t wait,” he added before she walked away with all the conviction of a yo-yo. Leaving a boyfriend-to-be alone with a supermodel was never going to be the highlight of any girl’s evening.

So Liv had used up her can-only-be-seen-together-in-public-before-people-begin-to-talk allowance of forty-five seconds and would now have to spend the rest of the evening circumnavigating Ben as if he were a globe or the South Pole. Something to be avoided lest she crashed. But that didn’t matter, as she needed to be networking or something very eighties like that. Wasn’t everyone in the room supposed to be wondering who the business brain behind this starkly original lingerie line was?

“You are positively a wunderkind, darling. It’s a genius idea,” a gravelly fashion voice declared.

“You took the words out of my—” Liv turned and smiled a flashing smile of success at the voice.

“Thanks, but you know it’s a piece of piss really. Just godda do a little drawing and run the thing up on the sewing machine. Nothing to it,” Amelia was saying as she lapped up the praise graciously. Liv looked at her own pinpricked hands, a monument to struggle; each bikini she’d sewn with her bare hands was a triumph over unlikeliness. The accountant turned designer. Not an everyday tale of modern transformation.

“Well, I think it’s fantastic. We’d love to put a photo of you at the loom or whatever on the cover of next month’s issue, your hair kind of a bit skewiff from a night of toil but the glow of achievement in your cheeks. You know what I mean,” said the voice.

“Yeah, right.” Amelia grinned vacantly and Liv wept inwardly. Christ, she had the ego of a designer now, too.

To distract herself from the grisliness of Amelia and a roomful of untenably thin, gleaming girls, Liv headed over to the music corner where James and his decks were keeping everyone’s hips swaying.

“Not a bad do, sweetheart.” Tonight James was Shirley Bassey. His big wig and dazzling dress had already prompted one young designer to come and ask him if he’d be in his next show. James had said he’d think about it but was secretly planning his new life tripping in Cindy Crawford’s footsteps: Concorde, hemorrhoid cream for the bags under his eyes, no food. Ever. Just cigarettes. “It’s every suburban girl’s fantasy,” he informed Liv. “But do you think I’ll need a body double for advertising work? Like Claudia?”

“They’d be insane if they insisted on one,” Liv told him honestly.

“Listen, babe, Dave and I are just off to the dunny for a bit of a buzz. Will you look after this stuff for me?” James put a pair of headphones on Liv’s ears and whistled Dave over from across the room.

“What do I do?” Liv yelled too loudly.

“Slip the Fat Boy Slim on next and look cool.” And James and Dave vanished into the loos.

As she stood there looking like a mad hag with her headphones on, Liv tried to spot Ben. Just so she could gaze upon him. Watch him in action. Work up an appetite for the time when they’d be together. But he was nowhere to be seen. Still, at least Helena and Amelia were accounted for in the corner where they appeared to be gazing at their own reflections in each other’s shiny cheeks.

“Here—you first,” James said as he proffered his perfectly chopped lines on the back of the loo.

“Cheers. I’m proud of our girls out there. Doing pretty well, hey?”

“Yeah. So how was Liv’s weekend away?”

“Dunno, I haven’t spoken to her yet, but have you checked out the cheesecake ex-fiancé?” James took his turn. “She swears he doesn’t so much as light her touchpaper anymore, though. Shame.”

“Yeah, well, Amelia’s bloke hasn’t taken his eyes off her all night. How’s that for dog handling? She played the game and reeled him in. And he fell for it, the stupid mutt. I wonder when she’ll tell him he’s been had,” said Dave.

“Personally, I can’t believe he was such a sucker to fall for it. I mean didn’t he see that she was leading him on? I’d have seen it coming from a mile away—all that blowing hot and cold and not returning his phone calls. Do you reckon all straight blokes are so clueless?”

“Dunno. She did have the best tuition, though. I was pretty spot on with all my dog-handling advice—naughty, naughty, bad, bad dog.” Dave laughed.

“I reckon she should lose him soon, though—it’s pretty bad karma to keep him hanging on for too long when she knows she’s just gonna kick him to the curb. Still, it’s been pretty entertaining.”

“Are you gonna have that last line or me?” Dave muttered as he rolled his stash back up and put it in his pocket.

“All yours, mate.”

Outside the toilet cubicle Ben stood stock-still and listened. Then he turned and walked back into the party. Looking for Liv.

In the corner of the room (well, now more the focal point of the room as the voices and emotions scaled new heights) stood Rob, in his usual muddy boots, denim shirt, and moleskins, waving a can of Foster’s around in his hand to emphasise his point.

“Okay, I know that you were only trying to be honest with me and I know that Charlie has so much more to offer you than me, but I love [kind of came out as “lubb,” but everyone knew what he was getting at] you, Alex.”

“What’s going on, mate? You all right?” Charlie had approached Rob now and was trying to placate him. Liv looked for Alex, but she was attempting to crawl behind a Paris in the Springtime mural.