Seductive Viennese Whirl (21 page)

When I went back later he was sitting on the sofa all contrite. He said it was just sex. That she meant nothing. That he was sorry. That he would make it up to me.

But I didn't want him to make it up to me. I wanted to chuck him out, except I couldn't because it was his flat. So instead I phoned Eva, packed a small suitcase and called a taxi.

"I'll collect the rest of my stuff later," I said. You can forgive some things, but I couldn't forgive something as big as that. And that's the last time I talked to him, apart from that mumbled exchange back in February. He did try and contact me for a fortnight after I left, but as soon as I knew it was him I'd put the phone down.

"Hey, don't run away," says Ben, like he can read my mind. "This is Kate, and this is Patsy." Of course, her name's Patsy, I told you I'd blanked it out. She extends her hand to shake mine.

"We're engaged," she says, holding up a sapphire ring.

"Congratulations," I say, bile and cream sloshing about in my stomach.

"How about you?" says Ben. "Are you seeing anyone at the moment?"

"Me?" My thoughts scramble wildly.

"A businessman," chips in Eva. Good thinking Eva, Ben's a financial journalist, maybe that'll impress him. "He's Austrian."

"What business is he in?" asks Ben. Patsy puts her arm through Ben's and pulls him close.

"Oh, he has his fingers in a lot of pies," I say, sounding like a crazy person. "He's a Count and has a big castle. There's talk of marriage."

"Well, I'm pleased for you."

Then there's an awkward silence where no one knows what to say. I know it's been forever and I should have got over it but I still feel like screaming, "What does she have that I don't?" But I know that everyone would end up looking at me and it would only make me feel worse, so I don't. He generously offers to send me a wedding invitation before they trot off.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" Eva says protectively, putting her arm around me.

I pull myself out of her embrace. My stomach is rebelling and I don't know if I'm going to make it. I hold my hand in front of my mouth, as I push my way out into the Plaza. Then, steadying myself on a rubbish bin, I spew my chocolate éclair into it, before gasping for air.

What do you make of it all Egg? Is this a sign I'm getting over him or what? I hate to bother you about this, as obviously you have a lot on your plate, but I really would appreciate your pearls of wisdom.

Gherkin

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: morning sickness

Date: 4 September 2011

Dear Gherkin,

Poor old you bumping into Ben and Patsy like that. It's okay to dislike her you know. She sounds ghastly, what with that tattoo and those slingbacks, and I imagine the answer to the question: "What does she have that I don't?" is quite possibly: shit for brains. If that sounds harsh, it's meant to be. You need to feel angry about this. You've bottled it up for so long it's busting to get out.

And do you mind if I stick my neck out and say, please STOP writing to this bleeding Count. It's obvious that you're falling for him hook, line and sinker. Don't come crying to me when you realize that anything between the two of you is DOOMED. Don't come whingeing to me that he doesn't know you exist etc. etc. You got yourself into this situation and maybe you should think of getting out of it before it becomes incredibly self-destructive?

Things a bit grim around here at the moment. I can't keep a thing down, not even a cracker. And Donald isn't much help either. All I wanted today was to lie down and for him to mind the kids for a few hours but he said he couldn't, he needed to play golf. I'm afraid I screamed at him to sod off, that he got me into this mess and the least he could do was stick Blair and Basil in his golf buggy and whizz them round the golf court. He looked at me in horror, put the kids in his car and drove off.

I blame Serge for all this. If he hadn't feng shuied the house, the kids would have continued to keep me awake at night, thereby ensuring that I had no energy left to procreate. I'd wanted to start studying for my certificate in aromatherapy in October but this little peanut has scuppered my plans - I have zero energy, zero motivation. Don't get me wrong, I am looking forward to seeing my little newbie sometime in April, it's just that I was also looking forward to a bit of 'me' time. Well, I suppose I'll have to wait another few years for it.

And as for hurling when you saw Ben, I think it is a good sign. You're purging him from your system, and about time too!

Much love,

Egg

The Canter Agency

28 - 32 Greek Street

London W1 5UJ

England

9 September 2011

Dear Egg,

You hit the nail on the head – as well as being furious at Ben, I'm also angry at Patsy – that walking, talking living doll who took him away from me. Remembering it all hurts Egg. It really really hurts. And I don't want it to hurt any more. I want to stop worrying at the memories like I'm picking at a scab. And even though you say it's doomed, that's why I write to Alex. When I write to him I can be me in a way I can't be with anyone else. So I'm sorry you don't approve but I can't give up that little pleasure, not yet.

Now it's gone six o'clock and I'm still at work, scribbling away at this letter, when Sparky, ugly in pink, settles herself on the edge of my desk.

"You'll never believe what happened in Mykanos," she says.

It's her first day back and she's spent it grinning dopily like the cat who got the cream. I'm vaguely intrigued about what could have put her in such a good mood, but right now I need to go home and prepare the flat for this evening – Sven's coming over for cocktails. But since I'm hemmed in by a giant expanse of pink nylon, I decide to surrender.

"You found out that the guys sharing rooms weren't doing it solely to save on the single room surcharge?"

"What? I don't understand," she says, like I'd just addressed her in Lithuanian. It's entirely possible that Sparky didn't notice that Mykanos was knee deep in homosexuals. In any case, it wasn't the answer she expected, so I say, wearily, "What happened?"

"I met up with Demetrios." She leans closer, so I can see her eyes, glowing with excitement. "It was just like old times, if you get my drift." She winks and gives a throaty laugh. It's a while before I realize she's talking about sex. It's on the tip of my tongue to blurt: "How could you? What about AIDS?" Instead I say: "That's wonderful. How long ago were you last in Mykanos?"

"Ooh, it's twelve years ago now." She pats her hair as she reminisces. "I had thought it was just a fling, but apparently he's been counting the days, waiting for me to return. I told him I would, you see."

"And was it just a fling this time?"

"Oh no! As soon as we clapped eyes on each other we just clicked. This time we both knew it was forever. He's even hinted that he's prepared to move to England to set up house with me."

"But what about your mum? She won't be too keen on him usurping her now, will she?"

"She can like it or lump it," says Sparky and walks off humming a tune.

I sit there in a daze. I'm trying to take it all in. Sparky's finally found love at the ripe old age of … well, no one really knows Sparky's age, but that's not the point. Blimey, I think, if she can do it, so can I.

On the way home I purchase a selection of scented candles from Crabtree and Evelyn. Eva's already home, restocking the bar with cocktail stuff. Although we frequently run out of nonessentials like milk and toilet paper, we always make sure we have a good selection of spirits in case we need a pick me up when we get home from work (a not infrequent occurrence, as you can imagine).

Since my cleaning frenzy the other week the front room looks presentable. One wall is covered in a silver and green scarf which hangs above a white ‘60s sofa we picked up at Camden Market and carried home. There's a fake zebra rug on the floor, thrown over a burgundy red carpet. The ambience is decadent, since the only light oozes from a lava lamp and some pink chilli shaped fairy lights we stuck to the walls last Christmas and never took down.

Sixties music pulses through the flat as I pour myself a Martini, light the scented candles and curl up on the sofa. As the candles give off their scents of rosemary, honeysuckle and mint, I'm whisked back to a night I once spent in Marrakech. I'm on the roof of a café, lying on a mat beside Ben, the trees around us swishing in the breeze, murmurs of Arabic drifting out of the darkness. We only see the faces of the other patrons when they pull on a cigarette, the flame spotlighting their features. Down below, barely illuminated by a scattering of still-lit windows, are spread flat roofed houses, knitted together higgledy piggeldy, like sections in a quilt. I sip very sweet mint tea from a pink tinted glass. Soon we will have to go back to our cheap hotel room, with its stained bedspread and its scurrying cockroaches. But not just yet. His arm slips around my bare shoulder, shielding me from the wind that's growing stronger, whipping my hair around my face. I can just make out the forms of a group of children, standing on a roof waving up at us. As he waves back he says, "I wonder how many children we'll have?"

"Three," I say without thinking. "A boy and twin girls." As I say it I'm sure it will happen.

It didn't happen of course. I wonder if it ever will.

"I think I have everything," says Eva. I look up and see her standing in the doorway, drop dead gorgeous in a turquoise vintage seventies dress. She's holding two bowls, one filled with maraschino cherries, the other with bits of orange zest. She places them beside the bowl of olives on the bar.

When the doorbell goes she hurries off to answer it while I scamper into the kitchen and pull some sausage rolls out of the oven. And now Sten's in the room, the only guy in the world who can make a navy suit with wide red pinstripes look zany and sexy at the same time. I mean, it's sad, I know, but just because he's gay I don't fancy him any less.

Once I've mixed him a Sweet Manhattan I stick the plate of sausage rolls under his nose.

"Sten, can I tempt you with a hot piece of meat?"

"Thanks but no," he says, putting his legs up on the sofa and leaning back against me, "I haven't been able to look at a meat pie since that incident at Harvey Nichols."

"One of life's bitter ironies," I say biting into the greasy belly of a sausage roll. "It's always the wrong people who get it in the neck. Why couldn't the Haddock have gone down with a particularly violent form of salmonella?"

"I don't think she ate any pie that night," says Eva, perching on the edge of the sofa beside Sten's calf leather shod feet, her legs elegantly crossed. "Come to think of it I've never seen her put anything in her mouth. Does she eat?"

"‘Course she doesn't, she's an alien life form. She exists on the microscopic bacteria that grows on that plant in her office," I say, getting up to mix up a batch of Whiskey Sours.

Sten chuckles. "You know those animal rights people are still picketing Harvey Nichols, right?"

"Yeah, it drives the Haddock ballistic," I say, handing round the Sours and flopping down beside Sten. "I read a letter from them the other day in the paper. They somehow they got wind of that food poisoning business and are claiming McManus' meat isn't safe."

"Well, I don't know who told them. I'm no tattle tale, or at least not about something as boring as that."

"I know that, but the Haddock's really got her knickers in a twist about it. She's scared people will stop buying McManus' pies as a result of all the bad publicity that's bound to follow. And now she's convinced herself his company is about to go bust, and that he's about to drop the agency."

"Talk about paranoid," says Sten, rolling his eyes.

"She is a bit loopy," says Eva.

"It's all right for you," I say to Eva. "She worships the ground you walk on, but I really wish she'd stop taking it all out on me."

"Poor little you," says Sten, and leans over to give me a kiss. His aftershave smells divine. His stubble feels divine, brushing against my cheek. His hard thigh pressed against my leg feels… whoa, I pull myself up short. You're doing well, I tell myself. You have a real knack for falling for the unobtainable. There's Sten, who's gay, there's Alex, who because he was so busy nuzzling Eva in Vienna, you never got to know, but who you've developed a crush on, just from reading one letter he wrote to Eva. Now then, let's see, who else? The Weasel (mad), the Marquis (bad) and Ricky (sad). And what about Ben, a little voice says, aren't you still hung up on him, although you say it's all dead and buried between you? I jump up and swiftly eradicate those thoughts by mixing a Brandy Alexander, heavy on the whipped cream, and begin floating towards a very pleasant state of drunkenness.

While Eva and Sten are chattering away I idly reach toward the coffee table and start picking off the blobs of wax as they drip from one of the candles. Rolling the soft wax between by palms, my thoughts drift to the Haddock. If only I could get rid of her, permanently, maybe life would be easier. Maybe it wouldn't be such a drag, getting up each morning, dreading walking into the goldfish bowl office, waiting to see her staring back, ready to pounce on me for some phantom misdemeanour.

When I look down I noticed I've fashioned a little figurine out of wax. I hear the Haddock's voice:
I wonder if you'll finish me off next
! Her ghastly laughter. Is it any wonder I've been tempted to hire a hit man to do away with her?

I go over to the bar and, picking up some pieces of orange zest, put them across the doll's head to resemble hair. Another piece becomes the grim line of a mouth.

As I go back to the coffee table I realize I don't have, and never will have, the funds to hire a hit man. So what else can I do? I blow out the candle, pick at the burnt candle wick and smear black lumps of it into the wax to make eyes and a nose. Then I start to laugh.