Venus Envy (40 page)

He lifted one eyebrow. ‘Very true. And I wasn’t disappointed.’

‘How can you say that?’ I screeched at him. ‘Because it’s true,’ Tom replied calmly. ‘Oh come on, Alex, you know any red-blooded male is going to enjoy that.’

‘Hmm,’ I said furiously. ‘Well, you might have looked away.’

‘And I might not. Of course, Gordon didn’t seem too interested.’

‘Yes, well,’ I said after a pause when I couldn’t think of any rejoinder, ‘I feel a bit tired, in fact I’ve got PMS, so if you wouldn’t mind leaving me alone I’m going to bed.’

‘But I haven’t finished talking to you,’ Tom protested.

‘I’ve finished talking to you,’ I said firmly, ‘so thanks for the cheque and goodbye.’ I got up and stomped off towards the bathroom. ‘I’m goingto wash my hair now.’

‘But you’ve just washed it,’ said Tom, pointing to the towel on my head.

‘That’s as maybe,’ I said haughtily, ‘but now I’m going to give it, um, a hot-oil treatment. Do give Gail my love next time you’re taking her to Le Gavroche.’

347

‘Alext’ Tom said, springing up. ‘Wait! I must say something to you.’

This sounded pretty promising. He was speaking in dramatic, Jane Austen tones. In fact I could see Keisha and Bronwen, pretending to drink coffee at the table and read Hello!, but actually hanging on his every

word.

‘Go on, then,’ I said, and foolishly, despite myself, I allowed my heart to beat a bit faster and my palms to get a bit sweaty and my hopes to rise. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now, but you would be so, so wrong.

I’m the kind of girl who reads Mystic Meg every week and truly looks out for Destiny carrying a large ,pot plant, even though last week Destiny did not, in fact, take me to a pet shop, nor did Destiny the week before wear polka dots.

Perhaps Destiny kept getting me mixed up with my sister.

That must be it.

Because Tom’s impassioned reply was, ‘It’s about Gail.’

Oh my God, I thought, he’s going to tell me they’re engaged, I just can’t bear it.

‘I’ve told you before, I don’t want to hear about her,’ I snapped. ‘I’m sure you’re both very happy, and no, I won’t turn up to Carrefour and ruin your wedding too. Now just go away.’

And I ran into the batliroomand quickly turned on both taps very. loudly, so he wouldn’t hear my undignified crying.

348

When I woke up on Tuesday, Keisha and Bronwen had already left for work. I was glad because this made it easy for me. I hate goodbyes.

I packed up two suitcases full of my best clothes: my Donna Karan suit and Joseph leather trousers and stuff. I also took one block of clay. I have no idea why; obviously my art career was over, strangled at birth, but somehow I knew I’d still need to sculpt.

I also took a Marks & Sparks bag full of groceries. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s that a broken heart and wanting to die does not, in fact, result in cardiac arrest or death. This means you get hungry. As a result, Keisha’s specially purchased reinforced carrier bag was nicked city. She’d kill me if she ever caught me, which she wasn’t going to. I took some Frankfurters, some seedless grapes, a jar of peanut butter and a packet of Ritz crackers, along with two cans of Cherry Pepsi, so you can’t say I didn’t cover all major food groups.

The rest of my stuff I moved into Bronwen’s room with a begging, grovelling note. If it had been Keisha, she’d have read the begging, grovelling note and promptly thrown it all away. I wanted a clean new start and was trying to persuade myself that this was a good thing - first day of the rest of your life, new broom sweeps clean, too many cooks spoil the broth or whatever. It wasn’t working particularly well bu what the hell. I had a plan and it involved walking out of here with just the clothes on my back. And two

349

suitcases full of designer clothes and make-up. And some peanut butter.

There was certainly no room for my fun collection of Whimsey miniatures, with only the walrus family slightly chipped. Nor for my long-suffering cactus plant, nor my file of pictures of Jason Connery as Robin of Sherwood, including a studio publicity shot personally signed to me by Jason with a kiss in silver

pen.

Jason Connery was my entire 10velife for two years during my teens. Oh, how I pined for his clean-shaven, genital-free, non-threatening good looks. I used to kiss his pictures on the back of my door individually before I went to bed, but I used to wear glasses then, and his picture had to be the last thing I looked at before I went to sleep at night, otherwise - if I inadvertently glanced at a book or a teddy - it was put the glasses back on and do the whole thing over again.

I suppose I’ve always had a puppy-dog admiration for men I can’t have. Starting at the age of five, when Mum has told me I had a big crush on Brian Cant from Playaway. Then there was Mr Johnson, the builder, who was big and rough and fat and about fifty-five. I used to make him endless undrinkable cups of sweet milky tea. And right before Jason there was the geezer who played Avon in Blake’s 7, who was cruel and masculine and imperious. I blamed this guy for my current situation with Tom. I mean, if Avon hadn’t always been forcing pretty women to their knees and then kissing away their resistance in a masterful manner, perhaps I wouldn’t have a crush on that big brute Tom Drummond.

I stacked my papers under Bronwen’s and picked up my cases, then I wrote them both a nice note. After all, they’d soon be sharing with Gail instead of me, that’s if she didn’t manage to cling on to her slot at Tom’s house, and they’d need soothing.

35°

I went to the hole in the wall opposite our flat. My heart beat a bit faster as I put my card in; sometimes the bastard eats my cards, whilst sneeringly ordering me to contact my bank. But no, Tom’s cheque had cleared, so I was eighteen hundred pounds in credit, instead of being overdrawn. Even seeing the figure caused a bit of a pang, though.

Oh, I’ve skipped a bit, haven’t I? I’m always doing that …

I suppose on Monday and Tuesday, every time the phone rang I kind of hoped it was him. OK, I know, pathetic to put your happiness in someone else’s hands, etc., etc., but if you want the truth, that was how I felt.

This was different - yeah, we always say this time it’s different, but this time it was. You see, I didn’t have to.go through the faint, squirmy-tummy thing like I had with Seamus, or Justin, or Peter, and then more and more gradually be let down and annoyed. I wasn’t buying into a bloke just ‘cause I liked his looks and my groin was saying, ‘Oh, yeah, come to Mama.’ I had known Tom when he was a big ball of lard and I didn’t fancy him at all. I knew him then and I knew just what he was like, and I loved him, I loved being with him, I laughed so much with him, and even when I fought him about most stuff (‘What’s the Story, Morning Tory?’ I used to yell at him) - I still really liked him.

So here’ a pig not in a poke. Very much out of the poke and on full display, in fact. Ro.lling around eating acorns.

Only now he’s lean and brilliant and a high-flying City millionaire.

And he’s a man whose brother’s life I nearly ruined

and whom I cost seven hundred and fifty grand. And who’s dating my sister.

And he still likes me, he still wants to hang out with

me even though I did all that and then treated the whole of London to an all-nude girly display. Even though I am only a failed secretary and failed sculptor and failed gallery person and, well, just failure, period.

I don’t know what I expected. I had made him bugger off; did I really want him to ring so I could hear his important news about Gail? Yes and no: I didn’t want to talk to him, it hurt too much; I did want to, though, just to hear his voice, just to be in contact with him. Anyway, that was impossible.

Normally you ring a guy’s answer machine while he’s at work. Making sure to dial i4I first, of course.

That didn’t work because Gail was there. I could imagine her picking up the phone, her voice going specially breathy in case it was Tom, or some other man. I swear Gail goes to some kind of Living Barbie school for girls. You know that forty-year-old woman who remodelled herself to look exactly like Barbie, well, that’s Gail, except Gail is prettier and girlier and didn’t need to spend fifty grand doing it.

Mayway, the point is that Tom didn’t ring. In fact, once Gordon got the message that I wouldn’t speak to him, the phone stopped ringing for me at all. It was like I had vanished from the face of the earth. All my mates were probably reading up on the hysterical pieces in the gossip columns (Keisha refused to let me see them) and asking themselves why they’d ever talked to a prat like me.

I wondered how much it cost to change your name by deed poll?

I got out two hundred quid and went to Waterloo in a taxi. There I caught a train for York. Bloody hell; it only cost sixty-five quid return, what was it made of, solid bloody gold? I loaded up on Quavers and Private Eye and the Guardian, and one of those flaky apple pastry things and I was all set.

35z

In Smith’s I walked determinedly past the trashy novels and copies of Bridget Jones - God, what a bonding experience that is for women. Bronwen got sick when I first moved into the flat, and six different hospital visitors brought along a copy of Bridget, foolishly asking if she’d read this. Read this? What are you talking about? Of course she’s read it, she’s female, isn’t she, she’s past the Are You My Mother? stage, of course she’s read it. You might as well ask if she’s ever been let down by a man. There’s one empty plinth in Trafalgar Square, you know, and I think there ought to be a statue of Bridget Jones on it. We could take a vote and Britain’s women would rise as one. So I walked past Bridget and on to the self-help section. Awaken the Giant Within, The One Minute Manager, Do it Now! all that sort of stuff. I loaded my basket nxt to the Quavers. I was determined, this was going to be a new start for me, this was where I was going to change my life. The only way was up, baby, and all that jazz.

Yes! I am woman, hear me roar!

See me go over to the phone bank and phone my answer machine to check if Tom called!

See me listen to messages of undying devotion fr6m Clan and Jeremy!

See me slink off to the train, gutted, tail between my legs!

When we finally pulled out and headed off to the frozen north I unwrapped my pastry, but it stuck in my throat. I wanted Tom. Not even fat and refined sugar could take the pain away any moe.

I got three quarters of the way through Private Eye before the crying started up again. But that was OK, because most of the people in the carriage just shook ;heir papers and ignored me, like I had drunk an invisibility potion. When the ticket collector came round he took one look at my red face, streaming from

353

every orifice, and decided he didn’t need to see my ticket after all.

Bloody waste of sixty-five quid, I shouldn’t have bothered.

I stumbled out at York with legs that had gone to sleep and a face like a baboon’s arse. I told myself that I was the only one conscious of the flushed face and puffy nose, but sadly, when I turned up at the Hertz desk with my driving licence, the old bag looked at me highly suspiciously and said had I been drinking on the train.

‘Stick out your tongue,’ she said.

I complied. ‘Uuurgh, it’s purple,’ she shivered.

“Drink is demon, it’ll ruin your liver.’

‘It’s Ribena!’ I said indignantly.

‘Oh yeah? Well, put one finger on your nose and

walk in a straight line,’ she insisted.

I did so.

‘Say, “the tip of the tongue, the teeth and the lips”,

sh6 demanded.

‘The tip of the tongue, the leeth and the tits.., thips

.. lips,’ I stuttered crossly. ‘Gosh, you’re worse than

my choir mistress.’

‘Hmm,’ she said suspiciously. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘Not a drop, here, let me breathe on you,’ I suggested.

She recoiled, which was some compliment, from a check-jacketed, purple-hatted Monster from a Thousand Fathoms like her. ‘Uuurgh, get away from me with your nasty Southern germs!’

‘As opposed to your nice Northern ones?’ I asked sarcastically. That didn’t sit too well, but fear of losing some commission made her grudgingly give me the form anyway. She stared at me like a passerby leering at a traffic accident as I filled it out.

354

‘Gone for the Mini Metro?’ she said scornfully. ‘The cheapest option, I see.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s ‘eighties revival chic,’ I lied defiantly.

I gave her the money and she gave me the car keys.

‘Better bring it back without a scratch,’ she said threateningly.

‘I will. I’m a brilliant driver,’ I lied again.

Her parting shot hit home.

‘For someone who’s not drunk, you certainly look awful,’ she said.

Thus cheered, I got into the car and headed out towards Rosedale. The scenery was beautiful - once I’d got away from all the honking, yelling, screaming drivers, I mean, all that fuss just because I misjudged my entry into a couple of roundabouts. And turned right instead of left once in a while. The city fell away behind me and I finally hit the moors, which were astonishing, if you didn’t mind the odd rotting sheep carcass amongst your purple heather.

OK, so it wasn’t all Wuthering Heights. I did get a bit lost - went fifty miles down one wrong road, and then discovered I’d got the map upside down, and had a bit of a sense-of-humour failure. Not to mention the radio in the car was permanently stuck on Radio Two, where the programmers are sadists. Who the hell can take three hours of Simply Red and Andrew Lloyd Webber? This is Cool Britannia, remember (copyright, T. Blair).

I finally pulled into Pickering, which was great. There was one of those small market town shops with a faded yellow polka-dot dress stuck optimistically on a mannequin in its window, with the wonderful, if not entirely true, statement ‘If it’s happening in Paris, it’s happening in Pickering’ plastered in front of it.