Cause Celeb (9 page)

He took my hand and helped me to my feet. When I stood up, I noticed that I was drunk. Fortunately Richard had whisked Oliver away so perhaps he hadn't noticed. I stood rooted to the spot, terrified.

Someone announced dinner. There was a display of wriggling and leaping as the guests extracted themselves from the chairs and set off in the same direction. We were all going to have to go down another spiral staircase to the next layer.

My brain was starting to revolve now, really quite fast. Trying to control a rising panic attack, I concentrated very hard on the stairs, counting the treads. As long as I didn't fall over or say anything then no one would know. There were many round tables with white tablecloths. I got into my chair, somehow. There was a white hexagonal plate in front of me with a tiny bird on it, trussed up with one of its eggs next to it. Oliver was at the other side of the table. He was next to Jenner's girlfriend. She seemed to be about twelve. She was beautiful, all dressed in black, and talking to Ken Garside, the movie director who had made the film about the drains.

I stared at them, trying to focus my eyes. Snatches of their conversation drifted over. Her voice was a Miss London singsong with every sentence dropping to the same note.

“What? No? Ree-
ly?
” Apparently something disgusting was happening, drainwise, downstairs and Things kept being released into the swimming pool. “It's reelye
bad,
you know. D'you think we should, like, take the whole pool out?”

She seemed to feel that Ken Garside should know all about plumbing because of the drain movie. He looked very puzzled. I drank some water, hoping it would clear my head, but instead it set my stomach off. I felt a shift inside, followed by a wave of nausea.

Oliver had rescued Ken Garside from the drain discussion and was talking to Annalene about Jenner's film. “Seriously, Annalene . . . very, very impressed . . . get away from this old bastard . . . spread your wings.” I couldn't understand why he was being so enthusiastic. The girl was really wooden and stupid. The film was total rubbish, but I could hear him enthusing: “Definitive. . . seminal . . . key.”

The chap sitting on the other side of me touched my arm, making me jump.

“Could you pass the butter, please? Hi, I'm Liam.” I knew. He was another celebrity.

“Hello. I'm Rosie.” I concentrated hard on passing the butter.

“Are you OK?”

“Yes, thank you, I'm fine.” I wasn't fine. I squinted at the Irish actor. He had been in a film the year before about the IRA. There were interviews with him in the papers saying, “I can't take this sex appeal stuff seriously,” and extolling the virtues of married life. He used to be pictured with his two babies and a sensible-looking wife whom he'd been with since school. Recently there had been stories about him having an affair with a model. He'd been pictured putting two fingers up and telling the photographers to fuck off.

“Do you know lots of these folks here?”

“No, no.”

By now, I really didn't want anyone to talk to me. It simply wasn't wise. If I could just stare quietly at a piece of bread then all would be well.

“Me neither,” he said. “I've never fockin' met any of them before. I've never met Richard Jenner. He just rang me up. It's fockin' mad.”

“Why did you come, then?” I said, trying to get my brain to stay still.

Just then Hughie Harrington-Ellis came and sat on the other side of me.

“Shall we eat?” he said. The thought of food was not good at all. I stuck my fork into the bird's tiny little egg feeling like a child murderer. I took a bite and there was a vile taste in my mouth which mingled unpleasantly with something sweet on the quail's skin. My stomach heaved, then settled.

Hughie turned his back to me and started talking to the Irish actor. I could hear the Irish voice, full of indignation: “Tabloids . . . filth, scum . . . reptiles . . . none of their fockin' business.”

“You didn't say that when you were doing all those profiles with your wife and baby, did you?” I slurred.

“As Oscar said,‘In the old days men had the rack, now they have the press,'” said Hughie, ignoring me, “the lowest form of life, ‘unable to discriminate between a bicycle accident and the collapse of civilization.' That's Shaw.”

“. . . vindictive . . . gobshite.”

“. . . 'avin a fireplace put in next to the bath, made out of bits of this ancient Greek pillar.”

I could hear Oliver across the table. “You see the problem with Melvyn . . .”

“Fockin' scombags.”

“Sold two Ferraris.”

“. . . two hundred grand . . .”

“. . . seen her show? Total embarrassment.”

“. . . seems a bleedin' lot for a fireplace, but . . .”

“. . . Renaissance man delusions . . .”

“. . . lookin' at ancient history when you're 'avin a bath an' a fag . . .”

Suddenly, I knew I was going to be sick. Where was the loo? I looked round the room. Whiteness, black dresses, and very bright ties against very white shirts danced and crossed each other. The floor was not attached to the walls, it was another of the platforms. I was going to have to walk fifty feet across that wooden floor before I could even start on another spiral staircase. Oliver looked across at me. I felt the vomit rising, started to get to my feet, sat down again, politely cupped my hands over my mouth and threw up into them.

When I finally laid my head on my pillow that night, I wanted to die. At first Oliver had been kind. He came over to me like a shot, gave me napkins and whispered, “It's OK, it's OK, I'll get you out of here, come on.” He placed himself between me and the faces, put his arm round me and propelled me to the staircase. He counted me up the stairs, “Come on, come on, next one, next one.” I looked down, the faces were still all there, pink, like piggies.

After a while I was in a bathroom, which was hospital white. I washed my mouth and face and lay down on the cool floor, wanting to stay there, possibly live there, perhaps even marry the cool floor. I could hear Oliver and Richard Jenner outside. Oliver sounded angry.

When we got outside he was not being nice anymore. I was being sick again in the flower beds outside the flat. “It's like going out with a fucking puppy,” he said. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” I whispered.

“You should never drink the cocktails at Richard's house. He does this every time. It's completely ridiculous.”

“Why didn't you warn me?”

There was a pause. “So. It's my fault, is it?” he said pleasantly. “It's my fault. Of course. But then you didn't need to knock them back, did you?” A wild look came into his eye. “You didn't, did you? You didn't need to knock them back. How many did you have?”

I was getting the hang of what to do when he was like this—nothing. If you neither did nor said anything he had nothing to react to.

“How many did you have?” he said again as we walked to the car. I didn't respond. He suddenly spun round to face me, towering over me.

“How—many—drinks—did—you—have?”

He glared down, his mouth contorting. There was a post box beside us. He brought his fist down on top of it, hard. It must have hurt him but he didn't react. Then he turned back and opened the car door. “Get in.”

We drove along in silence.

“Rosie,” he was quiet now, controlled, “I asked you how many drinks you had. How many drinks, Rosie?”

The vomit was on its way up again. I gulped, violently.

“You're
not
going to be sick
again.
Shall I stop the car?”

I shook my head.

“How many drinks did you have?”

Silence. Driving.

“How many drinks did you have?”

We continued in this vein until King's Cross. As we hit the West-way he grew calmer.

He stopped the car outside my house. I looked across at him. He was beautiful. He was a lunatic: his brows furrowed, his mouth twisted.

“I'm not coming in with you,” he said.

Fair enough. I looked down, sorrowfully. My coat had regurgitated food all over it.

“I finally did it,” I said.

“What?”

“Turned into a pizza.”

I did not expect Oliver to ring after that. I had let myself down, I knew. I was a danger to myself and everyone around me. The hangover took three days to clear. I went round to Shirley's with Rhoda on day four, Saturday night, and lay in front of the TV eating Milk Tray. For the first time since I had met Oliver, I began to believe life was possible without him; that it might be nicer even. Previously I had begun to fear that there was something secret and horrible about me which I didn't understand. That would explain why sometimes Oliver was nice to me and loved me and sometimes he didn't want me at all and was vile and distant.

“It's not
you
that's horrible, it's
him
that's horrible,” said Shirley. “We love you all the time.”

“I wouldn't go over the top about it,” said Rhoda.

“But it can't be all his fault,” I pointed out.

“Look. Shuddup. You have no judgment,” said Rhoda.

“OK, you threw up in his car—” said Shirley.

“I did not throw up in his car.”

“OK, you threw up on his friend.”

“I did not throw up on Hughie Harrington-Ellis. I threw up in my hands and a small portion of it strayed onto Hughie Harrington-Ellis.”

“I think it was a perfect symbolic gesture.”

“An existential act.”

“You have
no
idea what that means. You are just too tragic,” I said.

When I got home I was in high spirits. I had made a mistake, I'd fallen for the wrong guy. So what? Sort of thing that could happen to anyone. No harm done. Live to see another day. Make mine a large one—oops, it's down me trousers. Harhar. Free. Free as a bird, free as a fish. Then the phone rang.

“Hi, plumpkin. It's podge-o here.”