Don't Get Me Wrong (12 page)

“And how long have you been together?”

“It's not—”

“She met him at work,” said Eva.

“Ah,” said Harry. “Isn't that nice? You must have so much in common. And where does he live, this Jack?”

“Jake,” said Kim.

“He's a lot older than her,” said Eva. “A grown-up boyfriend.”

“How much older?” said Harry.

“Ten years at least.”

“It's early days,” said Kim desperately. “And it might not work out. So I don't think we should talk about it anymore.”

“I know,” said Harry, “why don't we have a party on New Year's Eve? Your last day in the house. We could invite Jock over.”

“Jake,” said Kim.

“I might be having a baby,” said Eva.

“Really?” said Harry.

They both laughed.

“You ignore them,” said Christine, catching sight of Kim's expression. “They're being very silly.”

It's how they always are, thought Kim gloomily. They talk to each other in a way that excludes everyone else.

“Talking of which,” said Eva, “I ought to be getting back before it gets dark and the pavements get icy. I get really worried about falling over these days.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Harry.

“You wait. Come New Year I'll be as light as a feather.”

“I'll take you home. I've got the car.”

“Would that be the Porsche? Because I only ever accept lifts in Porsches.” Eva gave him the kind of luminous smile that had elderly men reminiscing about long-forgotten love affairs. “Kim? Are you coming?”

“I'm going to stay and see Damaris.”

“I could come back and get you,” said Harry.

“Haven't you got to go somewhere for Christmas?”

Harry grinned. “I know you're desperate for me to stay in London. But I just can't, I'm afraid.”

For one tiny moment, Kim wondered where he was going. But she squashed her curiosity. She didn't want to think about Harry any more than she had to.

When Harry and Eva had gone, Christine lifted the baby out of the high chair and cuddled him close, putting her cheek onto the little soft head. “I don't know if you're right, Kim. It seems to me they're just good friends. And if it was Harry's child, I think she would have said.”

Kim shrugged. She felt tired and cross. “Who knows?”

“Young men these days,” said Christine sadly. “They don't seem to want to stay around when the babies come along.”

Much later, on the bus back to Peckham Rye, Kim thought about her father in Leicester with his glamorous new wife.

Or they stay around while it suits them, she thought bitterly, and bugger off when they get a better offer.

•  •  •

Harry looked again at the list in front of him. “The Musigny,” he said.

The waiter bowed and backed away.

Titania gave him a long look. “I bet you could tell me everything about it.”

“Domaine Jacques Prieur. Grand cru. Pinot grape. Classic year.”

“And you are expecting?”

“Black fruit and immense length.”

Titania laughed. “I bet you could give me a list of all the vineyards in Burgundy.”

Harry smiled. “You're right. I could.”

It was Christmas Day. He and Titania were getting quietly drunk in an exclusive five-star hotel in the Cotswolds. He kept thinking about Eva and Kim in the flat in Peckham Rye. Come for Christmas, Eva had said. I can't, said Harry. Why? said Eva. You know why, said Harry.

“Not many people can do it,” said Titania.

The hotel had a reputation for good food and superb wine. Harry had booked a room with a king-sized four-poster bed. Driving up in the gray Porsche—with Titania, smelling of expensive
scent, curled up on the front seat next to him—he kept reminding himself that not having a family Christmas had its compensations.

“It's a real skill,” said Titania, “I admire it.”

Harry forced himself back to the present. “Admire what?”

“If you don't know about something, you find out about it. Become an expert.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like a criticism.”

“Not at all. It's just the way you operate.”

“So why am I feeling uneasy?”

Titania stroked the end of her fork, pricking her finger on the sharp silver tines. “I just wonder sometimes if it's like an actor learning his lines.”

“What do you mean?”

“Playing a part.”

“What part?”

Her gaze was clear and direct. “Do you even like red wine?”

There was a sudden shift in atmosphere. Harry said carefully, “Is there something wrong?”

“No.”

They sat in silence, listening to the murmur of conversation around them. At the next table, a very fat man with greasy gray hair let out a guffaw of laughter that trailed off into prolonged coughing. Someone, somewhere, clinked a water glass, and the sound rang out in the subdued hush of serious dining like a tiny, fairylike bell. When Titania eventually looked up, Harry's heart sank.

“I'm not sure it's working for me anymore, Harry.”

“You don't mean that.”

“I do.”

He felt incredibly sad. Lovely, kind, clever Titania. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

After a long time, he said, “Is there anything I can say to change your mind?”

She looked irritated. “Oh come on, Harry.”

He felt ashamed. For something to do, he straightened the cutlery in front of him. When he looked up, he was shocked to see that Titania had tears in her eyes. He reached out across the table. But she shook her head. She said, “I've often wondered if there's someone else.”

He said nothing.

“Someone you can't have?”

“Titania—”

“It's OK. It's none of my business. I just wanted to know.”

He looked at her sadly.

“You keep hoping, don't you? Even when there's no chance at all.” With a furtive flourish of white linen, Titania dabbed at her eyes with a restaurant napkin. Then she sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. “Now, where's that bloody burgundy? I need a drink.”

•  •  •

All of the men dancing on the table had their trousers round their ankles. Because of this, they kept falling over. Some of the women had stripped down to their bras and one of them had fastened her ponytail with a black bow tie. A blue velvet cummerbund was hanging from the chandelier. Over by the window,
an overweight young man with wet red lips was shaking another bottle of champagne. That had been the theme of the dinner party—spraying Dom Pérignon at anything that moved. Harry—tired, depressed, and stone-cold sober—dodged as a stray stiletto flew past his ear, followed by a bread roll and a lump of Stilton. There was a crash as liqueur glasses fell to the floor.

“Party, party, party!” yelled Syed.

Someone picked up a fire extinguisher.

“What's the time?” shouted a busty blonde with green glittery eye shadow.

It was ten minutes to midnight. Very soon, thought Harry, we'll hear Big Ben. And then there's going to be a lot of kissing.

“Party, party, party,” shouted Syed again, leaning across towards him, losing his balance, and collapsing onto the tablecloth.

Harry pulled him upright. “Are you OK?”

“Do you know,” said Syed, with an air of surprise, “I think I might have drunk too much.”

“Impossible.”

“Are you coming to the club?”

Harry shook his head.

“Why?”

“I don't like bribing women with fifty-pound notes to take their knickers off.”

“I know. Extortionate.” Syed looked suddenly gloomy. “Did I ever tell you about my brother-in-law?”

“No,” said Harry.

“He's a shit.”

“Oh.”

“He's lost all his money.”

“Not only a shit, but a stupid shit.”

“And you know what?”

“What?”

“My mother wants me to give it to him.”

“Beat him up?”

“No,” shouted Syed. “No, no! She wants me to fucking give him all the fucking money he's fucking lost.”

“From what I've heard of your mother,” said Harry, “you'd better do what she says.”

Syed's mouth puckered as if he was going to cry. “But I haven't got it.”

“You haven't got the money?”

Syed shook his head.

Harry sighed. “I'll find it for you.”

“Thank you, my friend,” said Syed, nodding seriously. “But you don't have it either.”

“How do you know?”

“He has lost more money in the last six months than I have made in my entire life.”

Harry frowned. “That's not possible.”

“Oh yes, my friend, it's possible. Because he just did it. My fuckwit of a brother-in-law just fucking did it.”

“He's a gambler?”

“He's a businessman, Harry. Which is much, much worse. Respectable gambling. And my mother”—Syed's lower lip trembled—“my mother thinks I can make it all go away.”

“Tell her. Tell her no one's got that kind of money. Not even you.”

Syed looked mournful. “She wouldn't believe me.”

“Five minutes!” shouted the busty blonde.

“It's the family honor,” said Syed. “If it wasn't family, I'd say, Go fuck yourself. You got yourself in this fucking mess. Now you fucking get yourself out of it. But it's my sister's fucking husband. So I can't.”

Someone threw open the sash window. A blast of cold air hit them. Outside in the street, they heard the sounds of revelers making their way towards Trafalgar Square.

Harry said, “I'm going away.”

Syed frowned. “What?”

“I'm going away. In the New Year.”

“Two minutes!”

“Where are you going?”

“I don't know.”

“On holiday? A Caribbean island? Barbados?”

“I haven't decided.”

“So why are you going?”

“Because she doesn't love me.”

Syed narrowed his eyes, trying to focus.

“She doesn't love me. And she's never going to love me. And I can't do it anymore. I can't do it.”

Syed, swaying, blinked. “Titania?”

TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX, FIVE, FOUR—

Harry shut his eyes.

THREE, TWO—

In his hand, the phone vibrated.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2007

C
heryl Cole. Flower of Newcastle. A rose tattoo on her bottom. I wanted one, too, but they only managed the outline before they ran out of ink. I've been living in London six months now. In a bedsit in New Cross. It's not that bad. I've got a boyfriend. He's very polite. He says thank you after sex. Just like on motorways when it's all one lane because of construction, and you're thinking, If this goes on for much longer I'm going to top myself, and then suddenly it stops and there's a big sign saying, ‘Thank You for Your Patience.' And he's good with compliments. Whenever we go out, he says, ‘You look nice, pet.' And I think, I know.
That's the point.
How could I not look nice? I've spent three hours getting ready. If you spend three hours on anything, it looks quite nice. A painting, the inside of your car, the toilet. I'd like a bit more passion. You know, ‘You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.' Like Leonardo DiCaprio in
Titanic
. Men the way you'd like them to be. That's why women look so depressed when they come out of the cinema. They look at the boyfriend and reality hits them in the face. So he says, ‘You look nice, pet,' and all I can think is how long it takes to be a woman. I mean, not biologically, obviously. You start getting black holes of hormonal despair when you're about ten these days. Writing suicide notes in crayon. No, I mean how long it takes just to look
normal. Normal enough not to excite negative comment over the frozen pizzas in Sainsbury's. ‘Look over there! Why's that man in a wig spending so long choosing a margherita?' I know. I know. You look at me and you think, Well obviously, she only took five minutes. But I didn't. I probably took more time putting myself together for tonight than a transvestite at Halloween. I mean, it's called ‘makeup' for a reason. You make yourself up. If you want to look like a normal woman, you have to become a work of fiction. And that's not the worst of it. We're all supposed to look natural. Beautiful, without even trying. Like Lily Allen, or a dove, or one of those really surprised-looking women in the Garnier adverts. And my heart sinks. Because what that means, really, is putting on makeup to disguise the fact you've put on makeup. A bit like Tony Blair smiling about Iraq to hide the fact he's smiling about Iraq. And I think, This is ridiculous. It's going to take too long. By the time I've got ready to come onstage, you'll all have given up and gone home. Which would have saved a lot of time all around. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. You've been a lovely audience. I've been Izzie from Newcastle.”