Low Expectations (16 page)

‘A narcissistic pervert is a vampire. A vampire of the heart. But sexual – wild even! A deviant. Both my parents, they were that. Narcissistic perverts. I was packed off to a school near my gran so they wouldn't have to deal with me and look: just look where I am now. Touched up by the headmaster cause I was so cute. That's the wrong kind of love, what it does to you, my girl. It sucks up your very soul. You find a good man and keep him or you'll be sucked dry.' Toothless Jonny has stopped smiling and is looking off into the distance.

I am not sure how to respond to this confessional advice.

‘Well, thanks, Jonny. The next time I run into a narcissistic pervert I'll be sure to tell him where he can get off.'

I shake my head wonderingly as he wanders off with his pint to his habitual corner, sticking out his spindly ankles in front of the fireless fireplace.

‘Talking about me again, babe?'

I whirl around. It's Beardy. I haven't seen him since his gig, though he's asked me round for dinner and drinks regularly. I just haven't found the energy to see him with everything else that's been going on, namely my dad's balls, my mum's voodoo, university and work. I should probably put in a bit more effort; normally I would be delighted to have the Illustrious Beard pursuing me. Typically, the moment he senses that I actually can't be bothered rather than my usual faux-indifference he's all over me like a cat in heat. I have unwittingly gamed him. Whenever I play hard to get with people I like too much I never pull it off. The attention is flattering, but it does prompt a niggling worm of a worry – if I fall for him and let him get me, will that be the moment he legs it, uninterested in what I have to offer beyond the chase?

I come round the bar and give him a swift kiss, which he tries unsuccessfully to deepen. I am unwilling to get tongues involved with the watchful presence of his companion, who is familiar, although I can't quite place him.

‘Just coming to pay you a visit, seeing as you are clearly too poor to text me back.' Beardy grins in a slightly threatening
fashion that is compounded by the dratted glasses, which he's wearing again. He does look very sexy, in a wolfish-dandy way, with his beat-up Acne jacket, one-button-too-many-undone shirt and tattered skinny jeans. I feel a thrill of desire and embarrassment as he pulls me over to bite my neck while groping my arse.

‘Oh sorry! Did you text me? I've been having phone trouble. Hi, I'm Georgie.' I push him off me and lean over to kiss his friend on the cheeks.

Tall and gangly in a manner that would have made him a bit of an outcast twenty years ago but is now eminently chic, he has razor-sharp bone structure, big brown eyes, pouty lips and the smooth cheeks of a nymphet. Though too androgynous to be my type, he is undeniably gorgeous. I suspect he knows it, too.

‘Tim,' The Pout mumbles as he accepts my greeting with a sardonic air. ‘Doing two are we? How Continental.'

‘Oh, are you Alice's brother? You look a lot like her.' I could see it as soon as he spoke; they have the same large but perfect teeth with a slight gap breaking up the middle of their smiles. Though he hasn't been rude exactly, there is a coldness to his manner that makes me feel ill-at-ease. I try to compensate for my perceived inadequacy by being extra friendly and grinning at him like a loon, which probably doesn't raise me much higher in his estimation. Although I can be a bit
feisty at times, I lack the Teflon shield of disregard for outside opinion that one needs to be perceived as cool.

‘Yeah.' Tim looks less than impressed by my powers of divination.

‘How do you know Alice?' Beardy says suspiciously, looking at me as if I have spent the time since I last spoke to him feverishly investigating his private life. Usually I am not immune to some minor stalking but in his case I genuinely haven't. Mostly because he isn't on Facebook, but still.

‘Oh, I ran into Scott at your gig and she was there. We talked for a few minutes but I don't know her super-well. You must know Scott, right?' I say casually.

Beardy relaxes; I wonder if he has something to hide.

Alice is so beautiful that I would be shocked if he hadn't tried it on with her at some point and frankly I wouldn't even mind. If he hadn't, it would make me question his heterosexuality. She's the kind of woman you don't try to fight your man for; it would only be humiliating. It is much less awkward for all concerned to just bow out gracefully. If they have already had a thing in the past that is now over and done with, it works out better for me. Assuming there no longer remains a secret tendresse between them. This thought, as well as the fear that he has compared her naked body to mine, will haunt me later tonight.

‘Yeah of course, we've been drinking in Scott's pubs for years, it's where I met my bruvver here.' Beardy punches Tim
in the shoulder, who rolls his eyes and winces. ‘Alice has been talking about managing our band now that we're getting big. She's in PR but she hates her company, she's been looking for an out and wants to cash in on us!'

‘That's exciting! Things must be going well for you if she's willing to risk the day job,' I say, aiming for a jocular tone. My heart sinks at the thought of Alice hanging around him all the time. I do like her, she's too nice not to; my insecurity makes me painfully aware how petty and pathetic I am capable of being. Yet I can't help my desire to shave off her eyebrows.

‘In six months' time you're gonna be bragging that you knew us before we were famous, just you wait. Especially with Alice at the helm – she can charm the pants off a priest, so someone like Nick Grimshaw will be a piece of piss. I mean, Radio 1 is commercial shit, but obviously you've gotta hit all the bases on the airwaves.'

There is a too-long pause in which I wonder to what extent this extreme self-confidence is put on. Is he overcompensating for his insecurities? He must have some self-doubt rattling around in that gorgeous skull somewhere, surely. I certainly have enough for both of us.

‘You guys were good, I enjoyed your set. Do you have more lined up?' I ask, struggling to think of an interesting conversational gambit.

‘Baby, I've always got something lined up! Don't you know
me by now? You should have stayed – I can't believe you ran off like that. We had a wicked after party. Tim had to beat off fifteen-year-old girls with a stick; it was a fucking feeding frenzy.'

‘Oh dear! Tim, you don't seem very pleased, is that not your thing?'

‘No.'

God, Tim is a bit of a monosyllabic fucktard, I find myself thinking.

‘For my part, I hate teenage girls. Disgusting creatures who only want one thing. What a man really wants in life is a sturdy woman who's handy with an iron. Can we have two pints of Grolsch? We'll be over there.'

Beardy and Tim saunter off to a corner, laughing loudly, leaving me to stand with a fake smile by the bar. I feel a coil of anxiety about whether he expects to pay for the drinks. Obviously false orders are done for mates; many's the time that I've scrounged a free pint or two from willing friends, but I've never expected it and feel funny about risking it now.

‘Is that your man?' Gary questions me as I come round the bar. He has a talent for appearing at inopportune moments, but at least I now have an excuse not to give them their drinks for free.

‘That's Leo, he's not really my man, he's just … something I'm trying out for a while, I guess,' I say, pouring their pints.

‘I've seen him around quite a lot, never properly met him
though. I seem to remember Scott … Well, it's none of my business.'

‘What?'

‘Oh, nothing major, I've got a terrible memory for gossip. I'll tell you if something comes back to me,' Gary evades, looking at the clock. ‘Oh look at that! It's past time for me to fuck off. Where the hell is Joy? She's always late and moody when Scott's not here, it's bloody annoying.'

‘Is she ever not moody?' I'm not one to put much stock in auras, but hers is a black cloud spewing shit, let me tell you.

‘Sure! You haven't seen? She's fucking schizophrenic. If she's got her eye on someone she can be very, very charming. Intense, but charming. Ah! There's our little ray of sunshine now!'

‘Fuck off,' Joy snarls. Taking off a big fake-fur coat, she reveals her perfect body, draped in a flimsy slip-style dress that may actually be straight-up lingerie. She has paired it with woollen thigh high socks, combat boots and a holey cardigan. Her googly-eyed hatchet face is supremely unattractive to me, but her figure never fails to take me aback. I smile at her as I walk towards Beardy and Pout's table; she actually rolls her eyes.

‘Here you go, my dears. You should feel special; I don't usually do table service you know. £7.85 please.' I hold out my hand to the boys, feeling schoolmarmish.

‘Isn't she a gem? Generous too. Come on babe, you're not
gonna give me a sneaky pint?' Beardy attempts a puppyish expression, failing miserably.

‘Ah, I've never done that here before – I'm not sure. Later, when it's just me behind the bar,' I promise. Though the staff have the right to a few cheeky drinks, I feel bad about ‘stealing' from Scott, which is stupid, because if I were working for any other person I probably wouldn't care at all. Apparently my moral compass is only activated by men who comfort me in storeroom closets.

Back behind the counter, Joy is staring fixedly at their table, toying with a lock of her hair. I feel a sudden jolt of possessiveness over Beardy. Despite my ambivalence of the past few weeks, I must really like him after all. That or I just really hate her, it's difficult to tell. I don't need to worry, however – her eyes are all for Tim.

The rest of that evening saw one of the strangest changes of character I've ever witnessed. She was coy, flirtatious and downright vivacious towards all the customers that night, though it was clear her focus was targeted, like a laser, to Beardy and Tim's table. Her blue eyes were a-sparkling and a tinny laugh emerged at odd intervals, unrelated to the conversations surrounding her, so jarringly unexpected that it was actually somewhat frightening. The moment they left she did an abrupt volte-face, transforming into her normal surly self. Poor Toothless was quite confused.

Though I generally hate to exaggerate the facts, I implied I
know Tim better than is strictly true to make use of her newfound, fake attitude of acceptance towards me. If sacrificing Tim, who I don't know or give a fuck about, on the altar of her magnificent tits and cruel soul means a temporary end to her usual rudeness, I will take it. Joy even deigned to ask me some semi-amiable questions about myself before disposing with pleasantries and demanding outright that I put out some feelers to see if he might be interested. Subtle she ain't, but lots of men are very attracted to unhinged psycho-bitches provided they have nice enough assets. She could be in with a chance. I've never been particularly talented at playing matchmaker, but for the sake of an easy life, I am prepared to give it my best shot.

The Christmas holidays are a time of year when one should be relaxed and peaceful. Nothing engenders love for one's fellow man like a life of mince pies, mulled wine and the radiant glow born of a roaring fire. However, one is more likely to be found spending this special season in a Bacchanalian extravaganza of conspicuous consumption, avarice, vomit, divorce and death. The sick on the floor may be particular to me, but the rest is no exaggeration – the stress and burden of unmet expectations loom over this most dangerous of months. Mortality and separation rates tend to spike around Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year's Day; the
Daily Mail
would never tell a lie.

I have spent a lot of time shopping recently, though the
experience can be hellish. It feels as if the entire population of England has been disgorged on Oxford Street to engage in a buying frenzy. I end up spending far more than I mean to, as I keep seeing lovely things for myself. This selfishness is by accident, not design, I assure you. It would be unnatural to spend hours trying to find something for Dad, whose interests are limited to Formula 1 and spaghetti westerns, and not have a trinket catch my eye. Frankly, presents for men are always doomed to be disappointing unless you have the hard cash to spring for an Audi, or the generosity of spirit to buy them an hour with a stripper. I could just about afford the latter, but something tells me it might be inappropriate. I eventually got him a vintage Hermès tie and a luggage tag set – with mohair mittens, pirate boots, and YSL mascara for me. (These purchases will be more than offset when I eventually give up smoking in a few years' time).

Though my choice of profession might suggest otherwise, I don't enjoy endlessly trawling the shops; the surfeit of products can make me indifferent to them all. Of course, when you do find that one fabulous thing – Ah! The danger lies in looking at so many ridiculously expensive garments that, after a while, a Balenciaga leather jacket starts to seem reasonably priced at £3,000. Especially when you take into account the buttery quality of the leather and a design you are positive you will not tire of for decades to come.
Luckily my overdraft does not extend to such dizzy heights so designer impulse purchases are out of the question.

To kill two birds with one stone, I take photos and notes as inconspicuously as possible for my comparative shopping and trend research. My purposes are innocent; I would never steal a design from someone else, or what would be the point of my degree? However, as many Oriental companies regularly nick ideas in this manner, the shop assistants look out for likely culprits and it can be a stressful endeavour. I waltz into Dover Street Market in my smartest finery in order to try on expensive dresses, while hoping the lurking sales assistant doesn't hear the beeping from my digital camera. Then comes the embarrassing process of handing them all back, pretending they are not quite right for whatever classy function I have invented. It requires acting chops I am not certain I possess.

Though hitting up Selfridges, Harvey Nics, Liberty's and Browns in the space of a few days is a strain, the only time I reach the end of my rope is in Harrods. Not even the puppies in The Pet Kingdom can raise it in my estimation. It is a giant, windowless rat-cage-maze covered in gilt, essentially an upmarket Primark from which the swiftest exit takes twenty minutes in every direction. With the heaving crowds, it can take a full forty to escape. Filled with women who would sooner impale your foot with a Louboutin stiletto than step to the side to let you pass, I quickly realize from the sea of green-and-gold carrier bags that the much-lauded trend for
conspicuous abstention after the crisis has not taken off.
Vive la Résistance
!

Despite the stress of all this feverish expenditure, I absolutely love the holiday season. It is the only time of year one can feel truly content with oneself after a gluttonous binge of epic proportions. Instead of being mired in a haze of self-recrimination while blearily taking in the empty bottles, over-spilling ashtrays and ravished trays of confectionery the morning after, I feel that I have accomplished a nearly impossible physical feat of digestive prowess. When faced with the last five truffles in a 650g Charbonnel & Walker box given to Stacy and swiftly donated to me, do I give up, relent and decide to finish them another day? No! They are my Everest!

Ultimately my pagan joy in this Christian holiday outweighs my desire to avoid ballooning by January. I will nobly bear the consequences of everything I cannot say no to (which is everything). With diets, self-restraint and restrictive waistbands pencilled in for sometime next month, I feel I can truly unleash the obese, foul-mouthed trailer-trash whore inside me, who likes nothing better than to sit in front of the telly smoking, drinking and eating, completely orally fixated.

And it's all in the name of the Baby Jesus. By all accounts he became a great man who did some things, but most importantly, at his birth he was brought rare riches from far and wide. We commemorate this today by giving our loved ones cashmere socks, £35 for thirty-two ounce Crème de la Mer lipbalms
and other silly luxury items. The things that catch our eye but that we would never normally have the chutzpah to purchase for ourselves. Understanding this is the key to good gift giving and why getting something useful is somehow soul-crushing.

Anyway, this Jesus grew up into a garrulous fellow, fond of symbolic hand gestures and wine-laden dinner parties that would start out as politically minded intellectual soirées but finish with drunken sleight-of-hand magic tricks. For all these reasons I think we would get on rather well. He is particularly dear to my heart for his assertion that carbs and red wine are Godly. One cannot help but admire the enduring power of his trend-setting. The Diana Vreeland of organized religion, his influence can still be felt in the unfettered facial hair and gladiator sandals sported by fashionable people today, all over the world.

*

It is now Christmas morning and I am lying wrapped in my duvet like a joyfully inert slug. The shenanigans will begin when I travel to Mum's flat – I am tempted not to get out of bed. Someone had the bright idea for us to spend the holiday all together in our reconstituted family unit – Mum, Dad, me and Vitoria. This decision was undertaken while we were aware of the finite nature of our lives.

Now that the reason for this rare sensitivity has been revealed to be a glorified zit, we bitterly rue the consequences
of this hasty sentimentality. I've been having horrible flashbacks to the post-Vitoria/pre-divorce period when they were trying to work on their marriage. Every moment of peace was the calm before a storm; every kind gesture seemed heavily weighted with guilt; an undercurrent of recrimination and fury pulled on our spirits. Mum played the martyr and Dad wore our family like a hair shirt.

I wish I could spend the next few days alone at home, rather than sitting at Mum's enduring the awkwardly polite silences interspersed with terrible rows that are bound to follow. For once, I feel utterly free and able to do as I please in the house, as Stacy has gone to visit Tarquin and Cordelia for three glorious weeks. She's staying at their place in the countryside with a few other guests; she assures me it's a very exclusive party. Apparently their house marches alongside some grand National Trust estate and has gorgeous views. I've studiously avoided looking at the
Tatler
Stacy left lying on the kitchen counter folded to a page where she mentioned it is featured. I'm curious to meet Tarquin and Cordelia, just because it would be fascinating to see what kind of people would voluntarily invite Stacy to stay with them for nearly an entire month without having some sort of recompense, sexual or otherwise.

Still, family duty calls. I should ready myself by finding something fashionable enough to assure Mum that I have made an effort and baggy enough to comfortably shield my
food-baby from view. After a quick shower, I choose a red woollen Christmas jumper-dress, paired with flat black over-the-knee boots and a full face of sparkly slap for morale. Feeling boosted with my warpaint on, I gather up my gifts and take the bus, on my way back home sweet home.

Mum lives in the lower-ground-floor flat of a Georgian townhouse in Primrose Hill, a chic part of North London just a short walk from Camden. The area became infamous in the nineties as the wife-swapping, cocktail-imbibing, drug-snorting area of choice for a clique of A-list celebrities and their C-list neighbours. This wildness was eventually worn down by the monotony of divorce, rehab and the school run, but I like to think they carry on with the occasional festive spit-roasting, if only for old times' sake.

Tucked into a quiet side road, Mum's place is not a particularly impressive piece of real estate in size or grandeur but has private access to a charming garden that in summer is completely overgrown with grass, flowers, ivy and weeds. Though she hasn't tended it at all in the years since she and Dad sold the old flat to buy separate properties, I like the unruliness of it; it is refreshing, a mysterious enclave of bare, twisted branches in winter and a romantic wilderness of plants and colour in summer.

We are both of the opinion that an overly manicured lawn speaks of the character of its owner as anal and controlling. Ours probably suggests that we are lazy and unhinged but I
rather fancy the idea of carrying around an unloaded antique pistolet to wave threateningly at small children, noisy dogs and traffic wardens. Whenever I spend an extended period of time here, we end up either laughing uproariously together over a bottle of wine, or bitterly sniping at each other. This, combined with my frequent forays into her wardrobe to see if any of the old designer togs she's held on to from her youth will fit me (they don't), makes me fear that if I ever need to move back home, we will turn into the second coming of
Grey Gardens
.

Mum is not at her best around the holiday season, or indeed at special occasions of any kind. It brings out in her something that begins as a tremor of nervous energy and eventually builds into a crescendo of full-on hysteria that usually strikes at a moment in which someone else should be shining. This includes but is not limited to: eulogies at funerals, the exchange of vows at weddings, any time ‘Happy Birthday' is sung and Easter Mass. If I ever give birth, I will have to bar her from the delivery room so I can hear myself scream.

So, turning the key and letting myself into the flat, I am surprised to hear her singing happily along to Frank Sinatra carols in the oft-unused kitchen, from which strangely delightful smells are emanating.

‘Mum? I'm home! Happy Christmas!'

I slam the door, pulling off my boots in the narrow hallway
and searching for a place to put them. Every bit of available floor space is taken up by stilettos and shoeboxes. They wantonly display varying levels of sexiness inappropriate for the firmly middle-aged. I appreciate that she's a good-looking woman still in fine form, but what need does she have for leopard print with silver spiked studs, I think as I pick up a pair enviously, stroking the dyed pony-skin with lust. Unfortunately, we do not share a shoe size.

‘Hello, darling! I'm in the kitchen!'

I hang my jacket on the decrepit old radiator which functions as the coat-stand and step into the living room to put my gifts under the tree. The largest room in the flat, it has high ceilings, an incongruously fancy chandelier and inviting leather couches covered in ethnic pillows that she picked up on her travels. The shelves are adorned with ornamental plates, statues, paintings and vases of flowers. It is cluttered and eclectic but cosy and inviting, the result of trying to cram a lifetime's worth of things into a sudden downsize.

This year, rather than getting out the old artificial tree, which is held hostage in the laundry cupboard, she has sprung for a real one. Though it is small, it looks enchanting atop the piles of Turkish rugs that are strewn over each other on the floor. Adding my purchases to the loot spread out beneath it, I try to have a quick look-see through the tags to find out how many are intended for little old undeserving me. I am prevented by the schizoid hissing of Heisei. Originally
Next Door's cat, Mum started secretly feeding him in our garden at night, lured him into the flat and has never let him out. That was eighteen months ago. Misanthropic, inbred, resentful and lazy, it is easy to ignore him as long as you are not in his ‘Spot of the Day'. This is usually directly in front of a toilet or vital connecting door and is currently on top of the parcels. I originally wondered when Next Door would clock his new home and request him back; now I realize they know, have always known.

‘Wow, it smells amazing. I'm well impressed by whatever you've rustled up!'

I enter the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as Mum puts the kettle on. We share the habit of always needing to be sipping on a glass of something, going through endless rounds of tea, coffee and, the hour permitting, alcohol. She credits constant hydration for her good skin, though I'm not sure caffeine and booze are known for their collagen-preserving qualities.