Pleasant Vices (28 page)

‘Kid sister,' Emma called back.

‘Shut up, Em!' Daisy hissed at her furiously. ‘I don't want the world to know. I'm going to dump her as soon as I get inside.' She pulled crossly at Polly's hot little paw to hurry her up. She'd wanted to get there early, before some other girl, one of the slaggy, done-it-all sixth-formers probably, moved in to get off with Oliver. He'd think by now that she wasn't coming.

Sophie had obliging and accommodating parents who had agreed that it would be nice for her to have a birthday party. Like all similar parents in the neighbourhood, they considered it scandalous that there was nowhere for teenagers to go at night that didn't involve either breaking the law (pubs, clubs) or breaking the environment (the riverside, the Common). At least with parties they knew they were safely at someone's house, not risking a knifing hanging around in town, and if the party was at their own house they didn't even have to argue over who stayed sober enough to drive out into the 1 a.m. cold, police-patrolled Saturday night air to collect their child. So, refusing to go out and leave Sophie alone to cope with gatecrashers and trouble, they trailed upstairs to camp unseen in the unused and underheated au-pair suite in the attic, with an ancient television and an Indian takeaway, turned up the volume and assured each other that everything would be fine. The guests were all nice children, from good schools, who had been taught a healthy respect for alcohol. They didn't fear drugs. Sophie had told them that only thick young kids sniffed glue, and had rather snootily laughed off the idea of Ecstasy ‘only people who go to raves and wear orange lycra take Es,' she'd sniffed scornfully. If Sophie did run into any problems they would be safely there to deal with it, and if not, well they'd promised their anxious daughter that they wouldn't interfere, wouldn't terminally humiliate her by so much as showing their faces. The noises drifting up the stairs were what the optimistic parents hoped to hear; well-cared-for teenagers having a good time, laughing, a bit of squealing, lots of music (Jimi Hendrix – they smiled knowingly to each other, does anything change?), but no glass breaking, no screams, no roaring of boys indulging in excess-testosterone aggression. They settled themselves comfortably in the ancient pinewood and corduroy Habitat chairs, long abandoned from the first sitting-room they'd ever furnished together, and looked forward to watching, uninterrupted, a gloomy French film on BBC2.

Oliver and Ben were in the kitchen leaning against the fridge when Daisy walked in to get herself a drink. She completely ignored them both and simply helped herself to a bottle of K cider from the supply on the draining board along with, as an afterthought, a can of Coke for Polly, then left the room again.

‘There you are,' Oliver bragged to Ben, ‘told you she likes me. Lucky I came prepared,' he said, leering and tapping the top pocket of his denim jacket. Ben took a swig from his beer bottle and thought he preferred not to know about Oliver's contraceptive supply if it was going to be used on his sister, though it might come in useful if he got astoundingly, beyond-belief lucky with Emma. When, he wondered, would he be like Oliver and feel able to amble into any old petrol station and casually pick up a packet of Mates as if it was quite the natural thing to buy along with a Crunchie bar? When, please God, he thought, taking another large swig, would he need to?

Polly sat cross-legged underneath the desk in Sophie's bedroom and quickly finished her Coke. She knew she'd made an absolutely unbreakable promise to keep well out of the way and not be a nuisance, but surely she wasn't expected to sit there all night? She sat very still, thumbing casually through Sophie's diary and listened carefully as two boys sat on the bed and smoked a sweet-smelling joint, discussing how much Ben had been charging for it and whether they could get it cheaper from one of the dealers down on the estate. After they'd left the room she uncurled herself and wandered to the top of the stairs. Down below her through clouds of cigarette smoke, she could see that the house was now pretty well full. No-one would notice if she went down and found somewhere more interesting to be. She crept down and snaked her way through the mass of people. From a chair safely hidden behind a large frondy plant in the sitting-room, Polly could see Daisy being closely talked to by a boy with very dark hair and the kind of eyes that don't leave your face when they're talking. Daisy was smiling up at him, gazing intently back and looking, Polly thought, quite horribly soppy. He was probably telling her enormous lies about how wonderful she was. If he was, Daisy would believe every single word, so they'd probably be snogging soon and that would be something to report to Harriet. Polly was thirsty again but didn't want Daisy to catch her, so she looked around and found a bottle on the window ledge just behind her. It didn't seem to be anyone's, nobody pounced on her crossly when she picked it up and sniffed at it. It wasn't Coke, but it would do.

Ben was successfully squashed up against Emma in a corner of the dining-room. It wasn't dark enough for doing anything adventurous to her body, and there were too many people all squawking noisily around them and banging into them. The air was swirling and heady with cannabis fumes. The obvious thing would be to entice her up to one of the bedrooms. He felt his hands getting clammy at the thought, but he'd had a few courage-gathering drinks and could only ask, it was now or never. ‘Shall we go somewhere quieter?' he whispered into her hair, despising himself for his corniness. He held his breath and waited for her to laugh in his face and tell him to drop dead.

‘OK,' she whispered back unexpectedly.

Perhaps she hadn't realized what he meant. He took her hand and led her to the stairs, where an embarrassing number of sniggering people watched them go up together. Just at the bit where the stairs curved, Ben happened to glance back and into the sitting-room. What was Polly drinking from that bottle he wondered? She was Daisy's responsibility though, he decided, absolutely not his, not at a moment like this. It crossed his mind then that back in the kitchen just forty-five minutes ago, he should have thought to borrow a condom from Oliver. There really was just the most wonderful outside chance he might need one.

‘So, are we so completely broke that we'll have to go without dessert?' Monica enquired cheerfully as Bernard snapped shut the calculator and started pouring more wine.

‘Frankly, yes,' he said, though his face had an amused and unconvincing look, as if he didn't really expect to be believed. Monica seemed to take that to mean ‘Frankly, no' and continued to butter her bread roll thickly, but Alan was looking quite pale, and Jenny felt mildly aggrieved that the situation at work was obviously so much worse than he had been admitting, as if she was just a fluffy little wife who needed to be protected from such knowledge. Alan could be out of work and searching for a job this time next week, and he'd still be telling her not to worry about it. A serious career of her own should have been taken up a long time ago, not just dabbling in a spot of teaching from home as a kind of frill with which to add decorative extras to their family life. She prayed briefly that the sending out of her CVs would be fruitful. Just as the waiter put before her a plate of lobster ravioli, her stomach contracted at the thought of even more years of Polly's school fees. She didn't need a calculator to tell her that she and Alan were going to need (at current prices, and the fees went up annually) at least £33,600 to educate their third child, and that wasn't available from Social Security, so she added another quick prayer for Polly's exam results to yield a scholarship.

‘. . . Well I suppose we'll have to draw straws for who has to give up their company car, ha ha ha!' Bernard was saying. Jenny watched Alan grin fawningly and felt annoyed. Was Bernard so close to retirement that he actually no longer cared? He must have some treble-protected multi-bonus pension scheme he was dying to get his hands on, she thought, but what about the rest of them? ‘Bought Monica a little runabout, such a good wheeze, we use it all the time,' he said.

‘Classic car,' Monica murmured through a mouthful of salmon ravioli.

‘Oh yes? I've got one, an MG Midget; restored it myself!' Frankie told her proudly. Jenny could just imagine Frankie, all square in mechanic's overalls, hauling herself under a car with a big bag of spanners.

‘Got her a Morris Traveller. Nothing fancy, moss in the joins and a spot of woodworm, but the insurance is a dream.' Bernard leaned across eagerly.

‘Do it up and it's worth a fortune. I should know,' Frankie said.

‘Ah, but that's the thing!' Bernard announced triumphantly. ‘You qualify for Classic Car insurance, and if you do less than five thousand miles . . .'

‘But whoever does?' Jenny asked.

Bernard looked round furtively and took a quick sip of wine before confiding, ‘If you do less than five thousand, the insurance is absolutely down to peanuts. You simply
disconnect the clock
! Now isn't that a good old piece of accountancy advice for you? Free too!'

‘It sucks,' said Frankie, in honest disgust. Jenny thought about the dingy used car lot at the back of the estate where the residents traded beaten-up Fiestas for beaten-up Escorts. Notices on each windscreen denied responsibility for the mileage on the cars' clocks, and Ministry of Transport officials checked it over on a regular basis, along with the police. The place seemed to be under constantly changing management. Eventually nice, trustworthy Monica would sell her priceless Morris. The ad would say something along the lines of ‘careful lady owner, exceptionally low mileage' and her word would not be doubted.

There was a bit of a silence after that. Jenny watched Serena applying pâté to a tiny square of toast, her long, pink-polished, fingernails holding it delicately as if the harsh little crumbs might chip at her nail varnish. Jenny imagined those hands caressing her husband, wondered if even in the deepest thrashings of passion she handled Alan with such daintiness, fearful of damaging her manicure.

‘And what do you do?' came a polite, social question from Frankie to Jenny.

‘I teach flute – when I can get the pupils,' Jenny told her. ‘At the moment I'm getting the impression that music lessons are among the little extras that get cut back when times are hard,' she sighed. ‘It's the same in schools, sadly, the state ones can't afford the outside staff, and parents struggling to pay school fees can't afford lessons as well, so only the children of the super-rich are learning to play anything.'

‘Must be getting like back in the historic days when music was purely an accomplishment for affluent young women,' Monica chipped in.

Frankie retorted sharply, ‘Unless you were a man and were allowed to turn yourself into a genius composer. I always wondered why girls who showed prodigious talents like Mozart's were never encouraged too, then we might have some female composers of real substance as well. There must have been some surely.'

‘Too busy putting in the necessary hours of embroidery and poetry-reciting I expect, preparing to catch a husband,' Jenny replied and then laughed. ‘Plus, if any parent, governess or tutor could get a boy to sit still for more than ten minutes and get engrossed in one activity, they were probably only too happy to encourage them to stay there and get on with it. I know I would be!'

From across the table Serena leaned across and speared a slice of lemon from Frankie's plate. She sat sucking at it without wincing, listening to them laughing. ‘That's what it was all about though, wasn't it?' she said suddenly, ‘Learning to entertain a husband. It isn't much different now, really, there are still women out there – can you believe it? – who live off their husbands! Can you imagine not earning one's own living? Otherwise it's just prostitution!'

Jenny looked at her for signs of irony, but there was nothing but the expectation of approval on Serena's smiling, porcelain face. Monica was shuffling her napkin around and frowning. ‘There are other important things beside earning a living in the financial sense. A husband's income can be shared with his wife for more than just sex,' Jenny said.

Monica beamed agreement, saying, ‘Well yes, absolutely. There's children for one thing, and charity work once they're grown up. I'd have thought you feminists would value child-rearing as a valid occupation.'

Jenny thought for a minute and said, ‘Also, it could be considered socially responsible to stay out of the job market if you don't really need two incomes. The most important thing there, surely, is that it's not just women who should be allowed that choice. Although not many families these days can exist on one income.'

Alan was watching her, she could feel his gaze and his attention on her. Frankie reached across her with a forkful of monkfish and Serena's cherry mouth opened to bite it.

‘Mmmm. Adore it,' she murmured silkily. Frankie smiled lovingly at her friend and Jenny felt she'd been violently clouted by a sudden recognition. Frankie and Serena shared a lot more than just an apartment. Oh poor Alan, she thought, he clearly had absolutely no idea.

Polly was getting to like cider, even though it tasted a bit sour at first. It left a lovely sharp appley flavour in her mouth and made her feel happy, like when she was allowed champagne on family birthdays. Daisy and Oliver were somewhere in the blurry distance, interestingly entwined on a sofa. She'd tried creeping up and listening to what they said, to see if they were discussing sex, but Daisy had told her to sod off and go and find somewhere to sleep. Polly actually was quite tired now, but back on her chair when she closed her eyes the room seemed to lurch over her head, as if she was forever swooping backwards to the top of the big wheel at the fair. The music was too loud, and there was a constant buzzing of voices, pierced sometimes by the kind of shriek that wrenched her all the way back from the edge of sleep. She decided that perhaps she should go and find a quiet bed to lie on just for a little while, and crept up the stairs past a mass of gabbling girls who were talking about the best age for losing virginity. Polly knew she must be unbelievably tired; she didn't feel any real urge to hang around and listen to them like she normally would, but just continued up, holding carefully onto the banisters as the fairground feeling whirled along with her even when she was walking around.