Seductive Viennese Whirl (23 page)

The room is airless and boiling hot, and smells of sickly sweet hair oil. I'm about to pull off the knobbly woollen turtleneck I'm wearing, but remember in the nick of time the t-shirt with a hole under the armpit I've got on beneath it. I'm blowing down the neck of the turtleneck trying to cool myself down, but my body still feels like a chicken on a spit. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. The screen begins to turn grey. Which melts into brown and then orange. There's a pop, as the projector gives a final gasp and the room goes dark. Furious shouts go up, lights are flicked on.

I turn towards Eva. "I don't feel too good," I say, but she's disappeared. All around me people are stomping their feet in protest. I've got to get out. I must get out. I elbow my way through the crowd, but only make it to the last row of seats. I'm jostled forward and dizziness fizzes up inside my head like the bubbles in a shaken can of Coke. As I reach out to steady myself my hands clamp onto a man's shoulders.

"Sorry," I mutter, blacking out for a few seconds. When I come round I'm being led by a portly middle aged man over to his end of row seat. "Do sit down, please," he says. I thank him profusely, but he's already darting off saying, "It is unforgivable, to allow a pregnant lady to stand like that, absolutely unforgivable." Amazed that the days of gallantry aren't dead, I look around for the pregnant woman he's gone to rescue.

People have started throwing things at the screen, angry at the abrupt curtailing of the show. I duck as a shoe goes whizzing past my head. I can't see a pregnant woman anywhere. Maybe she's fainted, poor thing.

The woman beside me asks me if I'm feeling better. I assure her I am. She's a still beautiful woman who's begun to fray at the edges. "This must be rather a lot for you to deal with," she says. "In your condition. But I must say I could have rather done with some excitement during my third trimester. I was on bed rest for most of it. There are only so many daytime soaps you can watch without wanting to kill yourself."

"I know what you mean," I say, laughing along with her out of politeness. Since I'm not one hundred per cent sure what a third trimester is, I decide to change tack. "That man was awfully nice to offer me his seat, don't you think?"

"Hugh. Oh yes, my husband's always been very considerate. Massaged my feet every day of my pregnancy." I nod, relieved that I've got a handle on what she's talking about. "Fluid retention." She says. "Do you suffer much with that?"

"Can't say I do. I haven't had a drink all night. I could kill for a gin and tonic."

She throws her head back like I've said something hilarious. Then she puts her hand on my stomach. Now hang on there lady, I think, just because your husband's gone off to help some poor pregnant woman doesn't mean you can start fondling me. I look around for Eva, but she's disappeared.

"This feels a little awkward," I venture.

"Of course it does. All those little elbows and knees jabbing you in the ribs. When are you due?"

And then it dawns on me. She isn't making a pass at me. She thinks I'm pregnant. And so does Hugh.

And then I start babbling. "I'm not. Due, I mean. Any time soon. Or any time at all actually."

"My mistake. Please forgive me," she says, smiling sweetly while she disengages her hand. As the film starts up again to thunderous applause, I tumble into a freefall of panic, my mind scrambling for an explanation for why they might have thought I was heavy with child. I pin the blame firmly on the turtleneck. I don't take in the rest of the film, I'm too busy feeling hard done by. As soon as I read,

Funding: Count von Pappenberg

in the credits, I've scampered off to fantasy land. We're in the ballroom, my cheek pressed against his dinner suit. We're swirling round and round while the orchestra plays and he's just whispered something flirtatious yet wildly witty into my ear. I throw back my head and laugh and laugh and see that from this vantage point all the windows are upside down. Clusters of golden grapes stud the wall. Gold on white. I'm still swirling and laughing when I'm tugged back, back to the shabby little screening room. Hugh and his wife are looking at me pityingly and finally I have no choice but to admit to myself that it wasn't the sweater that made them think I was in the family way. A sing song voice inside my head starts to chant: "F.A.T.T.Y, you ain't got no alibi. You're fat."

So, you're fat, I tell myself. It's not the worst thing in the world. You've got a lot of other things going for you. But when I can't think of what those things are I start to feel sorry for myself all over again.

In my impatience to get out I trip over sleeping tramp, huddled up in the corner, who, when I look closer, turns out to be Eva, coat collar turned up around her face. I shake her by the shoulder and pull her up.

I'm swearing to myself I'll be at the gym first thing tomorrow when I catch sight of Lola, a couple of rows in front, waving a very familiar bag about in front of a very familiar man. There's a flash of rhinestones as the Giuseppe Zanotti slips from her fingers and drops to the ground. The man reaches down to retrieve the bag. When he gets up she pulls him close and kisses his cheek.

"Did you see that?" I whisper to Eva, as we pass them and go into the next room. "Lola and McManus?"

"So?" she says noncommittally. "I'm parched. Where's the bar?"

"There it is," I shriek, spying a shiny expanse of marble on the other side of the crowded room. But before I can get any nearer to it I'm accosted by Ravi, swamped in an obviously hired dinner suit and pink frilly shirt. He embraces me with a raw enthusiasm bordering on the violent.

"Hi Ravi," I say, when he's finished kissing me on both cheeks.

"Tell me, my dearest girl, how are you liking the film?"

"A very beautiful tale," I say, hoping that will do.

Turning his rapturous gaze on Eva he grabs her hands. "My dear, promise me you will work on my next film."

"Well, I don't know about that," she says. As she beams him a smile I note that her eyes are entirely devoid of emotion.

"Which we are calling
Captive Heart
, a magical tale based on the story based on Rapunzel." He drops her hands abruptly then turns to me and frowns. "Finding a suitable tower is proving to be a bugger. I have men all over Europe scouting."

"Don't you have towers in India?" I say.

"Of course, of course, but I want to keep our actors sweet. When we were in Austria Shamila and Anil were so very happy not to be mobbed all the time, as they are when we film in Bombay."

He snaps open his briefcase and handing me a video tape of
Vienna's Pearl
says, "You must give me the address of our marvellous benefactor, Count von Pappenberg. I have been meaning to repay him." He thrusts me a bit of paper.

"Actually, we call him Alex," I say, plucking the paper from his hands. When I'm done scribbling down the address I notice Eva has disappeared.

"I must go and find my friend," I say, kissing Ravi and moving slowly through the throng in the direction of the bar. I ‘m parched and really do need a drink before I try and locate her. I pass Lola, talking animatedly to a man with a shock of white hair.

"I thought the film was quite superb," she says. "It reminded me of street theatre; so raw, so unspoilt, quite unlike anything we produce in the West. I'd be very keen to get involved in a similar project in the future."

The man nods and jots something down in his notebook. I push onwards. I'm almost screaming with joy as I get to the bar, but my happiness is short lived when I realize they're only serving marsala chai, which looks decidedly non-alcoholic. As I slurp down the sweet milky drink I scan the crowds. I figure Eva must have split because I can't see her anywhere.

As I'm elbowing my way out of the joint McManus comes up to me with Lola wrapped around his shoulders like a vine.

"Good to see you," he says. "Thought I saw Eva about. I wanted a word with her."

"Isn't it a bit late for a word?" I say and hurry off. The nerve of the guy. Parading his new shag right under Eva's nose.

When I get outside, cold air slaps me in the face. I'm taking a few deep gulps, when I notice a morose figure standing under a lamppost, which, on closer inspection, turns out to be Eva.

"McManus was looking for you," I say.

"Well I don't want to talk to him, or that cow."

"Thought she was your mate."

"So did I. Did you see the way she was all over him?"

"Look," I say, putting my arm around her shoulder. "Why don't we go for a quick one at The Blue Room? It'll put you in a better frame of mind."

"I'm not in the mood."

Even though she's reluctant I manage to get her there. We end up having ten rather delicious quick ones.

When I get home at two in the morning I feel very lucid so I write a letter to Alex. I start off being kind of formal, mentioning that we'd just seen Ravi's film, and that I can't believe how nice he was in giving Ravi that money to hire equipment. And then things got a little more intimate. Maybe you'd be interested in reading it, maybe not. In any case, it's begun to feel kind of sacrilegious sharing these letters with anyone, even Eva. So I'll keep this one to myself.

Generous, gorgeous, sensitive Alex, I think, as I tumble into dreamland.

There's just one tiny problem.

He's Eva's.

Yours dreamily,

Gherkin

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: I did warn you

Date: November 14 2011

Oh Gherkin,

You do disappoint me. It is simply astonishing that you didn't know what a third trimester was. You bob about in this surreal little world of drinking clubs and bars and don't ever rub up against those of us who live in the real world - the day to day grind of bringing up kids and trying not to go mental with the stress of having an unsupportive husband who works all hours even though he knows that you're still not completely over your morning/midday/evening sickness.

Doesn't being thought of as pregnant tell you that you need to get back on your diet, like, NOW.

And I'm warning you Egg, you will end up in a pickle if you continue writing to this chap. Problem is, you never listen to a word I say. I don't know why I bother, really I don't.

Yours grumpily,

Egg

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Can't think straight

Date: November 15, 2011

Dear Egg,

I probably don't need to tell you that I didn't get to the gym before work today due to the fact that I'm nursing a killer hangover. Both of us are. The Haddock should be pleased we actually made it into work at all today. I've spent the last hour happily playing solitaire on my computer, hoping the day doesn't drag by too slowly and am just wondering whether 10.55 is too early to slip out for a bite of lunch, when the Haddock decides she needs to talk to me.

As I slink into her office and take a seat, it strikes me that she looks about as good as I feel. Her lips look bluish and her hands are trembling on her lap.

I've barely got myself comfortable when she launches into a long speech about how brilliantly Briony's performing on the Easyglide Razors account. I think she's trying to provoke me into an envious rage, but I simply don't care. Briony's quite welcome to it. I'd say as much if I could get a word in edgeways. I'm slipping into a doze when suddenly something the Haddock says causes me to jerk my chin up from where it was resting on my chest.

I sit bolt upright and rub my eyes. "I'm sorry, I thought you just said you wanted me to go to a dog show," and start to laugh.

"I did. I'm going to need you to hand out Smuckbecker's frozen yoghurt."

"To who?"

"The dogs," she says. I must still be looking blank, so she goes on. "Poppy repositioned the brand, remember? I've told her we'll give it a test run. Make the owners aware of the availability of a new premium treat for dogs."

"But I'm a copywriter."

"It can't be helped. Citronella's going, but they can't find anyone else. I said you'd do it."

Shit. I'm not exactly a dog person. I don't like them licking my face or breathing on me with their stinky breath or the fact they moult all over your clothes. I simply don't see the point of them. But a day away from the office is a day away from the office, so I reluctantly agree.

While she asks me if I think we should go with the Banana Blitz or the Strawberry Supreme frozen yoghurt for the dog show I find myself watching her with interest. Not because I give a toss which flavour we use, but because blood is dripping out of her nose onto her biscuit coloured Prada jacket. And the weird thing is, she hasn't even noticed.

"Miss Craddock, I think you should know that you're bleeding."

"Oh drat," she says, looking down at her lapel. "This is the last thing I need."

"Don't worry about it. I know the best thing for getting blood stains out. It's dishwasher liquid. Not that we have a dishwasher, but I tried it at my mum's and it works a treat."

"This keeps happening," she says, stuffing a wad of tissues under her nose.

"I mean, I know Prada jackets don't come cheap, so you'll want to get it seen to right away."

"I don't care about the bloody jacket," she says. ""I've not …" she mumbles into a tissue, "not been feeling too good recently."

As she scurries off to her en suite bathroom I start to feel afraid, very afraid. What if my voodoo spell actually took hold? It's pretty damn obvious that I really didn't think this thing through because I am so totally not ready to deal with the consequences of my awesome magical powers.

She comes back with a glass of water, which she carries to her seat. My palms suddenly feel very sweaty.

"Maybe you should see a doctor," I say, pressing my damp palms together and inadvertently making squelching sounds. Believe it or not I actually feel sorry for her, even though her demise is all my doing. In fact I'm quite keen to reverse it.