Summer Secrets (8 page)

I had a sofa donated from an ex-boyfriend (the only good thing to have come out of that particular relationship), and my mum had taken me to Habitat for pretty much everything else. We threw a sisal rug on top of the floral confusion in the living room, added pretty cushions and bookshelves, and it really didn’t look too bad.

But the bills were crippling me. I suspected I might have to take in a flatmate, which I really didn’t want to do, even though there was a perfectly nice second bedroom, which was completely empty, and I was trying my damnedest to save on the food bills by eating out at the press launches.

There was always so much food! So much drink! I’d make sure I hit the food table, or grabbed enough canap
é
s at the beginning to line my stomach, before hitting the booze.

We were always together, the traveling pack of sparkly hacks, a mixture of blondes, brunettes, redheads (my late twenties saw me going through my red phase), tall, short, large, small, from entirely different backgrounds, with entirely different accents, all of us knowing we would do anything for our group: We were each other’s family.

There have been a few changes. A couple defected over to the
Daily Mail,
a couple to the women’s glossy magazines, and we have seen the addition of Sam, who may not be a woman, and may not work on the features desk, but is an honorary member of our girl gang if ever there was one. Jackie, Poppy, Gina, and I have been together since the beginning, have watched each other’s lives change and grow over the years.

Although my life hasn’t actually changed that much. True, I did manage to move out of the terrifyingly carpeted flat a couple of years ago and buy my own garden flat just down the street on Shirland Road. And I have lost my puppy fat, finally, able to easily wear a size 12, and sometimes, depending on the designer, a size 10. And I no longer have red hair but my natural dark locks, with the streaks of gold helped a little by a very nice hairdresser in South Molton Street.

Poppy, my partner in crime in those early single days, both of us drinking and partying, making sure we had each other’s backs, then fell in love with Will Simons on the news desk. They got married five years ago in a picture-perfect stone church in the Cotswolds, with roses climbing over every available surface, and all of us her bridesmaids, whooping it up at what we all feared might be the final hurrah.

For a while Poppy dragged Will to all of our bashes, until they got busy having cosy couple dinner parties, Poppy immersing herself in Jamie Oliver recipes as they entertained. They got a cat, then another one, then, finally, a baby. Well, obviously, they didn’t “get” the baby, they “had” the baby. George. I am his godmother, and he is the most delicious little boy I have ever known. But even though I adore him, I have to force myself not to dwell on how much he has changed our friendship, on how different our lives are now.

I still consider Poppy my best friend, but we never go out partying anymore. She works from home on Fridays, and her desk sits empty beside me, which always feels unsettling. After work she’ll occasionally come for a drink, but it’s only one, and she won’t really be focused on what’s going on. Her body may be in the wine bar but her head is with the baby, and how quickly she can get back to him. Which she does. Usually after a few sips. I don’t blame her. I get it. I understand that her life is different now, that she’s living an incredibly happy, cozy, domesticated life, and that hanging out with a single girl who likes to drink and party doesn’t really fit in with that lifestyle.

She says she loves my stories, that they enable her to live vicariously through me, and I do believe a part of that’s true. But if I wished for anything at all, it would be to have what she has.

I am so good at pretending that I have the perfect life. The parties! The launches! The premieres! And for years, throughout my twenties, it was the perfect life.

But, really? At twenty-nine I’m still doing the same old shit? Could I not have found a man like Will? Should I not be living in a two-bedroomed garden flat in Notting Hill instead of my one-bedroomed, very small, and somewhat dark flat on the wrong side of Maida Vale?

Maybe that’s why I drink. To dull the pain. I used to think it was to dull the pain of not fitting in, but I fit now! My friends love me! I’m good at work! Maybe the alcohol helps me not to focus on how utterly wrong my life is.

Because everyone is settling down. It was like this huge biological clock struck for everyone on the women’s desk of the
Daily Gazette
at exactly the same time. The only one who’s still single is Jackie, but she’s fifty-four and lives in Sevenoaks. It isn’t exactly conducive to hanging out and having a good time.

Gina’s married to Alex, Sally’s living with Robert, Victoria’s married to Mark. The other three girls on the desk are full-time freelancers, and even though they’re completely included on our nights out, on the rare occasions we have them these days, we’re all a little more reserved with them because we know they probably won’t be around for long. And by the way? They all have husbands or boyfriends too.

So I am left the sad single girl, pretending to be happier than any of them, without ties, without commitments. They tease me about how jealous they are that I can come home and eat a bucket of hummus and eighteen Kit Kats for dinner if I want, and I pretend to love the freedom of choice I get, despite not having anyone to cuddle me when I’m feeling down, or help me out when there’s a leak in my flat, or just talk to me when I’m almost crying with loneliness.

Tonight, when they have all finished their glasses of wine, they will all be going home to cook dinner for their husbands, or, in some cases, eat delicious food cooked by their husbands, before curling up to watch some BBC drama on the telly.

And I will be going home to eat a bucket of hummus and two Kit Kats. But I will pretend otherwise, even if tonight I won’t be going on to the parties I tell them I’m going on to, if nothing else then to save face.

*   *   *

The wine bar is crowded, everyone from the features desk and showbiz, and a few from news, besides us. Jackie has secured a table in the corner, even though it takes me twenty minutes to get there. Jasper and Olly from the showbiz desk are chatting up the new intern on news, whose name no one seems to know, but whose enviable figure, in sky-high heels and tight short skirts, everyone seems to either envy or ogle.

Roy from the picture desk grabs me on the way in.

“My favorite women’s desker!” he says, his face ruddy with alcohol, his eyes gleaming. I’ve had a long-standing flirtation with him, which ensures I get the files before anyone else, but it would never, ever lead to anything more. Trust me. No matter how much I drink.

“Favorite picture editor!” I lie, planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Let me buy you a drink!” he says, half turning toward the bar.

“No! I’m fine! Off the alcohol!” I attempt, seeing his face crease in confusion.

“Off the alcohol? What for?”

“Just needed a break,” I say, for I haven’t actually formulated a reason. “Doing a bit of a cleanse.”

“You don’t need a cleanse,” he leers, his eyes flicking up and down my body as I shuffle slightly, wanting to get away, grateful for my high-necked shirt today. “You’re perfect. Go on, love! Glass of chardonnay?”

“No, really. I’m fine.”

“I know that! I’m getting you one!” And before I know it, a glass of chardonnay is in my hand.

I don’t drink it. It takes just about every ounce of willpower that I have, but I take it to the table, and when everyone’s face falls, I slide it over to Jackie, and tell them Roy had insisted but I am not touching it.

“Good!” says Jackie. “Because that would have been a wasted Diet Coke.” She slides the glass over to me as I thank her and take a gulp, feeling absolutely nothing as it hits my stomach—no familiar buzz, no warmth, no indication that I’m about to start feeling a whole hell of a lot better. Nothing.

“Are those shoes what I think they are?” Sam, absurdly handsome in his skinny blazer, tortoiseshell glasses (which I am sure are fake), and Hermès tie, looks down at my feet, and I grin. We are all completely obsessed with shoes, and up until a couple of weeks ago, I had never even heard of Manolo Blahniks, and now they’re all everyone on the fashion desk is talking about, thanks to a big piece on him in one of the women’s glossies. Of course Sam, our style guru, knows exactly what they are.

My mum, it turns out, has two pairs she’s never worn, and these patent, strappy Mary Janes are about the hottest thing on the planet right now. I extend my legs and show off the shoes as everyone oohs and aahs.

“Darling! I’m impressed! I can’t believe your mother has these!” says Sam, practically salivating over the heels. “That tells me your mother is someone I have to meet. Gorge!”

“You would adore her,” I say. “And can you believe it? It was like striking gold. Most of her clothes are leftovers from the seventies.”

“Really?” Gina sighs, for she is well known for loving vintage. “If she ever wants to get rid of anything, make sure I get first dibs.”

“No,” I say. “I get first dibs,” and I watch as she downs the dregs of wine in her glass and stands up, about to get another round.

All I can taste suddenly is wine. All I can think about is getting hold of a glass of wine. Everything in the room recedes, and all I can see is the dregs of wine in Gina’s glass, and it is all I can do not to grab it and drain what little there is left.

Sam goes off to the bar to get another round. I turn to Poppy and say, quietly enough so no one else can hear, “I think I might just get one glass of wine.”

“No!” she says, her face immediately stricken. “You said no alcohol. Don’t do it, Cat. You’ll regret it later.”

“I really don’t think I will. It’s just one glass.” I eye up her own glass of red, the temptation to take it almost overwhelming. I have to forcibly bring myself back to the present to hear what Poppy is saying.

“… come back? Will’s cooking, and you know what he’s like, he always makes enough for an army. Go on, join us. Please?”

I think about what that would entail. I love being at Will and Poppy’s, even though George will be fast asleep. I love being part of their domestic bliss. I love Will’s cooking, and their gorgeous flat. I love the laughter involved whenever it is just the three of us. But Poppy won’t let me drink, and however much I want to be nurtured by people I love, I want to drink more.

“I have a launch tonight,” I say, even though I wasn’t going to go. Channel 4 has a new television drama set in France, and they’ve taken over Chez Gerard in Charlotte Street for their launch party. Joanna Lumley is starring, and who knows, she may grant me an interview. More important, the french fries will be hot, crispy, and copious, as will, and this is really the clincher, the wine.

“Not that Channel 4 thing?”

“Yes. I wasn’t going to go, but I realize I really need to try to lock down a chat with Joanna Lumley. I can’t
not
go. In fact”—I make a big show of looking at my watch—“I really have to leave now.”

“You’re going to drink, aren’t you?” Poppy’s worry is all over her face.

“I don’t know, Pops. I might. But you can’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine.”

“You asked me to stop you,” she says, which is true, and I need to say something to appease her.

“Okay. I won’t. Really. You’re right. I’m going to stay on the wagon.” We both know I’m lying, but we also both know there’s nothing more she can say.

*   *   *

The cab seems to take forever, and I am fidgeting like crazy in the back, itching to have just one glass of wine, hell, maybe even half a glass, to take the edge off this. I don’t have to have more, but that one glass of wine is like scratching an unbearable itch, and I really can’t live with this itch, not when a remedy is so close at hand.

And finally we are driving down Charlotte Street, crowds of raucous people gathered on corners outside pubs, pints and glasses and cigarettes in hand, laughter, and merriment, and shouting, and then I am at Chez Gerard, and within one minute of signing in, I have a glass in my hand, and everything,
everything,
starts to immediately feel better.

Eight

The first thing that strikes me as unfamiliar is the smell. My laundry detergent smells like white linen. Even after a week there is always the faint smell of cleanliness, and before I even open my eyes, I’m aware that my sheets don’t smell the same.

My next thought is: What the hell am I lying on? It feels like I’m sleeping on my back (which, by the way, I never do), on a stick.

The thought after that, once I have opened my eyes, is: Where the hell am I?

I try to sit up, but can’t, and I reach behind me to feel a slab of bristles. There is a broom tucked into my T-shirt, and I pull it out, letting it clatter to the floor, clutching my pounding head as I wince, wishing that clattering of the broom didn’t make so much noise.

I look around me at this bedroom, which definitely isn’t mine, and definitely isn’t Jamie’s, and I have absolutely no idea whose it is, which would frighten me, if it weren’t for the terrible headache that’s threatening to blow my head apart.

If I weren’t in so much pain, I might possibly appreciate the bedroom. The sheets are blue, the slatted wooden blinds a dark, masculine cherry. There is an antique desk pushed into the corner of the wall opposite, bookshelves next to it. I have no idea whose bedroom I’m in, but I’m pretty sure it’s a man’s.

An ajar door lends me a glimpse of a bathroom, and I creep in, opening the medicine cabinet to find, thank God, a big bottle of ibuprofen. I tip four into my hand and hold my mouth to the tap to swallow them, looking at myself in the mirror with such shame that I have done it again.

I remember arriving at Chez Gerard. I remember having a long chat with the Channel 4 press officer. And then I don’t remember much else.

Thankfully, it could be worse. I am in all my clothes, so presumably I didn’t have mad, unconscious sex with a stranger. But it could be much better, and I don’t even know who to ask.