The Mad British (14 page)

“I'll stick to bitching over the print media and enlightening my dedicated online readers to the latest in environmental politics, thank you."

I pause. "I don't do cocaine."

"Nor do you have a fro, my friend, which makes the decision to stay in the rat race easier for you. Me, I’ve discovered that living off my savings and doing what I love, which is bitching at things and not washing my dishes, have brought me more happiness that taming my hair and breaking the souls of lesser beings ever had. I even traded in the Maserati for a Prius hybrid. Makes it easier when I go through the drive-thru. Less stares."

"Never change, Travis."

"Besides my career? I won't. Now what's up, sexy? Need me to crunch some numbers again?"

"No. Just want to talk."

Travis gives me a peculiar look. “You know I don’t swing that way, baby. Unless you’re George Clooney. He could make me flip reverse.”

“Travis.”

"You never just want to talk. Is it Casino Girl?"

I grunt. Across the ocean, Travis lets out a shout and slams his palm on the desk, knocking balled papers and napkins to the floor. "Wow, she's got you hooked, bro. Fatal Attraction, man.
Told
you. I need to see if she’s got a white rabbit for you to boil. Is she really worth all this trouble?"

"She is," I say, perhaps a little too quickly.

"My man is in love,” he drawls. “I know, I'll give you some of my UEFA football season tickets if you promise to not get anything on the seats that I might stick to later."

Football.

Ball.

Bollocks.

"Bollocks," I spit. "The Red Ball. I forgot all about it."

Travis sniggers. "You serious? How? Your sister chairs the damn thing."

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "I’m going to invite her. You think that’s weird? Too fast or something."

Travis is quiet for a moment. "Hey, if she's as top-notch and special as you say she is, then do it. But promise to take her on an actual, real date afterwards so that the weirdness factor is reduced a little. In fact, call her right now while you're online with me so I can listen. I'll be quiet."

"Travis, we're not in high school."

"Whatever, you're the one that called me in the middle of the night to get advice on getting a girl, loser. Come on, call her. She won't even know I'm here."

I chuckle and pop open another beer. "I’ll call her."

"In the meantime, I'll help. Can I Google her?"

"Don't Google her."

"Brah, you know you want me to Google her. You probably already have."

"I haven’t."

"Liar. Here, I'll do it right now."

"Don't make me smack you again."

"Okay, okay. Shit. Don't get so worked up. She’s probably done it to you already."

"Travis."

"
Fine.
Good luck. If all goes well, the next mission we undertake can be getting
me
laid. I think my dick's going to break off soon if I don't use it properly."

"Well then, you shouldn't have traded in the Maserati, idiot."

“RED BALL? You mean the annual charity Red Ball, right?"

I grunt an affirmation as I dig through the dark recesses of Chloe's closet, flinging away hangers full of Ann Taylor work-like clothes. "Have you ever been, seeing as you work for the city council?"

Chloe curls her legs underneath her on the bed. "Once, when I was dating that banker, but that was a long time ago and there's a new board of directors chairing it now. I hear they really turned it around."

"One of the chairs is his sister," I inform. I pull out a Chinese purple sheath and hold it up to my body. "Too obvious?"

"Yes, and that's a summer dress, and very not your colour. You have to go more formal."

"Ugh. Why can't people raise money for genetic research in normal clothes? If they have to buy formal wear, then that's just less money they have to donate, and that's less research that gets done and less rare genetic diseases they can cure." To be honest, I’ve no idea how the whole thing works. I just hope there are no collection baskets or anything that will put me on the spot.

"Addie, I don't think money is a problem for the people that go to these kind of events. I wore an off-the-rack BCBG and it felt like I showed up in a tracksuit."

I throw another dress to the floor and flop on the bed next to Chloe. "Shit, why am I going to this? For one thing, I don't know anyone besides James. I don't know what to wear, I don't do high society, I can't make small talk with rich old people, and God, I'm going to stick out like a rancid, infected thumb. Why can't we just say 'screw it' and go bungee jumping or something? I need chocolate. You got any chocolate in here?"

Chloe takes out a bar of dark chocolate from her bedside table and hands it to me. "For one, I think it's going to be mostly rich young people."

“Wonderful.” I stick a piece of chocolate into my mouth. “I'm going to be surrounded by fresh-faced Conservatives,” I mumble through bites. “Wait until they find out about those anti-capitalism pieces I made back in the day. Has this got cherries in it? Tastes so
good."

She nods. "Think about it this way. He's probably locked into this. Do you want him going with another woman as his date?"

I break off three cubes of chocolate and stuff them all into my mouth. I didn’t think of that. "God no."

"Hey, don’t finish it. It was a gift from my sexy boo.” She grabs the chocolate out of my hand and breaks off a piece for herself. “James seems like a decent guy. Do you think he'll leave you to the wolves?"

"No, not really."

"And if he does get pulled away, you can excuse yourself and go through his car and find out just how much frigging money he has. Bloody hell, Adelaide, he picked up our entire bar tab, and that car of his was like something out of a—”

“Bond film,” I cut in, stealing back her chocolate. My Kickstarter project pops into my mind again.

“Exactly. He even has his own driver. Let's Google him."

"What?"

Chloe's face lights up. "Google. Let's Google him. Make sure he's not part of some sketchy hedge-fund crap or owns sweatshops in Cambodia or has a crazy wife locked up in the attic of his mansion like Mr Rochester in Jane Eyre."

"Chloe, he doesn't. I've already Googled him. There's nothing but boring business stuff. He doesn't even have Facebook."

Chloe looks horror-stricken. “He doesn’t have Facebook?” She shakes her head slowly from side to side as if I had just told her he was a serial killer. She frowns. “So, no Facebook stalking of his ex-girlfriends then?”

Taking one last piece of chocolate, I stand and continue my exhausting search through Chloe's closet, somewhat amazed that someone with such an organised professional life would have such a hellhole cave of a closet in her room.

“
Adelaide
. You’ve eaten it all.”

"Sorry, Chloe, I’ll get Bailey to buy you more—Oh, look, I think I found your off-the-rack BCBG." I pull it out. "It's not a tracksuit, you drama queen. It's not that bad. . ."

It’s rather stylish for being a few years old. The spaghetti straps are a little dated, and the ribbon sash can definitely go, but the cut is great, long and lean with movement at the hem, and a plush blue colour that reminds me of those alluring, spellbinding eyes.

I have a vision: Adjusting the straps and neckline, ditching the ribbon, pulling up the hem into a slit. . .

Changing the old things, the small things, one at a time, is a good place to start building from the wreckage.

"Got some scissors? I’m going to breathe new life into this neglected off-the-rack.”

"Chloe," I whine, "it's not working."

Evening has finally come and everything is going wrong.

Chloe pulls an elastic band off her wrist and ties her hair back. "I'm going with Plan B,” she says. “Curling iron and hairspray. We're going prom hair here; we're going Miss England. I'm not screwing around any more."

"Please don't give me Miss England hair."

Bailey enters the kitchen and stops when he sees us at the table. "You gals need help?"

Chloe leans over and pecks him on the lips. "You're sweet for offering, boo, but this fight is between me and your sister's very thick hair. I can't afford civilian casualties."

He twists the top off his beer bottle and leans against the counter. "What time is this guy coming over?"

"Don't ask that question because I don't want to know the answer," I tell him. I squirm miserably in the hard kitchen chair, wearing nothing but a thin cotton robe. "Because the answer is probably pretty freaking soon, and my hair still won't curl the right way, and I cut my leg shaving before because I was rushed and I can't afford any more accidents."

"That's negative thinking," Chloe says, plugging in the curling iron. "No negative thinking. Negative thinking leads to ugly hair and universal scorn."

I peek out from my crown of curlers and give my best pathetic face to my older brother. "Bails, can you do me a favour?"

"As long as it's not messing around with hair or makeup, I can."

"If James gets here and I'm not ready, which very well may happen—and that's not negative thinking Chloe, that's reality—can you like, distract him for a little while?"

Bailey takes a long swallow. "I guess," he says grudgingly, acting as if I’d asked for a fresh kidney, one he would have to cut out himself.

A lock of hair boings out of its curler and drops on my face when I frown. "Wait, what's with the attitude?” I reproach. “You liked James well enough when he was picking up your bar tab and pretending to listen to all your sport crap."

"That was when he was a potential new bro-dude to chill with, and not some bloke who’s trying to bang my sister."

Chloe snorts. "Bailey."

"He does have an awesome car though. I’ll give him that." He shrugs and retreats back to the sofa to watch the football match playing on the television. "You can do worse, Addie."

I smile at my brother. "Thanks."

"Just make sure you keep your purse zipped, if you know what I mean," he adds.

"You're gross,” I yell at my brother. “Chloe, you're actually in a relationship with this guy?"

“Afraid so.”

Chloe is nothing if not persistent. Her next attempt at keeping my long hair curled neatly is high heat and some sort of clear goo. My scalp is starting to ache. "Can you help me paste my bra on?" I ask her.

"Those are some words I thought I'd never hear again."

"Get over it. I've done it to you plenty of times," I remind her.

Five minutes later: "Screw it, this thing isn't sticking. How badly are you popping out?" Chloe asks.

I’m on the verge of panic. "Pretty freaking bad. I’m sure to be arrested for manslaughter after giving all the older men a heart attack. Do we have any tape?"

Bailey is in the middle of cursing out at the referee when there is a knock at the door. "James, is that you, mate?" he yells.

"Yeah, mate," comes the muffled voice from the hallway.

"Hold on a sec." With some manoeuvring, Bailey skirts over to the door without taking his eyes off the TV. He opens it just as something bad happens in the match. "Oh my God, if you mess this up, you utter wanker. . . "

James stands in the hallway with a puzzled expression. "Are you talking to me?"

Chloe and I snicker at them both and leg it to the privacy of my bedroom. I’m not letting James see me until I’m ready. It’s bad luck, right? Or is that just for weddings? Whatever, I’m not taking the risk.

Twenty minutes later and Bailey’s muffled shout penetrates my door. "What's taking you so long, skinny?"

"I'm almost ready, fatty,” I shout back. “Stop yelling at me."

When Chloe finally tames my hair, and my boobs, we finally enter the living room.

"Damn straight," I hear my brother say to James. They clink their beer bottles in response to the game and turn to us. Cheshire is sitting on James’ lap, the latter seeming to be really uncomfortable with it. "Finally. You took all that time to get dressed as a peacock?" For probably the millionth time in my life, I wonder why I’ve been cursed with such a nitwit brother.

Chloe and I had abandoned the entire idea of putting my hair up—there being simply too much of it—and have let it hang loose in waves. Chloe's old dress is completely modified: I’d yanked off the spaghetti straps and cut the sash into wider straps that I’d formed into a halter style round my neck. I’d pulled off the embellishments on the bodice and covered it instead with peacock feathers.

Two things are swirling around in my head. Firstly, I’m flushing under my makeup and wishing that a ceiling beam would fall down spontaneously and knock my brother out. Secondly, James looks very Bond-like in a tuxedo, as he always does.

And I am dressed as a peacock.

"Um, what is this?"

I haven’t stopped rubbing my hand against the seat's leather, too afraid to touch any of the knobs or gizmos in the interior, lest I break something in this car that is undoubtedly worth more than my life's worth. Several times over. I had already pressed a button I thought was the window and had the Thievery Corporation start playing somewhere near my head.

James smiles, and I know that one already, it’s the one that comes out right before he tells a joke. "That's the passenger seat, love."

"I know that," I mutter. "I meant the car. What is this?" Having no car of my own, all I know is that it’s small, and only fits two people, and looks very expensive and elegant and not at all like the scrap cars that usually park on my street. Bailey had made several painful whines of longing when he had seen James’ car the night of my showing, and even Chloe had stopped and stared, her eyes wide and her mouth agape—and she’s not even into cars.

For some reason, James seems uncomfortable admitting it. "It's a Lotus Evora."

"Lo-tus. Pretty. A flower car," I giggle. "I would ask if I can drive it but I’ve forgotten how to drive a manual." He gives me a look. “Don’t look at me like that. My first and only car was a Smart car.”

"It’s not smart to buy a Smart car. I’ll teach you."

His arm is very near mine and I wish we could skip the whole middle part of this night and go right to the part where he grabs me with that very arm and kisses me. Or the part where I will jump onto his lap, in this tiny car, and tear my dress off.

Instead, I smile nervously and briefly look at my lap. "No way, I'll destroy this car. Bailey tried to teach me once and I nearly killed his car—and that was on a ten-year-old Vauxhall he’d bought off his dodgy friend for five hundred pounds."

"Give me your hand."

"Why?"

"Stop questioning everything I ask and give me your hand so I can put it on my stick." He winks twice at me.

“Funny.”

“You love it—now give me your hand.” We are stopped at a red light a few blocks from the hotel. I stick my left hand out. "Your other hand." James' hand practically dwarfs my own, and I feel a prickle of heat rise from my chest to my neck. For a moment he holds it, rubbing the ball of his thumb against the underside of my wrist and then lowers it onto the gear stick. "Ready?"

"Have you gone mad? No. Way. I'm going to kill your car somehow, I know it."

"I’m right here, love. You ready? The light's about to turn green."

"No seriously, James, I'm going to break your car and you're going to hate me and I'll have to sell a kidney or something to get it fixed. Seriously, don’t you dare."

Too late.

The light turns green and suddenly the car is accelerating, the engine revving up. He keeps his hand pressed on mine as he shifts gear. I’m nervous enough to scream, or throw up. Is this the same car that Preston had vomited in?

"Good, here we go again." The gear stick is vibrating under my hand. "Now you're going to try on your own. Just bring it straight up when I say to. Okay?"

"
No.
No no no no no no—don't do that,
James.
" His hand leaves mine. "Oh my God, you have to help me I'm really—"

"
Now.
"