The Next Best Thing (7 page)

‘Let me introduce you.’ He put a hand in the small of her back and propelled her over to where a gouty-looking man and his effete companion were sitting on a Moroccan couch.

‘May I present the estimable linguist Jane Locksmith? This is Roland Edgeworth and Jeremy Markham.’

It was the kind of party where everyone was introduced by their full names, so it was clear they were people of substance. There was none of that ‘James and Amanda, this is Phil and
Jenny’ stuff that you got at the sort of dinner parties Will hated.

Jane had heard of Roland Edgeworth, he was rich and wrote erudite books on London’s history. Jeremy sat beside him, his thin legs in tight silver trousers crossed, lady-style, to one side.
He started to talk to Jane about champagne, while Roland puffed away at a cigarette, ill at ease so early in the evening and only three glasses to the wind.

Jeremy leaned towards Jane, a confidential hand on her thigh. ‘I know everyone goes on about the Louis Roederer vintage being the bee’s knees,’ he said, ‘but do you know,
I actually prefer his wow-vintage.’

‘Interesting,’ said Jane. She smiled politely and tried to think of something clever to say, but her mind had gone blank.

‘Cheap to run,’ guffawed Roland, breaking his silence and topping up his glass.

That’s me,’ said Jeremy. ‘Low-maintenance Larry. Actually, the only champagne I can’t stand is Moët.’ He pronounced it correctly, sounding the hard T at the
end. ‘I find there is something about it that just hits the back of the throat. Quite undrinkable.’ He shook his head at the impossibility of it all.

‘You’re a linguist, Jane, you’ll be able to help me,’ he went on. ‘What does
blanc de hlanc
actually mean? Blankety blank, blankety blank, what’s all
that about?’

There was a silence as they waited for her answer. White of white, of course, but what did it
mean?
She dithered around until Roland took pity on her.

‘White wine from white grapes,’ he pronounced, coughing then extinguishing his cigarette, ‘whereas the best champagne is made from a mixture of red and white grapes. Pinot
Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, to be precise.’

‘Champagne made from red grapes,’ said Jeremy, ‘who’d have thought it? Shall we go through?’

They moved across to join the others at the table. Will was well into his stride now, talking to a fat man with a twirly moustache and pointy beard, and a freakishly tall model like a child
distorted by the Hall of Mirrors. Jane tried to think of interesting topics. Would they be curious to hear about her recent trip to Ikea? She could talk about her work, if pushed, but it was
unlikely that the translation of a guide to French bridges would hold them for long.

‘You have to be Catholic if you’ve got children,’ Bella was saying, ‘only fools and Protestants pay school fees. I know that church is the ugliest building on Kensington
High Street, but come on, one hour on a Sunday morning to save twenty grand a year, you’d be stupid not to. Schmoozing the priest has been my most lucrative role ever!’

Everybody laughed except Ossian, who had heard it all before.

At the table, Will was enthralling the model with his tales of life among the Amerindians. It was fascinating to watch him — he still had an irresistible effect on women, a magnetism that
Jane remembered all too well from their own early days. ‘It’s a need with me, Ali,’ he was saying, his eyes on a level with her flat chest, ‘to get beyond the pedestrian, to
test myself to the limits.’

The model nodded down at him. ‘I know what you mean. I always say to myself, come on Ali, you really could look even better, just give it all you’ve got.’

Will looked insulted by the comparison. Scowling into a camera was hardly on a par with his own spiritual journey to the heart of another culture, He carried on regardless. ‘As I was
saying only the other evening to David Hare, most people in our society can’t see beyond their couple. They get locked into their little lives, can’t see that there’s a
fascinating world out there . . .’

‘I’m single at the moment actually,’ she interrupted him. ‘I’ve got a few issues to deal with before I enter another relationship.’

Would the bloody woman not shut up and let him finish? ‘Whereas I strive constantly to explore, to under stand, to recognise that I am just a tiny cog in the greater scheme of
things,’ he continued. ‘In essence I suppose you could say my work is an exercise in humility . . .’

Jeremy cut across him. ‘What exactly arc your issues, Ali?’ he asked, unable to resist the scent of psychobabble.

Ali jumped at the chance to talk about herself and her problems. ‘Oh, eating issues for one,’ she said. ‘You’ve always got them if you’re a model; and then
I’ve got confidence issues, of course, but I do feel I’m becoming stronger . . .’

Jane caught Will’s eye and smiled sympathetically. She knew he couldn’t stand the language of personal growth. But Will frowned and turned instead to talk across to Roland, by now
dangerously red in the face.

Jane was rescued by the man with the twirly moustache. ‘I understand you’re in the translation game?’

This was her chance to talk herself up a bit, make herself sound fascinating. Instead she took the easy option of turning things back to him.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘And I would guess you’re an artist of some kind, judging from your appearance.’

Twirly gave a dismissive gesture to his velvet jacket and floppy bow tie. ‘Might as well look the part. I’m a novelist, actually. Do you translate fiction?’

‘No, I don’t do literary. I’m more on the practical reference side. Less scope for misinterpretation.’

Dull, dull, dull, she thought. He gave her a pitying nod.

‘I know it’s a bit of a poor relation,’ she apologised. ‘Will can be rather cruel about it actually. You know, if you can’t do, teach. If you can’t write,
translate.’

‘Oh rubbish,’ said Twirly, unconvincingly, ‘we must each do what we can.’

‘Well, yes. I used to have an office job, but I wanted to change to something I could do from home so I could be there for my daughter.’

She saw his interest waning and was annoyed with herself. Everyone knew it was social suicide to start on about your kids as if you had nothing else to talk about.

The model broke away from Jeremy to join their conversation. She clearly had the concentration span of a flea. ‘Don’t you find it boring working at home?’ she said.
‘It’s a bit nerdy, isn’t it, all by yourself. I’d be watching Kilroy all the time. Or Trisha. Mind you, I could never be a translator, I’m useless at
languages.’

‘I work at home too,’ said Jeremy, ‘keeping myself gorgeous for Roland, and let me tell you, that is a full-time job.’

‘With splendid results,’ said Twirly, his eyes feasting on Jeremy’s biceps bulging out of his tight little tee shirt. ‘Give us your secrets, Jeremy, I might make you a
character in my next novel.’

Jeremy settled back in delight at this invitation to hold forth on his favourite subject. ‘Jojoba oil,’ he said, ‘with a few drops of rosemary to help build brain cells. I rub
it all over my body and scalp before I exercise. And the moment I wake, I programme myself to admire everything so that every new day provides something beautiful.’

With Roland’s funds at his disposal, it would be easy to find beauty, thought Jane. The only ugly thing Jeremy had to encounter each morning was Roland’s bloated body lying in bed
beside him.

‘Next I do aerobics and yoga before I shower. I floss three times a day and once a month I hang the enema bag on the bathroom door, run the hosepipe up my bottom and do a handstand.
Wonderful clear-out.’

‘Ugh!’ said Jane before she could stop herself.

Jeremy looked at her in surprise. ‘Just basic body management, darling. You need to look at your body as a business and the organs as executives. They each have job descriptions you know,
and hang on to emotional memory. Especially the thalamus.’

‘The what?’

He ignored her. ‘The heart and liver need a lot of nourishment and motivation. I pay them special attention in my morning meditation. You need to nurture yourself to heal yourself.
That’s why I’m never ill. Plus I only buy organic’

Yes, it would be easy to stay healthy when you led such a spoilt and pampered life.

He seemed to read her thoughts. ‘But my number-one tip is, get yourself a nice rich man and the rest will follow.’ He blew a kiss to Roland who grunted in acknowledgement as he
filled his glass to the rim. He was grateful to Jeremy for providing floozy glamour, it was just what he needed after a hard day in his study.

Jane did her best through dinner, helped along by Ossian who seemed amused by her account of her daily life, egging her on for details, asking her to talk him through the
school run. She couldn’t help wondering if he was taking the piss.

‘Hey, Bella,’ said the model, who had eaten nothing all night. ‘I really like your curtains. That is just so cool, blankets held back with leather belts.’

Bella leaped up to finger them and demonstrate their authentic roughness. ‘Belgian surplus army blankets. And the belts are from Cap Kids.’ She shrugged. ‘Simple ideas are
always the best.’

‘I absolutely agree,’ said Twirly. it’s a hard and fast rule in my novels. Particularly in my latest where I had the rather straightforward notion of twins separated at birth
who then meet up . . .’

‘Green tea, anyone?’ Bella cut him off quickly. Writers could be terribly dull; clearly it had been a mistake to invite three at one sitting. Actors were so much better value,
dishing up hilarious theatrical anecdotes instead of droning on about their dreary books.

Jane declined the tea, to her hostess’s surprise.

‘Would you prefer a tisane? Or raspberry leaf?

Ayurvedic?’

‘No thanks. Have you got any coffee?’

Jane’s request was met with the astonishment you might expect if you asked for Class A drugs at a prayer meeting.

‘Let me see,’ said Bella, getting over the shock, ‘I think one of my au pairs bought some last week . . . yes, here we are.’ She searched in a cupboard and brought out a
packet of instant-cappuccino sachets as though she were holding a filled nappy sack.

‘One
of your au pairs, how many have you got?’ asked Jane, then immediately wished she hadn’t. How mumsy was that, to show an interest in the home help? ‘Just two.
Work it out, instead of paying a fortune for a nanny, you get two nice girls for a pittance each, they share a room and have each other for company and you have twenty-four-hour cover. I
can’t think why more people haven’t cottoned on.’

Afterwards, they moved across the sitting area, where Roland spilt wine over the Moroccan throw and passed out in a large snoring heap. Will went off to the loo with the model
in order to ‘talk to Charlie’. Which left Jeremy centre-stage to talk about his latest therapy.

‘It seems that Sudden Wealth Syndrome is quite common now,’ he confided. They identified it at the Money, Meaning and Choices institute in San Francisco. Roland wanted me to see
someone after we were talking about
Who Wants to he a Millionaire
at a dinner and I happened to say that thirty-two thou was nothing to us. Which it isn’t. It wasn’t as if I was
in a room of social workers, either, most people there would have spent at least that on their fortieth birthday parties. But then when I ran up a bill of twenty-five thou redecorating the bedroom,
he insisted I take myself in hand. So to speak,’ he added with a lewd wink.

Was he serious? Since when did striking it lucky mean you had to go into therapy? Jane had had enough now, she wanted to go home.

‘Guilt is a terrible thing,’ Jeremy was saying, ‘it can ruin your life if you’re not careful.’

‘So give your money away to charity if that’s how you feel,’ said Ossian with a shrug, ‘rid yourself of the cause.’ Personally he’d never lost any sleep over
his millions, but then again he’d been born to it. Unlike Jeremy, who had gone overnight from hotel receptionist to kept man and crazed spendthrift.

‘It’s not really mine to give,’ said Jeremy, nodding towards his prostrate companion whose snoring had now reached a deafening level, ‘and to be honest, I don’t
want to give it away. I like being rich, I just want to stop feeling bad about it.’

‘Shrinks are the new priests,’ said Ossian, ‘it’s the secular version of paying a cleric to say mass for you.’

Will was animated on his return from the lavatory, and it was well into the small hours before they finally did leave. Roland was roused from the dead by Jeremy and assisted
into a taxi, while Twirly and the model went home on foot. Jane had her eye on the clock as she drove away, calculating how much she needed to pay the babysitter, and whether she had sufficient
cash in her purse. She knew better than to ask Will. He couldn’t really be bothered with tedious stuff like this after a good night out.

Will was wide awake on the journey home. ‘I couldn’t believe you, Jane, sitting there with your instant coffee, like you were at girl-guide camp.’

‘Ging gang goolie,’ she said, slowing down as they approached a roundabout, ‘I can’t help being conventional, blame it on my upbringing. And at least coffee is cheaper
than cocaine, you should be grateful I’m so cheap to run.’

‘I hope that wasn’t a sly dig at me. I’m allowed to enjoy myself now and then, aren’t I?’

‘Of course. And I’m allowed to indulge my quaint old-fashioned habits. At least my needs are simple and you don’t have to fork out for a therapist for me. Or an enema bag. That
Jeremy was quite something, wasn’t he?’

‘Colourful, at least.’

‘And incredibly narcissistic’

Will sighed. ‘You’re so . . .’ he was searching for the right word ‘. . . sensible. That’s the word for you, Jane. You are such a sensible woman.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’

‘If you like.’

‘I do like. Unless you’re trying to say that I’m a boring person without an original idea in my head.’

‘Hmm.’ He was laughing now, but Jane wasn’t going to let it go.

‘So, if I am so uninteresting, why did you . . . why do you live with me?’