‘Did you run out of vases?’ Graeme asks.
‘Gray,’ Caroline says. ‘Stop being a wind-up merchant.’
‘Vases are for gravy,’ Ivor says.
Graeme looks nonplussed.
‘You’ve done a great job,’ Caroline says, looking round and, if I do say so myself, I really have. I’ve run ‘landing strips’ of tea lights in clear glass holders along every straight line and there are vertical explosions of white gladioli in glass tanks dotted around the room. I was never much of a fan of gladioli when I lived in Sale, but there’s something about their imperious legginess that suits this apartment.
‘Funeral parlour minus the corpse,’ Graeme says, with what he imagines is his roguish twinkle that exonerates all sins.
‘One could be arranged,’ Caroline says, crossing her arms.
‘So,’ Graeme fixes me with a beady look, ‘Our Lady of the Ruinously Expensive Tastes, what’s your rent here?’
‘None of your business,’ I say, hopefully sounding sweet.
‘I’m only thinking of you. You’re going back into the housing market with a single income, and six months here is a chunk of your deposit gone, I’ll bet.’
I look to Caroline to silence him, but she’s already stalked off to get a drink.
‘I can’t buy yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’ve split up with someone I spent half my life with and I don’t know what I want or where I want to live.’
‘You’ll always need a roof over your head, won’t you? You’re not going to join a Bedouin tribe?’
‘You can’t always do what makes absolute practical sense … I’ve got a drink, Caro, you’re alright.’
She nods, hands Graeme a glass, sips from her own, eyes downcast.
‘Living for the day is all very well in your twenties, you’ve got to start planning for the future sometime,’ Graeme continues. I know what he means is, no one else is going to do it for you now. ‘Things don’t fall into place by accident.’
‘Maybe.’
As he launches into another monologue, I interrupt: ‘Graeme. Par-tee. Noun, two syllables, a social gathering for the purpose of pleasure.’
Ben, Olivia and Simon arrive while I’m busy mopping up a spilled drink and Caroline lets them in.
She leads them over to the kitchen, and as I join them Simon’s saying to her: ‘… Had cocktails at a bar on Canal Street, or should I say Anal Treat. Ben said it was mixed straight-and-gay, then the only woman in the place had an Adam’s apple like a tennis ball. They were all the sort who could select scatter cushions, I’m telling you.’
Never mind Adam’s apples, I just hope Simon’s tongue is in his cheek most of the time.
‘We brought you a homophobe, and this,’ Ben says to me, as Olivia hands over a Peace Lily in a gold lacquered pot, ‘to help warm your flat.’
Ben’s wearing washed-out-to-look-old-but-new grey jeans and a black sweater. As ever: phew. Olivia’s in a delicate grey wrap dress. Between the two of them, they must love grey. He leans in and does that double kiss thing again. I’m better prepared for it this time but I still get flustered, glad of the distraction the plant affords.
‘This is amazing,’ Ben says to Olivia, looking at the flat, putting an arm around her. ‘Isn’t it, Liv?’
‘Your house is even nicer and your house is really yours,’ I say to Olivia, with feeling, and she beams.
37
I’d forgotten that approximately four per cent of parties, like four per cent of nightclubbing experiences, are truly superb, which is why you waste time, money, bandage-like undergarments and hopes on the other ninety-six per cent. And astonishingly, odds-defyingly, my flat warming has fallen into the magical minority. Conversation’s buzzing, the drinks flow, the soundtrack works, the décor’s admired, circulating happens effortlessly, my domestic-slut choices of snack (square crisps, round crisps, the ones that resemble tiny rashers of bacon) have been received well, or at least, eaten.
Zoe appears to be having a whale of a time, laughing non-stop with the MEN crowd, Gretton’s advert forgotten.
I feel as if I’ve been climbing a hill for a very long time and suddenly the sun’s broken through and I’ve found a spot to sit on my cagoule and admire the vista. I’ve been missing Rhys like a phantom itch in a lost limb but for the first time I don’t miss him at all. Time for another drink.
As the night wears on, Mindy takes control of the music, which makes things more raucous. Jake waves to me as he leaves, having explained he has to be up to revise in the morning; Ivor rolls his eyes behind his back. Caroline is deep in conversation with Olivia. I find myself next to the panoramic window, with Ben and Simon.
‘Natalie said the interview went well,’ Simon says.
‘Good, I’m glad,’ I say, dismissing a stab of discomfort. ‘I thought so.’
‘And when do I get to take you to dinner?’
Ben does a double-take.
‘Whenever you like,’ I say.
Ben does what I suppose must be a triple-take.
‘Do you like Italian food?’ Simon asks.
‘Sure. Food in general, really.’
‘Rachel’s learning Italian,’ Ben says.
‘I know some Italian, stayed in Pisa on an exchange trip,’ Simon says. ‘Parli bene?’
‘Uh … non.’
‘Non?’
Oh shit. Shit! Subject change, quick.
‘I was reading these tips about icebreakers today,’ I blather. ‘Party prep. Can I try one out on you two? OK. Your most embarrassing incidents in the last year. Go.’
‘Last week. My Latvian cleaning lady caught me in the nuddy,’ Simon says.
‘Seriously?’
‘I grabbed the nearest thing to hand that was large enough to cover my modesty.’
‘Which was?’
‘My payslip.’
‘Tosser!’ I laugh despite myself, which is becoming the form with Simon.
I see Ben looking at both of us with mild concern, no doubt trying to figure out the dating thing. When he comes to a conclusion, I’d be grateful if he could explain it to me.
‘There’s one he prepared earlier,’ Ben says.
‘Yours?’ I ask Ben.
‘Apart from totally forgetting your name when I bumped into you again after ten years? Let me think …’
‘You didn’t?’ My kneecaps feel as if they’re not screwed on right.
‘Of course I didn’t, you arse.’
Ben’s