Party Night. Lucy Lord

Mark lumbers towards me. He is the art director on Damian’s magazine and big and butch and macho. Possibly the least evolved human being I have ever met, Mark takes great pleasure in offending as many people as he possibly can. ‘Humourless dykes need a damn good shafting’ is one of his stock-in-trade phrases. He is annoyingly sexy, though, with his shaved head, crooked smile and body straight off the cover of Men’s Health.

      ‘Hey, Mark, happy New Year!’ I allow myself to be swept up in his brawny arms, enjoying being made to feel like a dainty little thing for once.

      ‘Hi, I’m Suki,’ says the very young girl he’s with, who has long peroxide hair, dip-dyed pink, and a sullen attitude. ‘So how do you know Marky?’

      ‘Oh, friend of a friend – we’ve known each other for ages,’ I say airily. ‘How do you?’

      ‘We met each other last night,’ Mark says quickly.

      ‘Realized we were kindred spirits,’ the girl pouts, shoving her lip ring out and putting a proprietorial little hand on Mark’s enormous thigh.

      ‘Oh, how lovely,’ I say, as I am actually quite nice, and want people to be happy and in love with one another (as long as it’s not dull Rupert with his new paramour – thanks for that titbit, Alison). ‘So what do you do?’

      ‘I’m a fashion blogger?’

      ‘Wow, great,’ I say, trying to sound as if I mean it. ‘How did you get into that?’

      The girl looks at me with the utmost disdain. ‘It’s easy. You set up a blog. Online, you know? Internet?’

      How old does she think I am?

      ‘Uh, yep, I understand about the internet.’ Mark is kicking my shin now. ‘I even have a Facebook page.’

      ‘I’m so like over Facebook, so 2005,’ Suki, who’d have been barely out of nappies in 2005, sniggers. ‘It’s all about the tweets now. Do you tweet?’ She looks at me consideringly for a second. ‘Nah, I don’t suppose you do.’

      Annoyingly, she’s right. I don’t tweet, mainly because I spend far too much time procrastinating on Facebook as it is, and can’t see myself ever getting any work done were I to sign up to Twitter. But it’s also because I’m quite shy deep down, and the idea of putting myself out there, to be jeered at and shouted down by thousands of strangers, doesn’t really appeal in the slightest. One of my friends recently tweeted a joke that somebody took the wrong way, and the backlash was horrendous. No, I need to develop a far thicker skin than I have now before I even consider it.

      ‘There’s this huge great house near where I live,’ Suki is saying to Mark. ‘Well, it’s like two or three bedrooms, and there’s this old couple just, like, rattling around in it. So selfish. They don’t need all that space. They should be giving it to people like me and my mates, who could use the space so, like, creatively? We have this anti-fascist, anti-conformist collective, where we all, like, let our thoughts flow, like, artistically?’

      ‘And what do these mates of yours do?’ I ask.

      ‘That is such a conformist question. We don’t do – we just be.’

      We be? I imagine the West Country yokel impression was unintentional.

      ‘Don’t you think old people worked hard for their big houses, Suki?’ I say, cross now. ‘And don’t you think old people, with their aches and pains, need nice, comfortable places to live?’ Jesus! I shake my head in disbelief. ‘You seriously believe they should – what? – just hand over their properties to you and your mates, who are young and healthy, and have probably never done a proper day’s work in your lives?’

      ‘Ooh, get her, Daily Mail reader.’ Suki winks at Mark.

      ‘Just as a matter of interest, where do you live at the moment, Suki?’ I ask, incensed. OK, the ‘never done a proper day’s work in your lives’ comment possibly did sound a bit Daily Mail, but I only meant because they’re not old enough. Whatever.

      Suki looks sulky and Mark starts to laugh, quietly, to himself.

      ‘With my mum and dad, but that’s only because capitalism has made it impossible for me to get on the property ladder.’

      I laugh out loud. Does the idiot realize what she’s just said?

      ‘OK, a couple of things. Firstly, most people are not “on the property ladder” at the age of nineteen or whatever you are. Really, what on earth makes you think you should be? Secondly, “the property ladder” wouldn’t exist without capitalism.’ She looks at me blankly. ‘Thirdly, if you moved out, wouldn’t your mum and dad be those “old people rattling round that big house” that you propose putting out on the streets?’

      Mark looks at me pleadingly as if to say ‘give the girl a break’, and I tail off.

      ‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Suki says sulkily. ‘See you in a minute, Marky.’ She shoots me an evil look over her shoulder and buggers off.

      Take your time, love, I implore you.

      Mark looks at me again and says, ‘Yeah, yeah, not everyone can be as clever as you, Belles.’

      I laugh.

      ‘I’m not particularly clever, but she is horrendous. Oh, for fuck’s sake, why, you ridiculous man? Why?’

      ‘She’s great in the sack, babe.’

      ‘So am I, but I’m not a moron!’ I suddenly wonder why I am sharing this information with Mark. ‘Whatevs.’

      He gives me the same look that Poppy and Damian did earlier.

      ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s a joke. Like that affects me how?’ I say, in imitation of an obnoxious teenager.