‘And Penny Moss?’ I asked.
‘Wouldn’t say a word against the lady. Fierce as two ferrets in a bag, but never rude unless provoked. And always pays her bills on time. And I’d hardly say otherwise when you’re set to marry the precious boy now, would I?’
‘I wouldn’t tell.’
‘Well maybe you would and maybe you wouldn’t. And how do you feel about getting wed? All a-tingle?’
‘I’m slightly past the tingle stage.’
‘Second thoughts?’
‘I can’t quite see how that’s any of your business.’
‘I’m only making polite conversation, am I not?’
‘Of course I haven’t got second thoughts. Everybody loves Ludo. He’s a honey.’
‘And you’re the bee.’
When you thought about it, that was really rather a horrid thing to say. But he said it with such a charming twinkle that I didn’t mind.
‘Won’t you miss all the parties and suchlike, when you’re wed?’ he continued.
‘What do you mean, miss them? Why should I stop going to parties?’
‘Ah, there’s no reason under the sun. But when did you last meet a married couple at a fashion shindig? Isn’t it all single people, or boyfriends and girlfriends. There’s something about the married state that leads you on to quiet nights by the telly, and Ovaltine before bed. And that’s before we even start talking about the kids. No, let’s give you a couple of quiet years first, then the time of chaos with the children – let’s say you have two, a couple of years apart, and they stay like millstones round your neck till they’re eighteen and they go off to college. Well that’s twenty-two years before you’re clear of the last of them. And then you might be in the mood for a party, but who the hell’s going to invite you then?’
I laughed, but it sounded hollow even to me.
‘If you knew me better you’d realise that nothing could stop me going to parties. Anyway, it’s my job. How else could I know who was wearing what, or who was wearing who? How could I keep up with the scandal and gossip? My life isn’t going to end when I get married.’
‘But some things will have to stop now, won’t they, Katie?’ He unfurled a smile. It was simply impossible not to smile back.
There was no way he could have known about my one or two little flirtations. And you’re not going to like this, but I had, it’s true, been thinking about one, last, final, meaningless, harmless little fling before settling down in utter and complete faithfulness with Ludo. The idea had half formed itself in my mind. I knew it was there. It nudged and winked at me. And without explicitly acknowledging its presence, it became part of me, and I knew that I was going to do it.
But who with? No one in my circle. The best looking men were, naturally, gay. The sexiest men were married – and I may be naughty, but I’m not bad. No, it had to be an outsider. There was the aforementioned Divine Dante, who always put chocolate on my morning latte, (which I always spooned off with a shudder back in the office). Handsome, in that baby-Vespa way that Italians have. But really, no. I thought about Max from Turbo Sports next door but one. I once saw him, glistening with sweat, at the gym. Body hard as a pit bull terrier. He had the cold eyes of a serial cat-strangler, which I rather liked. So different from lovely, helpless Ludo. But again, no: his head was too small, and he conversed principally in grunts and lewd gestures. There was always the queer little man who came in to fix our Mac whenever it crashed. He once gave me a big, embarrassing sunflower. But beware geeks bearing gifts, as I always say.
So it went with all of the men I met: too old, too silly, too ugly, too gay, too small, too close, too far.
‘What does your girlfriend think about you working with all these glamorous fashion women?’ I asked, shamelessly.
‘And what makes you think I’ve got a girlfriend? Could I not be a sad, melancholy soul, drifting forlorn and loveless through life?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘As it happens I am between girlfriends at the moment, which is saving me a fortune in roses, but costing me one in Guinness.’
‘I hate Guinness,’ I said. ‘Tastes like old-man’s bile to me.’
‘Well, you see it all depends on where you drink it and …’
‘Who you drink it with?’
‘I was going to say how it’s poured. But now you mention it …’
‘There’s a rather good Irish word I’ve heard occasionally.’ I said, sweetly, ‘Gobshite.’ For the first time he laughed. The laugh was less studied than the fabulous smile, but lovelier for it.
‘Gobshite is it? Will you look at the tongue on her! She’ll be calling me an auld bollix soon.’
‘So where should I be drinking Guinness?’
‘The only place for a pint of slow-poured black stuff, amid convivial company, with your ears caressed by the finest fiddle playing, is the Black Lamb in Kilburn.’
‘Kilburn. Is that where you live then?’
‘Not every Irishman lives in Kilburn, you know.’
I did know. About half the people you meet at parties are Irish: Emerald Tiger types, fresh out of Harvard Business School or journalism college, sleek, clever, ambitious. The girls are all beautiful, if a touch wholesome and buttery, and the boys are all puppy-faced and eager. They’d no more live in Kilburn than I would. Of course I’d been to the Tricycle Theatre a couple of times, dragged by Ludo. Once we saw a version of some Brecht play performed by Eskimos. The second time was less commercial. The whole show consisted of a man buried up to his neck in a heap of broken watches, screaming, ‘It’s later than you think! It’s later than you think!’ Give me Cats any day. Even Ludo agreed we shouldn’t go back after the interval.
I looked out of the window and caught a glimpse of myself in the wing mirror. I’d just had my highlights done at Daniel Galvin’s. I always think I look better in bad mirrors, caught in movement or glanced at an angle. Unless you’re obviously at one end or the other of the spectrum, it’s impossible to really know how attractive you are. Models know they’re gorgeous. They might pretend to be riddled with doubt, but that’s just them trying to seem cleverer than they are. And people with hare-lips and things. I suppose they must know that they’re ugly. Sorry, sorry – beautiful on the inside, I’m sure, but, whatever you might say, ugly on the outside. Actually, in my experience ugliness does something horrid to the soul. Knowing that whoever you’re talking to can only think ‘God, but she’s ugly’, must burn into you like acid. Unless you’re especially stupid. Which makes it all the sadder that pretty people are so often dim, and ugly ones clever. (I know it’s a cliché, but clichés get to be clichés because they’re true. Sometimes, anyway.) Hugh once gave me a very good piece of advice. I don’t know where he got it from. ‘Katie,’ he said, ‘always tell pretty girls that they’re clever, and clever girls that they’re pretty. They’ll love you forever.’
‘And what do you say if they’re pretty and clever?’ I asked.
He smiled and patted me on the bottom. ‘You say yes, Katie. You say yes.’ Naughty man.
But I’m drifting off my point. Which was, unless you’re at the extremes, you really don’t know where you are. And I thought, as I looked at myself in that wing mirror, ‘Are you pretty, Katie? Or are you plain? If you’re pretty, how pretty? If plain, how plain?’ I’d always had boyfriends, and men to tell me that I was pretty, or better than pretty.