I look where she is pointing. At a man who is vaguely familiar, and admittedly quite attractive, in a Robert Downey Junior earnest-with-glasses kind of way. He reminds me a bit of Ollie’s dad, Charles. He must be some distant relative I’ve never met.
He has the faintest of smiles on his face, tugging at the corner of a generous mouth. Which would be slightly effeminate if he wasn’t so definitely male. Oh yes, he is definitely all male. For the first time ever at one of these parties, I wonder if the antlers might have been a mistake.
‘Oh, that’s Oliver. Silly girl.’ Mum stops searching for my missing date and chuckles. I gasp, and the mood music in my head grounds to a halt.
‘What?’I think it came out as a screech, because the conversation nearby has a hiccup. Then they go back to talking. Luckily the sound doesn’t appear to have reached his side of the room though, that’s the advantage of a bookshop – those thick pages swallow up the sound. ‘No way. That is so not Ollie!’ The last time I saw him was at very close quarters. I was snogging him. ‘It can’t be.’ I think this comes out as a pathetic whine. Buggering hell, Ollie can’t be here. Not in person. And he can’t look like that.
This makes it even worse than normal – we’ll now be plonked side by side, like we were as toddlers and compared in real life!
I’ve not seen him for absolutely ages, thirteen years to be precise. He’s been in Africa, or America, or Coventry. Well he’s always somewhere miles away. Doing good on a global scale. Well, he’s not been at Uncle Terence’s parties anyway. Which has been a bonus. At least while Mum and Vera have been going on about his virtues, I’ve been able to imagine him in my head as a pimply, fat arsehole.
‘Of course, it is, dear. Isn’t it lovely to see him?’
Fabulous.
Kill. Me. Now.
He will pity me, not want to snog me. Or he will laugh.
‘He’s got a girlfriend, you know.’
‘Hasn’t he always?’ I say, slightly sarcastically. I can’t quite help myself. Part of Ollie’s upward trajectory is his ability to date gorgeous women. Ollie always has a girlfriend, and I always have to be told about her. Just like I’ve been told about every step of his career since he went to uni.
My mother, and therefore, I, have lived vicariously through every one of the five years at medical school, followed by his two years of placements. I have heard every ‘Oh he’s been so brave when faced with mangled people in agony, I couldn’t do it!’ from his mother Vera, and lots of ‘oh he’s so clever’ and ‘so sad you didn’t do something like that’ from my mother. I have then had to endure ‘speciality training’ (hearing about it, not doing it, but believe me it’s just as bad), and face-fanning (Vera and Mum) when she speaks about the conferences and courses he’s attended. Since he qualified it’s been worse. I haven’t seen the bloody man for thirteen years, which has suited me fine. How could being face to face with the demi-god who I can never match up to help my self-esteem?
Thirteen years is a bit scary though. That makes me old. Well at least old enough to be a responsible adult. Which I most definitely am not.
‘Wow, that’s Ollie the pompous prick?’ Frankie drags her gaze away from him for a second and stares at me. I heat up like an electric blanket, my cheeks positively glowing, and Mum frowns.
I could just go home now.
I might have called him that. Once or twice. To Frankie. ‘He’s, er, changed.’ The endless stories from my mother and his about how well he’s doing, and how many girlfriends he’s got, and when he’s going to become pope (made that bit up, but it’s close – he deserves a sainthood, apparently) have really got on my tits, and definitely made him sound like a pompous prick. And anyway, he might still be a pompous prick, just a hot one.
‘The one who felt you up when you were four?’
‘I never said that! We were six, Frankie, I said he kissed me not felt me up!’ My cheeks are burning. If I blush any harder I’ll be hotter than a chestnut roasting charcoal burner. Thank God I didn’t tell her about the drunken face-eating when we were eighteen.
‘Felt your what?’ My mother has a puzzled expression, which I ignore.
‘Well, whatever he did, he is mine! ‘Scuse me, ladies!’ Frankie steams off in pursuit of her prey and doesn’t hear my mother’s plaintive, ‘Well, actually, I think you’ll find he’s Juliet’s, dear!’
Grrr. How can Oliver Cartwright be gorgeous? Be bloody perfect in every way. He wasn’t when we were kids. He was a bit lanky, sweet and maybe a bit cute, but all arms and legs, and the odd spot, and voice that hadn’t decided how low it was going to be, and a ‘did it at home’ haircut. And bad jeans. Yeah, he had bad jeans.
Frigging hell, he had all that and was still worth some lip action? I must have been very drunk.
I am not going near the man, he will be totally insufferable.
‘You two can have a nice chat, you must have so much to talk about!’ says Mum.
It is all wrong. I’m exhausted, and the party hasn’t even started.
And now my toes are warm and damp.
I glance down. Stanley is nibbling bits of sausage roll from between them.
The last couple of days have been disastrous.
The lead up to Christmas, and Uncle Terence’s party has gone like this …
9.30 p.m., 22 December
Things I have to do before Tuesday evening at Uncle Terence’s:
1 Find my red nosed reindeer Christmas jumper and antlers (urgent or will stand out like sore thumb).
2 Make Buy sausage rolls to take to buffet (can do this in my lunch break tomorrow then if M&S have run out can always go to Greggs and cut large ones into small canapé size. Added advantage of this option – can buy vegan ones which will score points).
3 Send boyfriend message about what time to arrive and tell Uncle Terence I will have a plus one!
4 Buy new festive lipstick that Sunday supplement said was ‘guaranteed to make you smile’ (v. important when spending Christmas with my family, hope have time in lunch break to do this, might have to queue jump in Greggs. Which is top priority, lipstick or sausage rolls?).
5 Find wrapping paper. And sticky tape. (Urgent – top priority!)
My mother is bound to raise my shortcomings at Uncle T’s party, but she will soon be distracted by the scandal of how young Terence’s latest girlfriend is. Even better if he’s married her by now, which he might well have done, it is very hard to keep track. He’s had so many girlfriends, and even more ex-wives, in the last ten years even I can’t remember all their names. Uncle T’s a ‘bit of a one’ according to Mum, but he seems to bring out the fun and twinkly side of Vera. I’d never say this out loud, but Ollie’s dad Charles is a bit scary. It’s hard to believe he and Terence are brothers. I can quite understand Vera needing some light relief.
Charles is a consultant. In fact, the whole family, apart from Vera (who was named after Vera Lynn), are pretty intimidating. They are total over-achievers. Ollie’s got a brother who is a barrister and a sister who is an opera singer. I think I’m the only one that has noticed that Vera has called her children after characters in Oliver Twist, they’re Oliver, Will and Nancy. I suspect she has done this on purpose and it’s her little secret