Elegance and Innocence (61 page)

London races by, grey council flats punctuated by vivid patches of green, then more grey towers, stacked as uneasily as a child’s building blocks – haphazard, makeshift. Laundry’s strung out on rows and rows of balconies, flapping in the heat of the late-afternoon sun. A mass of dark clouds gather ominously in the east; black, like a murder of crows.

When we arrive, Robbie pays the driver as I drag her suitcase from the back of the cab. ‘Well, at least we don’t have to go far to get a drink,’ she observes, pointing to the pub.

‘That’s true. Look, I hope you’re not expecting anything too sophisticated.’ I unlock the side door and heave the case up the stairs. Pushing the door open, I turn on the lights. ‘Hello?’ I call out. There’s no response; for once it’s empty. I feel a rush of relief.

‘Here, let me show you around,’ I offer, putting the case down by the ticket desk.

Robbie strolls past me, through the small foyer into the biggest room, the theatre itself, with its raked metal seats and large empty floor space. ‘So, this is it.’ She turns. There’s an expression of unmistakable pride on her face. ‘How does it feel? Doing what you love?’

I shrug my shoulders, suddenly shy. ‘I’m not sure getting pelted with cream pies in the middle of
Macbeth
is what I love. “Out, damned spot” is particularly messy because you have to be so static.’

She laughs. ‘Can’t you duck?’

‘Ahh! That’s cheating.’ I push aside the curtain that separates the wings from the backstage area, the bathroom and the prop annexe. ‘And here’s our little home!’

She follows me into the back room, looking around at the two mattresses on the floor, the piles of clothes and personal belongings, stacked among paint pots, gels, light rigging, scaffolds and old scrims.

‘Intimate,’ she concludes.

I’m embarrassed, seeing it through her eyes. I quickly pick up a couple of dirty ashtrays and an empty teacup
Jake’s left on the windowsill, as if that will suddenly make it more amenable. The air’s stale and hot. I open the window. ‘You’ve got the stage area all to yourself,’ I promise. ‘Ajax is bringing a sleeping bag,’ I add, as if this is an alluring prospect.

Robbie’s naughty smile returns. ‘Is he cute?’

‘Only if you like ferrets.’ I pull off my jacket. ‘I’m just going to change my clothes. What do you want to do? Do you want to crash out for a while? You can sleep here.’ I unbutton my blouse.

She shakes her head, looking through the spines of the books piles on the floor. ‘No, I’m going to push on through. My God, Evie! Your tits are amazing! I don’t remember you having such amazing tits … so firm and round … Can I touch them?’

‘Piss off!’ I laugh. ‘And stop staring at them, you perv!’

She leans up against an old metal filing cabinet. ‘Lucky old Jake! Speaking of which, where is the beast?’

I pull on my jeans. ‘Oh, I think he’s got some stuff to do today … session work maybe. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. These things go on for ages … you know how it is.’

She’s opening the filing cabinet drawers, riffling through them, quite unabashed. ‘And the band? Any closer to being signed?’

I consider asking her to stop but she’ll only look when I’m not around anyway; I might as well be present for
whatever she finds. ‘They lost their bassist. And they’re so hard to find. Everyone wants to play lead guitar; they’re like gold dust.’

She’s got my passport. ‘Look!’ She holds it open. ‘You’re such a baby! You used to look like that, you know – all eyes.’

I take back the passport and shove it in the drawer. ‘So what do you want to do? As long as we don’t go anywhere or spend any money, the sky’s the limit.’

She swirls round. ‘Let’s get drunk.’

‘I really haven’t got any money,’ I confess.

‘Well, then. Let’s slip downstairs and get pissed instead. It’s on me.’ She slides her handbag over her shoulder. ‘Just like old times.’

‘Through here, please!’ Bunny orders, shouting at the top of the kitchen steps. ‘Evie! Will you show them where it goes?’

I open the kitchen door and instantly a wave of music from Piotr’s rehearsal with his new chamber music trio floods in. It’s surprisingly immaculate for a first run. Two men carrying cases of wine and beer struggle down the steps.

‘My goodness!’ I laugh. ‘There’s so much of it! Are you trying to get us all pissed, Bunny?’

‘Let me see!’ Alex bounces up to examine the bottles more closely.

It was damp and dreary earlier on, so Alex and I holed up in the kitchen. We’ve been colouring in a large banner for Allyson’s party tonight and watching his favourite Thomas the Tank Engine video, munching popcorn as we go. The Mendelssohn piece the trio are playing makes a pleasant change from the Thomas theme tune I know so well.

‘Here’s just fine.’ I direct the men to one of the only surfaces in the entire kitchen not covered in party supplies.

Bunny rushes down after them. ‘Good! Excellent! Oh, I hope there’s enough! Do you think there’s enough?’ She turns back to the delivery men. ‘What else have you got? Is there any more in that van of yours?’

They look at one another. ‘Well, it’s already been bought by other people …’

Ally’s invited easily eighty people tonight and Bunny’s beside herself with nerves. She must’ve entertained all the time when Harry was alive but now she’s out of practice, obsessed with each last-minute detail. Ally, on the other hand, has removed herself from the fray and taken the day off to have her hair done.

‘Its fine,’ I intervene, taking her arm gently. ‘There’s more than enough. Besides, darling, people always bring bottles to parties.’

‘Do they?’ She seems unsure. ‘What if they bring nothing but flowers and I don’t have enough vases?’

She looks up at me with such a forlorn expression that
I laugh, kissing her forehead. ‘Trust me. Alex and I will help you. Come on, peanut!’

‘I’m not a peanut!’ he corrects me. ‘My name is Alexander. Alexander the Great!’

‘Fine, Mr Great. Will you please pass me the white wine bottles, one at a time?’ I open the refrigerator.

Bunny wavers in the centre of the kitchen, her brow furrowed, watching as we stack the bottles inside. ‘This isn’t right,’ she concludes after a while. ‘I think we should go to Harrods.’

‘Harrods? Why? Thank you, darling.’

But she just frowns at me.

‘Bunny?’

‘Because’, she says firmly, ‘when you have a party, you go to Harrods. For olives and crisps and chocolates and … and … it’s just what’s done, Evie!’ It’s not like her to be so abrupt.

Alex looks at me. I look at him.

‘All right,’ I say slowly, slotting the last bottle on top of the rest. ‘We’ll go to Harrods. Alexander, will you get your coat?’

He leaves. I close the refrigerator door. Bunny’s still standing in the middle of the room, her lips tightly pursed, arms folded across her chest.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

She glares at me, then her face softens. ‘I’m fine.’ An undercurrent of annoyance still crackles in her voice. ‘It’s
just, look at all this!’ She points at the packages of tortilla chips and pretzels; the Tesco’s sausage rolls, dips and cheese sticks … ‘A party is an event! People nowadays don’t understand the importance of the little things; the details! This isn’t the way it’s done!’

I should be used to this sort of diatribe by now; she’s been acting strangely all week – one minute bossy and cheerful, the next snappy and sullen.

And apparently there’s only one thing for it.

We’re going to Harrods.

Piotr wanders in, looking shattered.

‘How was it?’

He turns on the kettle, sighing. ‘Well, now at least we know what to work on.’ And leaning back on the kitchen counter, he smiles at Bunny. ‘Everything ready?’

‘We’re going to Harrods,’ she informs him briskly.

‘Bunny believes we’ve forgotten something,’ I add.

She flashes me a look. ‘I don’t believe, Evie, I
know
!’

I don’t know why, but I’m the one getting it today.

Piotr catches my eye. ‘Good idea.’ He turns the kettle off. ‘I need socks. I’ll come too.’

It’s nearly four o’clock on the day of the party and we’re wandering around the Egyptian room of Harrods, navigating dazed clusters of tourists. Not one of us really knows what we’re looking for or why we’re here. Bunny insists she remembers the way to the Food Hall and refuses to ask for directions. We trail after her.

‘Harrods is
not
what it used to be!’ she snaps, sidestepping a fat American, already wearing shorts, even though there’s nothing remotely warm about the weather. ‘It used to be exclusive, discreet; the staff addressed you as “sir” or “madame”. You were served. And you knew it. Now look!’ She gestures to a faux bust of Nephertiti. ‘That looks like Elizabeth Taylor with a bath towel on her head! Where’s the Food Hall? It used to be just here … I don’t understand …’

Alex clings to my hand. He senses something’s wrong without being told.

‘Bunny, why don’t you tell us what you want and then we can buy it?’ I suggest. ‘Maybe you and Alex could sit and have an ice cream and Piotr and I will do all the leg work – after all, it’s so crowded today.’ I’m speaking to her in that tone of voice I reserve for Alex when he’s overtired.

She dismisses me. ‘I’ve been coming here since before you were born! I know what I’m doing!’

We take another turn and end up in the leather department, thankfully uncrowded. It’s also remained relatively untouched throughout the years. The wood panelling, mahogany and glass display cases lined with crimson and black velvet cloth, still show alligator handbags and glittering evening bags.

These familiar surroundings seem to have a calming effect; Bunny’s pace slows. She wanders over to one of the counters devoted entirely to leather gloves. She presses
her hand against the glass. ‘My mother once confessed she’d had a dalliance with the man in the glove department.’ Her voice is dreamy. ‘Apparently he used to hold her hand in such a way that she was paralysed with lust; sliding only the softest, most expensive kid gloves very slowly over her fingers. They met every Tuesday at the Basil Street Hotel for an entire summer and she managed the whole affair without ever knowing his first name. Her glove collection was unparalleled.’ She looks sad. ‘Everything’s changed.’

I put my hand over hers. Once upon a time, it would’ve been covered in a soft kid glove. She holds it tight.

‘I used to be able to entertain at the drop of a hat. Harry and I could be at each other’s throats and I’d still pull it off. Now all I throw are going-away parties.’ Her shoulders fall forward. ‘I’m tired, Evie. I’m tired of saying goodbye. And I’m tired of doing it with a smile on my face.’

‘Right!’ Piotr steps forward. He flashes Bunny a smile and links his arm through hers. ‘Step this way, please!’ He escorts her into the next room, fine jewellery. ‘Alex and I have been talking. We’re going to do the shopping, right?’

‘That’s right!’ Alex beams, mimicking Piotr’s authority as best he can; clearly pleased to be included in the male-hunter-gatherer section of the expedition.

‘While you sit here!’ Piotr instructs, leading her into a luxurious showroom for Boodle and Dunthorne, complete
with cut-glass chandeliers and cream suede leather sofas.

Bunny blinks at him, stunned.

A smart-looking gentleman in his early forties materializes from the back room. ‘May I help, sir?’

‘Yes.’ Piotr straightens to his full height, tosses his hair back from his eyes. ‘These women need to see diamonds. Big diamonds. And lots of them!’ He clasps Alex’s shoulder. ‘My colleague and I will be back. But until then’ – he takes out his wallet and whips out a card, handing it to me with a flourish – ‘they can have anything they want!’

‘Yes, of course!’ The man smiles, gesturing to the elegant sofa. ‘May I start by offering you ladies a glass of champagne?’

I watch in amazement as Piotr steers an exuberant Alex out of the room, then look down at the card in my hand. It’s a library card for the Sorbonne in Paris. I stuff it quickly into my coat pocket before anyone else can see.

Bunny settles back in the settee, running her hand wearily over her eyes. ‘Actually champagne
would
be lovely. But not too dry!’ she pleads. ‘I’m like the Queen; I have a weakness for sweet wine!’

‘But of course!’ He disappears into the back room, then returns with a bottle of Taittinger on ice.

He pops the cork and Bunny relaxes next to me, leafing through a catalogue casually, as if her only intention all day long was to go jewellery shopping. And suddenly the afternoon is transformed into a glamorous, festive event;
rescued from the claws of chaos by Piotr’s bold, affectionate gesture. I take the offered glass, wondering again at his mass of contradictions. How did he know this would soothe Bunny’s fraying nerves? Has he bought diamonds before? And, more important, for whom?

‘Cheers, ladies!’

We sip quietly while the assistant unlocks one of the display cases, taking out a tray shimmering with stunning solitaire rings.

‘Oh, Evie!’ Bunny sighs, her eyes gleaming with delight.

He grins wickedly. ‘Let’s start small, shall we?’

It occurs to me that this is just the sort of extravagant outing Harry would’ve treated her to in times of crisis; in the days before honesty, in all its clumsy, intrusive forms, was believed to be the only passport to intimacy.

As I sit, sipping champagne, diamonds dangling from my fingertips, one thing is certain: there’s no substitute for romantic imagination and daring, absurd acts of unexpected kindness.

And I’m reminded of Robbie. So much so, I almost expect her to appear, grab a glass of champagne and insist upon viewing the tiara collection.

I wait, feeling, for a change, that it might be nice to see her again; she’d make Bunny laugh and flirt outrageously with the salesman. For a moment the air is charged with possibility.

The minutes roll by; the sensation slips away.

I twist an enormous diamond ring around on my finger.

And I miss her.

The regulars at the Angel are a pack of old Irishmen, Paddy O, Mick the Tick, Evil Joe; they’re already well away when Robbie and I arrive; heads nodding, eyes at half-mast, tucked into dusty corners where the damage is limited when they fall over. Ian’s behind the bar. He’s the owner’s nephew, from Dublin, in London for the summer. In his early twenties, with dark hair and round, bright-blue eyes, he’s funny, shy and sharp, dreaming of a career as a stand-up comedian. I can tell when he’s flirting because he launches into his set – joke after joke, eyes gleaming. As Robbie and I settle down at the bar, he mixes us up a round of rum and Cokes on the house, treating the delighted Robbie to all his best lines.