Revelry. Lucy Lord

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ finished eating? There’s plenty of room at our table.’

      ‘Thanks, but we haven’t finalized the catering arrangements,’ begins Alison, when Andy cuts her off. ‘We’d love to,’ he says firmly, smiling at me. ‘I’m sure we can wind this up in the next five minutes or so while we finish our food.’

      ‘Great,’ says Max. ‘We’ll be over soon.’ He rolls his eyes at me again. ‘Right, back to business …’

      We order our food and settle down convivially with the wine and breadbasket.

      ‘Why the fuck did you ask them to join us, Bella?’ says Mark, as everyone shushes him.

      ‘Max is her brother, Mark,’ says Poppy quietly. ‘Why the fuck do you think?’

      ‘I don’t care about the shirt-lifter,’ says Mark. ‘But that bird. Jeeezus, she could wipe the hard-on off Hugh Heffner in a Jacuzzi full of Playmates. Does she ever smile?’

      ‘Sssh, sssh, sssh,’ we say, trying not to giggle.

      ‘Andy’s the one I object to,’ says Damian, dropping his guard momentarily. ‘Fucking do-gooder with his “insightful and intelligent” pieces.’ His voice is sounding more Welsh by the second.

      ‘You sound like you’re quoting,’ says Poppy.

      ‘I am,’ says Damian morosely. ‘The National Press Awards.’

      Poppy laughs. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, you could have gone down that route if you wanted. You chose the sex, drugs and rock-’n’-roll path of no-resistance journalism instead, and you love it.’

      ‘Yeah, I suppose. He doesn’t have to be such a fucking smug prick about it, though …’

      At this inauspicious juncture, the three of them join us, and we all shift around to make space.

      ‘So did you finalize the catering arrangements?’ I ask Alison, as Poppy kicks me under the table. Alison is looking quite the elegant solicitor tonight, in a beautifully tailored white cotton shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves and oversized, pushed-back cuffs. Narrow black 7/8 trousers show off her slim thighs and bony ankles. Her shoes and Mulberry handbag have been expertly and expensively crafted from the same soft tan leather, while a touch of turquoise jewellery lifts the outfit from classic boredom. Yup, the bitch looks good.

      ‘No, not really,’ she sighs. ‘Nobody seems to understand how stressful it is, planning a wedding. There are so many things to consider.’

      ‘Erm, maybe I’m being stupid, babe, but why don’t you just choose some grub you like and lay on plenty of booze?’ asks Mark, shoving half a bread roll into his mouth.

      ‘People have different dietary requirements,’ explains Alison patiently, as if to a five-year-old. ‘Half of my friends are gluten-free, about a third don’t eat dairy, loads are vegetarian and most won’t countenance intensive farming, so knowing the food’s provenance is vital.’

      ‘Fucking Stoke Newington lesbians,’ grunts Mark, and I try not to laugh again as I recall that Andy and Alison live in Crouch End, North London’s liberal enclave, barely a stone’s throw from Stoke Newington.

      ‘Then there are the favours,’ she continues earnestly. ‘We can’t decide whether edible favours are the way to go – and, if so, should they come out of the catering budget?’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ says Poppy. ‘But I think favours are utterly preposterous for adults.’

      ‘What are favours?’ asks Damian, speaking for the rest of us.

      ‘Oh, ridiculous twee little gifts – sugared almonds, or packets of seeds, or horrid little gift soaps that most people will only throw away anyway and end up costing you a fortune. Honestly, Alison, save yourself the bother and expense.’

      ‘I have to say I’m inclined to agree,’ says Andy. ‘If we’re averaging three quid each and two hundred people, that’s six hundred pounds on stuff that’s only going to get chucked.’ He takes a swig of his red wine.

      ‘He can do mental arithmetic too,’ says Damian, just a tad too loudly.

      ‘I told you, money is no object,’ says Alison. ‘All the weddings I’ve been to over the last five years have had favours, and I will NOT have a second-rate, budget version.’

      ‘Suit yourself,’ says Poppy equably.

      ‘I’m sure whatever Alison chooses will be perfectly delightful,’ says Ben, smiling at her. ‘And I for one won’t be throwing mine away.’ As far as I’m aware, he hasn’t been invited, but nobody points this out.

      For the first time since we arrived (I suspect the first time all evening), Alison smiles. It sits uneasily on her long face, the scarlet lips parting to show both top and bottom teeth. In fact, it doesn’t suit her at all, and I wonder if this is partly why, like Posh Spice, she has perfected the art of looking miserable.

      ‘Well, the jury’s still out on whether we’re getting them or not,’ says Andy, and Alison’s features revert to their habitual scowl. Thank Christ for that. Andy turns to Poppy. ‘How’s your father getting on?’

      I had no idea Andy knew about Ken. Poppy must have confided in him in Ibiza. I can understand why – with his height, specs and obvious intelligence, Andy must remind her to an extent of her beloved daddy, the daddy she used to know.

      ‘Bloody awfully, but thanks for asking. Last weekend was the worst so far.’

      ‘You poor thing,’ says Andy seriously. ‘I don’t have any personal experience of it, but I wrote a piece about dementia a few months ago and it does seem to hit the family very hard, from what all the people I interviewed told me.’

      Alison is looking daggers at Pops.

      ‘And so does cancer, and heart disease, and diabetes, all of which can be prevented with a little more self-restraint in one’s life,’ she says, taking a tiny sip of her red wine. I can hardly believe my ears at her insensitivity.

      ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Al …’ starts Andy, and Poppy smiles at him.

      ‘Thanks, you nice man, but I can fend for myself.’ She turns to Alison, and hisses, ‘I suppose you also think that if he’d done the fucking crossword or Sudoku or something more often, he’d still be right as rain. My dad is a doctor, who knows all about prevention and cure, thank you very much. Can you imagine what it felt like for him to diagnose himself? He has more intelligence in his little toe, even with his illness, than you’ll ever have in your whole body, you cow.’

      Alison puts up her hands in mock surrender.

      ‘No need to get personal. I didn’t realize he was a doctor. I apologize. It’s just that people who don’t look after themselves cost the state so much money, don’t you think?’

      ‘The tax on smoking practically pays for the NHS,’ says Mark, who’s enjoying this exchange thoroughly. ‘More wine, anyone?’ With a flourish of his huge arm, he summons the waiter and asks for four more bottles.

      ‘Four? Are you insane?’ asks Alison, askance.

      ‘You СКАЧАТЬ