Revelry. Lucy Lord

and the kitchen units painted the most revolting orangey salmon pink, but there was a little stone balcony leading out from the kitchen with views over the rooftops of West London and I just knew I’d be happy there.

      My darling nan (my mother’s mother is still ‘Granny’) had left me a small nest-egg which just covered the deposit. When she died, she was still living in the terraced house on the Hoxton/Dalston borders where my dad was brought up, one of the few slums to have survived Hitler’s bombs. Dad offered to buy her a nice place in the country but she always stubbornly refused. The East End was what she knew and loved. It came as an enormous shock to discover she’d squirrelled away fifty grand to be divided equally between me and Max, her beloved grandchildren. Dad inherited the house, which he rents to Max as premises for his hugely successful bar/restaurant business. Funny how Nan was sitting on a goldmine for all those years. I still miss her.

      Now I let myself in and look around contentedly. One of the first things I did when I moved in was to rip out that horrible carpet and paint the floorboards white and, though I say so myself, the effect is pretty damn cool. There wasn’t much cash left for decorating, but I replaced the salmon-coloured kitchen units with some inoffensive ones from Ikea, laid blue and white mosaic tiles over the splash-back and put up some French art nouveau posters in second-hand frames. With my little herb garden on the window ledge and balcony door open so you can see all my flower boxes, I like to think the effect is artfully bohemian.

      My living room is a mishmash of old and new, but that’s the way I like it. There are books everywhere. One wall is completely lined with bookshelves but that’s not nearly enough, so they tend to pile up on the floor. A zebra-print Sixties beanbag and sheepskin rug look incongruously Austin Powers against the antique chandelier, huge fake Venetian mirror and chaise longue I’ve picked up in the market over the years. I found my most recent acquisition, a fairly nasty repro Forties chest of drawers, in a skip. Now that I’ve painted it bright lacquer red, changed the handles and put some gorgeous chinoiserie silk under a sheet of glass on its surface, I adore it. I’m considering upholstering the chaise longue similarly, but that might drain my beer resources.

      White muslin curtains flutter around the sash window, which looks out onto a window box crammed with colourful geraniums. My beloved oils hang from the walls that are not lined with books, and overgrown houseplants take up probably more floor space than they should.

      I go into my bedroom to get changed and my smugness evaporates. Christ, the mess. When my flat is tidy it can look very pretty indeed. I tidied up the living room yesterday. But it’s so small, and OK, I’m such a slut, that mess does accumulate extraordinarily quickly. I start rummaging through the clothes on the floor in search of something to wear. Poppy said that Damian and Ben might be joining us later, so I need to look good. Or, at least, not like a Hogarthian gin hag. After trying on and discarding several options, I settle on a short halterneck floral tea dress in shades of mauve, navy and white that shows off the remnants of my Ibiza tan. I’ll pair it with my old navy Converse to stop it looking too girly, but in the meantime I wander barefoot to the fridge and pour myself a glass of wine.

      I pick up my phone to look at the time. It’s only 6.45; still plenty of time before I meet Poppy at The Westbourne, so I go out onto my balcony and gaze over the treetops. It really is a gorgeous evening. I do a lot of my painting out here – so much so, in fact, that I’ve probably exhausted this particular view. I really must get a studio sorted, but I’m absolutely broke, especially after the Ibiza shenanigans. And there’s Glastonbury, Bestival and all sorts coming up. Priorities, Bella. Sometimes I wonder how much I really love my painting if I’m happy to spend so much time and money partying. If I could dedicate my life to lotus-eating, would I? I probably need to be way more dedicated to ever really succeed, especially in the current dreary climate. On the other hand, artists are meant to be hedonistic, aren’t they?

      Suddenly I laugh. Come on, Bella, snap out of it. Artists are meant to be hedonistic indeed! A pretentious excuse for getting off your tits if ever there was one.

      I go inside to redo my make-up, brush my hair, drain my glass, shove my feet into my battered Converse and pick up a denim jacket in case it gets chilly later. Money, keys, fags in pocket. No need for a handbag as I’m not going far.

      As I head towards The Westbourne, it strikes me how much the area has changed since I moved here. I still love it. The architecture is fab and nothing beats getting one’s vegetables from the market on a Saturday morning (if one is up, that is), but the fabled ‘cultural diversity’ has become a bit of a joke. Whatever you may feel about American bankers, culturally diverse they are not. And now half of them are out of work, the streets are crawling with them, like expensively shod vermin. (Actually, running with them, as they can no longer afford their gyms. The heart bleeds.) Still, while Notting Hill’s no longer the in place to live, for me it still has that slightly arty loucheness that an entire plague of penny-loafer-wearing Chad Jnr IIs would be hard pushed to destroy.

      The USP of The Westbourne is its relatively sizeable beer garden, all too rare a commodity in central London, which opens directly onto the street for maximum posing potential. It’s predictably heaving, but Poppy has managed to secure a table outside. The cream of London’s beautiful people jostles for standing room on the pavement, spilling pints of expensive lager on Sass & Bide jeans. A white E-type Jag, circa 1972, provides some much-needed extra seating. Three skinny girls perch on its bonnet and a ridiculously handsome black guy grins from the driving seat. This summer a disproportionate number of people are wearing Stetsons. Wild West London indeed.

      Poppy stands up and waves enthusiastically. She’s wearing a very short navy and white striped Christopher Kane bodycon dress with outrageous vintage Vivienne Westwood silver platforms. And a trilby. No cloned headwear for my best mate.

      ‘Hello lovely, how are you?’ She envelops me in a bear hug with a strength that belies her tiny frame, a result of the boxing lessons she’s been taking for the last couple of years.

      ‘All the better for seeing you. Horrendous day in the office, as usual. Save me from those people!’

      Poppy laughs. ‘Awww, try and rise above it, sweetheart. It’s only a couple more weeks now, isn’t it, till you’re free again? Just think of all that lovely money.’

      I smile. She knows me so well. There are two large bottles of Magners on the table, with their accompanying ice-filled pint glasses. ‘Is this for me?’ I ask, and she nods, so I sit down.

      ‘How are you anyway? Looking gorgeous as ever. I love the hat.’

      ‘Hides a multitude of sins. Heeeeavy night last night.’ Poppy grimaces, miming shooting herself in the head, and I laugh sympathetically. Within seconds the grimace is replaced with a radiant smile. ‘But I’ve got some good news – I’ve just been promoted!’

      ‘Oh yay, well done Pops. Congratulations!’ I lean over to give her a hug. ‘But I thought you were promoted only a couple of months ago?’

      ‘I was,’ she grins. ‘And they’ve decided to promote me again! You’re looking at the new Deputy Head of Production for Europe.’

      ‘Fucking hell, Popsicle. That’s brilliant! I’m so pleased for you. This calls for champagne. Don’t go anywhere.’ And I elbow my way through the packed pub to the bar. I certainly can’t afford to be buying champagne in pubs, but if ever an occasion called for it, this does. I am hugely impressed by Poppy’s achievements and not jealous in the slightest. OK, there may be a teensy bit of salary envy, but overall I’m delighted.

      After waiting for about fifteen minutes, I am finally served by the way-too-attitudey staff. I lug the champagne bucket back outside and plonk it on the table. ‘Sorry to take so long. It’s mad in there.’

      ‘Don’t be silly. And you shouldn’t be buying me champagne either – I’m the one with the obscene salary.’ She tries to give me a couple of twenties, but I wave them away. ‘No no, this is on me.’

      ‘OK, but drinks on me for the rest of the night.’

      ‘It’s a deal.’ Big relief.

      I