Revelry. Lucy Lord

‘God, I needed that. I only had three hours’ sleep last night.’

      ‘Anything exciting?’ I top her up again.

      ‘Oh, just some naff awards do. Angelina Jolie was there, minus Brad and weird rainbow tribe. She’s a bit gaunt in the flesh. Very pretty, though. I got through a lot of caipirinhas. Funnily enough, Damian was also invited, in misogynist hack capacity, but obviously we were put on different tables. He kept pulling faces at me, trying to make me giggle while I was schmoozing the big cheeses at Channel 4. Prick,’ she finishes fondly.

      ‘You know you love him really.’

      ‘Yeah I do. Great big kid.’ Poppy laughs.

      ‘So what does the new job involve? What was the title again? Deputy Head of Production for Europe? Isn’t that a new area for you?’

      ‘Well, yeah, as far as Europe’s concerned.’ She shrugs. ‘I’ll need to brush up on my French, Italian and German, of course …’ All three, you notice. ‘But in principle it’s the same thing I’ve been doing over here – I just have to research the markets thoroughly. The main thing is, it’s going to involve a lot of travelling – yippee! Via Condotti, here I come.’

      ‘You lucky bugger.’

      ‘Actually, there was one thing I wanted to suggest.’ She sounds serious for a moment. ‘As I’ll be away quite a lot during the week, how would you like to take over my spare room as a studio? It’s a bit of a hike, I know, but the light is great and you’d have loads more space than on your balcony. I’ll give you a spare set of keys and you can always kip over if it gets late and you can’t be arsed with the journey back.’

      ‘Bloody hell, that is so weird! I was just thinking earlier how bored I’m getting with the view from my balcony and how I should get a studio sorted. Oh Pops, I’d love it! Thanks so much. Psychic, or what?’

      ‘Or perhaps I’m just getting as bored with the view from your balcony as you are,’ Poppy laughs, winking from under her hat.

      ‘Ow, bitch!’

      ‘Not really, silly. But it is about time you had a studio, don’t you think?’

      ‘Didn’t I just say so? Thanks again, from the bottom of my heart.’ And I stand up to give her the third hug of the evening so far. Then something occurs to me:

      ‘Are you sure Damian’s cool with it? I would hate to be an imposition …’

      ‘Oh, he’s fine about it. He’s always flying off to do his dreadful “interviews” with Z-list slappers, anyway.’ Poppy does the inverted commas fingers gesture. ‘And, as I pay most of the rent, he wouldn’t have much say in the matter … even if he did object, which he doesn’t,’ she adds hurriedly.

      Poppy and Damian, being a million times cooler than I am, live in a huge warehouse conversion overlooking Hoxton Square. It is a bit of a trek from here, but she’s right about the light in the spare room. The windows are enormous and, joy of joys, it has a skylight.

      We discuss the practicalities of the studio for a bit, until I remember something.

      ‘Oh Pops, I’m sorry. I should have asked as soon as I saw you. How’s your dad? Didn’t you go to see them last weekend?’

      Poppy’s father has Alzheimer’s, and in the last year or so his decline has become much more apparent. It was a particularly cruel twist of fate a few years ago that led him, a doctor, to diagnose himself with early symptoms of the disease, acutely aware of the long-term implications. For Poppy, always a daddy’s girl and an only child to boot, it was devastating. They shared the same keen intelligence and Dr Kenneth Wallace was always so proud of his clever little girl, encouraging her to apply for Oxford, planting the seeds of the self-belief that has served her so well as an adult. Despite her devastation, Pops has until recently remained staunchly upbeat about it, researching new breakthroughs in treatment and medication, and supporting her mother Diana with as much of a positive outlook as she can muster. Ken still lives in the family home, looked after by Diana (with the help of carers), but it’s becoming increasingly apparent that this won’t be possible for much longer.

      ‘Not great, to be honest. Oh Belles, sometimes I can hardly bear it when I remember how he used to be.’ Poppy’s large, almond-shaped green eyes fill with tears, which she angrily wipes away. ‘It’s such a bloody horrible disease.’

      ‘I know, lovey, I know.’ I reach over and squeeze her hand, thinking of the tall, bespectacled gent with his wonderfully dry wit and endless thirst for knowledge. It was always hugely entertaining around the Wallace dinner table, even when we were kids. ‘He did … recognize you, didn’t he?’ I falter, as it’s the big one; the big, big horror that one day her own father won’t know who she is.

      ‘Oh yes, he still recognizes me, bless his dear old heart.’ Poppy smiles sadly. ‘It’s just the other things he doesn’t recognize that are so scary.’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Like last weekend we were watching telly – that’s all you can do with him any more, really, as conversation is so bloody impossible – and he thought the people on the box were outside the window, trying to break in. He got quite agitated about it and I just had to keep saying, “Dad, it’s the TV, we’re watching telly, remember?”’

      ‘Oh Pops.’ I squeeze her hand again, not knowing how else to proffer comfort.

      ‘I honestly don’t know how Mum copes. Remember I told you she was feeling guilty for getting irritated because he kept repeating himself?’

      I nod.

      ‘Well, it’s way beyond that stage now. He isn’t really a properly functioning human being at all any more. Jesus, Belles, if I ever get like that, please just give me a lethal injection.’

      ‘You’re on. And vice versa?’

      We shake on it and Poppy continues.

      ‘Dad hates the carers – keeps going on about what are all these strangers doing in my house, which you can’t blame him for really. But he’s very fond of the chap in the mirror. Keeps introducing his “new friend” to Mum. When he waves and smiles, the chap in the mirror waves and smiles back, you see.’

      ‘Oh Pops, your poor mother. Surely it must nearly be time for him to go into residential care?’

      ‘From a purely selfish point of view I’d like him to stay at home until he dies.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because sometimes we can pretend things are like they used to be – say if Mum and I are cooking Sunday lunch and we’ve put Dad in front of some documentary on the telly. But it’s simply not fair on Mum the rest of the time. She’s being a complete bloody martyr though – reckons it would be a betrayal to put him in a home.’

      I think of blonde, soignée Diana, an ex-Radio 4 presenter, still glamorous at sixty-two. Jesus. What a life sentence. For both of them.

      ‘Damian’s been looking into residential homes that specialize in dementia,’ Poppy continues. ‘Even though they are, by their very nature, fucking grim hellholes, some are so much better than others – actually the discrepancies are astounding. There’s one he’s found near enough home for Mum to visit daily that looks quite promising. We’re going to go and have a look the weekend after Glastonbury.’

      ‘He’s a good chap, your man.’

      ‘My rock.’ Poppy faux-swoons, then visibly cheers up. ‘Ooh look, talk of the devil. There he is with Mark! What does the sexist cunt think he’s wearing?’

      I follow her gaze and laugh. Mark’s huge chest is clad in a T-shirt announcing 10 reasons why beer is better than women. The last time I saw something similar was about twelve years ago, on an ill-advised student trip to the Greek island Ios. It involved an awful lot of booze and shagging randoms, and my (only) Goldsmiths friend