Revelry. Lucy Lord

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 don’t have to drink them babe, do ya?’ Mark turns his back on her and starts chatting to me again.

      ‘What the fuck is her problem?’ I whisper.

      ‘She doesn’t like Andy talking to Pops, is all. Stupid bitch.’

      ‘But that’s absurd. He was only being nice about her father. And anyway, even though Pops is more gorgeous than that bitch could hope to be in a million years, she’s not exactly what you’d call a threat. She and Damian are devoted to each other.’

      ‘We know that, gorgeous, but she doesn’t.’ Mark and I clink glasses and down them in one in a moment of complete solidarity. I think I might love him, despite the Brazilian twins and the intern with the pierced nipple.

      After a bit, Alison turns to me.

      ‘Remind me what is it that you do again, Bella? Isn’t it something secretarial?’ Her pale blue eyes bore into me. Her colouring is really quite striking, I find myself thinking irrelevantly, the black hair and precisely plucked brows a vivid contrast to her pale skin and eyes.

      ‘Erm no … I’m an artist, but sometimes I have to do a bit of temping to help pay the bills.’

      ‘And you really think that’s any way for an adult to earn a living? Don’t you think it’s time you got a proper job and left the painting as a hobby? I mean, frankly, if you haven’t made any money out of it now, I can’t imagine you ever will. You’re what? Thirty-two?’

      I am stunned into silence. Not only because Alison thinks she has the right to speak to me with such vitriol, but also because she has pinpointed my Achilles heel with painful accuracy. She is beyond poisonous.

      ‘I don’t know how you can say that when you haven’t seen Bella’s work,’ says Damian loyally. The others are all laughing loudly at something Ben’s just said, so only he and Mark have heard this delightful exchange. ‘She’s extremely talented and I know her big break is just around the corner.’

      I flash him a grateful smile. Luckily our food chooses this moment to arrive and I am spared having to defend myself further to the witch.