Revelry. Lucy Lord

and I’m working on a very important case.’

      ‘Oh yes, your job’s so grown-up and important, isn’t it?’ I slur, completely pissed by now. ‘It must be a total nightmare for you having to hang out with plebs like us.’

      ‘Oh, I think most people around this table have pretty important jobs, Bella,’ says Alison nastily. ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

      ‘For God’s sake, Al.’ Andy looks and sounds deeply pissed off, even more than when she was going on about Poppy’s dad. ‘I’m sorry, Bella. Sorry Poppy, too, for earlier.’

      He pulls an apologetic face at us both, but I take no notice. It’s too much. After my shitty day in the office and gallons of booze, this sniping at both Poppy’s deepest sadness and my deepest insecurities makes my reaction just a smidgeon over the top.

      ‘You fucking bitch.’ I chuck the remains of Alison’s drink at her. ‘At least I’m not a dried-up old hag who can’t speak without hurting people or even smile without looking like a fucking gargoyle.’ I am mesmerized by the red wine dripping down her pristine white shirt. Then I come to my senses and burst into tears.

      Getting up with as much dignity as I can muster, I say, ‘Max, could you cover my share of the bill, please? I’ll sort it out with you tomorrow.’

      And I stagger upstairs, sobbing. I am halfway down Kensington Park Road when I hear footsteps behind me.

      ‘You left your jacket behind,’ says Ben, holding it out to me with a smile.

      ‘Oh, thanks so much, I’m such a twat. My keys and wallet are in the pocket.’ And I cry some more, as Ben strokes my hair, standing there in the street, going, ‘Sssh, sssh, it’s going to be OK, everything’s OK.’

      After a bit he laughs. ‘You certainly told Alison where to go.’

      ‘I’m already regretting it.’ I look up at him through teary eyes. ‘I seem to have sobered up in the last couple of minutes.’

      ‘Silly bitch deserved it, going on at you and Pops like that. Oh, I know I was nice about her stupid favours, but I was bored shitless by the conversation and it seemed the only way to bring it to a close.’ We both laugh.

      ‘Well, goodnight then,’ I say reluctantly.

      ‘Don’t be silly, I’m walking you home,’ says Ben, and my heart starts to beat alarmingly fast. Don’t be silly, Bella, he’s just being nice. Remember what a gentleman he is.

      He lights us each a fag. We turn right into Portobello Road and continue down through the market-stall debris, under the Westway and finally into my street. Ben is talking easily about Poppy’s promotion, laughing about Mark’s appalling behaviour, bitching about Alison. I am tongue-tied, but happy to listen, nod and laugh when required.

      ‘Well, here I am then,’ I say stupidly. ‘Thanks for looking after me.’

      ‘It was my pleasure, darling.’ Ben smiles that knee-trembling smile again. And very slowly, bends his head to kiss me. His lips are soft yet insistent. Involuntarily my own mouth opens just a fraction and he lingers a moment longer, running his tongue ever so lightly against my trembling bottom lip. Reluctantly, it seems, he pulls away, holding me in his electric blue gaze.

      ‘You looked very pretty tonight, you know.’ Then he turns on his heel and walks back down the street, turning once to blow me another kiss.

      Bugger me.

      Chapter 6

      Remember waking up on Christmas morning when you were a kid? That manic overexcitement that got you out of your own bed and into your parents’ at 5 a.m., only to be told to go back to sleep for a couple of hours? Well, that had nothing on the hyperactive frenzy I seem to have worked myself up into this morning. I am a Ritalin-dependent attention-seeking seven-year-old, without the compensating cuteness.

      For today we are going to Glastonbury. It is a glorious, glorious sunshiny day, I’ve been packed since 8 a.m. and Poppy and Damian are picking me up in half an hour. I always get excited about Glastonbury, even when it’s raining, but this year is different. This year I have been kissed by Ben, and the next four days stretch out in front of me, reverberating with romantic opportunity.

      I haven’t seen or spoken to Ben since he walked me home the other night, and neither have I told anyone about the kiss. I don’t know why. Normally I’d be straight on the phone to Poppy, but she is so much closer to Ben than I am because of Damian that I’ve never really confided in her about my feelings for him, though I imagine she has a pretty shrewd inkling. No fool, our Pops.

      It’s my wonderful little secret. Again and again I play over those few seconds. ‘It was my pleasure, darling.’ … Smile. Kiss. ‘You looked very pretty tonight, you know.’ He called me pretty! He kissed me! I realize I’m possibly reading too much into what was most likely just a drunken flirty moment, but I don’t care. I’ve been on Cloud Nine for the past week and am full of joyous optimism for what the next few days may bring.

      Unable to sit still for a second, I go over my packing for the twentieth time to see what I’ve forgotten. Three bikinis (did I mention the joyous optimism?), four pairs of knickers, three vest tops, two miniskirts, black leggings in case it gets cold, black polo-neck jumper ditto, yoga pants, T-shirt and hoodie for sleeping in if I get the chance, waterproof jacket and trousers, wellies, which take up far too much room in the rucksack but I’m not taking any chances after last year, flip-flops. I am wearing ancient cowboy boots and a white sundress printed with red cherries.

      Satisfied that my clothing covers every eventuality, I turn my attention to sundries. Wipes, wipes and more wipes; toothbrush and toothpaste; moisturizer; sun block that I’ll forget to use; dry shampoo that after a couple of days my greasy barnet won’t allow me to forget to use; deodorant; make-up. Come on, I’m hardly going to be slumming it to that extent, especially with Ben around. Strapped to the outside of my rucksack are my sleeping bag and pillow. Yes, a real one. I don’t care if I look a pillock, it makes the biggest difference in the world to comfort. Oooh, bin bags and loo paper! I suddenly remember and dash to the kitchen and bathroom. I’m out of both. I’ll have to remember to get some from the Tesco megastore we always stop at on the final leg of the journey. A 1.5-litre bottle of Evian and 1.5-litre Evian bottle filled with vodka as glass isn’t allowed on site; 3 grams of coke and 12 pills secured inside my bra, the only place security won’t look if I’m unlucky enough to be stopped; 60 Marlboro Lights.

      I look at the time on my phone. Still twenty minutes until they’re due, and Poppy and Damian aren’t the most punctual of couples at the best of times. I pick up an old copy of Stadium, Damian’s magazine, and go out onto the balcony to kill some time. The cloudless sky is already a medium denim hue and it’s only ten past ten. Feeling the sun warm on my shoulders, I heave a deep sigh of satisfaction. The next few days are going to be fabulous. Trying to quell my impatience, I flip through Stadium. It falls open randomly at 17 things you should have grown out of by now. Hmmm, let’s see. No. 3. Pretending to find older women attractive. Let’s face it, nineteen is their optimum age. Saggy tits and wrinkles are never a good look. Oh charming. No wonder Mark’s like he is. I have a look at the tiny by-line to see if Damian’s responsible. No, not this time. I’m sure Poppy would have something to say if he were.

      Slightly depressed now, I shut Stadium and gaze out over the leafy view for a bit, before going back inside to pick up the card I’ve made to thank Poppy for offering me her spare room as a studio. On the front is a highly stylized pen and ink illustration of Pops herself, hair in a ponytail, jaunty scarf around her neck in the manner of a 1950s fashion drawing, heading towards an old-fashioned aeroplane, an old-fashioned suitcase with labels spelling out Paris, Barcelona, Milan and Capri swinging from her hand. On the back, in the same style, is a drawing of me standing at my easel, wearing a checked artist’s smock and a headscarf around my head like a turban. Inside, in large, glittery writing, I simply wrote, Thanks, dear friend xxx.

      I