Party Night. Lucy Lord

‘But we always do. As the late, great Peter Cook said, we learn from our mistakes and repeat them with accuracy.’

      ‘Uncanny accuracy,’ says Ben, and we all laugh.

      ‘So, as we were enjoying their company, we asked them if they wanted to come back and continue the party at ours. They seemed quite happy to and I was dying to find out more about what sort of person sells planes for a living.’

      ‘Although what he’d told us about his former profession should possibly have given us some clues,’ says Damian.

      ‘Yes, I was coming to that,’ says Poppy impatiently. ‘He used to organize sex parties – orgies and stuff – in Ibiza, with the Manumission crowd.’

      ‘Better and better,’ says Ben.

      ‘Once we were home, we had a few lines and drinks, and then the bloody tart started trying to undo Damian’s belt …’

      ‘You should have seen Pops’s reaction,’ says Damian. ‘“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Elena?”’ He captures Poppy’s high-pitched squawk of indignation perfectly, and Ben and I laugh as one.

      ‘So they were proper swingers?’ Ben asks Poppy, before turning to me and wiggling his eyebrows about lasciviously. God, I love this man.

      ‘Oh, yes. They told us that they usually find other couples online but that they’d assumed that the reason we’d invited them back was for some foursome rumpy-pumpy.’

      ‘And we’d assumed they just liked us for our witty banter,’ adds Damian, and we all crack up.

      ‘So … did you?’ I venture.

      ‘No bloody way,’ says Poppy. ‘Apart from everything else, the girl – though cheap and obvious of course – was far more attractive than the man.’

      ‘Did they seem embarrassed when you turned them down?’ asks Ben.

      ‘Not in the slightest,’ Damian laughs. ‘In fact they stayed for a few more hours and kept trying it on.’

      ‘Weren’t you tempted at all?’

      ‘No.’ Poppy and Damian say this in unison, shaking their heads furiously. ‘I would hate to see Pops being shagged by some plane-selling Manumission pervert,’ adds Damian.

      ‘And I would hate to see Damian shagging some fucking pole dancer,’ says Poppy. ‘Cheap and obvious though she was.’

      ‘You know what?’ I say, draining my margarita. ‘You two have just proved the point that it’s always easier to get laid when you’re already taken. For fuck’s sake! You have each other, and you still have to fend the bloody hordes off. I …’ I stop myself. Jesus, how pathetic is this making me look in front of Ben?

      He turns to me and smiles.

      ‘You’re gorgeous, Belles. I can’t imagine you’ll have to wait too much longer to get laid.’

      Yay. Make that double yay.

      The first floor of Divine Comedy is the restaurant, all minimalist, rustic, grow-your-own Petersham Nurseries plagiarism. My brother Max, all curly-blond-haired, big-brown-eyed six foot four of him, is sitting at the end of a vast, refectory-style table, holding court. A few of the pink-haired, bow-tied Hoxton twats rub shoulders with shaven-headed, leather-clad chaps Max clearly met in Vauxhall, some very pretty girls and a couple of his old friends from Cambridge. I recognize Andy and Charlie, good blokes from what I recall over the years, and their other halves, who are both, with wonderful serendipity, called Alison. It’s like Thompson and Thomson in Tintin, I giggle to myself, except that these Alisons are poles apart, physically.

      The one attached to Andy is tall, skinny and frightening, with a severe black bob. The one attached to Charlie is blonde, plump and nice enough, if a bit wet.

      ‘Bella!’ says Max, shushing his horrible boyfriend Paolo, who is waving his overworked out arms about in a very Latin American fashion. ‘For you guys who haven’t met her, this is my sister. Do I recognize that dress, Belles? I’m sure there’s a photo of Mum in it somewhere.’

      ‘Well remembered,’ I say, walking over to give him a hug and a kiss. ‘Hi, everyone!’

      ‘Hi, Bella!’ they all say dutifully. I am under no illusions that this is down to my charismatic presence. Everybody loves Max.

      ‘Hi, Bella,’ says Andy, who is sitting next to Scary Skinny Alison, on Max’s right. ‘Lovely to see you again. It’s been ages.’

      ‘Hi, Andy, you too,’ I say. ‘Gosh, I can’t remember the last time I saw you – I was probably drunk!’

      ‘Yes, you were,’ says scary Skinny, who is wearing a man’s dinner jacket over a black vest that emphasizes her bony chest. ‘By the way, I bumped into Rupert in the City the other day, and he was with a really lovely-looking girl. He told me he thought she was The One.’ She is referring to dull Rupert, who dumped me. ‘Have you found another boyfriend yet?’

      What? Fucking bitch. What would possess you to say that to somebody you barely know?

      ‘Several,’ I smile through gritted teeth. ‘I juggle them: it’s good to keep them on their toes.’ A couple of the Vauxhall chaps laugh at this and Alison looks a bit put out. ‘Or actually off their toes, when they’re in the air,’ I persist, air juggling slightly manically as my analogy fails abysmally.

      ‘Sounds fun.’ The other Alison, the blonde plump one, smiles at me from the other side of the table and I smile back at her.

      ‘It is. I’m having the time of my life!’ I lie.

      ‘And looking great on it,’ her boyfriend Charlie leers chivalrously.

      ‘Shame about the sixties fancy dress,’ sniggers Paolo, who’s a stylist. ‘Bella, angel.’ He pronounces it ‘an-hell’. ‘The dress, the boots, the hair, the makeup? All just a little too retro, don’t we think? Couldn’t we have considered biker boots, angel? Or more directional tights? Or anything on your face except that dreary smoky eye that’s been done to death …’

      ‘Hands off my sister, darling,’ says Max lazily. But Paolo’s incredibly handsome, with liquid brown eyes, skin the colour of butterscotch and full, pouty pink lips, so Max doesn’t reprimand him nearly as much as I’d like, and I just stand there feeling foolish.

      ‘You look lovely!’ mouths Plump Alison at me from across the table, and I smile back at her gratefully.

      Skinny Alison bangs a glass with her fork. Look at me! Look at me!

      ‘Order! Order!’ She waits until the table is silent before announcing, in her strident tones, ‘We weren’t going to say anything until the New Year, but I just can’t wait to tell you all.’ She smugly slides an arm around Andy’s broad shoulders and flashes me a triumphant glance, which leaves me utterly at a loss. I mean, I hardly know the woman: what the fuck has she got against me? ‘Andy proposed to me this afternoon. We’re getting married!’

      ‘Oh, wow!’

      ‘Congratulations!’

      ‘When’s the big day?’

      Blah, blah, blah, et cetera ad nauseam, as Alison pulls a diamond ring out of her tuxedo pocket and slides it onto her long, skinny finger. Everybody gets up to hug them both and Alison sits there lapping up the compliments.

      ‘Blah, blah … my wedding … blah, blah … my dress … blah, blah … my flowers …’ I really cannot stand any more of her self-aggrandizing crap, so I pat Andy on the shoulder and say, ‘Congratulations. What wonderful news.’

      ‘Thanks.’ He smiles up at me through his glasses again. ‘It seemed the right thing to do. We’ve been together since Cambridge.’

      Wow. Romantic.

      ‘Oh