Material Girl (18 page)

‘That’s not true, Scarlet. Men, women, blah, blah, blah. Aren’t we all individuals? You can’t just prescribe me with certain traits and say I fit that mould, you don’t even know me.’

‘This coming from the man going out with the most stunning woman in the room,’ I say.

‘You and I aren’t going out yet, Scarlet.’ He smiles to himself.

‘Funny,’ I say, and poke his stomach. It’s surprisingly hard.

‘I know. I know I’m saying one thing and doing another. But beauty only means so much, Scarlet, and I honestly believe that. Look around you: it’s not the beautiful relationships that last. They might get more sex, but beautiful people are a little bit fucked up as well, because too many people want them, but for the wrong thing! It’s far better to be a little bit average I think. Not stunning, but not hideous. You’ve got much more chance of being happy. Beauty does not breed security. Too many people covet what you’ve got, and you start to question whether you are good enough yourself to deserve it.’ He shakes his head.

‘Maybe. Oh Gavin I just want to feel like I understand something, anything, about myself. It doesn’t matter what it is, just something. I don’t want to be a cliché. I don’t want to do things because they are a distraction, I want to do things because I mean them. I don’t want to finish with Ben, miss him for a while, hate him for a while, miss him
again. Then meet a new boy, get married, have a baby, distract myself. What happens if I do all of that, hit fifty, and I’m still not happy? What will I have done with my life? There just has to be an answer. Like in the musicals! At the first opportunity there was always a room full of dancers dressed as waiters or housemaids or workers in a sweet factory, and they’d be high-kicking, or doing the splits, or doing that dance where they run on the spot and kick. You know, the one that always looks vaguely Russian, and seems like a lot of work? But the implication was joy! Like in
Hello Dolly
, with Barbra Streisand – do you know
Hello Dolly
?’

‘Nope.’ Gavin shakes his head, bored again. I don’t care, I’ve found my enthusiasm.

‘Well, there is this scene, this song, where they all wear their “Sunday Clothes”. And they all dance down the street, and they sing that whenever they feel down or blue they should put on their best dresses and suits and parade about in them and it will make them feel better. They sing about being dressed like dreams, Gavin! And they sing it! You know, part of me is always waiting for a street to burst into song. Oxford Street or Charing Cross Road could just musically explode! Or Soho Square would be perfect! And suddenly everybody could just be high-kicking on the pavement, or cartwheeling off benches.’

‘There are a lot of homosexuals there, they can all dance, it could work,’ Gavin says, nodding his head.

‘You see! That’s right! It would be glorious! And we could all sing “Put On Your Sunday Clothes”! I just think … I think that it might be all it takes, to make me feel better. I just need my joy now …’ And suddenly I’m exhausted, utterly spent. This modern life. It sure is draining.

‘Maybe you should have it printed onto a T-Shirt?’ Gavin says, smiling.

‘Not a bad idea. In large red letters. “
Where’s my joy?
”’ I say, my head drooping.

‘At the bottom of this glass, darling,’ Tom Harvey-Saint whispers in my ear as he slides in next to me with a large glass of blood-red wine. I can smell his Cool Water aftershave and his Lynx deodorant and his Aquafresh toothpaste. I can tell you that he smoked a Camel Light earlier on this evening and has been drinking champagne and amaretto for the rest of it. Once again the hairs on his arm shriek up and static against the hairs on mine. He’s way too close.

‘No,’ I say, flinching, and I shunt along the seat towards Gavin, but he stands up and strides over to Arabella. Two old Turkish men quickly fill the space Gavin has left, and I find myself squashed up against Tom Harvey-Saint, experiencing violent feelings towards him that I don’t know if I can control. He makes me passionately angry, but I am sure this is not the kind of passion I am after. Maybe I don’t get to choose which kind I get? I desperately search the room with my eyes for somebody to save me, but only Tristan’s hair is visible amongst the champagne crowd in the corner, and Gavin and Arabella are already having an argument. I feel Tom’s hand on the silk of my skirt, and his fingers spread like a virus to grasp the flesh of my thigh beneath it.

‘No!’ I say loudly, and throw his hand off my knee. ‘And by the way, you’re completely fucking with their relationship, but then you know that, right?’

He smiles a movie-star smile but I can see that there is nothing more behind his dilated eyes than fizz and liquor. His teeth are so impeccably white and straight that they cannot be real. ‘Are you serious? It’s not a relationship to fuck with. She’s just trampolining on him for a while. Drink?’ He pushes the red wine towards me on the table. I shake my head.

‘No. Have you ever had a relationship, Tom?’

‘I don’t need one. I’m happy as I am.’

‘What, this?’ I say with a laugh, gesturing up and down his sloped and drunken form. ‘Drinking and sleeping with strangers? This is your idea of happy?’

‘Darling, this is a lot of people’s idea of
very
happy.’

‘Maybe so, but it’s only temporary. It’s not real, or permanent. It’s gin-soaked and it will hurt like hell tomorrow. It’s not an answer to anything, is it?’

‘But darling, that’s why people have pets. If you want to feel all warm and cute and cuddly, you get a dog, or a cat, or a baby.’ He reels off the list and makes no distinction between any of them.

‘A baby? Babies aren’t pets!’

‘Yes they are, as bloody good as. You have to feed them, clear up their shit and pay for them. That’s a pet, right?’

‘And they love you, and you protect them and teach them and share with them …’ I nod my head at him like he’s the class dunce, incapable of understanding.

‘Oh it’s a borrowed fucking innocence, Susan.’

‘Scarlet,’ I say.

‘Can’t I just call you Make-up?’ he asks.

‘Absolutely not,’ I say.

‘Okay, Scarlet, but pets certainly aren’t real happiness, darling. They just put more pressure on. You think with their smiles and their wagging tails and gurgles that they are the valves that let out the pressure, but they just add to it. You need more money to buy them things, but you also need more time to spend with them so they don’t grow up disturbed.’

‘I assume both your parents were workaholics,’ I say.

He looks angry. Something turns. ‘You’re very familiar with me, Scarlet, and I’m not sure that I like it. I’m Key Cast. You’re Make-up. You can be quite cutting for somebody that I have barely spoken to.’

‘I guess I just feel like I know you already,’ I say.

‘I feel like I know you too, or I’d like to know how you feel, at least.’

‘I don’t even know me!’ I say. ‘Not any more. I always thought I’d be loyal and faithful, but I’m not. I have sex with men who aren’t my boyfriend: my nights are sprinkled with encounters that range from tiny chaste kisses to violent fellatio for Gods sake! And alleyway fumbles under skirts, and boobs poking out of bras, and strange, maimed sex angles …’

‘Seriously?’ He grins at me like the Cheshire cat.

‘Oh Jesus, I’m not telling you to turn you on. I’m drunk. I’m saying it’s a bad thing, not a roller coaster of fun. I need to stop talking now. I need to go.’

‘Wait, Scarlet. Wait. What are you looking for? What’s with the search?’ His hand rests gently on my arm, and his whole demeanour softens as if he just thawed out of an icy shell.

‘Do you really want to know?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Of course. What are you looking for, Scarlet?’ he asks, straight-faced and serious.

‘I think I just want what everybody wants, whether they articulate it or not. I just want something real. I want to experience a series of … joyful moments … that I can’t corrupt with my own cynicism, or somebody else’s. More than that, even. I want to share this series of joyful moments with somebody, and have them feel it too.’

‘You’re absolutely right, Scarlet, I’ve never thought of it like that, and it’s perfect, it’s exactly what I want. Joy. You want that, and so do I, Scarlet, so do I.’

‘I have to be honest, Tom, I’m surprised you feel that way.’

‘But darling, you don’t even know me.’ Tom’s eyes widen and he smiles at me innocently. Maybe I have read him wrong. Maybe my own cynicism has morphed him into something ugly, something that he isn’t.

‘That’s true, I barely know you,’ I say. His finger brushes my thigh, but I let it pass. It’s probably unintentional and I need to stop jumping to crazy conclusions. Maybe I’m the arsehole and Tom is just this sweet guy that I’ve completely misread, and projected all my gender anxieties onto?

We sit and smile at each other, and I reach for my red wine and take a slug.

Tom leans forward and whispers, ‘Shall we take this outside?’

For God’s sake. I was right the first time.

‘You have got to be kidding me … what is wrong with you?’

‘What?’

‘No, I do not want to come outside with you.’

‘I mean for joy, Scarlet. We could be joyful together, I know this alley. Oh come on!’

‘Hell no! You think I’m going to find my joyful moment in some seedy alley? Are you crazy?’

‘Okay, whatever, darling, don’t have a hernia. But I think you should give it a try, it might cheer you the fuck up. And from what I’ve heard you’re not getting it at home. We all have needs, Scarlet, don’t be embarrassed. Come on, just a quick one?’ he asks, shameless.

‘Oh all right then.’

‘Great!’ He claps his hands.

‘Are you kidding? I was joking! Of course not!’ I say, and slap his hand off my thigh, where it has taken up position again.

‘Your loss,’ he replies, then gets up and walks off. I stare after him in disbelief. He’s a dinosaur. I hate him. And I hate how easy it would be to say yes.

Gavin throws himself down angrily in the space that Tom leaves.

‘Gavin, did you tell Arabella that … that I’m not “getting any” at home?’ I ask, embarrassed.

‘I might have mentioned it, why?’ He knocks back half of his drink in one gulp.

‘Because she bloody well told Tom and he just offered to fill in the gaps!’

‘Did you say no?’ he asks, eyeing up the other half of his drink.

‘Of course I said no!’

‘Then what’s the problem?’ he shrugs, and throws back his head and his glass. ‘And why “of course”? He’s a good-looking guy, so Arabella tells me.’

‘Because he’s a sleaze-hound.’

Gavin makes a sound that is half sigh, half moan, and slaps his head with one massive hand.

‘Are you all right?’ I am alarmed to see a red palm imprint on his cheek – he doesn’t know his own strength.

‘Yes. No. Yes. Tell me a joke, Scarlet. Cheer me up. She’s ignoring me now because I told her she was making a spectacle of herself.’

‘Because women always like that, well done,’ I say. Men amaze me. They can’t say their feelings are hurt or that they feel jealous or unhappy. They have to tell a woman that she is making a fool of herself. It’s never about how they feel. Now isn’t the time to share that with Gavin, though. So instead I say, ‘Two snowmen standing in a field. One says to the other, can you smell carrots?’

Gavin nods his head and smiles. ‘That’s good. Again.’

‘Two Goldfish in a tank. One says to the other, who’s driving this thing?’

‘Nice. I like it. More.’

‘A tractor turns into a field. That was unexpected.’ The only jokes I can remember are the ones that my nephews tell me, but at least they are quick.

‘That’s good, but you haven’t told that one right. Plus two thirds of your jokes are about fields.’

‘Yes I have told it right. And maybe I just like fields …’

‘No you haven’t, I’ve heard it before. It’s supposed to be different.’ He pokes me in the ribs and I poke him back, as Arabella swishes her coat on at the door and leaves with somebody else, exit stage left, applause, standing ovation. I don’t see who is holding her hand to pull her up the stairs, but I look around and I can’t see Tom. I check my watch: it’s twenty to two in the morning, and the bar has emptied out, there are only ten or so people left.

‘Aren’t you going to go after her?’ I ask, sadly.

‘What’s the point?’

‘The point is you’re her boyfriend. The point is that … it will make you sad if you don’t.’

‘She’s an adult. She can do what she wants.’

‘Yes, but you don’t want her to. She’ll think you don’t care. You should tell her how you feel.’

‘Maybe I don’t care. Tell me more jokes, Scarlet.’ He looks up at me with his huge saucer-shaped eyes, and takes my hand to hold. His hand is so big it makes mine look like a child’s. He is so large and comforting, like an oversized quilt that I could throw over myself to make me feel better about everything.

‘Do you live on your own, Gavin?’ I ask.

‘I do.’ He nods his head. We stare at each other.

It would be so easy … but I don’t want to. It will make things worse. I think this is the first time in a long while that I have located the button in my head that when pressed, even when drunk, alarms ‘You don’t want to do this. You think that you do, and it will feel nice tonight, but it will feel terrible tomorrow.’