21. Wankerphobia

Of course, I knew it would be awkward—seeing my ex and the woman he left me for, out together for the first time, even after a year. But I hadn’t anticipated this. It’s as though the past year was kind of a weird dream, in which David and I broke up, but I didn’t have to actually accept that it was because he left me. And not only left me, but left me because he decided he preferred someone else. Those were just words. There was no actual meaning behind them. Not in my mind. Not in my anti-David-New-York-safe-space-escape.

But now, in this moment, it’s real. Abigail Bloom is real. She’s standing fifteen meters away from me, holding onto David’s arm, like a life-size Barbie doll with lips as red as the rose and skin as white as snow.

Just kidding, her skin is as dark as the level 6 Malibu spray tan and it’s her smile that’s white—as white as the fucking gallery. She’s wearing a floor length, snakeskin dress that hugs her body so tightly it could pass as her own skin, but she looks like a blonde Playboy centrefold, so instead of accentuating all of her bodily flaws, it accentuates the fact that she has none. And also, that she has boobs the size of footballs. On top of that, her hair is so big and fluffy like it always was—all those times I saw her while David and I were together and thought nothing of her. Because I was convinced that David had higher standards in women. Sure, she had sex appeal—in a Marilyn Monroe/Pamela Anderson sort of way. And it was certainly possible for a man to be distracted by her, enough to be unfaithful. But to actually leave someone for her? I can’t even. I JUST CAN’T WHITE GIRL EVEN RIGHT NOW. Or ever, really.

Seriously, what do they even talk about? I would compare the few times I spoke to her at David’s office as similar to pulling weeds, in 45 degree weather, that constantly grew back within seconds of being pulled, but I wouldn’t be allowed to leave until the garden was weed-less. I mean, there’s only so much one can say about the latest Vogue issue, or the latest fad diet, or nail varnish, or Angelina Jolie’s seventh baby. David used to sigh exasperatedly when I didn’t know things like who Nicolo Paganini was, or whether the Bahamas was its own country or not. And now he’s dating her? She probably doesn’t even know that Scotland and England are two different countries. Or that American isn’t actually a language—it’s all just English. Sort of.

Anyway.

I suppose being a marketing research assistant might work in her favour. Maybe they talk about marketing research. Like all the time. Or maybe they don’t talk at all. Maybe they do other stuff…

No.

They do not do other stuff. No other stuff of any kind.

I will not think about that. I need some champagne (vodka).

(everclear).

‘I need a drink,’ I tell Patrice.

He forcefully pins a nametag on my chest and then looks sulky. ‘You’re going to leave me at the door?’

I barely hear him because I can’t stop glancing over at David and Abigail. I know I really shouldn’t, but it’s just so fascinating. And gut-wrenching. And horrible. And I just can’t stop looking at it. You know when people who have a phobia of flying in an airplane can’t help but watch the plane crash episode of Lost over and over again? Or when Becca says her biggest fear is being framed for murder but then records all the episodes of Crime Watch: Framed and watches in horror, voluntarily feeding her sick, irrational fears. It’s kind of like that.

Patrice cranes his neck over my shoulder to see what I keep staring at and his eyes widen. ‘What is that?’ he gasps.

I look at them again. Abigail is now holding a martini glass containing a bright pink liquid and David’s got, what can only be, a scotch on the rocks. That’s his go-to drink whenever he’s in public. It’s so he can seem like a well-to-do, classic-gentleman-person that would be found in a mahogany library, smoking expensive Cuban cigars and listening to Chopin records on a vintage record player. And, of course, one that drinks forty-year-old scotch on the rocks, which he keeps in a crystal bottle surrounded by crystal glasses, in a mini bar that’s inside of a globe. Basically, he wants to be the Most Interesting Man in the World from the Dos Equis advert. But he’s just a wanker.

Especially because I know that most-interesting-man-in-the-world drinks are not actually what he drinks at home. There’s no scotch on the rocks inside of a globe. I know this because I stumbled across the Stella Artois boxes that he’d bought in bulk, and stored at the very back of his walk-in closet, along with the tiniest mini fridge in the history of fridges, in which he was able to squash about five cans at a time. Cans. Not even bottles. And not even Dos Equis bottles.

I remember being so fuming mad when I found them, simply because he would always give this condescending little chuckle whenever I ordered a Peroni at the pub, instead of wine like a classy broad, and then it turned out he had been hoarding Stella Artois the whole time. And then he had the nerve to try and make me feel crazy by calmly saying, ‘okay, let me get this straight. You’re angry with me right now over some Stella Artois?’ And so I had to tell him it wasn’t about the Stella Artois, but what the Stella Artois represents (which was that he is a double wanker), and then I felt like a child.  

I’m still looking over when Patrice says again, ‘But really, what is that?’ and waves his hand around to emphasize all that is Abigail.

‘That’s Abigail Bloom,’ I respond, ‘That’s what I was left for.’

‘That’s just...it’s so much. It’s just so, so much,’ he says, cringing backwards, ‘I’m so overwhelmed. It’s like pairing a patterned dress with a patterned jacket and all the accessories. I’m talking a statement necklace, dangly earrings, bracelets, rings, and a jewelled hairpiece. All at once.’ He takes a step backwards as if Abigail’s presence might physically harm him. ‘She’s too much. What is wrong with your David?’

‘He is not my David,’ I snap, more aggressively than I mean to.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Patrice says, stepping back again, ‘fair enough. You wouldn’t want him to be anyway. Not if that’s what he’s into. She’s just...my word, she’s just too much.’ He places his hand over his chest in genuine distress.

‘I guess straight men like that,’ I say with a shrug.

‘Yes, well, most straight men haven’t evolved much from the Neanderthal. I think the rarest species of human is a male great.’

‘A great male?’

‘No, a graight male. G-R-A-I-G-H-T. A gay-straight.’

‘What the hell is a gay-straight?’ I ask, but I have to laugh.

Patrice is grinning back at me. ‘They’re the branch of straight males that have actually progressed in evolving beyond their Neanderthal ancestors. They haven’t quite developed the higher, more pristine attributes that make up most gay males, but they’re doing well enough to be considered on the more advanced side of human beings. Your dad, for example, is most certainly a graight, because he is most divine and cultured, and possesses a respectable temperament, and yet, he is straight.’

‘Hold on. Why were you so interested in Alistair then?’ I ask, ‘He’s hardly a graight.’

‘This is true,’ Patrice agrees, ‘He’s quite the Neanderthal-lad. And that is why they say love is blind.’

‘How philosophical you are,’ I reply and Patrice gives a wise nod, ‘I’m going to find a drink.’

‘Well the two main bars are on either side of the back wall over there,’ he says, pointing, ‘but, there’s a secret-sort of bar in that back corner behind those ice sculptures. I’ll meet you there at 8 when I’m finished at the door and we can load up without the queue.’

I scan the room for this so-called corner bar, and see a small bit of it sticking out from behind the giant sculpture of an elephant, rearing up on its hind legs. It looks pretty sad and abandoned, and there’s maybe two people standing around it.

‘Is that a staff bar or something?’ I ask

Patrice shrugs. ‘I don’t know, but I’m guessing it’s an open bar like the others.’

‘Well, I’ll wait until eight to go over there. I don’t want to be caught trying to drink from the staff bar or the exclusive, royal members only bar, by myself.’

‘It hardly looks like a royal-members-only bar,’ Patrice says with an eye roll and waves me away, ‘Be gone then, see you in an hour.’

I attempt to manoeuvre my way through the random suits and gowns, and dukes and duchesses that have begun to fill up the ballroom in order reach the nearest champagne waiter. I almost make it too.

But then my path is blocked.

And I have no choice but to look up into the face of—you guessed it—David Double-Wanker Phillips. 

©Natalie Cawthorne

20. The Golden Underworld

It turns out that Thomas Davison is absolutely fucking useless. Not only is he just the worst, but he also has plans and won’t be available to attend a night of champagne and canapés with me, so I can pretend I didn’t lie about having a boyfriend. Seriously, he’s just the worst. I’m also currently in an internal fight with Becca, but I probably won’t ever mention it to her. I’ll just stay angry at her forever and never tell her why. Or even that I’m angry. So she’ll be living in ignorant bliss forever, and never know how angry I am with her. That’ll show her.

To make matters worse, Patrice and Mum got on far too well, which resulted in having to spend the day on Saturday inside of Mum’s boutique, picking out clothes to wear to the event. I also received the glorious information that Mum and Dad had also been invited and were, in fact, attending. By the afternoon, I was so exhausted with them that I just accepted a blue chiffon dress Mum shoved in front of me without a fight. It was a great choice, obviously, since when I got home and put it on, it turned out to be about three sizes too big and made me look like that girl who turns into a blueberry inside of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Mum always seems to know the look I’m going for.

That evening, I head towards The Dorchester and I’m nervous beyond butterflies. I think it would be fair to say that my stomach contains a crossbreed between flying cockroaches and tarantulas. It’s as disgusting as it is inconvenient.

I pat down the blue chiffon with a glare and silently blame it for my current situation of having to walk in alone. But on second thought, the fault actually lies with stupid Thomas Davison, for sucking a big one, and also Patrice, for getting tricked into showing up early to help Beverly welcome the first guests in exchange for one extra sick day per year, provided it falls on a bank holiday. So basically, he has to follow her around and act like he’s her assistant so she can look important, and she’ll let him use one of his sick days during a holiday.

I suppose I could have gone with Mum and Dad, but there’s no way in Tartarus I was going to show up with Mum and Dad. I would rather walk in wearing three of Mum’s fascinators stacked on top of each other and a feather boa from Accessorize than walk in with Mum and Dad.

Once inside, I have to ask someone to point me in the direction of Ballroom B (since obviously, I’m not an annual Dorchester club card holder), and feel pretty confident I’m heading the right way when I catch a glimpse of the couple to my right, heading in the same direction. My gut reaction is to look away quickly, and I’m not sure whether it’s because I don’t want to seem like I’m staring, or because of some societal standard that’s subconsciously imprinted itself upon me, whispering that I am unworthy to look upon them. Like a leper in the presence of Antony and Cleopatra, or something. Because, wealth. They are Wealth. I feel like I can actually smell the bars of solid gold that they bathed in this morning. They look like they might be the Duke and Duchess of Mt. Olympus and eat their cereal out of diamond goblets.

Just kidding. I know dukes and duchesses don’t eat cereal. They eat doves and drink phoenix tears.

Mum and Dad are going to love this. I bet they’re inside already, grinning from ear to ear and rubbing their hands together like two Disney villains. Or they’ve already caught up with the Valhalla gentry and are explaining to them how Grace Kelly suggested to the Prince of Monaco that they serve Bernier champagne at their eleventh wedding anniversary, and for about one-tenth of a millisecond he actually considered the idea.

There are three giant men in black suits standing in front of the ballroom doors, and then a short, skinny one with a clipboard. He’s got his nose in the air but when Mr. and Mrs. Zeus approach, he lets them right in, while showering them with gracious tidings and ass-kissing abundance. But, of course, when I walk up, he officiously holds his hand up, and demands my name. If only he knew how much I really don’t even want to be here. I mean, he's basically Charon with his giant three-headed dog growling behind him, banning me entry to the Underworld. You’d be doing me a fucking favour, man. No one wants to go to the Underworld. But with no other choice, I give him my name and he begins flipping furiously through the pages on his clipboard.

Meanwhile, a group of men come up behind me and I don’t even see him look up as he says, ‘jackets are required, gentlemen. There’s a cloakroom that way where the two of you without one can be fitted for a rental.’ When he finally does look up, he says, ‘Miss Bernier, welcome,’ and grants me entry to the world beyond.

Great. Thanks for fucking nothing.

I walk in and I’m immediately greeted by Patrice, who I can tell would look worn out and miserable if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing a bright purple suit with a black fedora and white gloves. I didn’t even know Mum sold Michael Jackson costumes.

‘Great, you’re here,’ he says, pulling my arm.

‘You look like a magician,’ I tell him.

‘No, I look like David Bowie,’ he replies, matter-of-factly, ‘Come. There’s a name tag table over there for people who want to wear a name tag. I honestly figured most would skip it, for fear of putting a safety pin through their Versace ball gowns, but you’d be bloody surprised. I guess super rich people really want other super rich people to know who they are and why they’re rich. Come, you’ll need to wear one.’

‘Why do I need to wear one?’ I ask as he drags me over to the table.

‘Because if you don’t, I’ll have to stay by the door, and I’ve just about had it with that shit. I’m ready to mingle with my fellow fabulosas.’

‘How long do you have to work by the door?’ I ask.

‘Just until 8,’ he says, ‘Bev says everyone should have shown up by then. But still, I’ve been here since 6 which is just rude.’

I glance around at the guests, attempting to see who’s arrived and who hasn’t.

Patrice is frowning. ‘David isn’t here yet,’ he says.

‘I wasn’t looking for David,’ I lie.

He crosses his arms. ‘Then who were you looking for?’

‘My parents, obviously,’ I say.

Then he points to my parents who are standing at the opposite end of the name tag table. I’m honestly shocked because they don’t seem to have champagne in their hands yet, and it seems almost unnatural that this wouldn’t be their first priority upon walking into a new room of any kind.

As I look closer at them, I see that they have both also used their name tags for self-promotion purposes. Dad’s written ‘Fernand’ at the top in letters so small that they probably won’t even be noticed unless someone has the Hubble telescope handy, and ‘BERNIER’ in giant black capitals. So basically, his only name tonight is ‘Bernier.’ Like Madonna or Sting. Or Aladdin. Mum’s gone the alternate route and written ‘Sybil’ in large, curly letters, followed by an apostrophe ‘S’ in parentheses (and just so there is absolutely no mistaking that, yes, she is THE Sybil of Sybil’s Boutique, she’s drawn a little dress in the corner). ‘Bernier’ is carelessly added underneath.

As if this couldn’t be more embarrassing, I then see Mum whisper something to Dad, pointing to his name tag, and his face lights up as though to say, ‘ah, yes, Sybil, you’re quite right!’ Then he removes his name tag, scribbles something else on it, and pins it back.

Oh, look at that. Now there’s a little picture of a wine glass in the upper corner. Ah, yes Mum. GREAT idea.

I glance around the room again in an attempt to escape before they notice me and officially identify me as their child. 

That’s when I see them.

David and Abigail.

My heart plummets.

©Natalie Cawthorne