Patrice comes over to my flat before
the party to make my hair look large by putting it up in big rollers, like the
Victoria’s Secret models before a fashion show. The only thing London has to do
for me now is not rain and I can make myself feel better all night by thinking,
‘hey, at least you have good hair.’ My dress, however, is black and boring. I
gave up trying to be creative after I failed to maintain my hiding spot in the
River Island rack of jumpers. I don’t really care though. Black is more for
protective purposes anyway, since black is the best guard against spills.
Unless the spill is semen, of course.
Then black is really the worst colour to be wearing. So hopefully no one spills
their semen on me tonight. Fingers crossed.
When Patrice shows up at my door, he’s
wearing a red fascinator with a long, skinny red feather waving out from the
top of it and I get the feeling he and Mum will have a lot to talk about. On
the train to Richmond, I’m forced to bat it out of the way a few times after it
starts slithering over to me and attacking.
As we get closer to the Barley Arms,
I recognise a few people standing outside in the illuminated beer garden, which
is actually really lovely and has a view of the Thames. And now that I think
about it, this really was a nice thing for Becca to organize. I don’t know why
I was so antsy about it before. Probably because I hadn’t chugged half the
flask of vodka tonic that Patrice brought on the train yet. Oops.
I’m barely through the door before I
witness Becca’s animal transformations, which she tends to go through when she’s
in one of her stressy moods. Tonight, it seems she is beginning as a meerkat, perched
upright next to the bar and looking around anxiously, presumably for me. As
soon as she spots me, she animorphs into a gazelle and practically gallops over
to me, disregarding all other creatures in her path. When she reaches me, she
starts tittering away about this person and that person, and I think I’d be
correct in identifying her as a sparrow, busily pecking away at seeds. Somewhere
between all the flitting, I manage to introduce her to Patrice, before he
quickly slips away to get us some drinks. And then I’m left, trying to keep up
with Becca’s overflow of information, when I hear the loud cry of another
member of our animal kingdom, the baboon.
‘BERN-EEE-AYYYY,’ booms the voice of
Alistair Reynolds. He is the only straight male whom I would actually consider a
friend (besides Connor) and don’t have to worry about accidentally hooking up
with when I’m drunk. It’s not because he’s ugly or anything—far from it
actually, with blonde hair and blue eyes and a body that boasts daily gym trips,
protein powder, and rugby practice. And I suppose I can’t fault the women who are
drawn to loud-rugby-playing manliness, because I once was one of them. That's the reason I’m safe from an
accidental hook up with Alistair, because we sort of already tried it.
It was at a party during my first
year of Uni. Some other rugby baboon had knocked into me and spilled my plastic
cup of beer, so Alistair shouted at him to sod off, and took me to the keg
where he refilled my cup for me. I was starry eyed. So towards the end of the
night, we obviously attempted to make out.
What a fail.
Not in an epic fail sort of way—no
one vomited on anyone’s shirt or fell into the bonfire or broke out in hives or
anything. It just...failed. I’m not even sure how to explain it. It was like
our mouths didn’t fit. Neither did our noses, or our heads. And our tongues
couldn’t coordinate. When mine was going in, his mouth was half closed, and I
would get the side of his face. Basically, it was a disgusting mess and after
about five minutes, we kind of just stared at each other in accepted defeat and
agreed to abort mission. And to be honest, I really didn’t expect to see him
again after that. What did I have in common with a loud, pint-drinking,
rugby-playing bro, who probably hash tagged things like #flexzone and
#50shadesofWhey? Well, surprisingly more than I thought, and we’ve been
unlikely friends ever since. Take that, universe.
‘You doin’ alright, yeh?’ he says and
basically punches me in the arm, ‘didn’t get much of a tan over there in
America, did you? I was expecting you to come back looking good like Rihanna.’
‘First of all, Rihanna’s from
Barbados,’ I reply, ‘And trust me, you can’t tan your way to looking like that.’
‘Right, you gotta be born looking
that smoking hot,’ Alistair says with a grin.
I’m about to point out that you have
to be born with a number of qualities that I wasn’t born with to look like
Rihanna, but then Patrice returns. ‘And who might this be?’ he asks, gliding
over to us and holding his hand out to Alistair like he’s a duchess in a Jane
Austen novel. Clearly oblivious to the regency decorum of bowing and hand
kissing when meeting a beautiful lady, Alistair takes Patrice’s hand and shakes
it roughly while introducing himself.
‘Charmed,’ Patrice says, recoiling
his hand and nursing it like a wounded puppy.
Alistair turns to Connor and starts
ranting about the latest rugby, and Patrice flashes me a sly grin.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I’m going to convert him,’ he sings.
But then the grin is quickly gone from his face and he gives himself a small
smack on the wrist. ‘No absolutely not, there is no converted. Baby, I was born this way!’ He does a wild shimmy that
ends with his hands above his head like a can-can dancer. ‘But there’s a chance
that he was too and just doesn’t know it yet. Perhaps, a push in the right
direction toward self-discovery is all he needs.’
I look over at Alistair, who is
currently making some sort of dinosaur noise while stomping his feet around
like an orangutan during mating season. Ah, the sexual prowess of a rugby
player after four pints...does it know no bounds?
‘Really?’ I say to Patrice and he
claps his hands excitedly. I return my
eyes to Alistair and he’s still jumping around, performing his instant replay
dance. ‘Well, it definitely seems like he could be overcompensating for
something,’ I say and motion to his...ahem, ‘but I think you should set your
sights on higher targets.’
‘What, like Veroné?’ Patrice scoffs,
rolling his eyes with distress.
‘What’s Veroné?’
Patrice grasps my arms and looks me
dead in the eye. He’s wearing his crazy I
Know What You Did Last Summer face, which I’ve started to gather means
serious business in the world of Queen Patrice. ‘Veroné is not a what, he is a who. The third most perfect who alive,
and the most perfect man creature alive that I’ve ever seen in the flesh.
Clothed flesh, mind you,’ he adds with a sigh. ‘He’s an artist from Berlin...an
actual artist. Twice, the gallery has had a stroke of genius and hosted
exhibitions of his work. Twice, he’s come full force into my presence, like a
Fabio-Ken-doll, riding shirtless on an ebony Pegasus, to rescue me from my
dismal reality of emptiness without him.’ Patrice looks over at me. ‘That was a
dream I once had, it didn’t actually happen.’
‘Now that's disappointing,' I respond, 'What's his actual
name?’
‘Vero-nayyyy,’ Patrice replies, with dramatic
emphasis, ‘that is all I ever want to hear him called. I am nothing more than a
lonely gargoyle made of stone, perched atop Notre Dame, watching the world go
by me in a blur, until the day the gallery will wake it’s sodding arse up and
return him to us.’
‘So, let me get this straight,’ I
say, and Patrice nods earnestly as though he wants nothing more than for me to
be perfectly clear on the matter, ‘you’re waiting in France, for a German
artist, whose name is the Italian for Verona, to return to London?’
Patrice thinks about it and then nods
again. ‘Yes, exactly.’
‘Okay, another question. If the third
most perfect person is Verone,’ I purposely pronounce it “veroni” which earns me a smack, ‘who are the first and second?’
‘Meryl and GaGa, of course,’ he says,
looking forward and studying Alistair again, ‘I need to find myself some proper
champagne. What do you think Alistair drinks?’
‘Ale.’
Patrice frowns. ‘Hmm...I don’t really
know how to order that. I think I'll stick with champagne.’
‘My parents are over there,’ I reply,
pointing to where Mum and Dad are fluttering about with their friends' Ted and
Ruth, ‘find them, and the champagne won’t be too far.’
As Patrice hurries off on his
champagne mission, I hear someone squeal ‘Natasha!’ behind me, and my insides
do a lurch.
And now for Jade fucking Platt.
No comments:
Post a Comment