Chapter 6

Chapter Six

A well-mixed manhattan at a social gathering is one of life’s pleasures. But know your alcohol limits, ladies. No Good Man ever wanted to marry a wild girl!

Matilda Beam’sGuide to Love and Romance, 1955

I’m not entirely sure a onesie was the right move.

Summer and I strut though the discreetly glamorous Berkeley Rooms in Soho; her on the hunt for Valentina Smith, me on the hunt for someone else rocking leisurewear to make friends with. As we push through the impeccably dressed and intelligently talkative crowds, I notice eyes bulging in horror as I pass by. Shitballs. Is that Benedict Cumberbatch? And there’s Helena Bonham Carter chatting away to Davis Arthur Montblanc. Damn. This do is way, way too fancy for my onesie. As I make my way though the room, a lofty ginger guy in a sharp suit drawls, ‘Looks like the entertainment has arrived, folks.’

I throw him my very best withering glance, but he’s already turned back to his cronies and doesn’t get the benefit.

Gad. Why the blazing arse did I agree to wear this?

‘I’m starting to think this onesie was a really fucking shitty idea!’ I hiss at Summer as she accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

‘You look great, Jess. Honestly. These people wouldn’t know a bold fashion choice if it stabbed them in the back.’

I look around distractedly for the bar, but I can’t see one. I could really do with a drink. A big important party can often be a bit daunting, and especially so if you’ve arrived wearing your pyjamas.

‘I’m going to have one drink,’ I say firmly to Summer. ‘We need to keep a clear head, so just the one. No Jessica Beam adventures tonight. I promise.’

‘That’ll be the day,’ Summer scoffs. I smile sadly. There was a time when it was Summer and Jess adventures. Where did she go? And why, oh why did I agree to wear the onesie? Did that man over there just point at me and laugh? Oh Christ. He is laughing at me, he’s clutching his belly and full-on crying with laughter. Wait, why is he pointing his phone in my direction? Is he filming me?

God.

I half jog after the retreating waiter and tap him on the shoulder.

‘Yo, you got any pear cider?’ I ask him frantically.

He smirks and looks pointedly at his tray of tall champagne flutes glistening snootily beneath the lit-up chandelier.

‘No, miss.’

‘Any blue Wickeds in the back?’

‘I’m afraid not. But I’m sure this 1995 vintage Bollinger will suffice?’

I sigh. Vintage shit. What’s the obsession with old stuff? It’s 2014, people!

‘Fine. Don’t worry. I’ll take a fizz, then. Only the one, though. If I come back to you for another glass, tell me to just fuck off, OK?’

The waiter smiles politely and hands me a glass of champagne. ‘Enjoy your evening, miss.’

‘Thank you. Just don’t let me have any more after this one. Promise me, OK? Promise.’

But the waiter is already zooming back off through the crowds, glancing back at me with a frightened expression on his young face.

Damn.

I take a teeny sip of the champagne. Blerg. I’ll never understand why people go so nuts over champagne. It’s so self-satisfied and way too gassy, and you’re expected to act all excited about drinking it for the whole time you’re drinking it. It’s such a lot of pressure. Plus everyone knows that champagne causes a hangover worse than any of the other boozes, but still, the facade continues. Maybe if the Summer in the City book goes well they would commission me for another? The Champagne Conspiracy: An Exposé by Jessica Beam.

I miss you, pear cider.

Finding my way back to Summer, I discover her deep in conversation with Valentina Smith, who is wearing a silk wrap dress the colour of mustard.

‘Hey,’ I say brightly. ‘Lovely do, isn’t it?’

Valentina’s mouth drops open as she takes in my get-up. Squirming under her overt scrutiny, I smile widely and nod, confidently trying to own it. I bet she thinks I’m a real chump.

‘That’s quite an ensemble, Jess’ she says, studying my feather earrings.

Is it my imagination, or is Summer smirking?

‘Yeah, we had a massive disaster with my other outfit,’ I explain with an apologetic cringe.

Valentina takes a sip of her champagne, sighing with immense pleasure (a potential interviewee for The Champagne Conspiracy?). She narrows her eyes and looks me up and down for what seems like ages.

Shit. She’s going to kick me out of the party. I clearly don’t belong here.

‘It’s so … on the money,’ she eventually declares, shaking her head in wonder. ‘All of us in dull black tie and here you are, vibrant like a beautiful fashionista parrot. Or should I say leopard! Bold move, lady. I respect it.’ Is she kidding? ‘Yes, I get it,’ she goes on, tilting her head to the side, a finger to her chin, examining me like I’m a work of art. ‘I really do. Pseudo-chav. Ironic. Northern, yes?’

‘Er … ’

‘I like you, Jessica Beam,’ she says. ‘You’re very current.’

‘Cheers.’ I wonder what on earth she’s talking about. ‘It was a last-minute decision, to be honest.’

‘Modest, too.’ She grins warmly as if I am the cleverest, most interesting person to walk the earth. I give Summer a discreet thumbs-up, which she returns with a lukewarm smile.

‘So, Valentina.’ Summer stands slightly in front of me. ‘Do I see Leo Frost over there talking to Davis Arthur Montblanc?’

‘What? Leo Frost? Where?’ Valentina’s voice has gone all weird and strangled.

Valentina and I peer over to where Summer is looking and spot Davis Arthur Montblanc himself in conversation with the tall red-headed twonk who nastily called me the entertainment. The twonk is stroking his chin and nursing a glass of whisky. I wonder how that idiot got hold of a non-champagne-based beverage?

‘Must be someone important,’ I mutter, resentfully taking another sip of champagne.

‘Oh, of course you know who Leo Frost is, Jess?’ Summer says, gathering her hair up and letting it fall back over her shoulders. ‘Artistic Director at Woolf Frost?’

I give her a blank look. ‘Nope. Never heard of the guy.’

‘Leo Frost, advertising wunderkind?’ She says it slowly, like I’m being thick. When I give no reaction, she goes on, ‘His dad owns the famous ad agency? Montblanc’s nephew? Broke Kate Middleton’s heart at St Andrews before she rebounded to Wills?’

I shrug and wonder how the hell he got that whisky. I wonder if he’ll get me some, because this champagne really sucks.

‘He’s the man of the moment, super enigmatic and mysterious.’ Summer’s eyes light up. ‘Anderson knows him quite well, actually. I once met him at this amazing party in Brooklyn. I am – was − totally in love with Anderson, but Leo Frost … well, I could have been tempted. He has this power, this magnetic power, you know, like Alexa Chung has. But he totally abuses it. He’s a real womanizer.’ She gazes over at him with blatant admiration.

‘Leo Frost is a vindictive, arrogant shit!’ Valentina suddenly spits, her face flushing cherry red to match her lipstick. She sucks in a huge lungful of breath and exhales, her mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape. ‘Apologies. I shouldn’t have said that.’

Her eyes water with barely restrained fury as she glares at him. Wow. She really hates this bloke. We all stare at Leo Frost. He must sense it because he turns round and gives Valentina an arrogant wink.

Valentina makes a weird sound somewhere in the middle of a sob and a squeak.

‘What’s the story there?’ I ask nosily.

Valentina sniffs and takes an enormous gulp of her champagne. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing.’ She pauses for a beat. ‘Well, apart from the six weeks we dated and he basically destroyed my heart and my self-esteem.’

Eek.

‘Harsh beans,’ Summer says with a grimace.

‘I don’t fall easily,’ Valentina explains, anger making her eyes glint. ‘But I fell for him hard. Really hard. He made me feel like I was something special. Reeled me in. I thought we were serious, or getting there at least, and then I found out he was seeing three other women. Yes, three. He fucked a trio of women behind my back. A trio.’

‘Nooo.’

‘Yes,’ Valentina nods sadly. ‘It was horrendous.’ Her nostrils flare and she shakes her head really quickly as if trying to clear away a bad memory. Woah. She has literally just transformed from a confident Elle McPherson-alike top editor to a broken wreck in the space of two minutes. More evidence of Mum’s wisdom: love shits on you.

‘I’m sorry, Valentina. That sounds properly crap.’

Ordinarily I’d tell a woman this messed-up over some idiot to get a grip. She’s crazy for putting herself into a situation that, essentially, puts an open target on your heart. But this particular woman has the potential to, you know, make our dreams come true and she’s clearly very damaged by this shithead, so I keep my mouth shut and try to empathize.

Valentina clings onto her champagne flute, clearly getting into her ranting stride. ‘Just last week he was in the Observer, spouting about how he’ll never get married, how he sees himself as an “intrepid explorer of women”.’ She makes air quotes. ‘What does that even mean? I simply cannot believe I wasted six weeks on him. I could have been doing something far more fulfilling with my time. Six weeks! I might have learned a new language in six weeks! German. Ya! Instead I let him do this − ’ she points at herself − ‘to me. He’s a bloody horror show.’

‘That is shitty,’ I say.

‘How awful,’ Summer agrees.

‘Gosh. I’m seriously sorry, guys.’ Valentina takes out a compact mirror and checks her perfect make-up. ‘I had no clue he was going to be here. His Twitter feed said he’d be in New York, so it’s really thrown me to see him out of the blue.’ She grabs another drink from a passing waiter and guzzles it back.

‘Well, if it makes you feel any better, I really don’t see what the fuss is about. I don’t think he’s hot at all,’ I declare, finishing up my drink.

Valentina and Summer goggle at me.

I examine Leo Frost once more to see if I’m missing this supposed ‘magnetism’. But I’m not. He’s lanky and pale, and his coppery-coloured hair is arranged into a quiff halfway between Danny Zuko and Don Draper. His eyes are pure green and crafty-looking, and his nose is too long. Why haven’t his friends explained to him about Fake Bake? Seems to me that they’re not really his friends at all.

‘I think he’s super hot. Looks just like Tom Hiddleston,’ Summer says reluctantly. ‘Sorry, Valentina.’

Hmmm. I suppose he does have a Captain America jawline, and what I suspect underneath the navy suit is a pretty nice bod. But he doesn’t look like Tom Hiddleston. Not that much, anyway.

Valentina hands me another flute of champagne. ‘No thanks,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m, er, not much of a drinker.’

Summer raises her thick fashiony eyebrows.

‘You may as well celebrate, sweet Jess,’ Valentina says to me with a tipsy wink. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon have an official reason to.’ She gives a little hiccup.

Whaaaaaat? Is she saying what I think she’s saying? That the Summer in the City book is pretty much a done deal? I do an excited face at Summer, but she doesn’t see it − she’s busy waving at some blonde guy in sunglasses she seems to recognize.

‘Oh, go on, then,’ I chuckle, taking the glass from Valentina. ‘Just one more couldn’t hurt.’

* * *

It’s a matter of pride for me that I can find a way to have fun in most situations: tram queues, blogger meet-ups, smear tests can all be turned into entertaining social occasions with enough booze and the right banter. But I’m sorry to say that there is zero fun to be had at this book launch. Nil. I feel like I’ve been here for many days and it’s never going to end. There have been approximately fifteen speeches by literary people totally sucking up to Davis Arthur Montblanc, and to be quite frank his new book doesn’t sound very entertaining at all. It’s called The Beekeeper, but it isn’t even about bees, just bees as a motif for capitalism. Pah. This is not my crowd. To make matters worse, Valentina is one hundred per cent the only person in this room to appreciate the leopard-print onesie. Everyone else is looking at me like I’m planning to either mug them or offer them class B drugs.

I’ve thought about slipping out and going back to the hotel: order some room-service pear cider, chat up the cute, twinkly-eyed concierge, see if he can get me late-night access to the Jacuzzi, but Summer’s having such a great time telling everyone about her Barbie-head necklace and the time Anderson took her to the MTV movie awards and James Franco said she had ‘presence’.

And in any case, if I left early it would reflect badly on us, especially since we haven’t officially signed any book contracts yet, despite Valentina’s exciting hints.

Also … I’m a bit drunk. I know, I know. I didn’t mean to be. I truly didn’t. But people kept showing up with champagne, and the champagne, although shit-tasting, is free, and there was nothing else to drink and I was thirsty and this party really is a snooze-fest – there isn’t even any music playing! And somehow, two glasses of champagne turned into seven glasses of champagne, and all the excitement of the day means I’ve forgotten to eat anything more substantial than this morning’s delicious beef pasty. Anyway, I’m all in now, no point in stopping.

I look around for the smarmy ginger guy who had the whisky. Leo Frost. I wonder if he’ll get me some whisky.

Oh, there he is, standing by a table piled high with copies of The Beekeeper. He’s deep in a conversation with three women. I say conversation: the women are all talking over one another while he basks in their adoration. And he’s now drinking a beer! How on earth did he get a beer? I would so love a beer right now. Ooh, I wonder if he knows where they’re keeping the pear cider too? He’s obviously part of the inner circle.

I get up from my seat and wobble tipsily on my new purple high heels. Shuffling across the Berkeley Rooms, I reach Leo Frost’s little crowd and nudge my way in.

‘Hello, everyone! How’s it going?’ I say with a friendly smile and a wave.

The group give me a cursory glance before their eyes slide away, uninterested. They go right back to their conversation.

Oh.

‘Yah, I just loved that Mercedes campaign,’ one of the women gushes to Leo Frost. ‘Drive. Alive. It really called to me, you know? I saw it in Vogue and bought that car the very next day. I had to!’

‘Genius,’ a slim, smart-looking Indian woman agrees. ‘Just genius work. How on earth did you—’

‘Drive Alive?’ I scoff with a slight hiccup. ‘You mean that advert that’s up on every bloody billboard I see in my life? You are kidding? That advert sucks. It sucks so hard. Come on, guys. We can be honest. I won’t tell anyone.’ I push my glasses up my nose with my forefinger. ‘Am I right or am I right?’

The group abruptly cease talking and glare at me as if I’ve just announced I’m going to nick all The Beekeeper copies and use them for toilet paper.

Leo Frost frowns and stares down his long nose at me. ‘Tell me, what did you not like about the work?’

‘Drive Alive?’ I chuckle. ‘It doesn’t even mean anything. It’s basically as if some goon used the first word they could think of that rhymed with drive and called it a concept. Drive Alive. Of course you’re alive when you drive. It’s a basic requirement of the Highway Code. And why is the woman driving the car wearing nothing but a diamond bikini? I just don’t get it. Isn’t she cold? Where is she going? None of my mates drive in diamond bikinis.’

Leo Frost swallows hard and looks me up and down. ‘That ad was my piece,’ he says in smooth, deep voice.

‘Ah. Oops. Sorry,’ I say, feeling a bit guilty.

‘Don’t worry yourself,’ he smirks, eyes travelling pointedly over my onesie. ‘It’s high-end work. You’re hardly the target audience.’

They all laugh at me and then Leo Frost gives me exactly the same infuriating wink he gave to Valentina. ‘Run along now, there’s a good girl.’

Oh no he did not.

‘What a fucking knob-prince!’ I hiss. Only it doesn’t come out as a ‘hiss’ but as an indignant shout.

The whole room falls silent. Shit. Did I just shout ‘knob-prince’ at a Booker-prizewinner’s book launch? ‘Knob-prince’ isn’t even a real swear. I just made it up right this minute! And it’s not as insulting as I meant it to be. It actually sounds quite complimentary. Shit. What a waste of the word ‘knob’, Jess.

‘Sorry, everyone,’ I say, holding my hands up. ‘Sorry to interrupt your big night. Sorry, Davis Arthur Montblanc.’ Davis Arthur Montblanc looks at me aghast. People are whispering behind their hands and throwing disgusted glances my way. Benedict Cumberbatch shakes his head at me furiously.

Leo Frost takes a leisurely sip of his beer and laughs. He laughs!

‘I think you ought to go home,’ he says, staring at me with his obnoxious green eyes before wandering off into the crowd, the group of clever, beautiful women trailing behind him.

What an absolute … knob-prince!

‘KNOB-PRINCE!’ I call out after him.

Shit! I just did it again. He turns round, a look of pure astonishment on his face. One of the women nudges him and whispers something in his ear. They both laugh super snidely, shake their heads at me and turn away into another huddle of fancy, clever people. Who does he bloody think he is?

Ugh! I march towards him, determined to let him know that he is not as cool as he thinks he is, that it was really cruel of him to call me the entertainment when I first got here, and that he looks absolutely nothing at all like Tom Hiddleston. But just before I reach him, the waiter (who incidentally failed in his promise not to let me have any more booze), carrying a full tray of champagne, appears out of nowhere. I don’t have time to slow down my indignant advance towards Leo Frost and, oh fuck, crash smack-bang into the waiter and his tray.

‘Oof,’ I groan as his unfeasibly sharp elbow digs into my ribs and I fall to the floor, legs akimbo. I can only watch, mesmerized, as the silver tray frisbees upwards and the flutes upon it sail off through the air like expensive, shit-tasting, heat-seeking missiles.

‘Oh, cockwaffle,’ I whisper, surveying the carnage from my spot on the floor. Leo Frost has champagne dripping off of his ginger quiff and into his eyes. He’s blinking furiously, using his fancy mauve tie to dab at his face. The sour-faced Indian woman has champagne on her lovely posh dress; she’s crying soundlessly, her mouth gaping open in distress. The skinny waiter is scrambling up off the floor and racing behind the bar in disgrace. Benedict Cumberbatch has a large champagne spill in the crotch area. And worst of all, the pile of The Beekeeper books are absolutely soaked through. Davis Arthur Montblanc picks one up forlornly, dangling the dripping hardback between finger and thumb and trying to shake off the liquid. Oh jeez. This is so much worse than sweating onto his manuscript. I put a hand to my head. Fuck.

Leo Frost, prying his champagne-sticky eyes open with his fingers, catches sight of me on the floor and heads my way. He holds a neatly manicured hand out to help me up. Pretty gracious of him, considering.

‘Thank you,’ I say earnestly. ‘I am so, so sorry. The Bollinger storm was a complete accident. I didn’t see the waiter at all − he just blasted into me out of nowhere. Crap. Are your eyes all ri—’

‘I haven’t a clue who you are or why you think you should be here − ’ he interrupts furiously, impressive baritone voice projecting across the room. Why is he talking so loudly? − ‘but you’re an absolute disgrace. You’re dressed inappropriately, you’re rude and … and loutish, and you have ruined a very important night for a lot of people. I suggest you leave immediately before I call the authorities.’

I blink. My stomach churns. I try to say something, anything, but my mouth just opens and closes like a PG Tips monkey. This could be the first time in my life that I’m lost for words. I don’t like it one bit. I’m usually so full of words. I love them and cherish them, yet now, when I really need them, they desert me. My cheeks glow with heat as one of the surrounding party attendees begins a slow clap in support of Leo Frost’s speech. Then a nearby woman adds her slow clap too, and soon the whole crowd is applauding. Damn it. For such a long time I’ve aspired to be involved in a real-life spontaneous slow clap, but I can hardly join in on this one when its intention is to show me what a div I am. Can I? No. No, I definitely shouldn’t.

This feels horrible. They actually hate me. So many people I admire in this room, and they hate me. Leo Frost continues his little public address, turning ceremoniously to the crowd of people, arms flung wide.

‘Of course, we mustn’t let one unsavoury character ruin what has been an otherwise wonderful evening, and I’d like to personally extend my sincere apologies for the interruption in tonight’s celebrations of my esteemed uncle, Davis Arthur Montblanc. There are many wonderful writers here tonight. Let’s just see this little diversion as potential future copy, shall we?’

A scatter of polite laughter.

Unsavoury? Unsavoury?

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Summer spits, arriving at my side. She grabs hold of my elbow and drags me towards the door. ‘Jesus. You’re such a let-down, Jess! Why do you do this? You’re like a damn teenager.’

‘I … I … The waiter appeared out of nowhere. It was a complete accident. Where’s Valentina? I need to apologize.’ I crane my neck, trying to find Valentina in the crowd. She’s not there. Instead, Leo Frost, leaning against the bar, catches my eye and looks me up and down in a really condescending way. Ugh!

‘No way. No Valentina,’ Summer hisses, dragging me out into the busy London street. ‘She’ll never want us now! It’s over.’