Just the Way You Are Read online

  Simon Reeves-Piper was a would-be facsimile of Oliver Latimer. His hair was similar, but flecked with grey. He wasn’t quite as tall or trim as his senior work colleague. His suit was cut from a similar cloth, but not as tailored. Simon had attended public school, but not one of the top five. He had also studied at Reading, as opposed to Oxford. His marriage was failing, or had failed. He could live with losing custody of his children but after hearing the news from his lawyer that he might lose his house in the divorce Simon was not averse now to trying for a reconciliation. Despite recent setbacks he still brimmed with confidence – which often overflowed into arrogance.

  Simon smiled widely and shook Gemma’s hand, as if she were a potential client for the law firm he worked for. His palm was clammy, his eyes glassy from cocaine or drink. Gemma recognised a fragment of disappointment in his expression, stemming from Gemma not being as attractive as her sister. Gemma had lost count of the amount of times that she had observed such similar disappointment in the eyes of other would-be suitors.

  Despite his initial feeling of being underwhelmed by Gemma, especially seeing her side by side with her glamorous sister, Simon eyed her up with appreciation and attraction. He was unsure whether she would be mistress or girlfriend material (in light of his marriage/divorce) but the lawyer was willing to put Gemma on trial, so to speak. He was confident that he could wine and dine her, impress the lowly assistant at a literary agency. He had observed Oliver in action enough to know how to play things. Even if he got back together with his menopausal wife Gemma could still help fill a hole in his life. Ideally, though, he would like her to lose a bit of weight.

  When Oliver spoke he sounded like a charming Bond villain – but when Simon spoke in his public school accent he resembled a ruddy-faced Tory politician, Gemma thought to herself.

  “Lovely to meet you Gemma. Victoria has told me plenty about you.”

  She doubtless spent more time talking about herself.

  “Don’t worry Gemma, I didn’t tell him everything. I want Simon to enjoy getting to know you himself,” Victoria issued, offering her sister some words of encouragement.

  Simon grinned, or leered. Perhaps it wasn’t his fault, Gemma mused, that he appeared so slimy. He was merely mirroring the behaviour of his tribe.

  “Hopefully the champagne will take the edge off the experience of getting to know me too,” Gemma said as a lissom Polish waitress brought a tray of champagne over to the new arrivals.

  “Victoria tells me that you work in books. Unfortunately I never have time to read nowadays. Does the industry pay well?” the lawyer asked. His tribe spoke about money all the time so Simon thought that his question was neither direct nor dull.

  Oliver rolled his eyes, unseen, at his friend’s clumsy conversation starter – imagining what his mistress’ sister would now think of Simon. Gemma could be a cold, prudish fish at the best of times.

  “Unfortunately it doesn’t pay as well as I’d like, but money isn’t everything. My job has plenty of other compensations. I genuinely enjoy working with books and authors – and every now and then you’re part of something which makes the world a slightly better place,” Gemma proudly said, partly squirming inside too at hearing the naïve idealism in her voice.

  Simon rolled his eyes, internally, thinking that Gemma probably voted Liberal Democrat. He shuddered at the thought.

  “That sounds wonderful,” Simon replied, covertly checking out the waitress as she walked back towards the bar.

  “And what do you do?” Gemma asked, feigning similar courtesy and interest.

  “I’m a lawyer, like Oliver here. And every prejudice or joke you’ve heard about our profession has an element of truth… I’m not sure that I can say that I genuinely enjoy my job, or that I help make the world a slightly better place, but I’m compensated by the healthy or obscene amount of money I make,” Simon cheerfully said, clinking glasses with his colleague as he did so.

  Gemma covertly turned to her sister and rolled her eyes. She couldn’t quite decide if Victoria had misjudged her or Simon. But they were about as ill-suited to each other as Mr Collins and Elizabeth Bennett. Victoria made a brief, apologetic face in reply.

  Simon however still judged that there was, or could be, something between them. Gemma just needed to get to know him more or find out how much money he made. They would sleep together by the third date, or he might even take her tonight if he played his cards right.

  12.

  The room continued to fill up with stars and starlets. The champagne continued to flow, as much as the hair extensions, inane conversation and spiteful gossip. Names were dropped, as if people were engaged in a reality TV show competition. A number of guests, mainly the ones who had to go back home to Hampstead and Islington, made sure to also drop into the conversation that they possessed “gay” and “black” friends. Twitter addresses were swapped between minor celebrities – and occasionally conversations were stopped in order to tweet about the discussions people were having.

  Unfortunately, Gemma was unable to secure any such respite from Simon Reeves-Piper’s conversation. He talked about his new car (a Porsche) and which TV star had recently taken out an injunction concerning his sleeping with a male prostitute. Afterwards he trumpeted how various colleagues of his – human rights lawyers – had made a fortune during the Blair years. Although few had allegedly made more money than Cherie Blair during their time in office throughout the boom years. Simon Reeves-Piper also religiously agreed with anything Oliver, his senior colleague, said during the conversation.

  Realising how bored her sister was becoming – and far more importantly becoming bored herself – Victoria invited Gemma to accompany her to the bathroom to provide some relief from Simon Reeves-Piper’s company.

  “…not all the books you read must be page turners from the beginning… You should still give him a chance,” Victoria argued, with little conviction, while the sisters waited in line to use the bathroom. She wanted her younger sister to please the lawyer, in order to please Oliver.

  “There are also books which are not page turners from the beginning – and get worse,” Gemma replied.

  “Every cloud has a silver lining,” Victoria countered, unsure of what point she was trying to make.

  “And every silver lining has a cloud… There were light entertainers at the BBC in the seventies that were less repellent,” Gemma posited, unsure of how much she was joking.

  When the sisters returned from their trip to the bathroom, their make-up touched up, Oliver was speaking to his producer friend, Jeremy, who had invited him to the party. Oliver had known Jeremy from his days at Oxford. Their mums were also on the board of the same arts’ charities. Oliver and Jeremy drifted in and out of each other’s lives when one of them needed a favour. Jeremy was a smooth operator (although he thought himself even smoother) and he reminded Gemma of a second-hand car dealer she had once met. The only difference was that, instead of Ford Fiestas, Jeremy sold movies which cost fifty million dollars to make. His greatest ambition in the world was to one day sell movies which cost a hundred million dollars to make.

  “I’ve got to be off soon. The director has organised for a small number of people to have some supper downstairs,” Jeremy said, looking anxious as he watched one of the actors talk to an Evening Standard diarist. The actor wasn’t the smartest tool in the box. The only lines he never failed to forget on set were those which went up his nose.

  “What time would you like us to join you?” Oliver asked.

  “I’m afraid supper is strictly by invitation from George only. I’m unable to get you round the table. Sorry Ollie,” the Jeremy said, licking his lips at seeing the alluring Victoria standing before him. If she hadn’t been dating his friend the producer would have asked her if she wanted to work in film. Models seldom failed to swoon when he said to them that they could and should be an actress.

  Oliver briefly appeared crestfallen. The smile fell from his face, dropping to the floor like
a fine piece of porcelain. For once the privileged lawyer felt like that he was outside of the club. And he didn’t like it.

  “I understand. No worries. I’ve got to be up early to attend an important meeting tomorrow anyway.”

  Oliver was thankfully able to forget about his snub as, after Jeremy sloped off, a number of other acquaintances came up to the well-connected lawyer. Feeling a need to re-boost his ego Oliver snaked his arm around his trophy girlfriend in a display of status and possession. Alarmingly Simon Reeves-Piper began to move closer towards Gemma, in order to do the same. She shuddered at the thought. Gemma felt an urgent need to visit the bathroom again and excused herself as Simon sided up to her.

  When she returned she found Oliver talking to one Charles Dalton, the scion of a peer, who was writing a biography of Engels. Dalton was always keen to champion the working classes, just so long as he didn’t have to actually interact with them. He was forever preaching that the super-rich should pay more tax and that multiculturalism was the nation’s proudest achievement. And the more his anti-establishment opinions rubbed his father up the wrong way, the better.

  “An old school chum I know in the BBC said to me that Have I Got News For You were tempted to have me on, but were worried that I might be too radical for them… I’ve got to be off soon though, I’m having dinner at the Garrick with my accountant.”

  Either because he little valued the conversation of women, or because the self-proclaimed bisexual sensed that Victoria and Gemma were already taken, Dalton rarely engaged with the two sisters when the “celebrity Labour politician” held court. After spending a tortuous amount of time not committing to a position over the issue of free schools Charles Dalton finally took his leave.

  No sooner had Dalton left than Marcus Scarrow approached Oliver. Marcus Scarrow was a stand-up comedian and actor. The posters for his last tour described him as a “Hilarious Firebrand.” Gemma noticed him take in Victoria and offer the lawyer a nod of approval. Scarrow had clung to the spotlight of late by fuelling a vendetta against the press for running a (true) story about him sleeping with a sixteen year old girl and paying for her to have an abortion. The once staunch campaigner of free speech was now a staunch campaigner against press intrusion (“Celebrities need special laws to protect them… We’re not like normal people.”). Scarrow saw no contradiction between the two issues. He also saw no contradiction in signing up to write a column for one of the newspapers he had unsuccessfully sued. He needed to pay his legal fees – and, besides, he paid someone to ghost the column anyway so he was having the last laugh on the paper, the comedian argued. Gemma noticed how “Croydon’s Lenny Bruce” constantly sniffed as he spoke. She put it down to a cocaine habit rather than a bout of hay fever.

  A good man is even harder to find in The Ivy.

  13.

  The piano player stopped. She was replaced on stage by a four piece group, who looked more like a bunch of would-be Jack Wills models than a rock band. They (Zak, Travis, Edward and Monty) called themselves “Street Smart”. Their heroes were Mumford & Sons and Nelson Mandela, according to their website. They’re publicists recently updated the list to include Rik Mayall as well, noticing how much he was trending on twitter among one of their key demographics. It was a close run thing whether the parents of the band had spent more money on school fees or PR over the years to give their children a fighting chance in life.

  Laughter and perfume wafted across the room. Slender arms entwined themselves around necks. Actors held court and attracted people over to them like moths to a flame. People drunk more and talked more loudly. Lip gloss was applied and re-applied. A good time was had by all, aside from Gemma Miller perhaps. Unlike most of her fellow guests Gemma was conscious of the fact that she had to work tomorrow. The literary agent had attended plenty of book launches before, which might have even been considered glamorous, but the gilded crowd here were slimmer and shinier. This was a different world, either the Garden of Eden or Sodom and Gomorrah. Vanity Fair or Made in Chelsea.

  Before the band started their set one of the many producers of the film got up on the small stage in the function room and gave a speech. People whooped or clapped at every other sentence the avuncular-looking Bernie Cohen came out with.

  “I feel like a proud parent who has just had his baby delivered. His beautiful baby… But more than anyone we must thank the midwife of our director, George Fuller… Move over Quentin Tarantino… It would be wrong of me not to mention the film’s female lead, Ashley Rochester… Scarlett Johansson better watch out, as there is a new screen siren on the block… We must all pressure the government to give us more funding… British Film is this country’s greatest success story… But enough from me. It’s time to hear from the man of the hour – George Fuller!”

  George Fuller endeared himself to Gemma by appearing diffident and awkward-looking when he took centre stage. He had a list of names to thank so as not to forget anyone. His speech, in an accent which couldn’t or didn’t disguise his roots, was sincere. He was also witty and charmingly self-effacing. I’m starting to appreciate what Abbie sees in him. His reference and joke involving Milton and the title of his film went over most of his audience’s head, but Gemma got it and, thanks to the champagne, laughed a little too loudly. She lowered her head and blushed when the director and a few others suddenly looked her way.

  When Gemma raised her head again her sister came into view.

  “Simon has just gone to the bathroom. When he comes back he’s going to ask you to dance. Make sure you say yes,” Victoria Miller said, part imploring her sister to do so and part telling her.

  The speeches finished and the music started. The sound of the drums and guitar faded into the background however as the thought of the lusty-eyed lawyer returning and dancing with her loomed large in Gemma’s mind. She knew he would make a move on her. A sense of privilege bred a sense of entitlement. Her pulse raced over a man – for all the wrong reasons. She was worried that there would be a scene. Gemma would feel embarrassed. Or Simon would feel embarrassed. Or Victoria or Oliver would. Or, most likely, everyone would feel awkward and embarrassed. She cringed at the thought of Simon staring at her, ardently, when they danced. She winced, imagining his clammy hands on her skin. Or him leaning towards her – to kiss her. His cigarette breath. His odious, self-satisfied leer. Her sister seemed oblivious to her feelings – but there was no change there.

  Gemma gulped down the remaining champagne from her glass and turned her attention to the makeshift dance area. Numerous couples were dancing provocatively or intimately. One or two of the women writhed or sang, in attempt to be an alpha female. Oliver had just led Victoria over there too, leaving Gemma to wait for Simon. She had waited to see her gynaecologist with less trepidation.

  Please let him find someone else to dance with in the time it takes him to come back… Someone who likes Porches…

  But Gemma unfortunately spotted his distinctive widow’s peak through the crowd. Time was running out.

  “Evening Gemma. I recognised your laugh during George’s speech – and thought I’d come over and say hello.”

  Thomas warmly half-smiled. Gemma had noticed during their meeting the other day that the author only ever raised one corner of his mouth when he smiled.

  He’s either half-broken or half-fixed.

  Gemma however wholeheartedly beamed at seeing Thomas, for various reasons. Her pulse raced, in a welcome way. Yet her heart soon beat more contentedly, rather than frenetically, as Thomas led her off towards a table that was free in the corner. Gemma was now glad she had worn one of her favourite outfits. A black and white Julietta dress from Hobbs, with some Rupert Sanderson heels (which she had miraculously discovered on sale). Even her sister had said tonight that the dress looked nice, before adding “it makes you look slim”.

  Thomas politely pulled out a chair for Gemma and then sat down opposite her. Although dressed in a suit and shirt the author somehow fell short of being as smartly dressed a
s others in the room. His shirt needed ironing, his shoes were well-trodden and the colour of his black suit had dulled somewhat. But none of that mattered for Gemma.

  “So how are you? What are you doing here?” she asked. Gemma wanted to also ask if Thomas was here with his wife, but refrained from doing so. She didn’t want to talk or think about her.

  “The director is an old friend of mine. We used to work on neighbouring market stalls down East Lane when we were teenagers believe it or not… Would you like a drink, by the way?” Thomas remarked, as he caught the eye of a waiter. Gemma sensed he was asking for himself, as much as her.

  “That explains things. I didn’t think that this was your normal scene on a Thursday night.”

  “Hell is other people, to quote Sartre. Or perhaps I should rephrase and say that hell equates to these people. If this is the cream of our society – then the cream has curdled… But I reckon, Gemma, that you don’t normally spend your evenings attending such parties either.”

  “No, my sister invited me. Her boyfriend is friends with one of the producers. She’s over there someone, dancing. I usually spend my nights at home, curled up with a good book,” Gemma replied, thinking how much she wanted to start spending her nights curled up in bed with a good man as well. “But what about you? How do you usually spend your time when you’re not working or checking the Amazon rankings of your books?”

  Thomas first (half) smiled at Gemma’s joke – as most of the authors he knew did indeed spend an inordinate amount of time trying to track their sales on Amazon. But then he narrowed his gaze and stared wistfully, or rather more sorrowfully, at the glass of champagne in front of him – as though it, or life, had lost its fizz.

  “I spend my days waiting for the night to come and then I spend my nights waiting for the day to come. The hole at the centre of my life has expanded to become my life,” the author wearily remarked, as much to himself as to Gemma, his brow as creased as his shirt.