Cause Celeb Page 4

  “Oh, Lu-ee-gi.”

  As Oliver and I were being shown to our table, the actress Kate Fortune was making a noisy flappy entrance, bearing down on the maître d’hôtel, her long dark silky hair swinging everywhere.

  “Luigi! Wonderful to see you again! Mwah, mwah.”

  “Actually madam,” he said, “it’s Roberto.”

  I’d seen Kate Fortune on television only the night before, in a miniseries about a female explorer who was unexpectedly keen on lip gloss. She was often to be seen in magazines, dressed as a fairy or crinoline lady with accompanying features called “Fortune at Forty.” The worst was when she had appeared in one of the color supplements made over as a series of famous film stars, one from each decade since the nineteen-twenties. It seemed an unfortunate self-promotional blunder, only stressing the abyss between Kate Fortune and Marlene Dietrich or Jane Fonda. Tonight she was dressed more in Dallas mode. I had long suspected her of hair-flicking and, sure enough, as she bore down on us, cooing, “Oliver! Heavenly to see you,” she took hold of the whole left-hand side of her hair and threw it back into the eyes of Roberto.

  Oliver rose gallantly to his feet to receive her kisses, and now had a little circle of peach lip gloss on each cheek. I got to my feet too, but she behaved as if I was the invisible woman, so I sat down again.

  “Lovely,” she was saying to Oliver, fingering his lapel. “You will try and come and see me doing the Shaw? Can I leave you tickets next week? You will try and put us on your lovely program?”

  “Oh, darling, I don’t want to come and sit through some dreary play,” said Oliver. “Why don’t you take me out to lunch instead?”

  Kate Fortune rolled her eyes, threw back her hair, and said, “Terrible man. I’ll get Yvonne to call Gwen tomorrow.” Then she disappeared off to her table, casting a gay, coy look behind her. I was surprised she didn’t flick up her skirt and show him her pants as well.

  Oliver ordered champagne. We had just begun to talk about our earliest sexual experiences, as you do, when Signor Zilli burst into the restaurant. Signor Zilli was a big cult figure at the time. He was a volatile Italian buffoon, played by a huge comedian called Julian Alman. It was very strange seeing him in the flesh, out of costume and character.

  “Oliver, hi! Blast!” said Julian Alman, lumbering towards us. “Look, can you come and have a word out here, my car’s been clamped. Blast!”

  “What do you expect me to do about it?” said Oliver, staring at him incredulously. “Unclamp it with my teeth?”

  “No. Look, the thing is, I want you to talk to the clamping men.”

  Julian Alman seemed completely unaware that everyone in the restaurant was looking at him.

  “But if you’ve parked on a double yellow line you will be clamped. Is this your new Porsche?”

  “Yes, the thing is, you see, I was still in it.”

  “You were still in it?”

  “Yes. I was trying to get out.”

  “Julian,” said Oliver. “This isn’t making a lot of sense. What was preventing your getting out?”

  “Well, you see, it’s a bit small for me.”

  “So why did you buy it?”

  “Well, I really wanted this model. You see, they’ve just been released so there’s only three of them on the road, so, you see—”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, Julian, can’t you see I’ve got more important things to do?” he said, gesturing towards me.

  “No, that’s fine. Go and help him. I don’t mind,” I said.

  “Oh, great. Look, sorry, that’s really good of you,” said Julian, turning to try and peer out of the window. “Blast.”

  So Oliver went out to sort out the clampers. He returned ten minutes later looking extremely smug to tell me he’d managed to talk them out of it.

  Then we were straight back onto the early sexual experiences. “So the next term I turned up to my Blake tutorial and the tutor was her . . . the same woman I had given the love bite to.”

  The food was tiny, which was fortunate as I had no appetite. When Oliver had finished his sexual anecdotes from Cambridge, I told him about getting caught naked with Joel in the sand dunes by a policeman, who then asked if he could join in.

  “So who was Joel?”

  “He was my boyfriend when I was at college.”

  “Where were you at college?”

  “Devon.”

  “Thank God it wasn’t Cambridge,” he said, smiling indulgently. “That explains the horny accent. And what did you study in Devon?”

  “Agriculture,” I said, and giggled.

  “Agriculture. Agriculture.” He threw his head back and laughed. “You’re like something out of Thomas Hardy. Did you ride horses and wear petticoats and frolic in haylofts?” He leaned over and pretended to look up my skirt hopefully.

  “No, I read books about crop rotation.”

  “And was Joel a farmer as well—no, don’t tell me, he was an army sergeant with an enormous flashing sword. No? A schoolteacher? A reddleman?”

  “He was a poet.”

  “No! This gets better and better. What did he write? ‘She was only a farmer’s daughter . . .’”

  “He didn’t write very much when I knew him. He drank a lot, smoked a lot of dope and went on about patriarchal capitalist societies. My brothers couldn’t stand him.”

  “How many brothers have you got?”

  “Four and one sister.”

  “Jesus, I’d better watch my step. So was Joel from Devon as well?”

  “No. He came from London and he had a publisher in London. Ginsberg and Fink, actually. I thought he was wonderful.”

  “Wonderful? I hate Joel,” Oliver said. “So what happened to the farming? Why aren’t you struggling with lamb’s afterbirth and moaning about hedgerows and subsidies?”

  “I did work on a farm for a few months after my finals, but then I missed Joel and went up to London to live with him in a commune in Hackney. I worked in a pub and then got a job doing market research on deodorants.”

  “And what was Joel doing? Knitting lentil stew and smoking joss sticks?”

  “Pretty much. He was out of his head most of the time.”

  “And you were earning the money?”

  “Not very much. Anyway, after I had been there for eighteen months I went to a party with Joel at Ginsberg and Fink and Sir William Ginsberg took a shine to me.”

  “I bet he did, dirty old devil.”

  “No, it wasn’t like that,” I said indignantly. “He asked if I would like a temping job for the summer with the company, so I took it.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last summer.”

  “So is Joel still around?”

  “Well, no. It was awful really. My grandmother left me a bit of money so I put it down on a flat. And Joel said I had reverted to my capitalist patriarchal roots and that I was a worthless, superficial trollop.”

  “A worthless, superficial trollop,” he said. “I see. And when was all this?”

  “I bought the flat in January.”

  “Ah, thank you, Roberto.”

  Having finished the champagne Oliver had ordered a bottle of red wine. I was feeling light-headed already and couldn’t drink any more but Oliver seemed completely sober. People in the restaurant kept looking across at him, and an elderly gentleman came over apologizing lengthily for interrupting us, said he knew this must happen all the time and asked for Oliver’s autograph for his daughter who was studying at the Slade. Oliver was charming and gracious but got rather cold when the man didn’t have a pen, and then extremely cold when the man started saying that the daughter would like to talk to him about working in television. The man left looking bewildered and sad. I took off one of my earrings, which was hurting.

  Oliver ordered us brandies and then he spotted another celebrity, Bill Bonham, sitting across the room and went off to talk to him. Bill Bonham was an actor who usually played intelligent thugs in TV plays. He was a director as well, and was always app
earing on chat shows, making it clear he didn’t suffer fools gladly and swearing a lot. He was almost bald and had cut the rest of his hair very short to match. He always wore a leather jacket and jeans which fitted below his paunch and often seemed on the verge of showing bottom cleavage. I watched in admiration as Oliver chatted to him intensely. Then the two of them disappeared to the loos together.

  “I don’t think Bill is more famous than you.”

  “Well, maybe Bill isn’t but Julian is,” Oliver muttered, and sniffed a few times.

  “No, he isn’t. Have you got a cold?” I said tenderly.

  “Oh, he is. It’s completely unfair but he is,” said Oliver morosely, sniffing again with one nostril.

  “He’s a different sort of famous. You’re an arts commentator and Julian Alman’s a film star.”

  Oliver was on his third brandy now. His tie was loose, and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone so I could see his dark chest hair.

  “But what you do is far more worthwhile,” I encouraged. “People see you as an authoritative, intelligent figure.”

  He wrinkled his nose fondly and squeezed my knee under the table.

  The waiter was clearing up the crumbs with a minivacuum, and I realized that he had scooped up the earring I had taken off. I was too shy to say anything to him so I whispered what had happened to Oliver and he roared with laughter and masterfully sorted it all out.

  When the bill came I got out my checkbook and offered to pay half, and Oliver leaned forward, tweaked my nose and got out his gold American Express card. He then performed a tour of the restaurant, saying good-bye to all the famous people, with me on his arm.

  When we got to my door Oliver stopped the car, turned off the ignition, loosened his seat belt. “So. Are you going to ask me in for a coffee?” he said.

  I was nervous and dry-mouthed again as I climbed the stairs with Oliver following. I was proud of my new flat. I thought it rather Parisian. But once inside he burst out laughing. I laughed along gaily trying to join in the joke but it went on too long for me to sustain. “What’s so funny?” I said eventually.

  “It’s so small and twee,” he said. “Sweet.” He wandered into the kitchenette. “This gets better and better,” he said. “You have mottoeson your wall.” He was looking at a picture my mother had given me which said, “Dull Women Have Immaculate Houses.”

  “Hmmm. I see what you’re trying to justify.” He was in the living room now. “God. You’d drive me mad with all this mess.”

  “What mess?” I said, genuinely puzzled.

  “Your cassettes are all out of their boxes and your books are all over the place and what’s this?” he said, picking up a hair elastic that was wrapped round itself. “It looks like a ringworm.”

  I was crushed. I had been brought up to think that people who had a place for everything, and no buttons and pencils in dishes, were a bit odd. “I’ll make the coffee,” I said. I felt oddly depressed when I went into the kitchen. It was all the unaccustomed booze, which didn’t seem to have affected Oliver at all. He followed me into the kitchen and, as I was plugging the cord into the kettle, came up behind me and put his arms round my waist. I forgot everything I had been thinking, turned round to face him and we kissed properly. It was ecstasy to be able to touch him, when I had so much longed to touch him for so long. After a while his hand moved to my waist, down my thigh and started to lift up my skirt. I didn’t want him to undress me because I was wearing tights with a stout reinforced top, and white knickers which had been in the wash with a blue sock, so I took his hand away and put it on my breast, for want of somewhere better to put it. We kissed some more but I was slightly unbalanced and thought I might lurch over. Oliver brushed his mouth against my cheek and whispered, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

  “I’m not sure.” I was suddenly nervous.

  He started kissing me again. “Come on, don’t be silly.”

  Then I was worried that I seemed immature, so I said, “Mmm, I’ll go and get ready,” which I considered would be a very adult thing to do and had the added advantage of giving me a chance to do my legs and get rid of the blue knickers. I shot into the bathroom and grabbed off my clothes, shoving them in the airing cupboard, to be tidy. I couldn’t use hair-removing cream—no time, vile smell. I thought I had a razor, frantically emptied everything out of the cupboard under the sink, couldn’t find it. I heard Oliver going through to the living room and knew a full leg shave was out of the question. I ran my hand down my shin, it wasn’t too bad if you ran the hand down not up. I washed. I put perfume on key areas. I brushed my teeth. I realized my powder-blue wrap was in the wash, wrapped a towel round me, put my head—only—round the door, saw him, gorgeous in my living room, smoking, in my chair.

  “Ready,” I said, beaming excitedly. He looked up. I dived into the bedroom, put the bedside lamp on the floor, and got into bed with the covers up to my chin because I was shy.

  He came in, stumbling slightly, carrying the ashtray, put it down on my dressing table. He stubbed out his cigarette and sat down. He was turned away from me, bending to unlace his shoes, like a husband. It seemed rather unromantic not to acknowledge me, but still . . . He stood up and took off his shirt, lifting it over his back without undoing the buttons. I watched the line of muscle which ran from his arm to his waist. I was watching him bit by bit, not taking in the whole. He undid his trousers and stepped out of them, with his back to me. He folded the trousers, and put them on the chair. Then he folded the underpants, which alarmed me momentarily, placed them neatly on top of the trousers and climbed under the duvet.

  I turned to face him and we kissed and it was fantastic to be naked against him. He moved down and kissed my breasts. I gasped, ecstatic. Then he rested his head on me and I stroked his hair and he lay quite still on top of me with his arms on either side.

  After a few moments I became puzzled as to what was going on. I shifted position slightly and he lifted his head and moved up to my mouth and started kissing me again. His breathing was very heavy. He heaved himself over, easing my legs apart with his knee, kneeling between my thighs. He put his hand down and then he slipped himself inside me, straight in. I was longing for him so much, beside myself, arching my back, crying out, writhing with pleasure. But slowly, in the midst of the excitement I began to realize that Oliver was not moving at all. He was resting his weight on my body and his head in my neck, completely motionless. Gradually I stopped moving so that I was lying quite still too. And then he began to snore.

  Once I had got over the shock, I laughed. I thought of the people downstairs listening. “Oh, oh, oh, oh, HGNUURGH, oh oh, HGNUUURGH. Oh.” I had to wake him to move after a while. I thought I was going to be asphyxiated. His mood was very black now, his brow furrowed. He got up and went into the bathroom and I heard him go into the living room. After a while he came back in and started getting dressed.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “I’m going home. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

  A set of kitchen knives fell down through me from my throat.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “Get back in the bed.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. First, you just don’t do that, second, you are beyond drunk and if you go anywhere near your car I shall ring the police, third, you have just fallen asleep on top of me at the start of what was meant to be a first night of passion. And you snored. Now get back in this bed.”

  This was before Oliver had broken my spirit and turned my sexual confidence into a wizened little pea. His mouth tightened. He was staring at me oddly, then he started nodding, as if agreeing with one of his own thoughts. He moved the duvet and looked at me. Then he undressed again to reveal, astonishingly, a new erection, and climbed back onto the bed beside me. And when it was over I was full of pride and joy because I, Rosie Richardson, had made Oliver Marchant come.

  Some time later, when he had fallen asleep, I lay awake looking at him, wi
th his long dark eyelashes resting against his cheeks like two furry caterpillars. I was happy now, all misgivings pushed to the back of my mind. I couldn’t believe that Oliver Marchant was actually in my bed. I knew instinctively that he was one of those men who was disproportionately protective about their sleep, but still I risked a little kiss on the cheek and snuggled up to him affectionately.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you’re behaving like a five-year-old,” he said, and turned his back on me.

  The lure of the bastard—I was a sucker for it. “Changeable women are more endurable than monotonous ones,” I read somewhere. “They are sometimes murdered but seldom deserted”—exactly the appeal of the male bastard. You know they’ll never tie you down or silt you up. It’s the excitement and absorption of pursuit: pitting yourself against their harsh nature, trying to turn it around. Even when I discovered what his nature really was I still thought I could transform Oliver. I thought he just needed a bit of love and care and he’d soon get the hang of things. I thought I could love him out of his character.

  My friend Rhoda, who was older than me and American, said that I was suffering from a dangerous addiction and shouldn’t touch someone like Oliver with a barge pole.

  “OK, so long as he can touch me with his barge pole,” I said giddily.

  Later she said that Africa was just another version of my masochistic bastard complex and I should stay in England, learn to love myself and go out with bores. But I said she’d been reading too many American self-help books, and should get a few drinks down her and lighten up.

  CHAPTER

  Five

  The start of an affair can be a dodgy time for everyone: it’s like learning to water-ski—once you get up it’s fine but there’s far more chance of falling over and getting wet and cross than getting up. Picture the scene, three days after that night with Oliver. No phone call. Zilch. But being young and in awe of him, I failed to think the sensible thing, which was “What a rude man.” I wasn’t quite stupid enough to sit at home in the evenings and do psychopath eyes at the phone. But it would have been acting equally neurotically to leave the answerphone off. So I had the crisis of coming back to no message when I got home at the end of the evening. Or coming back to three messages, and finding two of them were from Rhoda, and the other was from Hermione, asking why, in heaven’s name, I hadn’t told her that Cassandra had left a message that afternoon saying Perpetua wasn’t coming to dinner.