Duncan said, 'Lulu's going to be there.'
'Lulu?' Impossible, I thought. 'You don't know that.'
'Ruth saw her the other day, at Gnashers.'
Ruth had such a bloody big nose. For the love of Jesus, why couldn't she keep it out of other people's business? I wanted to ask Duncan why he wanted to see Lulu so badly, since she obviously wasn't in a tearing rush to come back and see him, but I didn't. Instead, I said, 'Maybe I will come along after all.'
'OK.' And with that, he wrapped himself in his own thoughts and hardly said another word to me. We had a few more drinks, and pretended to watch a late-night film, but all the sparkle had gone out of the evening. He stared at the screen and didn't seem to hear when I asked him questions. A barrier had gone up between us. I felt like an idiot, perched on the sofa in my jingling silver trinkets while Duncan acted as though I was invisible. I felt my recent joie de vivre giving way to gloom. The prospect of seeing Lulu again had brought home to me how much, how very much, I'd been enjoying her absence.
Chapter 3
Saturday morning got off to a bad start when I suggested to Duncan that we meet up somewhere before going on to Ruth's party together. He started making excuses. He had to work all afternoon. He had no idea what time he'd be finished. I cottoned on fast. 'You don't want Lulu to see us together, is that it? Hell, you don't want anyone to see us together.'
'I thought you realized, Dora. Our affair could never be anything other than clandestine.'
'Clandestine? Clandestine? What's that supposed to mean?'
'We must keep it secret. No one must know.'
'I know what it means,' I snarled. 'It means I've served my purpose and now you're going to put me back in the cupboard.'
'It's not like that at all…'
'Like what? Like this, you mean?' I had scarcely touched my egg and bacon, which were swimming in even greater quantities of grease than usual. I picked up the plate and upended it over his lap. The bacon dropped immediately. For a few tantalizing seconds the egg clung on by vacuum suction, then slowly peeled off under its own weight. Duncan opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and shut it again. He was wearing his resigned look. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking it was that time of the month again. Jesus Christ, it always seemed to be that time of the month.
There was a large dark stain around his groin. Grease dripped glutinously on to the floor. 'See you later, scumbag,' I said, and stalked off.
The name of Multiglom figured prominently in the day's newspapers, but only in the business pages, not a breath of scandal. Later, while I was flicking through the arts section of The Times, I found myself face to face with Lulu, the last person I'd ever expected to see in a quality broadsheet. It was a full-page black and white photo; she had that carefully-made-up-to-look-like-no-make-up look, and there was a roguish glint in her eye that had never been there before; I wondered whether it had been airbrushed in. She looked good, almost not like Lulu at all.
The picture was accompanied by a message in tiny, tiny print — a public plea to shareholders, urging them not to block some takeover or other and outlining why they should be voting so-and-so on to the board of directors. It listed all the advantages a newer, more powerful Multiglom could bring to the economy in general, and to shareholders' pockets in particular. It even outlined the ways in which the corporation's waste products were environmentally sound, neither polluting the rivers into which they were poured, nor threatening the ozone layer and admitting harmful ultraviolet rays, I couldn't see Lulu's relevance; she was simply a means of catching the attention of jaded eyes as they scanned pages of dry, bimbo-free print in a fruitless search for titbits. I searched, and searched, and I found pictures of Lulu in some of the other papers too. She was definitely flavour of the month.
It took me a long time to get ready for Ruth's party. Determined not to dress in the black I knew everyone else would be wearing, I opted for a red dress and then spent the next hour trying to hide as much red as I could beneath a big black belt, big black scarf, big black leather jacket, and lots and lots of crucifixes. I set out early with my pockets full of garlic and headed for the tube station, pushing past the beggars who clustered around the entrance, waving their grubby babies and clamouring for fifty pence pieces. The escalators were still out of order. It was business as usual.
Lulu was in the underground. She was hovering over the tracks on a big black and white Kuroi poster, and someone had already braved the electric rail to give her red teeth and horns and a speech-bubble which read, 'I like porking'. I had plenty of time to stare at her. Over the tinny loudspeakers there was a garbled announcement informing us that trains were running late 'due to delays'. There had been signal failures at Mile End, and a suicide on the track at Barking. I knew how the suicide had felt.
When the train finally rolled up, there was a prolonged session of sardines-on-wheels, with lots of stopping in the tunnels. I changed lines at Tottenham Court Road and made it as far as Camden Town, where the train suddenly developed faulty doors and was taken out of active service. Northbound passengers shook their fists and yelled, but it was no good. I gave up and made the rest of the journey by cab.
Despite the delays, I arrived even earlier than I'd intended, but at least I arrived. Ruth opened the door of her Georgian terrace house, squealed 'Dora!', and insisted on performing that complicated kissing manoeuvre in which you miss the other person's lips but bang each other's noses and end up with their lipstick smeared down your cheek.
It would have been pointless and cruel to describe Ruth as dumpy, but she was one of the few people in the world who made me feel long-legged. Perhaps this was why I still tolerated her company. These days, her hair was an incredibly artificial colour which reminded me of baked conkers. She was dressed — yes — in black. No doubt it was a pricey little number, like the rest of the items in her wardrobe, but I was pleased to see it still couldn't prevent her legs from looking like yams.
'Dora, Dora, Dora!' she gushed as I wiped her lipstick from my face. 'Haven't seen you for ages. How have you been?'
'Not so good, I said. I started to tell her all about the shellfish allergy I had developed after a dodgy bowl of bouillabaisse, but her attention began to wander and she didn't seem terribly interested in how I had been, after all. We had a little tug o' war over my jacket — I wanted to keep it on because I was loath to reveal too much red — and then I gave her my bottle of champagne and she thanked me and put it in one of the kitchen cupboards, and I knew that would be the last I'd see of it all evening if I didn't watch out. Ruth had hired a professional butler to serve cheap wine, but I ignored him, and when no one was looking retrieved my bottle from the cupboard and hid it under my jacket.
I wandered through into the main reception area. Ruth rematerialized at my side. 'So how are you?' she asked, as I eyed up the four people who had arrived even earlier than me. I guessed she didn't much want to hear about my shellfish allergy again. Instead, I said, 'Fine thanks. How are you? I looked at her properly for the first time and did a double-take. 'You're looking… terrific. Good Lord, Ruth, you look really… different.'