I wish she would just curse and rant and throw things. Then I could relax; the madness would be out of her system. When I broke up with Daniel, I swore obscenely for two solid weeks. It wasn’t pretty. But at least I didn’t join a cult.
“Lottie …” I rub my head. “You know I’m off on holiday tomorrow for two weeks?”
“Oh yes.”
“You’ll be OK?”
“Of course I’ll be OK.” Her scathing tone returns. “I’m going to have a pizza and a nice bottle of wine tonight. I’ve been meaning to do that for ages, actually.”
“Well, have a good one. Just don’t drown the pain.”
That’s another of our mother’s sayings. I have a sudden memory of her in her pencil-slim white trouser suit and green glittery eye shadow. “Drowning the pain, darlings.” She’d be sitting at the bar in that house we had in Hong Kong, cradling a martini while Lottie and I watched, in our matching pink dressing gowns flown out from England.
After she’d gone out, we would intone the phrase to each other like some kind of religion. I thought it was a general toast like “Down the hatch,” and shocked a school friend many years later, at a family lunch, by raising my glass and saying, “Well, drown the pain, everyone.”
Now we use it as a shorthand for “getting totally trashed in an embarrassing manner.”
“I will not be drowning the pain, thank you,” retorts Lottie, sounding offended. “And, anyway, you should talk, Fliss.”
I may have drunk a few too many vodkas after Daniel and I split up, and I may have made a long speech to an audience of curry-house diners. It’s a fair point.
“Yes, well.” I sigh. “Talk soon.”
I put the phone down, close my eyes, and give my brain about ten seconds to reboot and focus. I have to forget Lottie’s love life. I have to concentrate on the awards ceremony. I have to finish my speech. Now. Go.
I open my eyes and swiftly type a list of people to thank. It goes on for ten lines, but better safe than sorry. I email it to Ian, headlined Speech! Urgent! and leap up from my desk.
“Fliss!” As I leave my office, Celia pounces on me. She’s one of our most prolific freelancers and has the trademark crow’s feet of the professional spa reviewer. You’d think that the spa treatments would cancel out the sun damage, but I find it tends to be the other way around. They really should stop putting spas in Thailand. They should situate them in northern wintry countries with no daylight at all.
Hmm. Is there a piece in that?
I quickly type into my BlackBerry: Zero-daylight spa? then look up. “Everything OK?”
“The Gruffalo is here. He looks livid.” She swallows. “Maybe I should leave.”
The Gruffalo is the industry nickname for Gunter Bachmeier. He owns a chain of ten luxury hotels and lives in Switzerland and has a forty-inch waist. I knew he was invited tonight, but I assumed he wouldn’t turn up. Not after our review of his new spa–hotel in Dubai, the Palm Stellar.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t tell him it was me.” Celia’s voice is actually trembling.
“Celia.” I grip her by both shoulders. “You stand by your review, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then.” I’m willing some strength into her, but she looks terrified. It’s amazing how someone who writes such savage, excoriating, witty prose can be so gentle and sensitive in the flesh.
Hmm. Is there a piece in that?
I type: Meet our reviewers in the flesh?? Profiles??
Then I delete it. Our readers don’t want to meet the reviewers. They don’t want to know that “CBD” lives in Hackney and is an accomplished poet on the side. They simply want to know that their massive slice of cash is going to buy them all the sunshine/snow, white beach/mountains, solitude/beautiful people, Egyptian cotton/hammocks, haute cuisine/expensive club sandwiches that they require of a five-star holiday.
“No one knows who ‘CBD’ is. You’re safe.” I pat her arm. “I have to run.” I’m already striding down the corridor again. I head into the central atrium and look around. It’s a large, airy, double-height hall—the only impressive space at Pincher International—and every year our overcrowded sub-editors suggest that it’s converted into office space. But it comes into its own for the awards party. I scan the space, ticking off items in my head. Massive iced cake in shape of magazine cover, which no one will eat: check. Caterers setting out glasses: check. Table of trophies: check. Ian from IT is crouching by the podium, fiddling with the auto reader.
“All OK?” I hurry over.
“Grand.” He jumps up. “I’ve loaded the speech. Want a sound check?”
I step onto the stage, switch on the microphone, and peer at the reader.
“Good evening!” I raise my voice. “I’m Felicity Graveney, editor of Pincher Travel Review, and I would like to welcome you to our twenty-third annual awards ceremony. And what a year it’s been.”
I can see from Ian’s sardonic eyebrow that I’m going to have to sound a bit more excited than that.
“Shut up,” I say, and he grins. “I have eighteen awards to present.…”
Which is far too many. Every year we have a stand-up battle over which ones to get rid of, and then we get rid of none.
“Blah, blah … OK, fine.” I switch off the mike. “See you later.”
As I hurry back down the corridor, I see Gavin, our publisher, at the far end. He’s ushering an unmistakable forty-inch waist into the lift. As I’m watching, the Gruffalo turns and flashes a menacing anti-smile at me. He holds up four stubby fingers and is still doing so as the doors close.
I know what that means, and I’m not going to be intimidated. So his new hotel got four stars from us instead of five. He should have created a better hotel. He should have invested in slightly more sand to lay on the concrete base of his “award-winning, man-created beach” and tried hiring slightly less pretentious staff.
I head into the Ladies’, survey my reflection, and wince. Sometimes I’m genuinely shocked at the version of me in the mirror. Do I look so unlike Angelina Jolie? When did those shadows appear under my eyes? Everything about me is too dark, I abruptly decide. My hair, my brows, my sallow skin. I need to get something bleached. Or maybe everything, all at once. There must surely be a spa somewhere that has an all-in-one bleaching tank. One quick dip; keep your mouth open for the teeth-whitening option.
Hmm. Is there a piece in that? I type Bleach? into my BlackBerry, then attack everything I can with brushes. Finally I apply a generous amount of Nars Red Lizard. One thing: I can damn well wear lipstick. Perhaps they’ll put it on my grave. FELICITY GRAVENEY LIES HERE. SHE COULD DAMN WELL WEAR LIPSTICK.
I head out, glance at my watch, and press Daniel on speed dial as I walk. He’ll know I’m phoning now, we discussed the timing, he’ll pick up, he has to pick up.… Go on, Daniel, pick up.… Where are you …?
Voicemail.
Bastard.
With Daniel, I am quite capable of going from calm to seething in 0–60.
The beep sounds and I draw breath.
“You’re not there,” I say with elaborate calmness, walking toward my office. “That’s a shame, because I have to be at this event soon, which you knew, because we discussed it. Several times.”
My voice is shaking. I cannot allow him to get to me. Let it go, Fliss. Divorce is a process and this is a process and we’re all part of the Tao. Or the Zen. Whatever. The thing in all those books I was given with the word “Divorce” on the cover above a circle or a picture of a tree.
“Anyway.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe you can let Noah listen to this message? Thank you.”