chapter026
Edie surveyed the tables of food and the endlessly replenished drinks, no card machines in sight, and idly wondered: who paid? Was it Elliot, or was it Fraser, or both? Or neither? In Elliot’s world, you never saw a bill, or the transaction.
There were many who’d revel in the rampant prosperity, and Edie felt guilty even analysing it, both ungrateful and disloyal. They’d done the kids chat, not the money ones.
Except one late night confessional when she’d mentioned worrying about her dad’s slightly threadbare existence and Elliot had said: ‘If you ever needed anything, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? You know I would fix anything you asked me to?’
Edie had said: ‘Yes, thank you,’ while thinking: God no, but thank you.
They said no more, as it was surprisingly sensitive. Your boyfriend buying dinner – lovely. Your boyfriend paying off mortgages – you’re off the Normal map.
But it wasn’t as if a skint partner was easy. If Edie considered Elliot’s tax bracket a problem, it was the most champagne one imaginable. More than champagne, it was a my private jet has the wrong colour carpet problem.
What was it that bothered her, if she drilled down? It was the inequality. Irresolvable inequality. If she and Elliot ever moved in together, it’d be to his house, not their house, because the idea she could meaningfully contribute would be farcical.
Edie thought of what Hannah said: Build a life together that’s the right size for both of you. On basic floor plan terms, she could make her life bigger for him through his largesse and her compliance. He couldn’t, realistically, make his life much smaller for her. It was a fairy tale all right: millionaire accepts life on Skid Row, for love.
Except it wasn’t Skid Row: she cherished Carrington and her house, and she liked being in charge of her life.
This existential angsting wasn’t helping, and she shook it off.
Edie decided her opener would be: How do you know Fraser? – preferable to striding into conversations and saying: Hi, Edie Thompson, ad exec.
‘Hi, I’m Edie,’ she said to the nearest person, doing her most winsome smile. ‘I’m trying to meet people. How do you know Fraser?’
‘Anto,’ the man said, extending his non Peroni-holding hand to shake Edie’s. He was a wolfish sort of handsome: very underfed facial contours softened by a beard, slim-fit jacket fastened with one button.
‘Anto, that’s a cool name – is it Italian?’
Anto nearly spat his beer. ‘Anthony. I like that, though. I might start telling people I am. I come from the Latin quarter of Stevenage.’
‘Hahaha.’
‘I work with Fraser. How do you know him?’
‘Through Elliot.’
‘Ah, we know to hang back from Elliot’s people. We don’t know the correct protocol.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, it’s a thing with the brothers. Fraser’s a pretty strict gatekeeper …’
He cast a glance at him that Edie followed. Fraser was doing Bez-style monkey dancing to Happy Mondays’ ‘Hallelujah’and seemed highly unlikely to be a strict anything.
‘Fraser is?’
‘Yeah. Fraser is of Elliot. Elliot is of his friends and his girlfriends. There’s layers of security to get past.’
His girlfriends.Edie hoped the lightning bolt of jealousy that hit her out of the blue wasn’t evident. She never wanted to think of herself on a roster.
‘Hang on, are you here with Elliot, or are you with Elliot?’
Edie’s stomach tensed. ‘With-with.’
‘He’s not still seeing the Swedish girl from the end of last year?’
What? ‘Uhm, I hope not.’
‘Thank God for that – she was a law unto herself. Ungovernable. Always dragging him away by the scruff at intervals to broom cupboards. Seemed exhausting and eventful. Did you come far today?’
‘From Nottingham,’ said Edie, clenched in misery, despising a faceless, nameless, libidinous Nordic rival.
Also, Elliot had been seeing someone while they were apart? He had no case to answer if so; Edie had openly said they were single and free. Yet it hurt. Badly. So much for I’ve thought about nothing else but you.
‘Oh, my brother went to uni there! I used to visit him,’ Anto said.
There followed a discussion of which bars and clubs were still standing, during which Edie pictured a blonde kneeling in front of her boyfriend.
‘I saw you earlier, actually, if I’m honest,’ Anto said. ‘I thought, who’s that girl? Why is someone who looks like a Blythe doll not at the centre of things? Makes more sense now I know you’re with the Owen mafia. An Owen goomah.’
‘I don’t know what a Blythe doll is but thanks, I think.’
Anto swiped his phone open and showed her. Edie read: Blythe is a fashion doll with an oversized head and large eyes that change colour with the pull of a string.
Edie paused. ‘Aren’t Mafia goomahs mistresses?’
‘Hahaha, oh sorry, yeah. Not implying anything – I just like the word. I’m a Sopranos ultra.’
Edie fretted on the fact Elliot had lied to her regarding the Swedish girl. Unforced untruths were lies.
‘Me too,’ Edie said, absently. ‘I rewatch “Pine Barrens” at least once a year. It had me calling people at work “rat cocksuckahs” way too much though.’
‘Oh, I like you,’ Anto said. ‘I really like you.’
Edie decided he went to an expensive school, as he had exactly that kind of edges-sanded-off patrician sexism. I like you, you crazy little potty-mouthed thing. Acceptance was his to bestow upon her.
‘Want to meet some more people?’ Anto asked, as if she’d passed a test.
Edie acquiesced with a smile and, his hand lightly on her lower back, Anto did the rounds.
‘This is Edie, she’s from Nottingham,’ Anto said, to bland indifference and flickering assessment. He weighted the pause with the skill of a practised showman, adding: ‘… She’s Elliot’s girlfriend.’
The air pressure changed, and suddenly everyone was aflutter, full attention, hiiiiii nice to meet you what did you say your name was.
Edie hated it. Not because she didn’t get a small thrill at being his or being envied or admired for it – she had to admit that she did. But because it was so wholly conditional. If Elliot finished with her, he might as well have pushed her off the rooftop in terms of their correspondingly plummeting levels of interest. It wasn’t possible to feel good about that. Edie knew exactly how empty those calories were.
She answered questions politely and asked questions politely, planning her escape throughout. Eventually, Edie thought: hang on, where IS Elliot and my ill-advised cocktail?
She excused herself and found him, besieged, because alcohol levels were high and inhibitions were lower. Even at London rooftop parties full of wannabe Gatsbys and Daisys, celebrity was celebrity.
She sussed that meekly waiting for people to disperse wasn’t going to work.
‘Elliot, can I borrow you for a minute?’ Edie said, at an assertive pitch.
Eyes trailed her resentfully as she took him by the hand and pulled him out of the group and back up the side of the pool.
‘Apologies, that became intense, and I don’t want to offend Fraser’s friends,’ Elliot said.
‘I want to go back to our old table, but it feels like that looks too pointed now? Like we’re not making the effort,’ Edie said.
‘See what you mean.’ Elliot looked over her shoulder. ‘You know, if you kissed me, that would probably deter approaches. Just a thought.’
‘In spy films, the man always suggests they kiss so people don’t notice them.’
‘Either works for me.’
Edie’s reticence to be linked with Elliot had only ever been about avoiding the deluge of attention, and meanwhile, she’d forgotten to value the part where he was always happy to go public with her.
Nick had said in the Dales: ‘Don’t spend so much time looking for red and beige flags that you start taking the green for granted,’ to which Edie had replied: ‘Wise,’ and social media allergic Hannah said: ‘Jesus Christ, you understood that shite?!’