The Gherkin
I’m perched on the French daybed, waiting for Lace to be ready for me.
She is sitting in her red velvet chair by the window, sewing a button on a man’s worn black denim jacket.
Apart from the usual greetings and telling me to sit on the bed, the only thing she has said to me is that men are rubbish at sewing buttons.
Today, she is dressed like a Parisian artist in a thin black turtleneck. Her hair is up high in a floppy, messy bun that keeps dropping down as she sews. I don’t know how she can look scruffy and elegant at the same time.
Peppy suddenly emerges from the corner. He seems a little plumper than the last time I saw him. I call him over with a kissing sound, but he snubs me and goes to Lace instead. Knobhead. He jumps on her.
‘Oh,’ she shrieks. ‘Get off, fluffy swine.’ She drops the bemused cat onto the floor and then glances up at me. ‘We’re not getting on today,’ she says, returning to her sewing.
‘Why don’t you give him back to that man? He seemed pretty distraught.’
She shakes her head aggressively. ‘No, not yet. Sleazy bastard.’
‘What did he do exactly?’ I ask.
‘He had a wife and tried it on with me. That’s what.
’ She folds the jacket neatly into a brown parcel and gets up.
‘Right, Amy Butters’ wedding dress.’ She goes across the room and takes an oat-coloured cotton dress from the rail by the wall.
‘Try this on. It’s the pattern of your wedding dress, so if you don’t like the shape of it, tell me now or forever hold your peace.
’ She sits down in the chair as I stand holding the dress.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Put it on.’
‘Is there a toilet I can get changed in?’ I ask.
‘A toilet? Why? Just change here,’ she says. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Um, I know some women can walk around changing rooms with it all hanging out, but I am not one of those women,’ I say.
‘Amy, it’s me. Don’t be ridiculous.’ I whimper, then hold the dress under my chin and unzip my zipper. I struggle to keep the dress there as I pull my trousers down. She rolls her head. ‘Doll, what are you doing?’ I stop.
‘I’m taking off my clothes so I can try on the dress.’
‘I suggest it would be a lot easier if you put the dress down,’ she says.
I whimper again as I realise that I’m just going to have to reveal my pink-spotty-full-bum-pants to Lace.
I turn away and take off my jeans, purple hoodie and H me, standing there, in my soon-to-be-wedding dress. How surreal. Lace, noticing I’m having a moment, says, ‘I’ll meet you outside.’
We end up in one of those shipping containers that have been turned into a clothes shop.
It’s called Brown Duck and sells brown hoodies with cartoon rubber ducks on the back and front.
I don’t get it. The drum and bass is playing so loud that the man at the till doesn’t realise we are in his shop until Lace is leaning over his counter. He drops his Spider-Man comic book.
‘Can I help you?’ he says.
‘Duck Duck Goose,’ Lace replies with a straight face. I think she’s going nuts, but then the man springs into action. He gets up, checks the door and then pulls a load of hoodies across the back rail to reveal a wooden door.
‘All yours,’ he says.
Lace doesn’t explain the secret door – she goes through it and expects me to follow her.
It leads to a brick wall with a fire escape door, and through that is a bar.
It’s dark with a smell of leather and cigars.
There is low mumbling of conversation and a light jazz piano playing.
In the centre is a lit-up U-shaped bar. The bartender glances up at us and then goes back to stirring a drink.
Very attractive people are dotted around in oversized armchairs and cracked leather sofas.
A waitress walks past and serves whisky to three men in baseball caps who are too engrossed in their conversation to notice she has been and gone.
‘Is this Soho House?’ I ask.
‘Don’t insult me,’ she says. She sounds like I had asked her if this was a Wetherspoon’s, which is confusing because I thought Soho House was the cool place to be.
We sit on art deco chairs that are not comfortable in the slightest. The waitress comes, puts napkins on the table between us, and offers us a drink.
Lace orders two Merlots before I can say otherwise.
I gaze around the room and spot a very glamorous couple in the corner, she in a pink jumpsuit and him in a denim shirt.
‘Are they famous?’ I ask, whispering.
Lace looks at them. ‘Barely.’
‘What is this place?’
‘It’s Frankie’s. Oh, there he is now.’ She waves at the tall blond man who is walking through the place like it’s his lounge. I recognise him as the guy who opened the door for me last weekend. Lace and him would make a very good-looking couple. The kind you see in films. He sits next to me.
‘It’s you from last week. Who are you?’ he asks, not politely.
Lace jumps in and introduces me as her client.
I give a little wave. ‘You are making a wedding dress for someone? Well, I never.’ Lace slaps his arm flirtatiously, and he tells her that he’s joking.
Still, it’s not the most reassuring thing I’ve heard.
‘Is that your ring then?’ Frankie asks, as he takes my hand and inspects it.
He gives Lace a mocking look, as if he’s about to burst out laughing.
She hits him in the same way and tells him to be kind.
He pinches his lips together in a smile, obviously enjoying any kind of physical contact from her. These two must be doing it.
‘It’s his grandma’s. That’s why it looks a little worn,’ I say, defending the ring. Frankie laughs again. It’s not a gentle laugh like Josh has, but high-pitched and mean.
‘What a genius. He didn’t have to spend a penny. Do you like it?’
‘Yes, I like it,’ I say too quickly. Frankie raises his eyebrows, making it clear that he’s not convinced. I keep talking. ‘I mean, maybe I wouldn’t have chosen a purple diamond. But hey! It means something, and that’s obviously worth more than any old silver diamond ring from . . . Tiffany’s.’
‘Obviously,’ Frankie says sarcastically.
‘Is Wera’s still happening, Frankie?’ Lace asks. She is slouched in her chair, looking very bored.
‘You said you didn’t fancy it yesterday.’
‘That was yesterday. Shall we?’
‘Okay, but we’re bringing your friend and her old grandma’s ring with us.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I say. ‘Josh will be coming back from golf soon, and we’re planning on watching . . .’ Lace covers my mouth with her hand.
‘No, you’re coming with us,’ she says and pulls me up from the chair.
*
Wera’s party is in a penthouse off Liverpool Street next to The Gherkin.
It’s her going-away party before she does the Camino de Santiago.
I’ve been here for 30 minutes, and not one person has spoken to me.
Lace disappeared into the crowd the second we arrived.
Frankie has been pulled from one person to the next, each calling his name like they haven’t seen him in years.
I hold a glass of sangria whilst standing awkwardly by a statue of a naked woman in a very compromising position.
This is easily the wildest party I have ever been to.