‘Follow me.’
I lead him back to the dressing room, quickening my step as the throngs dwindle.
‘You seem familiar. Have we met before?’
He can’t see my expression, because I’m in front of him. My throat constricts, but I shake my head, my ringlets bouncing. ‘Maybe we ran into each other at ITV?’ That was where he went after Beatnik, before LA.
‘That’ll be it.’
We reach the dressing room. Locking the door, I chuck the packet on the long shelf by the mirror and give him a little curtsy.
‘All yours.’
He sits himself down and starts tipping out the powder. ‘So, do you work at Red Eye?’ he asks, getting out his bank card. It’s all very casual, like I’ve invited him to sample a canapé.
‘Yep, nose at the grindstone.’
He grins, holding up a twenty-pound note. ‘Bet it would rather be somewhere else.’
I laugh, remembering how he made me giggle. I liked him, he was charming and funny; still is. He hasn’t changed, not one bit. My mentor, my protector, my knight in shining armour. But for the knight the battle was lost. He bends his head and I watch him snort up the line, whoosh, into that straight, clean-as-a-whistle nose. Rearing up, he sniffs and offers me the note, tightly rolled into a tube. I shake my head, backing away.
‘Come on!’ he beckons me with his roll-up.
‘I’ve got my own!’ Reaching into my bag, I pull out my purse and grab the twenty-pound note the traders gave me in the cab this morning. When I took it, did I ever imagine I’d be using it for this? This note has probably seen its fair share of coke already, so it’s come full circle. I hadn’t decided what I’d do if he offered it to me, figured probably not because of Sweet Valley High and the girl who died. Always been wary of risk. But look where that got me. Like Oz, I want to take the edge off the fear, keep me fizzing with adrenaline, help me take this next, precarious step. Rolling up my note as he hacks out another line, I fully intend to inhale, and bend to the shelf, ready to do the deed. But as he turns away, holding his nostrils, I’m suddenly revolted by the idea of sharing anything with him. Sharing this artificial euphoria, the chemicals cleaving us together. Unthinkable.
So as he enjoys his hit, I fake it, simultaneously sweeping the powder away as I snort thin air. Rearing up, I squeeze my nose and wonder how I’m going to feign a coke rush. I’m about to do something incredibly, intensely difficult and unlikely to succeed, which will be fairly traumatic and might not even have the desired result, AND I have to pretend to be high. It’s a tall order, but maybe my sham snort has had some sort of placebo effect, because I FEEL AMAZING AND CAN ABSOLUTELY DO THIS.
I bend down to grasp the ruffled hem of my beautiful swishy dress, and pull the whole thing over my head.
‘Whoa!’ he says, laughing and rubbing his gums. ‘What’s up?’
‘Just a bit of fun,’ I say, struggling as my curls are stuck in a button. ‘Help me,’ I mumble, and, still chuckling, he untangles me and pulls the dress away. I pull it back, flirtatiously, and he lets go, smiling.
‘What’s this? Are you propositioning me? How novel.’
How intoxicating it must be, with or without drugs, to be locked in a room with someone and not worry about the consequences. To know it’s fine, that you won’t be hurt or violated in any way. That you can walk across any canyon, on any rope, and it will hold. Being here with him terrifies me, even though I know if I screamed, Petroc would come running. But what if I don’t get to scream? What if I could scream, but can’t make myself . . .? No, that’s Old Clover’s thinking. New Clover is different. New Clover can do this. I wave the skirt round in a circle, like a burlesque dancer, my grin rictus.
‘For old times’ sake?’
‘Must be very old times,’ he replies. ‘Because I have to be honest, I don’t remember you.’
I pout, in my bra and knickers. ‘That’s not very flattering. I thought I was the one person who understood you.’
‘Did I say that? I say a lot of things.’
‘You certainly do,’ I reply. And then my voice hardens. ‘You said that if I slept with you, I’d get a promotion.’
‘Did I? That sounds awfully direct.’ He sounds posher than he used to, affecting a kind of Hugh Grant drawl which I’m sure goes down very well in Hollywood.
‘You implied it. Very strongly.’
‘And did you? It sounds like a win–win.’
‘Except I didn’t want to do it.’
‘Well, I’m sure I didn’t force you.’
‘I’m sure you think you didn’t.’
It’s strange, how I can stand here in my underwear, splitting hairs with this toad of a man, and it’s OK. Without my clothes on, I guess the difference between twenty-six-year-old me and forty-six-year-old me is even more marked. I’m nothing like I was back then – I’m flabbier, and slacker, but firmer and tighter than ever. He might think it’s the cocaine talking, but it’s not; it’s just me. I can do this. I can take him down.
He’s been leaning against the shelf, long legs outstretched, but he gets up, putting his card and his note back in his pocket before strolling over to me, taking my chin in his hand, turning my head this way and that to jog his memory. His touch makes me flinch, my skin crawling as his grape skins leave their mark.
‘Listen, I’m sorry if you think something went on between us, but I promise you I don’t remember anything about it.’
‘Get away from me.’ I push him. ‘So, it didn’t happen? Because you don’t remember? Because it meant nothing to you?’
‘I think you might be taking it all a bit seriously. Just a roll in the hay, that’s all. Chill out.’
‘Not a roll in the hay. The Ecclestone vicarage.’
I see him remember, see the clouds lift, the smile as he recalls. ‘Oh, that night. Clover, isn’t it? Little Four-Leaf. Bump in the Night . . .’
The confusion and chaos of that night. I thought I’d said no. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I said yes. Maybe I implied yes. He said he was going to help me, I wanted him to help me, ergo I wanted . . . I will never forget that night, or afterwards, huddled in a taxi and then back at the hotel. It was one of those family B&Bs, not at all appropriate for a motley TV crew, and I found a hot water bottle in my bed when I got to my room. The motherliness of it made me cry, tears spilling onto the pages of my book, but I couldn’t get warm, no matter where I put it against my body. I shoved a chair against the door, even though it was locked, and checked the windows, even though I knew it was ridiculous, would make no difference. He’d already got in, back at the vicarage. I didn’t know how to stop him.
The muscle memory makes me shiver, leaving my naked skin clammy and cold, and suddenly I’m confused, can’t remember my plan, my script, what was I saying? What do I want him to say? A confession? Remorse? What would make it better? I don’t know, and don’t know why I’m here, what I’m doing. It’s all going wrong – he’s supposed to look like a cornered rat and yet he’s reclining, relaxed and assured, while I stand there gibbering in my smalls. Maybe I should have taken the drugs.
‘You ruined me. You . . . you . . . I couldn’t . . .’ And I still can’t. My mouth feels dry, my tongue thick and useless. What are my cues? I’ve forgotten, can’t get it together. I feel woozy and disoriented, like I’ve just been knocked out by a businessman’s briefcase.
