When We Were Rich, Page 2

  Sorry to gatecrash. It’s embarrassing. I’m Roxanne Peacock. Roxy. I’m a sort of friend of a friend of Colin’s. Sort of.

  Veronica ignores the hand and embraces Roxy.

  Happy Millennium, Roxanne Peacock. I’m Veronica Tree. Vronky.

  Frankie gives Nodge an affectionate punch on the shoulder. Nodge grabs Frankie’s hand in both of his and squeezes.

  Don’t worry about us. We’re just chopped liver, pet.

  Fraser is speaking in a booming Northern accent – Geordie, according to Nodge, but it sounds more like Brummie to Frankie.

  Shut up, Fraser, says Nodge. He says it tenderly, without reproof. Actually we only just got here five minutes ago ourselves. We dropped down the Admiral Duncan for a couple of shots. Sort of a pilgrimage.

  Bad year for those of your persuasion, says Frankie.

  Always is, says Fraser. Your neo-Nazi with a nail bomb can put quite a damper on things. For those of our ‘persuasion’.

  The old-style ones weren’t much better, says Nodge. The ones with the swastikas and torches.

  Do you know how many gays died in the camps? says Fraser. Do you? But he seems to be addressing no one in particular.

  Can we talk about something cheerful? says Frankie.

  Sorry, says Nodge. Fraser is very passionate.

  It’s always with the politics when it comes to you. It’s meant to be party time.

  Don’t apologize for me, says Fraser.

  Sorry, says Nodge.

  Fraser, apparently mollified, sidles up to Frankie and stage-whispers.

  I love your friend, Frankie, says Fraser, nodding towards Colin. He’s like a funny little Toby jug, yeh?

  Hi, Frankie, says Colin, rising from the bench and briefly shaking Frankie’s hand. He pretends not to hear Fraser.

  Hi, Colin. Glad you could make it. Nice to meet you Roxy. Shall we all go in? Without waiting for an answer, Frankie turns to the reception desk and announces his name, showing his card. He feels a flash of joy at the fact of his membership and silently repeats to himself that the two-year wait for membership and the exorbitant four-figure joining fee are worth the kudos that the silver card bestows.

  Happy Millennium, says the receptionist, without looking up, as Frankie signs them all in. Roxy totters and stumbles on three-inch heels. It appears to Frankie that she is already slightly drunk. Colin leans in as if to support her, but she pulls back.

  Once inside, they head straight for the bar. Stacks of glittering, spectroscopic, backlit bottles of liquor adorn the mirrored wall behind the two spry and immaculate bar staff, dressed in white shirts and black waistcoats. After a few minutes of jostling, Frankie manages to order a round of drinks. He looks over his shoulder, noticing that Roxy and Colin are sitting together in silence, staring straight ahead.

  Frankie has a whisky sour, Fraser a large glass of Pinot Noir, Nodge a G&T and both Roxy and Veronica order Cosmopolitans. Colin has asked – more in hope than expectation – for a Hofmeister, the lager he drinks without fail, but the brand is in serious decline and the Embankment Club is not the sort of place to stock it. He settles reluctantly for a bottle of Budvar.

  Then they drink. And drink and drink, one round chasing another with hysteric rapidity. Within an hour, everyone is merry or slurred, unloosened and unbuttoned.

  This is how Frankie wants it to be. The end of a thousand years, an unforgettable night – celebrated with the oldest and most reliable extinguisher of memory.

  * * *

  As the hour of eleven is breached, Frankie and Colin perch next to one another on bar stools, while Nodge, Fraser and Veronica sit together at a low smoked-glass table five feet behind them. Roxy has gone to the cloakroom to work on her face, after disapprovingly catching sight of it in one of the mirrored columns that punctuate the room.

  You two don’t seem to be exactly hitting it off, says Frankie.

  I barely know her, says Colin, glumly. She was meant to be going out tonight with her boyfriend. Got dumped at the last minute. So I invited her. She was impressed that I had an invite to the Embankment Club. I didn’t see the harm.

  You never do.

  Nodge gets up from the table and walks over to Colin and Frankie at the bar. Fraser, from his low seat, watches him carefully.

  That little Toby jug, says Fraser, who is elegantly drunk. Veronica rolls her eyes.

  Shhh, she says. Be nice.

  He just looks like someone is going to eat him up, says Fraser. He looks like he wants someone to eat him up, in fact.

  As a matter of fact, his mother pretty much consumed him for most of his life. Didn’t stop till she died last year.

  That must have been a relief.

  Be nice, Fraser. Please.

  My mother was a bitch.

  Excuse me, Fraser. I need another drink.

  Suit yourself.

  Fraser shrugs and Veronica makes her way towards the bar, where Frankie is holding forth. This is his empire, his domain. His largesse feels unlimited.

  We can watch the fireworks from the roof, he says, gesturing vaguely upwards. There’s a garden up there. More drinks?

  Where’s Roxy? says Colin.

  They look around. Roxy is nowhere to be seen.

  In the loo, says Veronica. I’ll see if she’s alright. Cosmopolitan for me, Frankie.

  What about Fraser?

  I didn’t ask. Something bitter would probably do.

  * * *

  Veronica makes her way into the elegant toilets – a single, long marble sink, low hush-hush lighting, blue and white microtiles and mock-sandstone pillars.

  The bathroom is empty except for Roxy, who, Veronica sees immediately, is silently weeping. She looks up in alarm when Veronica enters.

  Shit, says Roxy.

  She takes a tissue from a box on the ledge in front of her and starts furiously scrubbing at her eyes with her knuckles. Veronica stands next to her and rests her hand lightly on her back.

  What’s the matter?

  Roxy shakes her head, starts to sob again, this time making no attempt to mute the choking sounds.

  Veronica takes another tissue from a dispenser on the sink surface and hands it to Roxy, who attempts a weak laugh.

  Thank kew.

  She takes the tissue and finishes the job.

  I’m sorry. Sorry. Veronica. Is it Veronica?

  Vronky. What’s the matter?

  What’s the matter? What do you think? It’s Millennium night and I’m in a club where I don’t know anybody with a man who I’ve only met once before and who I don’t fancy or particularly like. I’m thirty-six years old. How did I get here?

  She reaches into her bag, pulls out a small pencil and starts applying eyeliner. She is stretching her eyelid and grimacing. She turns to Veronica pleadingly.

  Also, just to cap everything off, I’m bleeding like a stuck bloody pig. You got any tammies?

  I might have something.

  Veronica feels inside her bag, then failing to find what she is looking for, unloads the bag onto the marble surface. First out is a pack of three condoms.

  Only three? says Roxy, cackling now. Veronica says nothing.

  A tube of moisturizer. Keys on a keyring with an enamel tag attached. A battery and a mini flashlight. A collapsible umbrella. A tangerine, half peeled. Hospital ID card. A small camera. Then there, right at the bottom, two tampons loose in their fitted cellophane jackets.

  Got some. Veronica places one triumphantly on the edge of the sink. Roxy reaches unsteadily over, slips and knocks the pile of Veronica’s possessions onto the floor. The camera falls in a puddle of water.

  Fuck!

  Don’t worry about it.

  They scrabble to pick up the contents. Some has fallen under the sinks, and behind the upright, but most of it is in plain sight. Veronica herself is feeling the effects of her four cocktails, and isn’t too concerned. Roxy takes one tampon and puts the other in her bag.

  Thanks Veronica. Vronky.

 
Nice bag, says Veronica. She takes some lipstick and starts touching up her own make-up.

  Balenciaga, says Roxy. I like to splash out now and then.

  It really is a nice bag. How much did it cost?

  I’m too embarrassed to say.

  Go on.

  Seven hundred pounds.

  For real?

  Little Christmas present to myself. And an investment. You got to make an impression, isn’t it? If you want to get anywhere. I love a bit of shopping therapy. One of the few things I’m good at.

  I’m sure that’s not true.

  Oh, it is though. What do you do then, Veronica? She has noticed the medical card. You a nurse?

  I’m a . . .

  She hesitates, reframes the thought.

  Medical technician.

  I’m none the wiser. Still.

  You?

  In management.

  Which company?

  I’m a shop manager. For Top Shop. In Brent Cross Shopping Centre. Assistant manager, anyway.

  Veronica finishes applying her lipstick, dabs her mouth with a paper towel. Roxy is working on her eyelashes with a spoolie brush.

  How do you know Colin?

  Who?

  The bloke you came with.

  Oh, him. I don’t hardly know him at all. I got stood up. My so-called boyfriend of two months. Dumps me on Millennium night. Says he wants a new start. More like a new tart. A mate of mine who works for Sony tipped me the wink when I swallowed enough pride to ask if she knew any single men free and available at short notice. She trawled the depths and came up with Colin. He’s apparently wedged and nearly always single. So I thought, it’s better than sitting at home alone. Anything for a laugh.

  Veronica applies her blusher. Roxy is finishing up.

  She reaches in her bag and takes out a business card which she offers to Veronica, who takes it.

  That’s me. If you’re ever in Brent Cross. Which I wouldn’t necessarily recommend.

  Thanks.

  So how do you know Colin then?

  One of my husband’s oldest friends.

  Weird little guy.

  They were very close once. As children. Then Frankie worked out that he was only sticking with him out of pity.

  I know the feeling.

  Roxy tidies up her mascara.

  What else? Important to do some research on a blind date.

  He’s a Christian, says Veronica.

  Roxy’s mouth opens, exposing a slightly crooked ‘O’.

  This just gets better and better.

  When his mother died about a year ago he embraced the Lord. To be fair, I think he’s backed down a bit nowadays. Sort of over it, Frankie says. But he still goes to church now and then. Frankie invited him tonight, I think, for old times’ sake. Him and Nodge and Colin go back a long way. All the way to school days. He’s some sort of computer genius. An ‘idiot savant’, Frankie says. All the companies are trying to get him to work for them. Designs computer games. For Sony. But you know that already.

  Veronica takes out her phone and checks the time.

  They’re going out on the roof in a moment. Better get back out there.

  She sees Veronica putting her wedding ring back on.

  That looks fresh.

  Four months.

  What’s being married like?

  Veronica flinches slightly at the question.

  We’re still getting to know each other.

  Uh oh.

  Relationships are difficult.

  Right.

  Worth the effort, though.

  If you say so. ’Spose anything’s got to be better than sitting watching Wife Swap reruns every night with a bottle of Lambrini and a joint.

  They both clip their bags closed, in perfect synchronicity, and head back to the bar.

  Look, says Veronica, who is surprised at how much she likes this woman. Let me know how it goes. Ring me.

  She takes out a pen and scribbles her number on the back of Roxy’s hand.

  A hundred per cent, says Roxy.

  * * *

  Ten minutes to go, announces Frankie. Let’s move.

  He leads them to a small lift, finished with brushed steel interior, which they squeeze into. Colin, the shortest of them – since both Roxy and Veronica are wearing heels – looks the most uncomfortable. He is wearing a black hoodie and a pair of shapeless fawn-coloured chinos.

  The lift travels up ten storeys, then they tumble out onto the roof. A mist of garbled sound is floating up from street level. Down on the Embankment the crowd behaves as a single organism, throbbing, pulsing then simultaneously waving like a windswept field of fat, dark grass.

  There’s Big Ben, says Colin, rapturously. Frankie over the years has noticed how Colin only seems to have two forms of expression – flat and disinterested, or overexcited.

  Fraser is gossiping animatedly about shopping with Roxy. Nodge, bored, joins Frankie, who is peering over the edge at the thrumming crowds below.

  Do you know where it’s all going to start, Frankie? says Nodge. The first place to see the new millennium?

  Dunno.

  Think. Way down south.

  Battersea?

  Guess proper.

  Australia?

  Fiji, Frankie. Fiji. Down there it’s been the Millennium for two hours already.

  Frankie regards Nodge affectionately.

  You never did go, did you?

  One day I will.

  Nodge stares down at the crowd.

  What a ringside seat. Thanks for getting us in.

  I’m surprised you’re here. I thought you’d be out at Greenwich with your friend Tony.

  Diamond Tony?

  Not Tony Diamonte. Tony Blair. At the Dome.

  Roxy turns to Veronica.

  Why are they talking about Fiji? she says.

  Nodge always wanted to go there. Ever since he was a kid. It’s a kind of standing thing between Frankie and him.

  Now there are fifty members of the club craning their necks towards the river. Down below is a clear view of the crowd standing at least ten deep. There is the constant iteration of flashbulbs.

  Frankie takes a bulky Polaroid camera out of the dun-coloured canvas man bag he has recently begun to favour over pockets. Seeing Roxy and Veronica standing together, he motions for them to come closer to one another.

  Let’s get a shot.

  They put their arms awkwardly around one another and vamp for the camera. Frankie clicks, and a small square of glossy paper slips out of the front. A picture begins to emerge, a memory forging itself from chemicals and light.

  What’s that? An antique? says Colin, while Frankie holds the photo up to the night air and waves it back and forth like a tiny flag to dry the emulsion. Colin takes a shiny silver object out of his pocket, flips it open, looks through an aperture and points the object at Frankie. It seems he has been waiting for this moment. He clicks and lowers the gadget.

  What is that thing? says Nodge.

  Camera phone. I got it from a friend in Japan. Prototype. Take a look.

  Nodge takes the phone and examines it. The rest of the group gather. They see the image of Frankie captured on the screen.

  Hmmm, says Nodge, non-commitally.

  It’s like – a camera. And – a phone, says Fraser.

  The Sharp J-SH04, says Colin, proudly. The J-phone. 256-colour STN display on the front side.

  Lousy quality. says Fraser, trying not to show how impressed he is. What is it, about fifteen pixels?

  A hundred and ten thousand. It’ll get better. Look. It has a tiny mirror next to the lens to help you do self-portraits.

  What’s a pixel? asks Veronica.

  I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about but I want one! says Roxy. For the first time, she seems to be making voluntary body contact with Colin.

  The best thing is, you can send the picture to anyone else who has got one of these phones, says Colin.

  What do you mean, ‘sen
d’?

  Electronically. Via text messages. You know.

  The group look bewildered.

  That’s useful, says Fraser. Given that no one else has one.

  Probably cost a fortune, says Nodge.

  About five hundred pounds.

  It’s a gimmick, says Nodge.

  Don’t you see the potential? says Colin, excited to be the centre of attention. Once it catches on – well you could for instance go shopping, take pictures of some piece of clothing and text it back to a friend while you were in the shop. Or you could set friends up on dates. Or anything. It’s an obvious move. It’s just the beginning.

  What’s the end? says Frankie.

  Who knows? says Colin.

  I love it, says Roxy.

  I might be able to get you one, says Colin slyly.

  You couldn’t! she replies, delighted.

  I might.

  What would be the price of that then, whispers Fraser into Roxy’s ear. Hand job, blow job or the full Monty?

  You’re disgusting, says Veronica.

  Roxy, however, looks both unoffended and thoughtful.

  The group continue to stare at the image on the camera phone, but look up as the chimes of Big Ben begin to sound. Attention falls away from Colin. A rolling wave of noise is rising from the Embankment below as the crowd begins to count down to midnight.

  Everyone starts to clap and cheer. The group on the roof join in.

  Bong

  Ten

  Bong

  Nine

  Bong

  Now the cheering gathers momentum, a great wave of sound surging up from below, and at the same time over the Thames, clusters of fireworks ignite and as the chimes continue, the ignitions multiply, a collective orgasm. Rockets fly and phosphate flowers, a thousand foot across, bloom in the sky. A million cameras flash, trying to capture this end to a thousand years of chaos, conflict, love, misery, confusion, struggle, sex, death, beauty, hurt.

  Frankie looks at Big Ben and feels something he almost never feels. Pride. Although he is not sure what he is proud of. But he is drunk and happy, and newly married and still almost young.

  Veronica steps in front of him and kisses him as the fireworks continue to flare. Fraser and Nodge meanwhile have their tongues down each other’s throats and are writhing against the skyline.

  Colin and Roxy stand awkwardly next to one another, Colin still fidgeting with his phone, occasionally pointing it at the display and pressing a button. Roxy can barely take her eyes off it.