Many years ago, when I was doing my A-levels, I developed an obsession for a US teen drama called Roswell High. It was on BBC 2 at 6pm on Wednesdays and during season one I didn’t miss a single episode. At the end of every show I would sit on my Granny’s living room floor (because she had a bigger television) refusing to avert my eyes from the screen, hoping that if I stared hard enough it would magically fast forward to the next episode.
My appetite was fuelled largely by the on-off relationship between an alien, Michael, and a human, Maria. Unlike the full-blown, starry-eyed love affair between Max (alien) and Liz (human), there was something honest and real about the budding romance between this emotionally stunted extra terrestrial and mouthy waitress. No hormonal seventeen-year-old was as soulful and sensitive as Max but every boy I liked at school reminded me of Michael, only he was a much better kisser. And was better looking. And the actor Brendon Fehr was probably not a spotty teen but a Hollywood actor in his twenties. These were all minor details though. As far as I was concerned Michael was a boy, the same age as me, who had the ability to be passionate and poetic and fall in love. Surely there had to be at least one moody bad lad in my History class who could be as deep and meaningful? Alas, by the end of season one the whole alien-human thing had ruined the romance for Michael and Maria whilst the boys in History continued to ping the girls’ bra straps and throw rubbers at the backs of our heads.
When I started university, I became so consumed by my own, real life romantic traumas that I didn’t have time for the likes of Roswell anymore. Fast forward ten years and my brother, possibly as a joke, possibly not, gave me the DVD box set for my birthday. It was a thoughtful gift; he had remembered my old infatuation when I had long forgotten that the show ever existed (probably he retains mental scars from being forced to watch it week in and week out for half a year). I promptly put the box on my shelf to collect dust next to Pretty Woman and the Peep Show. I once took it down and momentarily considered putting on the pilot episode but I couldn’t quite go through with it. Then, last Sunday, a friend and I lay curled up in my bed after a reckless Saturday night out in Nice. The first disc was missing from my Grey’s Anatomy box set and we weren’t in the mood for a movie. Roswell was all we had left.
My friend and I settled down and got through four episodes. The next night we watched five. I was seventeen all over again and as soon as the credits rolled I immediately wanted to go on to the next one. After my friend returned to London I did consecutive nights propped up in bed: two episodes, three and then another two. I eked out the last disc and had an additional session dedicated to the extras. This morning, when I woke up and realised that it was over, that there would be no Roswell tonight, I felt bereft. I got out of bed and immediately ordered the second and third seasons on Amazon.
I hadn’t been expecting to love Roswell as much now as I did the first time around but, if anything, I think I may love it more. I laughed out loud when Michael and Maria bantered like Hepburn and Tracey, was breathless when Max strapped his biceps around Liz and kissed her for the first time, and was a weeping mess when Maria comforted her distraught boyfriend after he’d had a fight with his abusive foster father. And he may be seventeen and an alien but Michael still makes me swoon. To think that all these years I’ve been hell bent on having a human boyfriend, when what I actually need is something extra-terrestrial.
In all seriousness, I have found it slightly disturbing to discover that my dreams and desires haven’t developed that much since my adolescence. You’d imagine that my experiences with men over the years might have taught me that such intense, absurdly romantic relationships don’t exist anywhere but in American teen dramas. Well apparently not, because I’m still holding on to the slender chance that there’s a Michael out there to make me his Maria. On the flipside, the fact that I’ve clearly not progressed mentally or emotionally since I was a teenager is helping me to view my infatuationist ways in a whole new light; suddenly my fantastical imagination, irresponsible behaviour and short attention span are making perfect sense.
Does this mean then that I am destined to spend the rest of my life snogging boys behind bike sheds? Probably. You never know my luck though, I may happen to stumble across a tortured, poetic, desperately handsome alien on the Promenade des Anglais…or, better still, Brendon Fehr.
Until that day - or until I grow-up - I’ll just settle for a poster.
Saturday, 25 July 2009
Thursday, 9 July 2009
RAVE-A-THON!
This summer has seen me go raving mad. Literally. As in I’ve gone crazy for Ibiza anthems, repetitive drumbeats, glow sticks, whistles – the whole lot. I caught the rave bug after a number of late night dance sessions around a camper van whilst on holiday in Sicily in May. The music of choice was a lurid techno/cheesy house mix and when I got back to Nice the rhythms went on banging and banging and banging in my brain.
Thankfully, at the beginning of June Kitty threw a party up at the villa and I had an opportunity to rave on once again. I was so excited that I deigned the event an official rave-a-thon. One of the boys at the party took to the idea immediately but felt that the concept needed clarifying. ‘Explain to me again, why rave-a-thon?’ he asked. In all honesty, I just liked the word. ‘Imagine raving but seriously, seriously hardcore,’ I tried. ‘What? That’s it?’ he frowned, looking disappointed. ‘I had been imagining something along the lines of a marathon, only with dancing.’ Hmmm, 26.5 miles of raving? I had to admit, this had legs. At that moment Kitty’s DJ brother started to spin 9pm (till I come). It was our starter gun. The boy and I looked at each other and nodded. We were off. For the rest of the evening revellers were split between those sipping rose and having civilized conversations and those bouncing up and down like lunatics and waving their hands in the air. I was, of course, the life and soul of the latter; right up to the point that I stumbled to the lounge and lay down on the sofa. It was intended to be a power nap. Not long after I’d dropped off, a hand shook me roughly. ‘Oi, there’s no way you’re going to sleep yet.’ I swotted at the boy. ‘Seriously,’ he continued, sounding annoyed, ‘what’s happened to the rave-a-thon?’ I lifted my head and managed with surprising force, ‘It’s only a fucking warm up.’ I dropped back on to the pillow, now beyond the realm of napping, and the boy tiptoed away to complete the remaining 24.5 miles by himself.
The following week, I had a chance to salvage my reputation at Kitty’s housemate’s party - same venue, same music, same vibe. Alas, due to my dalliance with the bus stop boy the night before, I’d had an hour’s sleep and was heavy with hangover. By 6pm everyone else was well on the way to having a very merry time, whilst I remained sober and sombre. ’Rave-a-thon?’ Mindy looked me up and down with disgust, ‘More like rave-a-non.’ Realising that I couldn’t take the humiliation of another failed performance, I rallied myself and, ignoring the stabbing pains in my stomach, I forced down a cocktail of gin, cava and larger. It didn’t take long for a wave of Ibiza-esque euphoria to wash over me. Suddenly carried away by this new surge of energy I grabbed JC by the hand. ‘Shots!’ I shouted and dragged him to the kitchen. ‘Steady on raver, we’ve got no mixers.’ ‘And?’ ‘We’re not having neat vodka,’ JC looked at me with concern, he clearly thought I’d had enough. His compromise was to dilute the spirit with citron syrup found at the back of one of the cupboards. I downed five of these in the space of half an hour. Half an hour after that I was passed out on the same sofa as the week before. At 1am I had declared on Facebook: “Rave-a-thon! Whoop whoop!” By 1.30am Mindy had added: “Yeah, rave-a-non.”
The following weekend, I felt the need to prove, if only to myself, that I still had the youthful stamina to pull an all nighter. Unlike the majority of my fellow ravers, I was not having it large in the dance tent at Glastonbury but was rather jigging wildly to a schoolboy folk band at a steam engine rally in the heart of the Kentish countryside – an altogether more hardcore affair. After the live music was shut down at 11pm, my five friends and I felt suitably pumped to take the party down a quiet country lane. We turned up the car stereo, took swigs of vodka from the bottle and jumped without coordination. Despite the attempts of the fairground security crack team to shut us down (at one point we were involved in a high speed car chase around rural Kent) we managed to keep going until the wee hours, and I was up until the bitter end. I’ve now come to the conclusion that the key to a successful rave-a-thon is ensuring that one always dances around a stationary vehicle.
‘Sounds as if you’ll be in need of some peace and quiet when you get back to Nice,’ my mother said on the phone, ‘You’ll probably enjoy having a bit of a break.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I scoffed, ‘it’s the Riviera and it’s summer, the next two months will be one long party.’ ‘Dear,’ mother tutted, ‘you’re nothing but a playgirl. Only you’re not rich. I don’t know how you manage it.’ I swear underneath the pretence of disdain, I could detect a little pride.
Thankfully, at the beginning of June Kitty threw a party up at the villa and I had an opportunity to rave on once again. I was so excited that I deigned the event an official rave-a-thon. One of the boys at the party took to the idea immediately but felt that the concept needed clarifying. ‘Explain to me again, why rave-a-thon?’ he asked. In all honesty, I just liked the word. ‘Imagine raving but seriously, seriously hardcore,’ I tried. ‘What? That’s it?’ he frowned, looking disappointed. ‘I had been imagining something along the lines of a marathon, only with dancing.’ Hmmm, 26.5 miles of raving? I had to admit, this had legs. At that moment Kitty’s DJ brother started to spin 9pm (till I come). It was our starter gun. The boy and I looked at each other and nodded. We were off. For the rest of the evening revellers were split between those sipping rose and having civilized conversations and those bouncing up and down like lunatics and waving their hands in the air. I was, of course, the life and soul of the latter; right up to the point that I stumbled to the lounge and lay down on the sofa. It was intended to be a power nap. Not long after I’d dropped off, a hand shook me roughly. ‘Oi, there’s no way you’re going to sleep yet.’ I swotted at the boy. ‘Seriously,’ he continued, sounding annoyed, ‘what’s happened to the rave-a-thon?’ I lifted my head and managed with surprising force, ‘It’s only a fucking warm up.’ I dropped back on to the pillow, now beyond the realm of napping, and the boy tiptoed away to complete the remaining 24.5 miles by himself.
The following week, I had a chance to salvage my reputation at Kitty’s housemate’s party - same venue, same music, same vibe. Alas, due to my dalliance with the bus stop boy the night before, I’d had an hour’s sleep and was heavy with hangover. By 6pm everyone else was well on the way to having a very merry time, whilst I remained sober and sombre. ’Rave-a-thon?’ Mindy looked me up and down with disgust, ‘More like rave-a-non.’ Realising that I couldn’t take the humiliation of another failed performance, I rallied myself and, ignoring the stabbing pains in my stomach, I forced down a cocktail of gin, cava and larger. It didn’t take long for a wave of Ibiza-esque euphoria to wash over me. Suddenly carried away by this new surge of energy I grabbed JC by the hand. ‘Shots!’ I shouted and dragged him to the kitchen. ‘Steady on raver, we’ve got no mixers.’ ‘And?’ ‘We’re not having neat vodka,’ JC looked at me with concern, he clearly thought I’d had enough. His compromise was to dilute the spirit with citron syrup found at the back of one of the cupboards. I downed five of these in the space of half an hour. Half an hour after that I was passed out on the same sofa as the week before. At 1am I had declared on Facebook: “Rave-a-thon! Whoop whoop!” By 1.30am Mindy had added: “Yeah, rave-a-non.”
The following weekend, I felt the need to prove, if only to myself, that I still had the youthful stamina to pull an all nighter. Unlike the majority of my fellow ravers, I was not having it large in the dance tent at Glastonbury but was rather jigging wildly to a schoolboy folk band at a steam engine rally in the heart of the Kentish countryside – an altogether more hardcore affair. After the live music was shut down at 11pm, my five friends and I felt suitably pumped to take the party down a quiet country lane. We turned up the car stereo, took swigs of vodka from the bottle and jumped without coordination. Despite the attempts of the fairground security crack team to shut us down (at one point we were involved in a high speed car chase around rural Kent) we managed to keep going until the wee hours, and I was up until the bitter end. I’ve now come to the conclusion that the key to a successful rave-a-thon is ensuring that one always dances around a stationary vehicle.
‘Sounds as if you’ll be in need of some peace and quiet when you get back to Nice,’ my mother said on the phone, ‘You’ll probably enjoy having a bit of a break.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I scoffed, ‘it’s the Riviera and it’s summer, the next two months will be one long party.’ ‘Dear,’ mother tutted, ‘you’re nothing but a playgirl. Only you’re not rich. I don’t know how you manage it.’ I swear underneath the pretence of disdain, I could detect a little pride.
Friday, 26 June 2009
Half your age... plus seven
How young is too young? Or, more specifically, what qualifies as too much toy and too much boy?
As a result of a tryst with a floppy-haired Frenchie last Friday night, it’s a question I’ve been mulling over considerably this past week. Actually, as I met him at a bus stop at 5am I think technically the tryst took place on Saturday morning. I’m aware of how this sounds but in all fairness at the time my friend Mindy and I had been seeking protection from a toothless tramp, one that had pulled down his pants and tugged at his penis in a most unsavoury manner before following us down the street.
On hearing of our trouble, the bus stop boy and his friend agreed to act as our chaperones. Alas, the toothless one was persistent and, failing to lose him, we decided to hide in the boy’s nearby apartment until the stalker got bored and went away. Of course, once ensconced in the cosy living room Mindy and I were more than happy to share a bottle of Merlot and a game of cards; just because we had to be here, for our safety, there was no reason why we couldn’t enjoy ourselves as well. The friend was a croupier and he wowed us with his nimble fingers and magic tricks. In return we taught them how to play Shit Head. By the time I’d noticed the sunlight streaming through the window, I was curled up on the sofa with bus stop boy, his silky locks against my cheek. When Mindy hinted that we should go, I simply shrugged and told her to watch out for the sex pest on her way home.
Arriving back at mine around lunchtime, Mindy raised her eyebrows, ‘Have fun?’ I rubbed my temples. ‘Where’s the boy?’ Mindy continued, ignoring my scowl, ‘Back with mummy? Or is he doing his homework?’ ‘He wasn’t that young,’ I mumbled, barely mustering the strength to form a defence, ‘he’s doing his finals.’ ‘Yeah, his baccalauréat maybe,’ Mindy scoffed. ‘Did you not see the timetable on his desk? If he’s at university why is he studying Maths, Art, Geography and English?’ I shrugged, ‘Obviously the French education system is a bit different. Come on Mind, he’s so not a schoolboy.’ ‘He’s just passed his driving test!’ Okay, this was true. In fact, he had received the letter only that morning and was as excited as a baby lab. I’d found it endearing at the time. I gasped. Dear God, he was still a teenager. ‘Serves you right for letting your friend walk through the streets of Nice in a black body-con mini dress at 7am,’ Mindy folded her arms and nodded at me sharply. ‘And to think, people were assuming I was a prostitute when you…’
Later that day, at Kitty’s pool party, Mindy kindly spread the news that I had a new amour. ‘So hang on a second,’ JC looked up from his plate and held his BBQ chicken in midair, ‘you met two men at a bus stop at 5am and then went back to their apartment? That’s sensible is it girls? And then you…’ JC shook his head at me, ‘and with a child too.’ ‘He was twenty-one,’ I screwed up my eyes and aimed a balled up paper napkin at his forehead, ‘he drank bloody Merlot for Christ sake.’ ‘We’re in France,’ he threw the napkin back, ‘that’s what the kids drink here.’ I sighed, unable to see what the fuss was about; I’ve always liked younger men. In fact, at university I had such a thing for preppy boys in their school uniforms that I had to rule out being a teacher on the basis that an affair with one of my students would be inevitable.
Now that there is a full decade standing in the way of me and a sixth former, the schoolboy thing doesn’t really hold the same allure as it used to but surely any guy over the age of twenty is fair game. As Aaliyah sagely pointed out, age ain’t nothing but a number and this whole bus stop boy incident was making me wonder if it wasn’t time to accept that I was destined to end up with a toy boy. ‘So,’ I enquired ‘how young is too young?’ Snoozie, so called because of her narcoleptic tendencies, had a definitive answer, ‘Half your age plus seven. Any figure below, kiddie fiddling.’ I worked on the maths. ‘Twenty-one is totally fine,’ I said eventually, feeling vindicated. ‘Oh yes, fine. Don’t worry, my boyfriend is younger than me too.’ ‘He’s two years younger Snooz,’ Mindy interrupted, ‘it’s hardly the same as deflowering an adolescent.’ ‘I did no such thing,’ I wailed but I could see arguing was futile; by the end of the party I would be known only as the girl who “deflowers” teenage boys.
‘You know,’ I said, brightening up, ‘if he’s on his school holidays he’ll have a lot of time free over the summer.’ ‘Yep, you can hang out together at the arcade,’ JC winked at me, ‘or loiter in the shopping centre. You can watch him do tricks on his skateboard in the park, treat him to an ice cream.’ ‘Now hang on JC,’ I rolled my eyes at him, ‘your letting your imagination run away with you now. I’m no sugar mummy.’ Realistically, with his pocket money alone, bus stop boy probably had a better income than I did. The ice creams would definitely be on him.
As a result of a tryst with a floppy-haired Frenchie last Friday night, it’s a question I’ve been mulling over considerably this past week. Actually, as I met him at a bus stop at 5am I think technically the tryst took place on Saturday morning. I’m aware of how this sounds but in all fairness at the time my friend Mindy and I had been seeking protection from a toothless tramp, one that had pulled down his pants and tugged at his penis in a most unsavoury manner before following us down the street.
On hearing of our trouble, the bus stop boy and his friend agreed to act as our chaperones. Alas, the toothless one was persistent and, failing to lose him, we decided to hide in the boy’s nearby apartment until the stalker got bored and went away. Of course, once ensconced in the cosy living room Mindy and I were more than happy to share a bottle of Merlot and a game of cards; just because we had to be here, for our safety, there was no reason why we couldn’t enjoy ourselves as well. The friend was a croupier and he wowed us with his nimble fingers and magic tricks. In return we taught them how to play Shit Head. By the time I’d noticed the sunlight streaming through the window, I was curled up on the sofa with bus stop boy, his silky locks against my cheek. When Mindy hinted that we should go, I simply shrugged and told her to watch out for the sex pest on her way home.
Arriving back at mine around lunchtime, Mindy raised her eyebrows, ‘Have fun?’ I rubbed my temples. ‘Where’s the boy?’ Mindy continued, ignoring my scowl, ‘Back with mummy? Or is he doing his homework?’ ‘He wasn’t that young,’ I mumbled, barely mustering the strength to form a defence, ‘he’s doing his finals.’ ‘Yeah, his baccalauréat maybe,’ Mindy scoffed. ‘Did you not see the timetable on his desk? If he’s at university why is he studying Maths, Art, Geography and English?’ I shrugged, ‘Obviously the French education system is a bit different. Come on Mind, he’s so not a schoolboy.’ ‘He’s just passed his driving test!’ Okay, this was true. In fact, he had received the letter only that morning and was as excited as a baby lab. I’d found it endearing at the time. I gasped. Dear God, he was still a teenager. ‘Serves you right for letting your friend walk through the streets of Nice in a black body-con mini dress at 7am,’ Mindy folded her arms and nodded at me sharply. ‘And to think, people were assuming I was a prostitute when you…’
Later that day, at Kitty’s pool party, Mindy kindly spread the news that I had a new amour. ‘So hang on a second,’ JC looked up from his plate and held his BBQ chicken in midair, ‘you met two men at a bus stop at 5am and then went back to their apartment? That’s sensible is it girls? And then you…’ JC shook his head at me, ‘and with a child too.’ ‘He was twenty-one,’ I screwed up my eyes and aimed a balled up paper napkin at his forehead, ‘he drank bloody Merlot for Christ sake.’ ‘We’re in France,’ he threw the napkin back, ‘that’s what the kids drink here.’ I sighed, unable to see what the fuss was about; I’ve always liked younger men. In fact, at university I had such a thing for preppy boys in their school uniforms that I had to rule out being a teacher on the basis that an affair with one of my students would be inevitable.
Now that there is a full decade standing in the way of me and a sixth former, the schoolboy thing doesn’t really hold the same allure as it used to but surely any guy over the age of twenty is fair game. As Aaliyah sagely pointed out, age ain’t nothing but a number and this whole bus stop boy incident was making me wonder if it wasn’t time to accept that I was destined to end up with a toy boy. ‘So,’ I enquired ‘how young is too young?’ Snoozie, so called because of her narcoleptic tendencies, had a definitive answer, ‘Half your age plus seven. Any figure below, kiddie fiddling.’ I worked on the maths. ‘Twenty-one is totally fine,’ I said eventually, feeling vindicated. ‘Oh yes, fine. Don’t worry, my boyfriend is younger than me too.’ ‘He’s two years younger Snooz,’ Mindy interrupted, ‘it’s hardly the same as deflowering an adolescent.’ ‘I did no such thing,’ I wailed but I could see arguing was futile; by the end of the party I would be known only as the girl who “deflowers” teenage boys.
‘You know,’ I said, brightening up, ‘if he’s on his school holidays he’ll have a lot of time free over the summer.’ ‘Yep, you can hang out together at the arcade,’ JC winked at me, ‘or loiter in the shopping centre. You can watch him do tricks on his skateboard in the park, treat him to an ice cream.’ ‘Now hang on JC,’ I rolled my eyes at him, ‘your letting your imagination run away with you now. I’m no sugar mummy.’ Realistically, with his pocket money alone, bus stop boy probably had a better income than I did. The ice creams would definitely be on him.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
And They Call It Puppy Love
A couple of weeks ago my little ward took me to her local piscine. She is enviously proficient in the water and took great pleasure in correcting my front crawl (I have the technique of a toddler). I was trying to concentrate on her instructions but the strapping lifeguards patrolling the poolside were proving to be a distraction so she gave up and launched into a synchronised dance whilst I attempted to find a sexy way to tread water. Alas, next to an adolescent aqua nymph, I feared my uncoordinated splashing would do little to impress the finely honed athletes. Finally, after my ward had challenged me to an underwater summersault contest, one of the Olympians blew his whistle and told us to get out of the way of the grown ups doing lengths.
We retreated to the children’s pool and, with our feet firmly on the ground, we relaxed against the side. Suddenly, my ward looked over her shoulders to check the coast was clear, then whispered, ‘I want to ask you something.’ I smiled at her to go on. ‘It’s just that all the boys who like me are the ones that I don’t like. Why is that?’ ‘That is one of life’s greatest mysteries,’ I waved my hand helplessly. ‘The ones you don’t want won’t leave you alone whilst the ones you do will be impossible to get. Always.’ I paused and narrowed my eyes at her, ‘By “like”, you mean like right?’ She nodded and I gasped: I’d always assumed she was the sweet and innocent type.
Of course, it was inevitable that she would be corrupted by the opposite sex eventually and, once I got over the initial shock, I was delighted that she wanted to share her romantic troubles with me. Mind you, as she reeled off the names of all the boys trying to court her, it occurred to me that she really didn’t have much to worry about. Obviously, the one she wanted was a moody bad boy. But it sounded like even he was putty in her hands. ‘If he likes you,’ I advised, ‘then tell him that you like him back.’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘Okay, if you can’t face doing it then get your friend to tell him. That will give him the confidence to approach you. Just be straight with him. No games.’
The following week, she ushered me into her lounge excitedly. ‘He asked me,’ she said, jumping on the spot. I frowned. ‘Jonas?’ she rolled her eyes. I squealed and joined her in the jumping. ‘My friend talked to him in registration and at break time he asked if I would I like to be his girlfriend. Go out with him. Do boys say that in England?’ ‘Sure they do… when they’re fourteen.’ I felt a sudden pang for the days when it was all so simple. ‘Anyway, you said yes, right?’ ‘I said I need time. For thinking.’ I raised my eyebrows, ‘Playing hard to get?’ ‘No. It’s just that there is this other boy…’ Another boy? I sighed and sat down heavily on the sofa. She sat on the armchair beside me. Arno was, by all accounts, less good looking but funnier and he was suddenly making a play for her affections.
When she had finished explaining, I grabbed her by the hand, ‘Now listen to me, I am wise… Okay, I am older than you and I won’t let you make the same mistakes. Last week, when he was “a challenge”, you wanted Jonas. Now he wants you and you’re not sure. This is human nature. But although the grass may suddenly look greener elsewhere it’s not, believe me.’
We decided to resolve the contest by methodically measuring up the credentials of the two suitors. We logged into Facebook. When it came to looks, there was no comparison: obviously Jonas was a tad too young for me - at the moment - but by teenage standards he was seriously hot. I then squinted at Arno's thumbnail. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he’s a nice lad but funny isn’t everything. I clicked back to the hottie. ‘Go for this one,’ I commanded. She looked at the gelled black hair, blue eyes and dimples. ‘You are right,’ she eventually nodded, ‘I do love Jonas.’ ‘Not love,’ I corrected, ‘like, you like Jonas.’ ‘No,’ she replied firmly, ‘I love him.’ ‘No, like.’ She looked confused, ‘LOVE.’ ‘Fine, you love him,’ I conceded reluctantly, given that she had been considering dumping him only moments earlier I thought her on shaky ground, ‘but you’re not in love with him, not yet.’ She cocked her head, ‘In love?’ I tried to think of a way to explain the difference using rudimentary English and gave up instantly. She’d understand one day.
Going back to FB, I showed her my latest French fancy. ‘He is also good looking,’ she said approvingly. ‘You love him?’ ‘Oh yes,’ I sighed, ‘but there’s no hope, he’s not like that. He’s just for fun.’ ‘You are a bad girl,’ my ward giggled. I didn’t see any point in denying it. ‘Oh, don’t look so worried! I am a bad girl too,’ she tried to make me feel better. ‘And it’s good to be bad,’ she winked at me.
We retreated to the children’s pool and, with our feet firmly on the ground, we relaxed against the side. Suddenly, my ward looked over her shoulders to check the coast was clear, then whispered, ‘I want to ask you something.’ I smiled at her to go on. ‘It’s just that all the boys who like me are the ones that I don’t like. Why is that?’ ‘That is one of life’s greatest mysteries,’ I waved my hand helplessly. ‘The ones you don’t want won’t leave you alone whilst the ones you do will be impossible to get. Always.’ I paused and narrowed my eyes at her, ‘By “like”, you mean like right?’ She nodded and I gasped: I’d always assumed she was the sweet and innocent type.
Of course, it was inevitable that she would be corrupted by the opposite sex eventually and, once I got over the initial shock, I was delighted that she wanted to share her romantic troubles with me. Mind you, as she reeled off the names of all the boys trying to court her, it occurred to me that she really didn’t have much to worry about. Obviously, the one she wanted was a moody bad boy. But it sounded like even he was putty in her hands. ‘If he likes you,’ I advised, ‘then tell him that you like him back.’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘Okay, if you can’t face doing it then get your friend to tell him. That will give him the confidence to approach you. Just be straight with him. No games.’
The following week, she ushered me into her lounge excitedly. ‘He asked me,’ she said, jumping on the spot. I frowned. ‘Jonas?’ she rolled her eyes. I squealed and joined her in the jumping. ‘My friend talked to him in registration and at break time he asked if I would I like to be his girlfriend. Go out with him. Do boys say that in England?’ ‘Sure they do… when they’re fourteen.’ I felt a sudden pang for the days when it was all so simple. ‘Anyway, you said yes, right?’ ‘I said I need time. For thinking.’ I raised my eyebrows, ‘Playing hard to get?’ ‘No. It’s just that there is this other boy…’ Another boy? I sighed and sat down heavily on the sofa. She sat on the armchair beside me. Arno was, by all accounts, less good looking but funnier and he was suddenly making a play for her affections.
When she had finished explaining, I grabbed her by the hand, ‘Now listen to me, I am wise… Okay, I am older than you and I won’t let you make the same mistakes. Last week, when he was “a challenge”, you wanted Jonas. Now he wants you and you’re not sure. This is human nature. But although the grass may suddenly look greener elsewhere it’s not, believe me.’
We decided to resolve the contest by methodically measuring up the credentials of the two suitors. We logged into Facebook. When it came to looks, there was no comparison: obviously Jonas was a tad too young for me - at the moment - but by teenage standards he was seriously hot. I then squinted at Arno's thumbnail. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he’s a nice lad but funny isn’t everything. I clicked back to the hottie. ‘Go for this one,’ I commanded. She looked at the gelled black hair, blue eyes and dimples. ‘You are right,’ she eventually nodded, ‘I do love Jonas.’ ‘Not love,’ I corrected, ‘like, you like Jonas.’ ‘No,’ she replied firmly, ‘I love him.’ ‘No, like.’ She looked confused, ‘LOVE.’ ‘Fine, you love him,’ I conceded reluctantly, given that she had been considering dumping him only moments earlier I thought her on shaky ground, ‘but you’re not in love with him, not yet.’ She cocked her head, ‘In love?’ I tried to think of a way to explain the difference using rudimentary English and gave up instantly. She’d understand one day.
Going back to FB, I showed her my latest French fancy. ‘He is also good looking,’ she said approvingly. ‘You love him?’ ‘Oh yes,’ I sighed, ‘but there’s no hope, he’s not like that. He’s just for fun.’ ‘You are a bad girl,’ my ward giggled. I didn’t see any point in denying it. ‘Oh, don’t look so worried! I am a bad girl too,’ she tried to make me feel better. ‘And it’s good to be bad,’ she winked at me.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
It's a Tramp's Life
Now that summer is in full swing, the down and outs residing under the arches close to my apartment are in their element. A sheltered suntrap, this particular strip of sidewalk is, evidently, one of the premier spots in town for picking up a tan. I can only imagine how difficult it is to procure a square of pavement; it seems to be run by some kind of cartel that allows only the crème de la crème of Niçois homeless to pass out there.
Riding my bike past the arches with my boss Tommy the other day, we rounded the corner and came across a bunch of residents congregating behind the Notre Dame church. They were sitting on moth-eaten armchairs and upturned crates, kicking back in the early evening sun, drinking vin straight from the bottle and listening to tunes on the radio. One was donning a sombrero. ‘Bloody hell,’ Tommy shouted as we peddled by, ‘on the Riviera even tramps have civilized soirees.’ He wasn’t wrong: it looked more sophisticated than any party I’d been to for a while. ‘I’m tempted to gatecrash,’ I said, ‘one of them was fit.’ Tommy laughed, ‘Maybe you should go back, ask if he comes here often.’ I looked over my shoulder and seriously considered turning around.
Is it really so wrong to fancy the homeless? Or has something gone slightly askew? Either way, I noted with concern that most people at the street party looked better than me. Tommy told me not to worry: he regularly saw this crowd rummaging through the refuse sacks dropped off by benevolent jetsetters outside Nice’s premier charity shop. They were actually kitted out in some of the best second hand gear in the world. ‘You’re telling me that I’ve been buying clothing already discarded by prostitutes, squatters and junkies?’ I wailed. This was a new low. ‘In all fairness,’ Tommy said, trying to make me feel better, ‘their life isn’t that great.’ To illustrate, he told me about a tramp in his neighbourhood who lingers over the freshly baked pain au chocolate in the corner shop every morning. Tommy said that it was painful to watch the guy looking between the bottles of cheap wine and fresh pastries, weighing up which one he should spend his money on. ‘Of course,’ Tommy concluded, ‘the wine always wins.’ I related to this man's dilemma but deemed it better to say no more, Tommy being my boss and all.
The next day B came into Nice to pick me up. ‘I’m parking the Lambo in front of Notre Dame,’ he shouted down the phone, ‘you know the spot where all the old hobos sleep.’ ‘Hang on B, isn’t that a little thoughtless?’ I interjected. ‘I’m not sure they’ll appreciate you rocking up in your expensive car. Sort of rubs it in.’ ‘Hey,’ B said, clearly offended, ‘I like the homeless. I actually befriended a tramp once. I was hanging out with him for days. He was a great guy.’ To prove his affiliation with street dwellers, B then pressed money into the palm of a man who knocked on the car window when we were stopped at the traffic lights. It suddenly occurred to me that B might see me as a kind of tramp too; that could explain why he was so good to me.
Going to Cannes on the Friday morning I was forced to harness my own inner samaritan as I watched a homeless guy stumble onto the bus and wobble over to the seat next to mine. You could see the mixture of relief and pity etched on the face of the woman sat in front of me. Of course, the stench was horrendous but I reminded myself that the poor man probably didn’t have access to a hot shower. He rocked in his seat and talked to himself; occasionally one of his scrawny limbs would fly into the air without warning. At 10am, half way into the two-hour journey, he opened his beer and the froth spurted everywhere. I had a doctor’s appointment. He was going to think that I had a drinking problem. I considered moving to another seat but then I remembered my benevolent B and decided against it; this guy had probably experienced enough rejection in his life.
I was about to get off at the next stop, hide behind a tree and wait for the following bus, when the man stood up. He gave me a nod, or possibly it was the tick. I fought the impulse to hold my nose and managed a smile. I then watched as he fell from the vehicle and sloped off towards the beach, a towel over his shoulder and a beer in his hand. Living on the streets in the Riviera, really wasn’t such a tough life. If you could just get a coveted spot under the archway then you'd really made the big time. I wondered what I'd have to do to get on the list.
Riding my bike past the arches with my boss Tommy the other day, we rounded the corner and came across a bunch of residents congregating behind the Notre Dame church. They were sitting on moth-eaten armchairs and upturned crates, kicking back in the early evening sun, drinking vin straight from the bottle and listening to tunes on the radio. One was donning a sombrero. ‘Bloody hell,’ Tommy shouted as we peddled by, ‘on the Riviera even tramps have civilized soirees.’ He wasn’t wrong: it looked more sophisticated than any party I’d been to for a while. ‘I’m tempted to gatecrash,’ I said, ‘one of them was fit.’ Tommy laughed, ‘Maybe you should go back, ask if he comes here often.’ I looked over my shoulder and seriously considered turning around.
Is it really so wrong to fancy the homeless? Or has something gone slightly askew? Either way, I noted with concern that most people at the street party looked better than me. Tommy told me not to worry: he regularly saw this crowd rummaging through the refuse sacks dropped off by benevolent jetsetters outside Nice’s premier charity shop. They were actually kitted out in some of the best second hand gear in the world. ‘You’re telling me that I’ve been buying clothing already discarded by prostitutes, squatters and junkies?’ I wailed. This was a new low. ‘In all fairness,’ Tommy said, trying to make me feel better, ‘their life isn’t that great.’ To illustrate, he told me about a tramp in his neighbourhood who lingers over the freshly baked pain au chocolate in the corner shop every morning. Tommy said that it was painful to watch the guy looking between the bottles of cheap wine and fresh pastries, weighing up which one he should spend his money on. ‘Of course,’ Tommy concluded, ‘the wine always wins.’ I related to this man's dilemma but deemed it better to say no more, Tommy being my boss and all.
The next day B came into Nice to pick me up. ‘I’m parking the Lambo in front of Notre Dame,’ he shouted down the phone, ‘you know the spot where all the old hobos sleep.’ ‘Hang on B, isn’t that a little thoughtless?’ I interjected. ‘I’m not sure they’ll appreciate you rocking up in your expensive car. Sort of rubs it in.’ ‘Hey,’ B said, clearly offended, ‘I like the homeless. I actually befriended a tramp once. I was hanging out with him for days. He was a great guy.’ To prove his affiliation with street dwellers, B then pressed money into the palm of a man who knocked on the car window when we were stopped at the traffic lights. It suddenly occurred to me that B might see me as a kind of tramp too; that could explain why he was so good to me.
Going to Cannes on the Friday morning I was forced to harness my own inner samaritan as I watched a homeless guy stumble onto the bus and wobble over to the seat next to mine. You could see the mixture of relief and pity etched on the face of the woman sat in front of me. Of course, the stench was horrendous but I reminded myself that the poor man probably didn’t have access to a hot shower. He rocked in his seat and talked to himself; occasionally one of his scrawny limbs would fly into the air without warning. At 10am, half way into the two-hour journey, he opened his beer and the froth spurted everywhere. I had a doctor’s appointment. He was going to think that I had a drinking problem. I considered moving to another seat but then I remembered my benevolent B and decided against it; this guy had probably experienced enough rejection in his life.
I was about to get off at the next stop, hide behind a tree and wait for the following bus, when the man stood up. He gave me a nod, or possibly it was the tick. I fought the impulse to hold my nose and managed a smile. I then watched as he fell from the vehicle and sloped off towards the beach, a towel over his shoulder and a beer in his hand. Living on the streets in the Riviera, really wasn’t such a tough life. If you could just get a coveted spot under the archway then you'd really made the big time. I wondered what I'd have to do to get on the list.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
Yugo Nowhere
As much as I hate to admit it, I’m in love with my car. Once upon a time I thought only boys were capable of such stupidity; I mean we’re talking about a machine made of metal and rubber that takes you from one place to another. Then, two years ago, I trekked half way across Europe to buy a bright orange bubble on wheels. It was falling apart and I fell head-over-heels. Since then it has spent more time in garages than it has out on the open road, and it has left me on the edge of bankruptcy, yet the idea of dumping it in the scrap yard sends shivers down my spine. It’s the car equivalent of the bad lad you can’t help going back to, even though you know he’s going to treat you like shit.
For the last week or so, Yugo, as I affectionately call him, has been parked outside my apartment collecting tickets from traffic wardens. I left a note on the dashboard explaining that I couldn’t start the engine without at least three burly men from the PMU bar coming to push me, but it was to no avail; everyday a new slip was wedged under the windscreen wiper. ‘Don’t worry,’ Kitty reassured me as we splashed in her pool, ‘you’ve got British plates; they’ll never chase you for the money. JC throws his in the bin.’ This sounded like my kind of a theory but still I couldn’t sleep easy; I’d lie in bed at night imagining tow truckers manhandling my bambino and in the morning I’d rush downstairs in my dressing gown convinced that he would be gone.
Sleep deprived, I paid a visit to my neighbour – a motorcycle mechanic who routinely helps Kitty with her Fiat Uno, Bruno, when he breaks down outside my apartment. ‘Non!’ he barked at me before I’d even opened my mouth. ‘Je suis mechanic moto! Pas voiture! Pas ici!’ ‘Please,’ I implored. ‘Non! You come in ‘ere, pretty English girls, you smile… Enough! Go across ze street, iz mechanic for cars.’ ‘Oh,’ I tried innocently, ‘you don’t understand. I don’t want someone else to fix my car. I want to learn how to do it for myself. Can’t you show me?’ He laughed. Loudly. ‘You? Mechanic? Ha!’ ‘Hey,’ I bristled, ‘I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty.’ He looked me up and down, eventually resting his gaze on my flimsy white mini skirt. Sensing his resolve was faltering, I tried again, ‘Come on! ‘Motorbikes, cars, they can’t be that different. It’ll be fun!’ ‘Sorry,' he shrugged at last, ‘I can’t. My wife will get angry.’ He slapped his own wrists. ‘I’m asking you to teach me basic mechanics. That’s all.’ He just winked at me. Being French, it was only natural for him to assume that what I really wanted was sex. I turned around and walked across the road.
Yugo now being cared for by a proper car mechanic, Kitty came by on Friday night to collect me for dinner. Parked up by my building, she tried to start Bruno but he only coughed at her and then cut out. ‘Oh come on, don’t do this to me.’ She turned the key again: there was another coughing fit. Kitty looked at me expectantly, ‘Why don’t you go and get your Scottish friend?’ ‘No way,’ I said firmly. The Scot was still annoyed about an autoroute SOS call I’d made two weeks earlier. He’d had to miss the second half of the football to pick me up. He’d never forgive me if I pulled him out of the pub again. ‘Fucking hell,’ Kitty thumped the steering wheel, ‘I’m going to have to call JC. And he told me not drive Bruno tonight,’ she sniffed, the tears welling in her eyes, ‘he’s going to kill me.’
There was a tap on the window. The motorbike mechanic and his assistant were grinning through the glass. ‘Who’s more important JC?’ Kitty was sobbing down the phone, ‘Your friends or me?’ I wound the window down and widened my eyes, ‘Can you help us, please?’ ‘Je suis desolè,’ the mechanic said, ‘je doit aller chez moi. Ma femme,' he raised his eyebrows. 'But you iz mechanic! You fix it!’ I ignored him. ‘To learn about ze engine,’ he continued, ‘you at least need boyfriend who iz mechanic. To teach you.’ He shoved his assistant in my direction and gave me another dirty wink. ‘Seriously,’ Kitty whispered, ‘take one for the team.’ I looked at the boy, cross-eyed and muttering something about a drink, and shook my head. ‘Oh it’s alright,’ she waved her hand, ‘JC’s on his way.’ She reached across to a bag of groceries and found a bottle of wine.
By the time JC had arrived, Kitty and I had consumed most of the rosè and had started on the cheese platter. Kitty almost landed on the curb when he pulled open the door. ‘Girls, you have got to get new cars. I’ve had to cancel a dinner party for this.’ ‘But I love Bruno,’ Kitty giggled. I pointed in the vague direction of the old man’s garage, ‘And I love Yugo. He’s so pretty.’ ‘Yep, looks good, but it DOESN'T FUCKING WORK.’ JC slammed the door and went to get a tow bar from his boot. Kitty looked like she might start weeping again. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, putting a comforting arm around her, ‘when it comes to cars, men simply don’t understand.’
For the last week or so, Yugo, as I affectionately call him, has been parked outside my apartment collecting tickets from traffic wardens. I left a note on the dashboard explaining that I couldn’t start the engine without at least three burly men from the PMU bar coming to push me, but it was to no avail; everyday a new slip was wedged under the windscreen wiper. ‘Don’t worry,’ Kitty reassured me as we splashed in her pool, ‘you’ve got British plates; they’ll never chase you for the money. JC throws his in the bin.’ This sounded like my kind of a theory but still I couldn’t sleep easy; I’d lie in bed at night imagining tow truckers manhandling my bambino and in the morning I’d rush downstairs in my dressing gown convinced that he would be gone.
Sleep deprived, I paid a visit to my neighbour – a motorcycle mechanic who routinely helps Kitty with her Fiat Uno, Bruno, when he breaks down outside my apartment. ‘Non!’ he barked at me before I’d even opened my mouth. ‘Je suis mechanic moto! Pas voiture! Pas ici!’ ‘Please,’ I implored. ‘Non! You come in ‘ere, pretty English girls, you smile… Enough! Go across ze street, iz mechanic for cars.’ ‘Oh,’ I tried innocently, ‘you don’t understand. I don’t want someone else to fix my car. I want to learn how to do it for myself. Can’t you show me?’ He laughed. Loudly. ‘You? Mechanic? Ha!’ ‘Hey,’ I bristled, ‘I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty.’ He looked me up and down, eventually resting his gaze on my flimsy white mini skirt. Sensing his resolve was faltering, I tried again, ‘Come on! ‘Motorbikes, cars, they can’t be that different. It’ll be fun!’ ‘Sorry,' he shrugged at last, ‘I can’t. My wife will get angry.’ He slapped his own wrists. ‘I’m asking you to teach me basic mechanics. That’s all.’ He just winked at me. Being French, it was only natural for him to assume that what I really wanted was sex. I turned around and walked across the road.
Yugo now being cared for by a proper car mechanic, Kitty came by on Friday night to collect me for dinner. Parked up by my building, she tried to start Bruno but he only coughed at her and then cut out. ‘Oh come on, don’t do this to me.’ She turned the key again: there was another coughing fit. Kitty looked at me expectantly, ‘Why don’t you go and get your Scottish friend?’ ‘No way,’ I said firmly. The Scot was still annoyed about an autoroute SOS call I’d made two weeks earlier. He’d had to miss the second half of the football to pick me up. He’d never forgive me if I pulled him out of the pub again. ‘Fucking hell,’ Kitty thumped the steering wheel, ‘I’m going to have to call JC. And he told me not drive Bruno tonight,’ she sniffed, the tears welling in her eyes, ‘he’s going to kill me.’
There was a tap on the window. The motorbike mechanic and his assistant were grinning through the glass. ‘Who’s more important JC?’ Kitty was sobbing down the phone, ‘Your friends or me?’ I wound the window down and widened my eyes, ‘Can you help us, please?’ ‘Je suis desolè,’ the mechanic said, ‘je doit aller chez moi. Ma femme,' he raised his eyebrows. 'But you iz mechanic! You fix it!’ I ignored him. ‘To learn about ze engine,’ he continued, ‘you at least need boyfriend who iz mechanic. To teach you.’ He shoved his assistant in my direction and gave me another dirty wink. ‘Seriously,’ Kitty whispered, ‘take one for the team.’ I looked at the boy, cross-eyed and muttering something about a drink, and shook my head. ‘Oh it’s alright,’ she waved her hand, ‘JC’s on his way.’ She reached across to a bag of groceries and found a bottle of wine.
By the time JC had arrived, Kitty and I had consumed most of the rosè and had started on the cheese platter. Kitty almost landed on the curb when he pulled open the door. ‘Girls, you have got to get new cars. I’ve had to cancel a dinner party for this.’ ‘But I love Bruno,’ Kitty giggled. I pointed in the vague direction of the old man’s garage, ‘And I love Yugo. He’s so pretty.’ ‘Yep, looks good, but it DOESN'T FUCKING WORK.’ JC slammed the door and went to get a tow bar from his boot. Kitty looked like she might start weeping again. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, putting a comforting arm around her, ‘when it comes to cars, men simply don’t understand.’
Monday, 25 May 2009
Diamond Dealers are a Girl's Best Friend
Right now, I am sitting on my balcony. The air is warm and still. All I can hear is the faint laughter of children in a nearby playground. A super yacht, gleaming white in the sunlight, is slicing through the water in silence. Everything is perfect. Or at least it would be, if I could only get my head to stop throbbing. I’m discovering that headaches are what happen when you adopt the lifestyle of Paris Hilton but don’t have the pedigree and the years of training. I’m convinced that Paris, Nicky, Tara P-T et al must have gone to a special school, one that gives classes on drinking on an empty stomach and getting in and out of sports cars wearing short skirts.
Yesterday, I was at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo. It was Grand Prix day and as I tottered about in my white mini dress and four-inch heels clasping a glass of champagne, I imagined I was blending in flawlessly with the high society beauties. I mean, considering that I don’t frequent this sort of establishment everyday I thought I was doing rather well. Still, given that I was only there because my playboy friend had a spare ticket, I couldn’t help feeling a little like a gatecrasher at a party.
B had called on Wednesday and left a message on my answer phone: ‘Hey lady! Got a proposition for you. Sunday. Monte. Grand Prix. Got a table at the Hotel de Paris and a spare ticket. Fancy it?’ Hmmm, it was a tough one. So there I was, sitting around a tiny table with B and his girlfriend, a banker friend of theirs from the Bahamas and a diamond dealer recently moved to Monaco from Switzerland. It was midday and we were already on our second glass of champagne. The Diamond Dealer was telling me about some £40 million rock just auctioned at Christies. Apparently, when it comes to rare gems the credit crunch is an irrelevance. I asked him how much an average diamond costs nowadays. ‘What do you mean average? For you?’ I laughed, hysterically, and he frowned. ‘Oh,’ I managed eventually, ‘I’m not really in a position to be buying diamonds.’ He raised his hand to me, ‘Seriously, they’re more affordable than you might think. You could get a nice pair of studs for just a couple of grand.’ This time I managed to keep a straight face; it is a skill I’ve been able to hone thanks to B regularly making statements like, ‘I bought my second Lamborghini on a whim’ and ‘This flat is super cheap to rent. Twenty grand a month in Monte is a bloody bargain.’
After the Diamond Dealer and I had a disagreement over whether or not I could be a classic car journalist when I couldn’t provide a definition of a frogeye, I decided to head outside for a breather. The crowd on the roof terrace had their noses pressed to the wire fence. Every few seconds, a distant burr would build to reverberating roar and a car would flash past. They were so fast. I shut my eyes, let the sound pass through me and felt my body shudder. Admittedly, it did begin to get a bit samey after a while - the cars went round and round, no one crashed - so I went back inside.
The party was hotting up and a swarm of pretty young socialites had started dancing to Eurohouse whilst the Bulgarian Mafiosi were holding court in one corner of the room. I decided that I could probably get used to the Grand Prix scene and wondered if I was too old and short to be a pit girl. I saw that B had a fresh glass of champagne waiting for me, my ninth or tenth, and I wobbled towards the table. With my feet squashed into these ill-fitting stilettos for several hours now, I suddenly felt compelled to kick them off. I also felt compelled to stand on a chair and start techno dancing. This raised position happened to be much better for scoping out handsome richies; not that I was going to be fussy, I only had to persuade one of them to kiss me and then we could get married. The plan was progressing apace and I was making out in the corner with some dapper continental chap in cream chinos and creaseless blue shirt when I felt someone tugging at my arm. ‘Hannah,’ B’s girlfriend said sharply, ‘we’re going.’ I looked up at my new beau: he was so smooth and shiny. ‘Please,’ I implored, ‘can’t we stay a bit longer.’ ‘No,’ she yanked me from the boy’s embrace, ‘the driver’s outside. Come on.’ As I was pulled towards the door, I looked back at the boy who was blinking at me, clearly bemused. He looked like a deer caught in car headlights. A really good looking deer. This was so unfair: of course she could go home, she already had a rich boyfriend. I, an impoverished writer on the other hand, was still without my trophy husband.
Now, looking down on the yacht sailing out to sea, it's dawning on me that if I want to achieve the Grand Prix standard of living I'll have to make my own money. Morally, I'm not sure I have what it takes to be a diamond dealer but, then again, I'll never know unless I give it a go...
Yesterday, I was at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo. It was Grand Prix day and as I tottered about in my white mini dress and four-inch heels clasping a glass of champagne, I imagined I was blending in flawlessly with the high society beauties. I mean, considering that I don’t frequent this sort of establishment everyday I thought I was doing rather well. Still, given that I was only there because my playboy friend had a spare ticket, I couldn’t help feeling a little like a gatecrasher at a party.
B had called on Wednesday and left a message on my answer phone: ‘Hey lady! Got a proposition for you. Sunday. Monte. Grand Prix. Got a table at the Hotel de Paris and a spare ticket. Fancy it?’ Hmmm, it was a tough one. So there I was, sitting around a tiny table with B and his girlfriend, a banker friend of theirs from the Bahamas and a diamond dealer recently moved to Monaco from Switzerland. It was midday and we were already on our second glass of champagne. The Diamond Dealer was telling me about some £40 million rock just auctioned at Christies. Apparently, when it comes to rare gems the credit crunch is an irrelevance. I asked him how much an average diamond costs nowadays. ‘What do you mean average? For you?’ I laughed, hysterically, and he frowned. ‘Oh,’ I managed eventually, ‘I’m not really in a position to be buying diamonds.’ He raised his hand to me, ‘Seriously, they’re more affordable than you might think. You could get a nice pair of studs for just a couple of grand.’ This time I managed to keep a straight face; it is a skill I’ve been able to hone thanks to B regularly making statements like, ‘I bought my second Lamborghini on a whim’ and ‘This flat is super cheap to rent. Twenty grand a month in Monte is a bloody bargain.’
After the Diamond Dealer and I had a disagreement over whether or not I could be a classic car journalist when I couldn’t provide a definition of a frogeye, I decided to head outside for a breather. The crowd on the roof terrace had their noses pressed to the wire fence. Every few seconds, a distant burr would build to reverberating roar and a car would flash past. They were so fast. I shut my eyes, let the sound pass through me and felt my body shudder. Admittedly, it did begin to get a bit samey after a while - the cars went round and round, no one crashed - so I went back inside.
The party was hotting up and a swarm of pretty young socialites had started dancing to Eurohouse whilst the Bulgarian Mafiosi were holding court in one corner of the room. I decided that I could probably get used to the Grand Prix scene and wondered if I was too old and short to be a pit girl. I saw that B had a fresh glass of champagne waiting for me, my ninth or tenth, and I wobbled towards the table. With my feet squashed into these ill-fitting stilettos for several hours now, I suddenly felt compelled to kick them off. I also felt compelled to stand on a chair and start techno dancing. This raised position happened to be much better for scoping out handsome richies; not that I was going to be fussy, I only had to persuade one of them to kiss me and then we could get married. The plan was progressing apace and I was making out in the corner with some dapper continental chap in cream chinos and creaseless blue shirt when I felt someone tugging at my arm. ‘Hannah,’ B’s girlfriend said sharply, ‘we’re going.’ I looked up at my new beau: he was so smooth and shiny. ‘Please,’ I implored, ‘can’t we stay a bit longer.’ ‘No,’ she yanked me from the boy’s embrace, ‘the driver’s outside. Come on.’ As I was pulled towards the door, I looked back at the boy who was blinking at me, clearly bemused. He looked like a deer caught in car headlights. A really good looking deer. This was so unfair: of course she could go home, she already had a rich boyfriend. I, an impoverished writer on the other hand, was still without my trophy husband.
Now, looking down on the yacht sailing out to sea, it's dawning on me that if I want to achieve the Grand Prix standard of living I'll have to make my own money. Morally, I'm not sure I have what it takes to be a diamond dealer but, then again, I'll never know unless I give it a go...
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