Lucy Lord - Revelry

Is this what we have come to?

I am actually quite shocked by Mark’s revelation, and feel hugely sympathetic towards the work experience girl. I remember myself at that age, vulnerable and desperate to please, and can only imagine how ghastly she must be feeling today, to the extent that she couldn’t face going into the office at all. Being peed on , for God’s sake?

‘Oooh Ben, loved the Ibiza Facebook pics,’ says Poppy, snapping me back into reality.

‘Except I had to detag myself in that one of us at Sa Trinxa,’ I say grumpily. ‘That was possibly the worst photo I’ve ever seen of myself.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad,’ says Ben, laughing.

‘You know which one I mean, then?’

‘Well, I know which one you detagged …’

‘Ben, it was an awful photo,’ says Poppy. ‘Don’t worry, Belles, you look nothing like that in real life.’

‘Thank you.’ I smile at her. ‘ That’s what I wanted to hear.’

‘Talking of Ibiza, mate, did you ever hear from Kimberly again?’ Damian asks Ben.

The day after my encounter with the dwarf, Kimbo and my dad said their goodbyes and left the island, leaving me hot with vicarious shame.

‘Nope,’ says Ben, grinning.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I say, ad nauseam. ‘I can’t believe Dad did that. No, scrub that. I can perfectly believe Dad did that, but I really can’t believe that Kim did.’

‘Listen Bella.’ Ben looks into my eyes with such sincerity I could melt. I wish I’d bothered to pluck my eyebrows before I came out. ‘It’s not your fault your father’s a randy old goat. And it’s certainly not your fault the bird I was shagging turned out to be such a gold-digging slag. So, for the last time, stop apologizing.’

‘OK,’ I smile.

‘In fact he did me a favour. Veronique was hot as fuck,’ he goes on, and my heart sinks again.

‘Have you kept in touch with her ?’ asks Damian, taking a swig of his pint.

‘Well, let’s just say she has an interesting interpretation of the text medium.’

‘Meaning?’ asks Mark. ‘Photos? Videos?’

‘Both,’ says Ben smugly.

‘Go on, show us,’ pants Mark.

‘Shall we just leave them to it?’ Poppy says to me, but Ben surprises us, saying, ‘No, it wouldn’t be right. She sent them for my eyes only.’ Drop-dead gorgeous and an old-fashioned gentleman to boot. Could this man be any more perfect?

‘Spoilsport,’ sulks Mark, and Ben laughs.

‘Surely you get to see enough of that sort of thing at work anyway?’

‘No such thing as enough, mate.’ Not for the first time, I thank the Brazilian twins for my lucky escape.

‘Yeah yeah, you boys and your ludicrous conquests,’ says Poppy. ‘Can we talk about something a tad more interesting for all of us? Like a certain festival that’s happening next week, perhaps?’

‘Yay, Glastonbury!’ I shout happily, more than a little pissed by now.

The Daddy of all festivals is next weekend and I’m looking forward to it enormously, despite vowing ‘never again’ after last year’s washout. It really was repulsive, with constant, relentless rain, and mud so deep it came over the top of your wellies, which made every step a Herculean effort. Some people had their tents washed away, and were left standing in their knickers: no possessions, no money, no nothing. None of us fared that badly, but my tent was not waterproof in the slightest (not least because I kept getting too wasted to remember to zip it up properly), and I had to sleep inside a bin liner inside my sleeping bag. The irony of a bunch of middle-class twits with lovely warm homes paying through the nose to endure such miserable, Somme-like conditions was lost on none of us. Still, with that uniquely British triumph of hope over experience, we duly paid through the nose again this year. And at the beginning of April it’s a gamble, as you have no idea how the summer’s going to pan out. So far it’s been an absolute scorcher, so fingers crossed.

‘Remember Mark’s trench foot last year,’ laughs Damian. Mark had refused to buy wellies, claiming they were for poofs.

‘Fuck me, that was painful. It took about a week to unmesh my trainers from the flesh of my feet. And another week to dry off.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t all bad,’ says Ben. ‘That first night, before the rain had really set in, was a hoot. Remember we found that random field with the tiny sound system playing some banging house? And Bella said something funny about sinking literally and metaphorically into the quagmire.’

I look up, shocked that he remembers something I said in a drug-fuelled moment nearly a year ago. I have a distinct recollection of him looking like a rock star in a fake fur coat, cowboy hat and shades, his long legs in mud-spattered jeans tucked into long black wellies. Film star, rock star, whatever …

‘We had a laugh all right,’ says Poppy. ‘It just wasn’t terribly comfortable. But this year is going to be beautiful, isn’t it ? Come on, let’s all just will this gorgeous sunshine to continue.’

‘What day are you all going down?’ I ask.

‘I’m shooting next Friday so can’t get there till Friday night, which is a pain in the arse,’ says Ben. ‘I don’t suppose any of you could reserve a place and set up my tent for me? All the spaces will be gone otherwise …’

‘You lazy cunt,’ says Damian. ‘Course we will, mate. Mark and I have Press passes anyway, so I’ll see what privileges we’re entitled to this year.’

‘We’ll probably drive down on Thursday if you need a lift, Belles,’ says Poppy.

‘Thanks, Pops. Where would I be without you?’

‘Bella Bella, che bella ,’ says the head waiter as, an hour or so later, we walk into Osteria Basilico, the much-loved Italian on Kensington Park Road. It’s a longstanding joke he’s kept up ever since I first moved to the area. ‘And the beautiful Poppy. Why should we be so honoured tonight?’

Poppy and I grin at each other, aware that it’s pathetic to be flattered by the blandishments of Italian waiting staff, yet enjoying the compliments nonetheless.

‘Hi Giovanni,’ I say. ‘Any tables downstairs?’ Of course, all the tables outside are already taken.

‘For you, anything!’ He kisses his fingers. We follow him down the stairs.

Osteria Basilico is a proper old-fashioned phallic pepper mill Italian eaterie, serving classic stalwarts in lively, cavernous surroundings. The free-flowing wine and candlelit gloom encourage you to let your hair down. Not that we are in need of much encouragement.

It’s pretty full but, true to his word, Giovanni finds us a table for five in the furthest corner from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Shall we order some wine before we start?’ asks Damian, and as we all nod our assent, ‘A white and a red to kick off with?’

He selects a Chianti and an Orvieto without bothering to look at the list. We’ve been here enough times by now to know it pretty comprehensively. I pay lip service to the menu, despite knowing I’ll be going for the melt-in-the-mouth carpaccio and sublimely garlicky spaghetti vongole.

‘Don’t you understand, Max, that money is no object when it comes to making my day absolutely perfect?’ comes a strident voice from the next table.

‘OK OK, I was only offering you a couple of options,’ retorts a laid-back and wonderfully familiar voice. ‘Jesus, woman, take a chill pill.’

‘Max!’ I cry, jumping out of my chair. I hadn’t noticed in the gloom, but sitting right next to us in this subterranean corner of West London is my resolutely East London brother, dining with Andy and Skinny Alison.