Anne Billson - Suckers

It took me a long time to get ready for Ruth's party. Determined not to dress in the black I knew everyone else would be wearing, I opted for a red dress and then spent the next hour trying to hide as much red as I could beneath a big black belt, big black scarf, big black leather jacket, and lots and lots of crucifixes. I set out early with my pockets full of garlic and headed for the tube station, pushing past the beggars who clustered around the entrance, waving their grubby babies and clamouring for fifty pence pieces. The escalators were still out of order. It was business as usual.

Lulu was in the underground. She was hovering over the tracks on a big black and white Kuroi poster, and someone had already braved the electric rail to give her red teeth and horns and a speech-bubble which read, 'I like porking'. I had plenty of time to stare at her. Over the tinny loudspeakers there was a garbled announcement informing us that trains were running late 'due to delays'. There had been signal failures at Mile End, and a suicide on the track at Barking. I knew how the suicide had felt.

When the train finally rolled up, there was a prolonged session of sardines-on-wheels, with lots of stopping in the tunnels. I changed lines at Tottenham Court Road and made it as far as Camden Town, where the train suddenly developed faulty doors and was taken out of active service. Northbound passengers shook their fists and yelled, but it was no good. I gave up and made the rest of the journey by cab.

Despite the delays, I arrived even earlier than I'd intended, but at least I arrived. Ruth opened the door of her Georgian terrace house, squealed 'Dora! ', and insisted on performing that complicated kissing manoeuvre in which you miss the other person's lips but bang each other's noses and end up with their lipstick smeared down your cheek.

It would have been pointless and cruel to describe Ruth as dumpy, but she was one of the few people in the world who made me feel long-legged. Perhaps this was why I still tolerated her company. These days, her hair was an incredibly artificial colour which reminded me of baked conkers. She was dressed — yes — in black. No doubt it was a pricey little number, like the rest of the items in her wardrobe, but I was pleased to see it still couldn't prevent her legs from looking like yams.

'Dora, Dora, Dora! ' she gushed as I wiped her lipstick from my face. 'Haven't seen you for ages. How have you been?'

'Not so good, I said. I started to tell her all about the shellfish allergy I had developed after a dodgy bowl of bouillabaisse, but her attention began to wander and she didn't seem terribly interested in how I had been, after all. We had a little tug o' war over my jacket — I wanted to keep it on because I was loath to reveal too much red — and then I gave her my bottle of champagne and she thanked me and put it in one of the kitchen cupboards, and I knew that would be the last I'd see of it all evening if I didn't watch out. Ruth had hired a professional butler to serve cheap wine, but I ignored him, and when no one was looking retrieved my bottle from the cupboard and hid it under my jacket.

I wandered through into the main reception area. Ruth rematerialized at my side. 'So how are you?' she asked, as I eyed up the four people who had arrived even earlier than me. I guessed she didn't much want to hear about my shellfish allergy again. Instead, I said, 'Fine thanks. How are you? I looked at her properly for the first time and did a double-take. 'You're looking… terrific . Good Lord, Ruth, you look really… different .'

Ruth did indeed look different. She'd had a nose job. I tried to remember her previous nose, but it hadn't been terribly memorable. I hadn't even realized she had been self-conscious about it. I floundered. Was one supposed to pretend that nothing had happened, or offer congratulations, or enquire about the cost, or the pain, or what? I ended up asking, 'Hey, where did you get the nose?' which wasn't what I had intended at all. Ruth stared fixedly over my shoulder and pretended she hadn't heard.

'Oh well,' I said, changing the subject. 'How's the art world?'

This time, she responded with enthusiasm, describing a recent trip to New York in brain-numbing detail and dropping a lot of names which meant less than nothing to me. Then she started babbling on about a brilliant young Australian performance artist who sewed his own eyelids shut and dangled for hours, stark naked, from meathooks. I was saved from having to hear more by Charlie, who wandered up looking anxious.

'Anyone seen Clive?'

'Hasn't arrived,' said Ruth.

'He was bringing the tapes.'

'Doesn't matter,' said Ruth. 'We can play some of ours.'

'No, we can't,' said Charlie. 'Hi, Dora. How are you?'

'Dreadful,' I said.

'Anyway, we don't need music,' said Ruth. 'Not just yet. No one wants to dance.' She and Charlie went on discussing party arrangements, so I wandered away. I didn't know any of the other guests; there were a half-dozen of them now, all gathered in a knot, all dressed in black and looking pale and rather uninteresting. One of them was saying, '…I saw him at Gnashers…' and another was saying, '…I'm so fed up with Gnashers…' and a third was saying, '…what's wrong with Gnashers anyway…?'

Gnasher chat bored me rigid, so I perched on the sofa and smoked a cigarette, dropping the ash into a potted palm since there weren't any ashtrays. Half a dozen more people arrived. My heart sank as Charlie noticed I was on my own and came barrelling over to talk. Charlie was a film critic who wrote reviews for provincial listings magazines and specialist publications with minuscule circulations. I didn't like talking to him about cinema, because he always prattled on about French films in which the characters sat around in rooms and talked, or Russian films in which the characters went into Forbidden Zones and wandered around for a bit before coming out again. Charlie based most of his opinions on the writing in Cahiers du Cinema or, when he was in a particularly jocular mood, The New Yorker . He strongly disapproved of movies in which horrible American teenagers went on panty-raids and got carved up by maniacs in hockey masks.

He opened with his favourite gambit. 'Seen any good movies lately?' I shook my head. 'Neither have I,' he whined. 'Nobody's making them any more. All these bloody sequels and remakes. Where's the originality? What about artistic vision? All we get are big budgets and special effects. The only good films these days are being made by the small independents. Small is beautiful, I always say.'

'In that case,' I yawned, 'you should be all right.' He chuckled and patted me on the head. 'I knew I could rely on you to put the case for the drive-in mentality.' Before I could stir myself sufficiently to respond, he added, 'Seen Duncan and Lulu lately?'

'Sort of,' I said.

'I hear Lulu's struck lucky.'

'I saw her in the tube just now. On a poster.'

'Yeah,' said Charlie. 'I saw that too.' He leaned towards me in a conspiratorial manner. 'Is it true about her and Duncan?'

I had the feeling he rather fancied his chances with Lulu. As if . 'Is what true?' I asked.

'They split up?'

'How should I know? Why don't you ask her? Isn't she supposed to be honouring us with her presence tonight?'

Charlie shrugged, and just then someone thought it amusing to sneak up behind me and clamp their hands over my eyes. I jabbed my elbow back and felt it connect with something soft; there was a grunt and the hands unclamped themselves. I turned round, half-expecting to see Andreas Grauman, but it was only Jack, thank God. He was clutching his abdomen.

'Jesus, that hurt,' he said. He was exaggerating, of course.