‘Welcome, Miss Jones. And could I take your name, sir? Apologies, we only have “plus one” written down here.’ He glanced briefly my way, judging Heather for not RSVP-ing properly.
‘The name is Tim,’ Tim said, hamming it up with an uber-posh accent, his chin up and his lips ever so slightly pursed.
The man nodded, writing it down on something I couldn’t see. ‘And your last name?’
‘Um,’ Tim looked over at me, and I raised a warning eyebrow. ‘McTimothy.’
‘Tim McTimothy,’ the man replied carefully, his unflappable manners standing firm in the face of common sense. ‘Very good.’
And we were in, placards round our necks, making a beeline for the free bar and mini vegan canapés.
The Ritz’s ballroom was rather more bland than I’d pictured in my dreams: big, though rather empty-feeling, with an only mildly ostentatious plaster ceiling. The guests were not the usual types that I’d meet at Heather’s work functions – the opening of a swanky roofbar or a hip underground restaurant; this lot were stuffy and old-fashioned.
Perfect! Tim and I loved nothing more than chatting shit to strangers: double points if we could convince them we were someone else. Triple if I could get away with playing someone fancy or famous, or just more together than me. The last time we went out, it was to a British Film Industry event, where Tim sat in the corner in dark glasses and I spent the evening pointing him out to young actors, to see if any of them would bite: ‘Oh my goodness, it’s Jim Reeves. The director. You don’t know him? Oh, he’s prolific. And so talented. No, you won’t find him online; he’s notoriously private. I can’t believe he’s here.’
‘All right, I want to mingle.’ Tim winked at me and I grinned. ‘Together? Or alone and report back?’
‘Alone and report back.’
Less than an hour later we were both riotously drunk and giggling in the corner about who we’d met.
‘I’ve had conversations about Land Rovers, hyper-decanting, the length of merino-wool fibres and fucking jogging. I’ve even tried to keep up with somecricket chat.’ I added dramatic emphasis to this one, since Tim is all about football. ‘And someone called Bert had to excuse himself, as he wanted to catch tomorrow’s shipping forecast. I’ve died and gone to some kind of Buckinghamshire hell.’
‘I just had a conversation about trees,’ Tim said, by way of agreement. And then burped.
‘Come on, we may as well go and check out the winning wines. It’s why we’re here.’
In the centre of the ballroom there was a huge circular table, with about fifty-odd wines on display with various gold, silver and bronze awards stuck to them; and in the middle of that, an antique glass-and-brass centrepiece, made of wine glasses and ivy twisted about twenty feet into the air. It was stunning.
‘Who knew the English made wine … It’s like discovering a classy Australian,’ Tim said, as he used one of the glasses set out for tasting to pour himself an enormous glassful, just a millimetre shy of the rim.
‘Hey, go abiteasy there, my dude,’ I said.
‘Not gonna say no to freebies,’ he replied, knocking back half in one go.
‘Sav Blanc,’ I said, picking up a bottle with a very modern-looking black label and an outline of the county of Kent. ‘I don’t mind a Sav Blanc, and this one’s got an award. Look. Silver!’
I poured myself a more modest glass, but it was becoming hard to aim the bottle neck in the right direction.
‘It’s got the cat’s wee on the nose, which I know we’re all supposed to like, but with four tomcats at home, I can’t stomach it,’ said a woman’s voice next to me. She wore a flared turquoise trouser suit that could only be made fashionable by someone like Alexa Chung.
‘Cat’s wee?’ I said.
‘Oh. Yes,’ the woman replied, looking surprised. ‘It’s a tasting note?’
‘Oh yes. Yes! Cat urine. Exquisite,’ I replied, trying not to snigger into my glass, which suddenly did smell quite a lot like cat’s wee. Tim roared with laughter and the woman frowned and inched a few feet away from us. How on earth Heather moved in these circles, I’d never quite understand.
‘Okay, I don’t know how much more of this I can stomach,’ I said, looking at Tim with one eye closed, so that I didn’t see two of him. ‘I’m drunk, Tim. And I want a large stuffed-crust pizza with extra salami. And chilli. And a beer.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said, ‘but first, where are the bogs?’
‘Can you at least say “lavatory”? We’re in the Ritz, for fuck’s sake,’ I shouted as he wandered off in the wrong direction.
‘Heather Jones?’ said a voice behind me. ‘Well, isn’t this a wonderful surprise. I didn’t know you were coming, but, well, of course you would be. And then I saw your name at the door.’
I blinked for a moment, then glanced from her warm smile to her flowing mustard blouse and then down at her badge.
‘It’s Irene Reid, my dear. Bill must have mentioned me in your interview,’ she said, beaming, her wild white hair flowing and her arms outstretched like a marble sculpture of the Virgin Mary. ‘I’m so pleased to have you on my team.’
