‘… Yes, but these are heritage gooseberries, that’s the difference. Anyway, they juice them, put them in the pessary and then insert the whole thing …’
‘… Fifty grand, to go to some poxy dinner where you have to sit next to a nobody like the Culture Secretary. I mean …’
It’s about 85–15 women to men. The few men are divided: they’re eitherveryfashion or they seem like bemused uncles, with a distinct vibe of ‘the Garrick isn’t open yet so I may as well be here’. The women are tightly clothed, exuberant, and as skinny as whips.
We stand in the middle of the room for a second, looking around, and then:
‘There.’
We make our way through the crowd to the bar, where a highly trained barman is wasting his career pouring endless low-calorie vodka tonics with sprigs of juniper in.
‘Hi. Hello? Hi. Vodka tonic,’ Em snaps. ‘No juniper, they’re just little sugar pouches.’
I start to speak and she cuts across me. ‘No, Dom, absolutely not, you’re driving.’ And then she notices the woman next to her. ‘Oh my God. Charli Harcourt?’
She turns.
Charli Harcourt is a beautiful woman. She was about eight years Davy’s junior when they got together, I read that in one of the newspaper obits, and from the photo of the pair of them I thought:Lucky Davy. Today she’s still quite something. Don’t let anyone tell you surgery can’t yield incredible results – in Charli’s case, the procedures have dovetailed magnificently. She could be in her mid-thirties, even though I know she’s grazing fifty. As always when I meet someone really expensively assembled, I marvel at the amount of effort people are willing to spend getting other people to look at them. I’ve spent my whole career trying to achieve the opposite.
Despite all the work, there’s something vulnerable about her too, some air of late tragedies around the corners of her eyes. She’s no killer, I can tell that much instantly.
‘Tiff,’ Em says. ‘Tiff Branagh.’ (This is a nice touch. Pick a surname just famous enough that people think: ‘Surely not a cousin of …?’) ‘I used to write onSnatchwhen Guggy was editor. We met at the opening of the Palm in Mustique. You probably don’t remember.’ Nice one, Em. That was on Charli’s Instagram, but three years ago, and you could forget anything in that time.
Charli’s brow furrows slightly, in a manner consistent with the life-of-a-thousand-cuts I reckon her face has been through. ‘Did we?’ Oh, shit. I hope Em got the reference right.
‘Pretty sure we did. You were wearing this amazing Balmain gown, I remember that much.’
Charli nods, vaguely; then – and it’s a lovely bit of acting on both sides, actually – her brow clears. ‘Oh,Tiff. Sorry, I was miles away. God, that was fun. Didn’t we watch the fireworks display together? They sent us all up to the roof? And then the lifts broke down?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Absolute chaos.’ Em looks round as if she’s noticed me for the first time. ‘Oh, this is, um …’ She flaps a hand.
‘Dom,’ I say.
‘Dom. He’s my latest fucktotum. The last one was actually flogging my old clothes on Vinted, can you believe?’
Charli frowns at me, as if to sayWatch your step, pal.There’s a certain flintiness about her, alongside the grief. Maybe it’s just the frost-coating of recent bereavement I’m detecting, but there’s something there that chimes within me. I sense she wasn’t born to the world of newtiques or tweakments, and she’s spent a long time making damn sure she looks the part.
She turns back to Em. ‘So what are you up to now?’
‘Oh, I’m running my own travel thing. Trips of a lifetime. But each one takes about three years to put together. Anyway.’ Em leans a little closer. ‘I just wanted to say. It’s so brave of you to be here, given everything. I saw the news and I just wanted to offer my condolences. I didn’t know him, but …’
The image of Davy dying before our eyes reappears to meagainst my will, and I imagine the same thing is happening to Em, because there’s a littlevéritéin the way her voice catches.
‘… but I just thought of you straight away. I’ve been through something similar myself.’
Charli nods. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘I was away, in—’
Em interrupts her. ‘Actually, I’m so sorry, if you just want to enjoy the party …’
‘No, that’s fine.’
A couple of guests have arrived behind us, waggling empty glasses at the poor barman. ‘Shall we get away from the bar?’
‘Let’s.’
