Just My Luck(70)

‘You can’t overestimate just how thrilling our win is to other people,’ commented Jake smugly, this morning. We were lying in bed perusing the guest list. His attitude to the response was unadulterated joy. Mine was barely disguised panic.

‘I’m nervous about the large number of unknown faces that will be arriving tonight,’ I admitted.

‘We have a lot of security. I think they’ll spot the difference between a fifteen-year-old rich kid we haven’t met but has come to party because they’ve been invited and a fifty-year-old pierced thug who has come to rob us. Not exactly tricky.’

I’ve never before heard Jake stereotype using a piercing as shorthand for trouble. That’s the kind of thing Patrick does.

We all arrived at the party together at 6 p.m. The early start was Jake’s idea; he wants the night to last forever but that’s not possible – even money can’t change the space-time continuum. The children disappeared the instant we stepped out of the car. They melted into the crowds, keen to hunt out their friends; old or new, I’m not sure. Jake wasn’t at my side for much longer – there were too many outstretched hands that he had to shake, numerous pats on the back to be received. Inevitably we became separated as people demanded our attention. Everyone appears to be giddy with excitement and overawed. We are repeatedly congratulated on our win; the party, the cocktails and our costumes are all admired. I’m wearing a Pierrot, sad clown costume: loose white blouse with large pompom buttons and wide white pantaloons, a frilled black collar and skull cap. I’ve completed the look by painting my face white, I have black lips and I’ve drawn a fat tear on my cheek. Jake disapproves of my costume. He doesn’t like that I’m dressed as a man. He wanted me to wear a figure-hugging, sparkling something or other. He derisively refers to my outfit as my ‘monotone mime costume’. But Jake is missing the point. The Pierrot has been a stock character in circus and pantomime for centuries; he creates pity in audiences as he pines for the love of Columbine (who usually breaks his heart and leaves him for Harlequin, the colourful one). The defining characteristic of Pierrot is his naivety: he is seen as a fool, often the butt of pranks, yet nonetheless he is loved, his redeeming feature is that he’s trusting.

I thought about my costume long and hard.

The baggy get-up and the white face offer me some much-needed anonymity. Once I’m not by Jake’s side, who is dressed as a Ringmaster (no make that the Ringmaster), I am not easily recognised. I am able to drift through the gentle din of polite early party chatter and clinking glasses; I breathe in the heady perfume of the sun-scorched meadow and delicious food aromas without anyone really bothering me.

There is no denying it – the entire party looks amazing. I have never attended anything so stupendous in my life and I don’t suppose many, if any, of the guests have either. Every detail has been stage-managed to create an awe-inspiring, magical spectacle. The waiters are dressed as acrobats, they are all incredibly fit and attractive. Bulging biceps and taut abs are everywhere I turn. They are carrying trays of brightly coloured cocktails, poking out of which are slices of toffee apple or candy floss and red and white straws. There are dozens of primary-coloured light bulbs hung in festoons criss-crossing between the trees. It’s still too early for them to be anything more than eye-catching, but they are most definitely that. There are ice sculptures of roaring lions and seals balancing balls on their noses dotted about, and enormous bean bags surround firepits and chocolate fountains that have encouraged pockets of teens to cluster. The teenagers are even enjoying themselves. I see this because they are not sat in a line, heads bent devoutly over their phones; they are talking to each other, laughing, shoving and then hugging one another. There are a lot of similar-looking girls in tiny, glittering outfits with dyed blonde hair and dark roots that extend to about the ear. I understand this is deliberate and fashionable because when I once commented that it looked careless, unkempt, Emily rolled her eyes. ‘That’s the point, Mum.’

Their young faces are still taut and keen; later this evening I imagine they will be flushed with drink, maybe drugs, maybe sex, but right now they ooze innocence and hope.

I scan each teen group for Emily, Megan or Ridley. Habit. I’ve done this since they were babies. Checked their whereabouts, their comfort levels. Swooped in if one of them needed taking to the loo, feeding, or if there was a dispute to be managed.

Of course, it’s different now, everything is. I can’t manage their disputes. I can’t do anything to help.

Megan isn’t invited and it would take some cheek for the Pearsons to turn up under the circumstances, but they have that in spades so I’m not completely ruling it out. We haven’t heard anything from them since I called Carla. Their silence is partially disconcerting – they were so loud in our lives for such a long time – but mostly a relief. A triumph. What can they say? What can they do? I feel a small glow of pride that I have managed to deal with them so effectively, so conclusively. But the Heathcotes? They are a different beast. Emily says she’s not bothered about whether Ridley comes or not, but I watched her patiently sit while a professional make-up artist spent three hours doing her make-up and styling her pink wig in preparation for tonight, so I don’t believe her. She cares. Far too much.

The volume has cranked up considerably and carries across the field in every direction. There are clashing tunes from the dancefloor and the funfair rides, laughter is more boisterous and committed, people are talking over each other, everyone convinced that they are funny and interesting, more so than when they arrived, more so than the people they are talking to. From time to time I pass a cloud of the familiar smog that used to pop up at parties when I was younger. We called it weed back then. Now they call it hash. I never partook. I stare intently at the kids and eye them suspiciously, but I can’t catch anyone with so much as a cigarette let alone find the source of the stale haze. They are quick and devious. People are.