Cause Celeb by Helen Fielding Page B

office and said he was sorry, he’d forgotten, he had a party on Saturday night.
    â€œOh, great. That’ll be nice, whose party?”
    â€œRosie, the thing is, it’s just a small do, invitation only. I mean I don’t really want to go but . . .”
    So I couldn’t come. Saturday night was off. Every time he did this I thought he meant it was over. Hermione was listening.
    â€œThat’s fine. No problem,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
    â€œLook I’ll call you tonight. OK?”
    â€œI thought you were busy tonight?”
    Why couldn’t we go out tonight instead?
    â€œLook, I just need a night in, all right, it’s been a long week.” So why not have a night in with me, watching telly on the sofa? I said nothing.
    â€œI’ll call you tonight.” He was angry now. I had offended the mysterious unwritten code.
    â€œI might go out tonight.”
    â€œWho are you going with?” he said angrily.
    I said nothing, startled by his tone.
    â€œOK, if that’s the way you want to play it. I’ll call you in the morning. Bye.” Slam.
    â€œAll right, that’ll be great. I’ll see you then. Yes, lovely. Talk to you tomorrow,” I said to no one, smiling at no one, looking up at Hermione. “Bye, sweetheart.”
    That night I went round to Shirley’s and moped a bit, had a bottle of wine with her, giggled about men—“Men? Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em”—tried clothes on, went home in a taxi and a good mood.
    When I got in there was one message on the answerphone.
    â€œHello, my little Devon plumpkin. Just wanted to hear your voice. Sorry I was so vile this afternoon. It’s been a filthy week. I’ll tell you about it. Mmmmm. Wish you were here now. Give me a ring when you get in if you like.”
    I was a bit drunk. I called him. He was sweet, we talked dirty. We arranged to have lunch on Sunday. We talked dirty some more. I felt romantic. Poor old thing, with his pressures and horrible work and social demands. He said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll come round after the party tomorrow. I won’t be late. It’s just a duty job.” And I thought, Why not?

    On Saturday I spoke to Rhoda. She was going to the same party as Oliver. It was in an old church in Notting Hill. Five hundred people were expected. Maybe he didn’t realize. Maybe it didn’t seem like that on the invitation.
    â€œDitch him, girl,” said Rhoda.
    I stayed in. I thought he’d come round before midnight. At eleven, I slipped into a little black silk teddy and stockings. He really liked stockings, Oliver did. At one o’clock, I got into bed, still in the stockings. I slept in fits and starts. I was awake at three whenthe doorbell rang. He was rolling drunk. This time, even when we were having sex all over the living room, I was annoyed.
    When we lay in bed afterwards I asked him about the party. “Were there a lot of people there?”
    â€œYeah, er, no, actually. Not really.”
    â€œWho was there?”
    He told me about it as if he was telling a story.
    â€œ. . . and it was then Vicky Spankie rather fell for my charms.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? I thought you didn’t like her.”
    â€œHey, hey, come on, I was just dancing with her and talking to her. She’s a sweet girl. It’s completely absurd her being married to that opportunist Indian idiot. I’ll give it three months. He’ll take her for everything she has.”
    â€œI thought that was what she’d done to him.”
    â€œDo I detect a note of jealousy, my plumpkin? No need, no need. She has got nice tits, though.”
    He fumbled drunkenly at my breasts. I felt cold as a lump of dough.

    When I crept back to bed from the living room at six he didn’t wake. He didn’t wake when I got up at eleven either. I faffed around the flat for a