Becky’s eyes are seething above her rictus grin. ‘Oh. Wow. Amazing! Yeah, we did consider them, but I think in the end we just felt a DJ was a bit less … showy. A bit more us. Didn’t we, Phil?’
‘Yeah,’ Phil agrees through a mouthful of vol-au-vent. ‘He was a bloody good DJ, too, wasn’t he?’
‘Amazing,’ says Alice.
‘You know he did Dermot O’Leary’s wedding?’
‘Yes! Becks mentioned that. A few times.’
I watch Alice closely as she continues this passive-aggressive rally against the woman who is supposedly her best friend. And all the time, I can’t help thinking: was she like this in Paris? Or at Marek’s wedding?
I’m positive she wasn’t like it at uni, when we both lived in scruffy hoodies and subsisted on roll-ups and sausage sandwiches. But having just relived Paris, I could definitely see glimpses of this new side of her: the snarkiness, the competitiveness, the fixation on work and money. But I guess, first time around – just like at the wedding – I was so totally, dumbly preoccupied by the fact that she seemed to fancy me. Everything else had just been background noise against all her arm touches and smiles.
Now, though, that attraction seems to have been replaced by irritation and frustration and boredom. She’s marrying me – she wants to start trying for a baby with me – but she doesn’t seem to actually like me.
It makes me long for Daphne in a way that is physically painful. For her goofiness and her genuineness and her … Just her.
We all sit down on the Mad Men sofas – girls on one, boys on the other – and as Becks and Alice continue their game of fixed-grin verbal tennis, Phil asks me, ‘How’s work then, mate?’
‘It’s, erm …’ I think of the swarm of red exclamation marks in my inbox. ‘Stressful.’
Phil snorts loudly. ‘Fuck off. You’re shagging the boss’s daughter! You could take a dump in the boardroom and probably still be in line for a promotion.’ He reaches across me to top up his glass. ‘You know, I’ve got mates who’d kill to work at Wyndham’s. You should see their faces when I tell them you just breezed in there with sod-all experience.’ He clinks my glass with his. ‘Jammy bastard.’
I nod. ‘Yeah. I suppose I am.’
‘I’ve heard they’re a pretty mad bunch over there. Big sessions at lunchtime and all that. Is it a laugh? I bet it’s a fucking good laugh.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I say. ‘It’s a really great laugh.’
I can feel myself starting to sweat with anxiety now, because what am I going to do if he keeps probing? I have no idea what I even do at this Wyndham’s place, much less the names of my apparently mad and hilarious co-workers. If I can’t provide answers to the most basic questions about my job, it’s going to look more than a little odd. I’m going to have to feign some sort of recent head injury or something.
I feel an overpowering urge to get out of this room, but before I can think of an excuse, the doorbell sounds again and Alice jumps to her feet.
‘Ooh, that’ll be Marek and Dipal!’
Chapter Forty-Three
‘Marek?’ I say.
Alice frowns down at me. ‘Yes, Marek. What is wrong with you today?’
‘No, nothing. Sorry.’
She goes out to answer the door, and Phil thumps me on the back. ‘Wedding’s not for four months, and they’re already bickering like a married couple!’
‘Are you OK, Ben?’ Becky asks, leaning forward from her sofa. ‘You do look a little peaky.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just … tired.’
‘Merry Christmas, fuckos!’
‘Marek!’ Becky squeals, and suddenly, the director, writer and star of The Carol Revisited is standing right in front of me, pumping my hand. His hair is still as wild as it was at his wedding three and a half years ago, but it’s now almost entirely grey to match his neatly trimmed goatee beard. He’s wearing a thick black polo neck and clear-framed glasses, looking like a bizarre mash-up of David Brent, Richard Ayoade and Steve Jobs.
His wife Dipal – Dee – pecks me hurriedly on both cheeks before shrieking and running across to manhandle Becky’s bump.
Marek accepts a glass of Cava from Alice. ‘So. How are you then, Benjamin?’ he asks me.
‘Good, thanks,’ I lie. ‘You?’
He nods, swallowing a large gulp of wine. ‘Yup. Tons of directing gigs at the mo, so it’s busy, busy, busy. But that’s how we like it.’
In 2023, Marek is apparently exploring previously uncharted levels of pretentiousness by referring to himself in the majestic plural.
‘Saw your latest masterpiece on telly last night, mate,’ Phil laughs, putting on a jokey All-American accent. ‘McCain Oven Chips: for a happy, healthy family!’
Marek smiles back tightly, and I get the impression that Alice v Becky won’t be the only passive-aggressive grudge match on today’s docket.
‘No, fair play, not exactly Oscar-winning fodder,’ he says with his jaw clenched. ‘Still, I got a fucking good pay cheque for it, which I can use to fund something a little more creatively nourishing, if you know what I mean. That’s how it works in this industry,’ he adds snootily. ‘One for them, one for you.’
‘It’s been more like twenty for them, none for you, hasn’t it, mate?’ Phil chuckles, to snickering laughter from Becky and Alice.
Marek soaks up their giggles with apparent good humour, and answers with a question of his own. ‘And how’s the fascinating world of accountancy then, Philip? Sitting behind a desk tapping away at your calculator: sounds fucking mind-blowing.’
Phil grins and punches Marek’s shoulder. ‘Whatever, mate.’
Becky squeezes Dee’s arm. ‘Oh, I love it when the boys go all alpha.’
There’s more laughter at this – from ‘the boys’, too – and I see Marek smirk as he reaches for a vol-au-vent.
It’s weird, really, how little he’s changed since uni. That spark and arrogance he had at nineteen are still very much there, despite the fact that he clearly hasn’t lived up to
