When I was at university I had a friend (on whom I had a crush, briefly) who was a “The Honourable”. She would be getting a signet ring for her twenty-first birthday, lived in a large pile in the middle of the country somewhere and had a father who was made a lord within the time I knew her. She also didn’t like giving blowjobs, could make her lips look three times their size with the use of her tongue, knew how to disable a drunk man by twisting his nipples and spent most of a seminar passing notes to me wondering if having four stomachs (like a cow does) would cure my IBS.
I have the coolest friends.
Travelling up to her place for her birthday party was a bit of an adventure, mostly on account of the fact that only one of our group had a car, I was navigating using directions I got off Google, nobody knew exactly where this house was and there were lots of country roads (but we found it – we got lost on the way back, though). The event itself was a curious mix of posh and youth-friendly; I was on a table with people I didn’t know. I ended up telling the story of how I’d been cheated on and dumped the previous year and I got responses like “shit, that’s fucking weak, isn’t it?” in aristocratic voices like the airmen in Armstrong & Miller.
Hired servants brought the food, which was largely uninspired; there was a disco in which they played Space Cowboy (which I’d spent that morning getting dressed to). I was enjoying myself – getting hyped up on free Coca-Cola and thrashing about on the dancefloor like Tim Booth if Tim Booth couldn’t dance. I may not have been an aristocrat myself, but with my fancy suit, naturally BBC voice and lack of concern for what people thought of my dancing, I was having great fun pretending.
The girl with the curly brown hair ended up asking me how old I was.
“I’m 19,” I said. “I’m guessing you are around the same? Although I’m not supposed to ask a lady her age.”
“I’m 30,” she purred. “You’re 19? That’s cute. You’re 19. I’m 30. And we’re dancing.”
Is she drunk? She’s just saying things that seem obvious.
“We are. I’m quite enjoying the funky music.”
“Wheeeee!” was her restrained reply, at which point she radiated away and vanished into the milieu of wasted rich people congregating at the other end of the marquee.
“That was weird,” I said to nobody in particular, and then set about wondering how I was going to get to sleep that night since I’d forgotten my sleeping bag (nota bene: I ended up sharing with Meg, the girl at my university who had driven me there. A drunk aristo spent most of the night trying it on with her and I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to stop myself laughing too much.) while throwing shapes for a bit longer.
For the next few hours the thirty-year-old with the curly brown hair kept drifting in my direction, almost saying something and then removing herself.
You are in the main room of a social gathering for rich people. There are exits to the north and west with a twisty little passage opening to the south.
There is a grinning little thirty-year-old in the room with you!
I had no idea. What exactly was her angle? She seemed a bit put out to find that I was 19. She didn’t want to talk, as she kept stopping herself, and she didn’t want to dance, as she was already doing that. She couldn’t have realistically wanted anything else, as this was a party, and she couldn’t have wanted to sleep with me, as nobody ever wants to do that. So what exactly was it she wanted?
It is pitch dark. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.
I went into the adjoining marquee, lay on the ground until Meg turned up and the night came to a quiet conclusion. Quite a nice ending, all told.
The following morning I asked my friend who the thirty-year-old with the curly brown hair was.
“I’ve no idea,” she admitted. “He’s one of my brother’s friends. My brother has very weird friends. I mean, you heard two of them doing his character assassination – she’s a sister or a friend of a friend or an ex or something. Why? Are you interested?”
Well, are you?
“No. No, I’m not. I’m just curious. We started talking last night and never really got to finish our conversation.”
“Don’t worry about it. Hey, just a question – is Meg driving you back to Nottingham today? If you’re staying, you could meet her again.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m going with Meg. Why, do you want a lift?”
“I’m staying here for a bit, but it won’t be too long. I’ll be back for the new term, though.”
“What, are you getting a private helicopter to fly you or something?”
“Oh, do fuck off,” she grinned.
