9
Love is a Battlefield
I regretted what I was wearing the moment I stepped into the club. We were in a converted factory – basically a room without windows, and very little ventilation. My kitten heels were sticking to the floor thanks to ten years’ worth of spiled beer, and the yellow top with spaghetti straps that had looked so chic in my bedroom mirror made me feel like a half-peeled banana.
After eating some admittedly delicious watermelon, we’d left my parents’ house and Simon had gone back to his hotel, while I’d returned to the flat. I’d then spent ages rifling through my wardrobe before deciding on black skinny jeans and a canary-yellow top that I’d bought last summer and never worn. I should have stayed in my usual clothes, but Jessica Honeywell brought out my insecure side, hence my attempt at a bit of glamour.
Simon had played bass in her first band when they were at university. When I’d gone up to visit him he’d seemed totally besotted with her. In fairness, most blokes were because she looked like a young Debbie Harry – with platinum hair and curvy white flesh poured into a Vivienne Westwood-inspired dress. I had stood at the side of the stage, clutching my Malibu and Coke, in my Topshop outfit, feeling like I’d rocked up at a royal wedding in a leper’s cast-offs.
She left university early when her second band, Rydell, signed with a major. I anxiously followed her progress inNMEandRe:Sound, secretly hoping her record would tank. But instead, it sold a million copies and she was invited on Marcie Tyler’s last tour, ten years ago. I’d been green with envy because Jessica had never really been a fan. First Simon and then Marcie – it felt like she was appropriating everything I held dear.
She’d started to make inroads in America, but the second album, although brilliant, just never got the promotion it deserved and sales were dismal. Within months the label quietly dropped them. They’d fallen into obscurity, but then, about a year ago, one of her songs – a cheesy ballad – had been used in an ad for mobile phones, and there’d been an upsurge in interest in her. She’d appeared on a realityTVshow, had a fling with a fellow castmate and was now a tabloid darling. But no one ever talked about her music, preferring to obsess about her love life. I remember seeing an interview with her a few months back where she’d bemoaned the fact that everyone now associated her with wearing a bikini onTVand a stupid love song she’d written when was nineteen. I felt for her, but the royalty cheques probably made the burden easier for her to bear.
Simon was at the bar now, and I was making small talk with Alice while fending off insults from Pete.
‘Blimey, sis, you’ve pushed the boat out,’ he said, as I hoiked up my shoulder strap for the fiftieth time.
‘Don’t be mean, Pete,’ said Alice. ‘Zoë looks lovely – why shouldn’t she look nice?’
Pete rolled his eyes. ‘Dunno, maybe because we’re in a dive in Kentish Town?’
I was spared further sartorial advice from Pete by Simon, who’d returned from the bar carrying a tray of drinks.
‘This is so exciting,’ said Alice. ‘Cheers, everyone!’
Simon was acting weird. He seemed unsettled; nervous even. His eyes darted back towards the bar. I couldn’t work out why, but then I followed his eye-line and I realised what had prompted this change.
Jessica was at the bar.
I hadn’t seen her for over ten years, but she looked just as poised and glamorous as she had then. She was still blonde, but her poker-straight hair was several shades darker than the platinum tresses she’d sported in her twenties. She wore skinny leather trousers, a strapless top and body glitter across her shoulders which at first glance looked like radioactive dandruff.
Pete noticed her next. ‘Fuck, is that Jessica right there?’
The movement of the rest of the group turning their heads in her direction must have caught her eye because she suddenly looked up.
Simon awkwardly held up his beer bottle to say cheers, and she frowned. Then, when recognition hit, she threw back her head and laughed. She picked up her own bottle of beer and started walking over to us.
‘Baxter!’ She beamed, her eyes fixed on Simon.
Simon smiled right back, obviously delighted that she’d recognised him.
‘Jess. How great to see you!’
I couldn’t help noticing that her eyes were glassy from drink – she’d evidently started the after-show party early.
She gave him a kiss on the cheek, then blinked up at the rest of us.
‘Jess, these are my friends,’ said Simon and introduced us all.
Pete had grown pale and was standing unnaturally stiffly. He’d been quite taken by Jessica Honey back in the day, but he needed to rein in the starstruck act. She wasn’t Beyoncé, for God’s sake.
‘Pete, sweetie,’ said Alice, once Jess had shaken everyone’s hands. ‘Could you get them to add some ice to my wine? I should have asked for a spritzer. I hate drinking on Sunday nights.’
As Pete took Alice’s drink back to the bar, she said to me in a low voice: ‘Pete was going to say something embarrassing – I thought it best to intervene.’
She followed him to the bar, leaving me with Jess and Simon.
‘You remember Zoë, don’t you, Jess?’
