Friend of the Family

‘Don’t you ever speak to me again, David Parker. You have made a horrible mistake – no, I made a horrible mistake. You’re welcome to that slag. Actually, she’s about your level.’

David opened his mouth to defend Amy, but closed it again. It was pointless. Annabel had always regarded anyone not in her own narrow little set as somehow low, dirty, untouchable. Nothing he could say would change that.

‘I am sorry, Annabel,’ he said sadly. ‘I really didn’t mean it to end this way.’

She glared at him. ‘Goodbye, David,’ she said.

She turned and walked into the darkness. For a moment, David stared after her, then a chuckle began to build in his throat. By the time she had turned the corner, he was doubled up with laughter.

‘Obviously you need to get laid,’ said Max, splashing more champagne into David’s glass. ‘It’s like the hair of the dog, isn’t it? Shagging some other tart – especially one who looks just like her – is the best cure for getting dumped.’

‘I’d rather stick pins through my knob,’ said David, taking an angry glug of the bubbly. They were sitting hunched over a table in the main bar, by now a bacchanal of half-dressed students dancing on the tables and spurting drinks into the air like dolphins.

‘Oof, don’t even talk about that,’ said Max with a theatrical shudder. ‘Tried it once during my grunge phase. Hurts a lot more than getting your ear pierced.’

David managed a half-smile, but his brief euphoria at being released from his crumbling relationship with Annabel had quickly plunged into depression. Aided by the alcohol in his system, his mood was black: no job, no girl, no future.

‘Come on, old man, it’s not that bad,’ said Max.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, in fact it’s good news. One, you get to shag every girl in Chelsea, two, you won’t have to spend valuable weekends choosing wallpaper, and three, you get to shack up with me.’

‘You?’

‘Of course!’ said Max, clearly delighted with his idea. ‘Look, you know I’ve deferred my start at McKinsey until January, but maybe I can spend just three months in Goa rather than six. I’ll be bored by then anyway, seeing as you’re only coming out for two poxy weeks. Anyway you know I’ve already got some digs lined up near the barracks. Very mod – all glass and marble, none of that period rubbish – and plenty of room for you, old boy. I get the en suite, obviously.’ He grasped David’s shoulder and stared into his eyes meaningfully. ‘It’s going to be fucking mental. Just you, me and half of Elite.’

‘Elite?’ asked David, his head beginning to hum. ‘What’s that?’

‘The modelling agency, you sweet moron. All the hottest leggy numbskulls sign up when they’re about sixteen. Was thinking of setting myself up as a photographer, get them in for castings, ply them with booze. Pretty foolproof, don’t you think?’

Not for the first time, David wondered why he and Max were friends.

‘But Max, I don’t have a bloody job any more. I can’t afford to live anywhere, let alone the middle of London.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Max, knocking back a shot and grimacing. ‘My father’s paying the rent at least until those juicy cheques start flowing through. Reckon I can persuade him to cough up for at least twelve months.’ He belched and pointed at David. ‘And don’t worry about the job, either. I’ll introduce you to Rory.’

David shook his head.

‘You remember Rory. Drinks brandy, head like a bullet. Went out with that girl with the red Aston.’ Max was, despite his venal personality, one of those people who collected acquaintances like rare stamps. He was ‘close mates’ with thousands of people. If they were even vaguely rich or influential, he would contrive to bump into them at a bar or social, carefully maintaining the connection, slapping backs, buying drinks, generally being the life and soul. Then, when circumstance made them useful – family had an empty chalet, say – he would pounce. ‘Some people have actual talents,’ he had once confided. ‘I just happen to have brass balls.’ His approach had certainly paid off at Oxford: along with endless party invitations and ins to the most exclusive scenes, he’d even managed to scam his way into a lucrative management consultancy job, even though he was likely to flunk his degree.

‘Maxie, I can’t keep track of all your so-called mates. What did Rory do again? Was he on your course?’

‘Nah, he’s a proper brain, graduated in ’93,’ said Max blithely. ‘Went straight over to Lehman’s on Wall Street, did six months, then jumped ship to Hong Kong. But his brother heads up recruitment for Nicholson James.’

‘The investment bank?’

‘More of a boutique outfit than a big multinational. But they’re good. I reckon he’d take a chance on a loser like you, assuming you cheer up a bit.’

‘Max, I’ve just split up with my girlfriend.’

Max gripped his shoulder. ‘And it’s a tragedy, I feel your pain. But life is not a rehearsal, Dave my boy, and we won’t get another crack at our last ball in Oxford.’ He pressed a glass into David’s hand and pulled him up from the table.

‘I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Max, but I’m just not in the mood. I’d rather go home.’

Max grabbed his lapels and pulled David’s face close to his. ‘Are you a man or some girlie shirt-lifting ponce?’

‘A man, but—’