Mutton, page 17
I think about this all the way home and I still can’t come up with a satisfactory answer. Who is it for? Is it for men in their thirties, for silver foxes, for the husbands of our friends (to this I can categorically say no), for dads at the playground, for colleagues, for exes, for strangers? The obvious answer would be ‘It’s for me, for myself,’ but that isn’t really true. If it were down to me, I’d lie about in my onesie eating cheese, happy as a clam, the notion of Botox not even a notion. It’s like that thing that people always say about wearing expensive lingerie – ‘Oh, I wear it for myself.’ But you don’t. You wear it because you want someone to rip it off you with their teeth, regardless of whether you know such a person or just hope to meet one, one day. Sexy knickers are about hope. If you’re not interested in ripping, you wear giganto-pants that come up to your waist and sturdy four-hook bras.
The best answer I can come up with is ‘people’. I want to be attractive to ‘people’. It’s unsatisfactory – it suggests that all women who are reasonably vain would actually be child-frighteners if they didn’t force themselves to try and look reasonable. But my internal conversation with myself has sharpened my thoughts, particularly when I got to the bit about posh pants and teeth. It sort of is for myself, all this stuff, to the extent that it’s about being the best version of myself that I can possibly be when it comes to pulling. That’s all it is. It’s as crude and basic as that. It’s biological.
When Bel had gone and Flo, Evie and I had finished clinging to each other just saying, ‘Beaver, Beaver,’ over and over again, crying, and when we were standing in the street looking for taxis, Flo said, ‘Are you going to text him back?’
But when I get home, I don’t. Not now. It’s late, and I am confused by his sudden reappearance, and I am going to the Hebrides tomorrow.
15
‘What on earth are you wearing?’ I ask Gaby at seven the following evening. I haven’t slept much and still have a terrible hangover: I could puke, actually, due to my age-related inability to cope with too much alcohol. I also feel like I’m hallucinating. Three hours ago Gaby was wearing a short striped dress and a leather jacket, accessorized with red lips and heeled boots. No longer.
‘Oh, just, um, just … country clothes,’ says Gaby. ‘I got them yesterday. I didn’t have anything suitable in my wardrobe.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Right. Where did you buy them from?’
‘A shop,’ says Gaby.
‘What is the shop called? It’s quite a look.’
‘Pert Damozels,’ Gaby mutters. ‘I found it online.’
Gaby’s hair is twisted into two fat sausages, which are looped droopily on either side of her head, rather like dog ears, flapping furiously back and forth every time she moves her head to speak. The front part of her hair is tightly braided across her forehead, giving a headband effect. Gaby is wearing a dress that I would best describe as medieval: tight bodice, laced up the front, ridiculously full, knee-length skirts (plural) with a bustle effect at the back, and absolutely enormous hanging sleeves that must be at least four feet long; the whole thing made of red – she’d say ‘scarlet’ – velvet. If you were being charitable, you’d say it was reasonably flattering on the tit front. You’d struggle to say anything else complimentary – the proportions are so odd, for a start – though of course Gaby is so good-looking that things could be a lot worse. Below the wench’s frock she wears tall, sturdy socks, of the kind men wear for Scottish dancing except made of rougher wool, pulled right up and held in place by leather ribbons. Her feet are shod in flat pods, with a groove at the front that suggests clovenness. She looks like an escapee from Chaucerian bedlam.
‘We’re going on the sleeper,’ I say. ‘I’m doing jogging bottoms, a nightie and a big jumper. How are you going to sleep in all that garb?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ says Gaby. ‘It takes ages to put on. I didn’t want to change into it in a tiny cabin or in a loo. This way I can just tweak it a bit in the morning.’
‘Uh, OK. And are you going to take a coat?’ I say. ‘It’s December, Gaby, and it’s going to be absolutely freezing and we have to get on a boat tomorrow. Do you want to borrow one of the boys’ parkas?’ The more I look at her, the more I’m actually slightly wondering if she’s lost her mind.
By way of answer, Gaby slips into the hall and returns wearing a cloak – almost floor length, heavy wool, with bone toggles as fastenings.
‘I have this,’ she says simply, flipping up the hood.
‘You look … very unlike yourself,’ I say. ‘You look unimaginable.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ says Gaby. ‘I look 100 per cent imaginable by Bernard Frossage. Also, it’s because I’m not wearing any make-up,’ Gaby says.
‘I think it may also have something to do with your get-up,’ I say. ‘And why no make-up?’
‘I am dressed,’ Gaby says, ‘as The Lady Gabbro. This is what she looks like. The TV series gets it completely wrong. The Lady Gabbro needs no wanton’s paint. Just cloth of crimson and the sturdy wool of prangs. Prangs are sheep,’ she adds helpfully. ‘Or – argh. Are they? Are prangs sheep?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say.
‘Rams!’ says Gaby. ‘Prangs are rams. Sheep are baals. Of course. Of course. Baals,’ she murmurs to herself, in the way I do to remind myself to buy milk. ‘Baals.’
‘Right. Do you think it’s maybe a bit much, the tribute-wear? I mean, isn’t it a bit like going to see Madonna wearing a conical bra? I don’t know that it would necessarily encourage her to take you seriously. You know? It’s like going to meet a judge wearing a judgey wig. You want him to take you seriously, after all.’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ Gaby says with dignity.
‘Gabbro! You look amazing,’ says Sky, who’s just wandered in. ‘Oh man. Grankhor ripyngo!’
‘See?’ says Gaby, turning to me triumphantly. ‘Frippu, Massicot. Frippu.’
‘Horlan,’ says Sky.
‘You are both completely deranged,’ I say. ‘I have no idea what you’re saying. It’s hurting my head.’
‘They were at it for hours last night, when you were out,’ says Jack, who’s also come down to see us off. ‘Speaking Lapidosan. Like, for hours. Laughing. Telling jokes. Even crying a bit.’ He looks fondly at them both.
‘I’d got a bit rusty,’ says Gaby. ‘I needed to practise, and it’s so much more rewarding talking to someone who’s fluent. Frippu for that, Massicot. Oh – sheep are baals, right? I got a bit confused just now.’
‘Yeah,’ says Sky. ‘Definitely baals.’
I shake my head in disbelief: I don’t know if it’s the hangover or the lack of sleep, but I feel like I’ve slipped into some parallel universe.
‘You’re taking Maisy to school in the morning, remember?’ I ask Jack, trying to get back to the normal world. ‘Sam’s going to collect her in the afternoon and then he’ll come and stay here until we get back. Her uniform’s on the chair in her room and look, here are her shoes. Try not to let her have a whole jar of Nutella for breakfast.’
‘Yep, all cool,’ says Jack.
‘God,’ says Sky. ‘I so hope Dad’s OK with all of this. I still don’t know whether I should be coming with you.’
‘I think you should be at home, getting on with your schoolwork,’ I say. ‘Revising. I have no doubt you’ll see him very soon.’
‘I wish there was a way of you letting me know how it’s going,’ Sky says, chewing her thumb.
‘No Beakstrels on Muck,’ says Gaby, hugging her. ‘More’s the pity. But remember what I said last night. It’s all going to be fine, one way or another. Try not to worry.’
‘We’ll be back soon,’ I say. ‘Couple of days, maximum. It’s the getting there and back that’s going to take up most of the time.’
‘Well, goodbye,’ says Sky anxiously. ‘And good luck. And thank you. Tell him gently, won’t you?’ she adds, chewing her thumb again. ‘Can you text when you’re on your way back, so we can make sure we’re here?’
‘Yes. Really, try not to worry,’ says Gaby. ‘It’s going to be OK.’ She opens her cloak and wraps Sky inside it for a moment, kissing the top of her head. The image is unexpectedly touching. ‘Honestly, babe. It’s all going to be fine.’
Which may perfectly well be true, but maybe not quite yet. Gaby’s insane get-up, only partially concealed by her voluminous cloak – you can still see her crazy hair and her crazy socks and feet – garners more stares than I know what to do with, and causes intense merriment as we weave our way through Euston station. And this is London, where you’d think you could dress as a hippogriff and probably be completely ignored. But among the hilarity – at one point a group of children follow us, laughing, all the way from WH Smith to Costa – come three (I counted them) admiring glances and the same strange salutation that Sky and Gaby are in the habit of making at each other. Gaby graciously acknowledges these with a not-unimperious nod of the head. Later, once our train has been called and we’re at the gate, a young man going in the opposite direction high-fives Gaby, calling out, ‘The Matriarch! Man, that’s so cool,’ as they pass each other.
‘Shall we go to the bar for a drink?’ says Gaby once we’ve boarded the train.
‘I’m still hung-over,’ I say. ‘And I’ve had enough of people staring at you for one day. Also – do you mind if I ask you a rude question?’
‘Go ahead,’ says Gaby good-naturedly. ‘I know you think this is all very funny, but you don’t understand. This – meeting Bernard – is literally the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.’
‘No, I get that,’ I say. ‘Kind of. It’s just – you’re so … well, so into the way you look. Normally, I mean – not tonight. And this is so not the way you usually look. I mean, you’re two inches away from being daubed in woad.’
‘I know,’ says Gaby happily. ‘It’s mental, right? Mentally great. It’s so freeing. That was one of the reasons I started loving Men of Granite. It’s a whole other world that he’s created. You know? He takes everything we think of as normal and questions it, including how we think we’re supposed to look.’
‘You’re a yoga teacher from LA,’ I say. ‘I mean … it’s just so hard to compute.’
‘It shouldn’t be,’ says Gaby. ‘You’ve known me forever. You know I’m a nerd.’
‘Yes, but it’s so cunningly concealed. I mean, you couldn’t have concealed it more, or better.’
‘That’s why I’m saying this is freeing,’ says Gaby patiently. ‘This is actually who I am.’
‘Gaby. Get a grip. I’m actually a bit worried about you. You are not The Lady Gabbro.’
‘No,’ says Gaby. ‘But I’m close. Inside, this is who I am. Outside … oh, I don’t know. I sometimes think outside doesn’t matter as much as I thought it did. Maybe Bernard Frossage gets it right, in those books.’
‘It’s a bloody weird way of finding out you don’t need cosmetic surgery on your hands,’ I say.
‘I didn’t say that,’ says Gaby.
‘What do you think will happen when you meet Bernard?’ I ask. ‘Really. I’m curious.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Gaby, and blushes.
We are woken up at eight-thirty a.m. with a cup of tea. The scenery outside the window is spectacular, and my jaw actually drops open: we are on a single-track branch line going through the West Highlands at a stately pace, past lochs, hills with snow on their summits, brooks and, incredibly, deer. The sense that I am hallucinating – that I have now been hallucinating for twelve hours – doesn’t leave me. We clickety-clack past the shores of Loch Treig, and I press my nose up against the window in wonderment. At one point after that, the train squeezes past a gorge, with a river below. It’s like being inside a painting: one of the most breathtakingly beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Just before ten a.m., we arrive in Fort William, disembark, cross platforms and get on the train to Mallaig – the end of the line. This journey too is stunningly beautiful. Ben Nevis towers above Fort William as we pull out of the station. Soon we’re going past Loch Eilt – we spy a tiny white church just past Lochailort station, or at least I do: Gaby is readjusting her forehead-braid at this stage. I am intensely moved by the beauty of our surroundings, in this new middle-aged way I have: ten years ago, I’d have glanced up, thought ‘This is nice’ to myself, and gone back to my book or my iPod. Now I am practically weeping at the beauty of the natural world: I feel like my heart is in my mouth. Some of the lochs have tiny islands on them, with bare trees. I’m reasonably well travelled, but honestly: I’ve never seen anything like this before. I make a mental note to never holiday anywhere other than remote Scotland, which strikes me forcefully as one of the wonders of the world.
The sea appears on our left-hand side, and then we’re in Mallaig, where we get off and go wandering in search of the ferry. It is freezing cold and for one moment I rather envy Gaby’s loony cloak: my parka is only keeping me warm from the thighs up. I eye the weather suspiciously and scan the harbour for MV Lochnevis, which is supposed to get us to Muck, but then realize it doesn’t get in for an hour. I really, really hope no crossings are cancelled: we don’t really have a plan B, and although I could easily while away an evening ensconced somewhere eating seafood, time is of the essence and we’re not on holiday. I peer at the sea hesitantly: it doesn’t look especially calm.
‘Let’s go and find some coffee,’ I tell Gaby, who has perched herself on her wheely case and is gazing out dreamily, like a woolly, becloaked mermaid. She looks less peculiar in this context than she did in London: weather-appropriate and sensibly shod, Celtically ginger and Celtically pale. If she spoke Gaelic rather than Lapidosan, you’d take her for a mildly eccentric local who maybe had to dress like that in order to please the tourists – the Scottish equivalent of bare-breasted Africans with spears, who then go home to put their normal clothes on, make dinner and chat about current affairs.
Not that there are many – or indeed any – tourists other than us, as far as I can tell: you’d have to really have a liking for dramatic weather and intense cold to come this far in December. We leave our cases at the ticket office, where a nice lady (who also informs us that it’ll be dark by three p.m.) points us in the direction of a café that will serve us bacon rolls and coffee. When we find it, both the coffee and the roll strike me as ambrosial, because they are hot.
And then, finally, we are on the ferry. We are on the ferry, puking like we’ve never puked before: the crossing is notoriously rough, even in clement weather – which this is not. The boat rides the waves like a roller coaster, so that you get that whooshing feeling in your stomach every time it crests a wave, and then – thump – down it comes, and up comes breakfast, until there’s nothing left. The situation isn’t helped by the all-pervading smell (even outside) of burgers and chips. Thank heavens Sky isn’t here: she’d be throwing up in triplicate. We’d started off on the viewing platform – there are dolphins to be seen, we’ve been told, as well as whales and porpoises – but a combination of freezing cold and spray soon has us scuttling down to the relative safety of the coffee lounge, until the rolling motion of the ship sends us back up again to puke. Gaby’s artfully constructed hairdo is in disarray. I have sick on my parka sleeve and have nothing to wipe it off with. We’re both pale green. I had, comically, put on a slick of budge-proof lipstick earlier this morning, which Gaby now points and laughs at in between vomiting – ‘Still glam,’ she says, and then heaves.
Port Mór, the tiny harbour at Muck, is stunning, in a brutal way, though I imagine it is a great deal less bleak in summer. We disembark, the only two passengers to do so, and take a lonely walk up the stone jetty. Now what? There’s a small settlement near the harbour. We have the name of Bernard’s house, but there are no people around to ask for directions. Still, the island is tiny: if we walk for long enough, we’ll find it, or at least find a person to point us the right way. There’s wind gusting as we set off in no particular direction, pulling our wheely cases, past a field with very small ponies in it. Or maybe they’re normal-sized ponies, or giant ponies. I can’t tell any more. Everything is surreal. I start laughing at Gaby’s Louis Vuitton case, which for some reason strikes me as the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, being pulled along by a madwoman in hooves through an insanely stark and beautiful landscape, in the howling wind, with neither of us really knowing where we’re going, and not a soul about.
‘Stop!’ I tell Gaby. ‘I have to take a picture.’
I get my phone out – zero signal, of course – and photograph her. When I examine the picture on my phone screen, I am struck yet again by the thought that, suitcase aside, in this particular context Gaby doesn’t look that mad at all. In London: certifiable, like it would be a kindness to get her sectioned. Here: pretty much at home. This strikes me as highly comedic, and I start to laugh again.
‘My turn,’ says Gaby. ‘It’s not like you don’t look hilarious in your cashmere and red lippy, and your blow-dry. Well, what’s left of it.’
‘At least I’ve got my Arctic parka,’ I tell her. ‘Four hundred quid well spent in one of Covent Garden’s finest emporia.’
‘Those are good boots too,’ says Gaby.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Selfridges. Though I don’t guarantee that this setting is quite what Kurt Geiger had in mind.’
‘Kurt Geiger doesn’t exist, you know,’ Gaby shouts. The wind is rising, and fast. ‘He’s a made-up thing, like some of those “farms” in supermarkets.’
‘Doesn’t he? It seems an odd sort of name to make up if you want to convey shoe-glamour,’ I yell back. ‘Germanic. I’d have gone more for Italianate, or Frenchified.’
