WLG is on holiday. Her friend Portobello Girl tells us about the cat-loving man-spinster.
PG had popped along to The Westbourne with her flatmate Natalia, and blonde ethereal Becca. As it is just at the end of her road, she had gone for a casual tribal print shift under a light Burberry mac, tousled hair and minimal make-up. PG was most certainly ‘dressed down’…
No sooner had they found a free table below the veranda than an amicable chap slouched over and asked if he could join them. After enduring a boring exchange about local neighbourhoods and haunts, it transpired that N owned a magazine, and needed new writers. PG dropped her default expression of contempt, and smiled at him serenely. ‘I’m a writer’ she purred in dulcet tones.
N introduced them to his friends, all LA types, they included the Out-Of-Work-Actor, and the Musician. As The Westbourne was closing, PG and Natalia agreed to accompany them to the Electric for a nightcap. PG ran into the Ex downstairs at reception; the film director/ obsessive perfectionist. An awkward exchange ensued, culminating in her asking if he was leaving. Subliminal suggestion? Perhaps.
Upstairs, the member’s bar was teeming. Creatives in need of a midweek boost were congregating in hordes, Swedish girls groped one another, while camp interior designers and execs jostled for supremacy at the bar. The Musician made an odd first impression. Sitting at the large round table by the window he instigated a heated debate with PG about the comparative merits of Wagner versus Mendelssohn. Natalia innocently commented that he looked very composed, the next thing we knew his feet were on the table, crotch gyrating in the air.
More drinks ensued, and by now Out-Of-Work-Actor was schmoozing a washed up Playmate in the corner.
Back at his house the Musician tinkled out some jazz piece he’d composed. He then studiously ignored the assembled guests in favour of his rather robust cat. His bond with the animal was a little disconcerting; when PG affectionately referred to it as ‘fatty’, he launched into a one-sided tirade about how the cat wasn’t fat and, incidentally, PG was. He then had her on her hands and knees to feel the animal’s abdomen, insisting that the saggy distended mass was simply evidence of his ‘large-boned’ frame.
Just as PG and Natalia were losing interest in this strange man-spinster and his overweight cat, N piped up to say there was a party at Julian’s house. Just off Portobello. Julian had a motley crew at his, including a renowned Canadian supermodel, the progeny of various ’80s rock stars and an assortment of Californian health enthusiasts. From the outside the house was just another grand Georgian terrace, but inside there was a pool-sized Jacuzzi, home cinema, bar, vast library and a topiaried roof terrace.
Veuve was flowing and PG got talking to the Musician again. Away from his beloved cat, he was suddenly rather charming. After exchanging a few witticisms, she decided she actually quite liked this strange, conflicted character.
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