Free Foetal Attraction by Kathy Lette Page B

state (Alex had insisted on a token black), Harriet, Gillian and Maddy’s knight in pin-striped armour seated themselves pell-mell round the table and started conversing simultaneously. Alex’s friends didn’t have conversations, but interrupted monologues. It was like wading through conversational tapioca pudding. Whining and Dining, Maddy christened it. They whined about the Tory Government, the lack of good Saab mechanics south of the river, how hard it was to get a nanny who would ‘muck in’ and how sending your offspring to a private school did not make you a snob. ‘They don’t have public Montessori,’ Bryce elaborated. ‘Otherwise I’d send him there.’ It was all the fault of their wretched helipad. It would make their child so discriminated against, in
state
schools.
    Bryce then settled into some serious name-dropping. Maddy counted thirty-five names, and BIG names too – Gore VIDAL, Al GORE, Vanessa REDGRAVE, Woody ALLEN – in the first 8.3 minutes.
    ‘Gee, Bryce,’ she interjected, ‘you should get your jaw rewired to allow even bigger names out.’
    ‘Can I help it,’ he yawped, ‘if all my friends are famous?’
    Alex shot Maddy a reprimanding look.
    ‘Actually, nobody realizes just how hard it is being famous,’ Imogen sulked, readjusting her split skirt to reveal a taut thigh. ‘I’m going to hire a zoom lens and take topless and bottomless shots of some of those tabloid editors on holiday and see how
they
like it.’ Having achieved maximum attention, she slowly transplanted the suckling baby from one pouting breast to the other.
    In an effort to distract the Exiled Opposition Leader’s eyes away from Imogen’s exposed mammaries, the Socially Aware Popstar (SAP) actually spoke. Maddy couldn’t believe her ears. He might be The Most Famous Rock Star in the World, but he had the personality of a dead gas-meter reader. Still, he was preferable to the Exiled Opposition Leader, who prefaced every comment with ‘as a black person …’
    ‘Nice day, wasn’t it?’ ventured the SAP.
    ‘Well, as a black person …’
    ‘Good drop of wine, isn’t it?’
    ‘Well, as a black person …’
    ‘I wish I’d been abused as a child,’ Humphrey was blathering to the water jug. ‘Then I’d have something to tell the Press.’
    ‘I don’t remember being abused as a child,’ Sonia revealed earnestly, ‘but I’m sure I
was
… I’ve just blanked it out.’
    ‘It’s related, of course, to eating disorders. Bulimia and the like,’ Gillian contributed.
    In an effort to be sociable, Maddy volunteered that bulimia seemed quite a good idea. ‘I mean, if you do it fast enough, you can enjoy the food twice. Once on the way down and once on the way up. You can have your cake and throw it up too!’
    The women in the room looked at her as though she’d just flayed them alive with barbed wire.
    ‘I’ve been bulimic for three months,’ bragged Imogen finally.
    ‘Three months?’ Sonia scoffed. ‘
I’ve
been bulimic for three
years
.’
    Maddy had forgotten that whatever Princess Di was alleged to have done became trendy, from adultery and holidays on Necker to bulimia nervosa. No wonder she was having trouble finding her feet in London – they were wedged permanently in her mouth. Beating a tactful retreat to the kitchen, Gillian followed, clutching her copy of
Who’s Who
.
    ‘This book really is full of the most riveting information. Things you
need to know
… Maddy, my dear, take it from me. Where there’s smoke, there’s—’
    ‘Toast,’ Maddy said dismissively, as the croutons went up in flames. Dashing in and out of the dining room, the conversation, to Maddy’s ears, was strangely syncopated. ‘Good body.’ ‘Little tart.’ It took her three trips before she realized they were talking about the wine and not the MTA. Loading plates, carting pots and pans, fetching designer water, wine, napkins and soup ladles, she began to feel like a wife with not just one,