I mean, who am I kidding? A City lawyer who hasn’t been on holiday for two years doesn’t have a tan. I might as well walk in with beads in my hair and pretend I’ve just flown in from Barbados.
I look at myself for a few more seconds, then take out a cleansing wipe and scrub the bronzer off until my face is white again, with shades of gray. Back to normal. The makeup girl kept mentioning the dark shadows under my eyes too, and there they are.
Thing is, if I didn’t have shadows under my eyes, I’d probably get fired.
I’m wearing a black suit, as I always do. My mother gave me five almost identical black suits for my twenty-first birthday, and I’ve never really broken the habit. The only item of color about me is my bag, which is red. Mum gave that to me as well, two years ago. At least … she gave me a black one originally. But on the way home I saw it in a shop window in red, had a total brainstorm, and exchanged it. I’m not convinced she’s ever forgiven me.
I free my hair from its elastic band, quickly comb it out, then twist it back into place. My hair has never exactly been my pride and joy. It’s mouse-color, medium length, with a medium wave. At least, it was last time I looked. Most of the time it lives screwed up into a knot.
“Nice evening planned?” says the taxi driver, who’s been watching me in his mirror.
“It’s my birthday, actually.”
“Happy birthday!” He eyes me in the mirror. “You’ll be partying, then. Making a night of it.”
“Er … kind of.”
My family and wild parties don’t exactly go together. But even so, it’ll be nice for us to see one another and catch up. It doesn’t happen very often.
It’s not that we don’t want to see one another. We just all have very busy careers. There’s my mother, who’s a barrister. She’s quite well-known, in fact. She started her own chambers ten years ago and last year she won an award for Women in Law. And then there’s my brother Daniel, who is thirty-six and head of investment at Whittons. He was named by Money Management Weekly last year as one of the top deal-makers in the city.
There’s also my other brother, Peter, but like I said, he had a bit of a breakdown. He lives in France now and teaches English at a local school and doesn’t even have an answering machine. And my dad, of course, who lives in South Africa with his third wife. I haven’t seen much of him since I was three. But I’ve made my peace about this. My mother’s got enough energy for two parents.
I glance at my watch as we speed along the Strand. Seven forty-two. I’m starting to feel quite excited. The street outside is still bright and warm and tourists are walking along in T-shirts and shorts, pointing at the High Court. It must have been a gorgeous summer’s day. Inside the air-conditioned Carter Spink building you have no idea what the weather in the real world is doing.
We come to a halt outside Maxim’s and I pay the taxi driver, adding a large tip.
“Have a great evening, love!” he says. “And happy birthday!”
“Thanks!”
As I hurry into the restaurant, I’m looking all around for Mum or Daniel, but I can’t spot either of them.
“Hi!” I say to the maître d’. “I’m meeting Ms. Tennyson.”
That’s Mum. She disapproves of women taking the name of their husband. She also disapproves of women staying at home, cooking, cleaning, or learning to type, and thinks all women should earn more than their husbands because they’re naturally brighter.
The maître d’—a dapper man who is a good six inches shorter than me—leads me to an empty table in the corner and I slide into the suede banquette.
“Hi!” I smile at the waiter who approaches. “I’d like a Buck’s Fizz, a gimlet, and a martini, please. But don’t bring them over until the other guests arrive.”
Mum always drinks gimlets. And I’ve no idea what Daniel’s on these days, but he won’t say no to a martini.
The waiter nods and disappears, and I shake out my napkin, looking all around at the other diners. Maxim’s is a pretty cool restaurant, all wenge floors and steel tables and mood lighting. It’s very popular with lawyers; in fact, Mum has an account here. Two partners from Linklaters are at a distant table, and I can see one of the biggest libel lawyers in London at the bar. The noise of chatter, corks popping, and forks against oversize plates is like the huge roar of the sea, with occasional tidal waves of laughter making heads turn.
As I scan the menu I suddenly feel ravenous. I haven’t had a proper meal for a week, and it all looks so good. Glazed foie gras. Lamb on minted hummus. And on the specials board is chocolate-orange soufflé with two homemade sorbets. I just hope Mum can stay long enough for pudding. I’ve heard her say plenty of times that half a dinner party is enough for anybody. The trouble is, she’s not really interested in food. She’s also not that interested in most people, as they’re generally less intelligent than her. Which rules out most potential dinner guests.