In conclusion, I would like to thank everyone here tonight. Both those who have won awards and those who are gnashing their teeth furiously. I can see you! (Pause for laughter.)
“Lottie, you know it’s our big awards event tonight,” I say guiltily. “I’m going to have to go in five. If I could come round, you know I would in a heartbeat.…”
Too late, I realize I’ve made a heinous error. I’ve expressed sympathy. Sure enough, she turns on me.
“Come round?” she spits scathingly. “You don’t need to come round! What, you think I’m upset about Richard? You think my whole life revolves around one man? I wasn’t even thinking about him. I only called to tell you about my plans for a master’s degree. That was the only reason.”
“I know,” I backtrack. “Of course it was.”
“Maybe I’ll see if there’s an exchange program in the States. Maybe I’ll look at Stanford.…”
She carries on talking, and I type faster and faster. I’ve given this speech six times before. It’s just the same old words, every year, in a different order.
The hotel industry continues to innovate and inspire. I am awed at the accomplishments and innovations that we see in our industry.
No. Crap. I press delete and try again.
I am awed at the accomplishments and advances that my team of reviewers and I have witnessed around the world.
Yes. “Witnessed” adds a nice touch of gravitas to the occasion. One could almost think we’ve spent the year engaging with a series of holy prophets rather than with tanned PR girls in stilettos showing us the latest technology in poolside towel-chilling.
My thanks are due to Bradley Rose, as ever.…
Do I thank Brad first? Or Megan? Or Michael?
I’ll leave someone out. I know it. This is the law of the thank-you speech. You miss some vital person, then grab the microphone again and call out their name in a shrill voice, but no one’s listening. Then you have to find them and spend a hideous half hour thanking them personally while you both smile but above their head in a thought bubble are floating the words: You forgot I exist.
My thanks are due to everyone who put this awards ceremony together, everyone who didn’t put this awards ceremony together, my entire staff, all your staffs, all our families, all seven billion people on this planet, God/Allah/Other.…
“… I actually see this as a positive. I really do, Fliss. This is my chance to reconfigure my life, you know? I mean, I needed this.”
I drag my attention back to the phone. Lottie’s refusal to admit that anything is wrong is one of her most endearing qualities. Her resolute bravery is so heartbreaking, it makes me want to hug her.
But it also slightly makes me want to tear my hair out. It makes me want to yell, Stop talking about bloody master’s degrees! Just admit you’re hurt!
Because I know how this goes. I’ve been here before. Every breakup is the same. She starts off all brave and positive. She refuses to admit anything is wrong. She goes days, maybe weeks, without cracking, a smile lodged on her face, and people who don’t know her say, “Wow, Lottie coped with the breakup really well.”
Until the delayed reaction happens. Which it does, every time. In the form of some impulsive, outrageous, total fuckwit gesture which makes her feel euphoric for about five minutes. Each time, it’s something different. A tattoo on her ankle; an extreme haircut; an overpriced flat in Borough that she then had to sell at a loss. Membership of a cult. An “intimate” piercing which went septic. That was the worst.
No, I take it back, the cult was the worst. They got six hundred pounds of her money and she was still talking about “enlightenment.” Evil, preying bastards. I think they circle London, sniffing out the newly dumped.
It’s only after the euphoric period that Lottie finally, properly cracks. And then it’s into the weeping and the days off work and “Fliss, why didn’t you stop me?” And “Fliss, I hate this tattoo!” And “Fliss, how can I go to my GP? I’m so embarrassed! What will I dooooo?”
I privately call these post-breakup fuckwit actions her Unfortunate Choices, which is a phrase our mother used a lot while she was alive. It covered anything from a dodgy pair of shoes worn by a dinner-party guest to my father’s eventual decision to shack up with a South African beauty queen. “Unfortunate choice,” she would murmur, with that glacial stare, and we children would shiver, thanking our lucky stars it wasn’t us who had made Unfortunate Choices.
I don’t often miss my mother. But sometimes I wish there was another family member I could call on to help pick up the pieces of Lottie’s life. My dad doesn’t count. First of all, he lives in Johannesburg. And, second, if it’s not a horse, or offering him a glass of whiskey, he’s not interested in it.
