Cause Celeb by Helen Fielding

she turned away with a distracted smile. The only other conversation I had until Oliver arrived was thanking the cocktail waitress. It was impossible to communicate with anyone else in that position, but climbing down was too much of a performance to entertain. So I just sat quietly and listened.
    Hughie Harrington-Ellis was perched uncomfortably on the edge of a cast-iron stool, talking to another seventies musician who seemed to be called Gary. I couldn’t place him precisely but I knew he was from a band who still performed together in spite of middle age. To look at him, he could have been a bank manager. Dave Rufford came to join the group with his wife. He was tall, with a long gaunt face. He was wearing sunglasses, and a dark-green baggy suit. His wife, who was around forty and extremely smart, was holding a baby.
    â€œHello, mate,” said Gary. “How’s it going?”
    â€œSurvivin’, survivin’,” said Dave. “’Ere, this is Max. Ugly little blighter, in’e?”
    Hughie had got up with exaggerated cordiality to greet the couple. He was surveying the baby with a show of fascinated detachment.
    â€œYou see, what is so marvelous about infants is that they don’t recognize celebrity at all,” he said. “You simply have no idea, Maximilian, do you, who you are surrounded by?”
    â€œRight,” said Gary.
    â€œUgly little blighter,” said Dave.
    â€œâ€™Ere, d’you get that ’orse?” said Gary.
    â€œYeah. It’s a bastard.”
    â€œDave’s taken up hunting,” said Gary to Hughie.
    â€œMy dear, ” said Hughie.
    â€œHe thinks he’s the lord of the manor,” said the wife, in a genuinely posh voice.
    â€œWhere you keepin’ ’im?” said Dave.
    â€œWe’re ’avin another stable block built ’cos I’ve been keepin’ the Ferraris in the stables so we’re ’avin this new block built all in the style of the old one. I’m gonna put some of me wine in there as well ’cos I’m not happy about the cellars in the Rectory. I ’ad this bloke come round and ’e said it was too damp for it down there, so we’re ’avin another cellar under the new stables that’s all, like, the right temperature.”
    â€œI do hope the horses don’t crap in your Château Margaux, dear boy.”
    â€œRight,” said Gary. “Huh huh. Yur.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t notice the difference if they did,” murmured the wife.
    â€œDo you drive the Ferraris?” asked Hughie.
    â€œNah. Well, a bit. It’s more for the investment. No capital gains. Nah, I drive the Aston usually, or the Roller. ’Owbout you? Got a decent motor?”
    â€œOoooh, no, no. No, I just bang round in an old Ford Fiesta,” said Hughie. “I have so much trouble you know being ‘spotted.’ I simply can’t get anywhere in a more ostentatious vehicle.”
    Dave Rufford looked utterly crushed for only a moment. “Yeah, well, I ’ave me windows tinted,” he said.
    One of the waitresses came and bent over Richard. He talked to her, looking distressed, then stood up to address the group with the air of a man about to announce the death of a child.
    â€œEveryone, everyone, a moment, please. I’m so sorry. Mick and Jerry can’t be with us. They have a problem. I am so sorry, my loves. They send you all huge hugs.”
    When Oliver appeared I had been sipping away nervously for quite some time. He came down the staircase looking gorgeous ina large soft navy overcoat and a very white shirt. He looked around the room and burst out laughing as Jenner scurried towards him.
    â€œRichard, you mad fucker, what on earth are you doing to your guests? It looks like something by Hieronymus Bosch.” He shook Richard’s hand, allowed himself to be relieved of the coat and declined the offered cocktails. “I’m not