Yes, she’d put on the first clothes that came to hand, and her mascara and eyeliner had combined and expanded to make her look like a panda. But maybe she kind of pulled off that ‘just got out of bed’ look.
Wearing a micro tartan skirt which only just covered her bum, a black Vivienne Westwood vest top and black-suede ankle boots, Max’s clobber could almost pass for day wear. Well, if her job was as a lunch-time cocktail waitress in an uber-trendy yet slightly dodgy bar.
Max jumped out of the cab, gave the driver a twenty and asked him to wait. She’d only be a few minutes.
‘Hello, miss, can I help you?’ A gruff voice greeted Max as she breezed up to the entrance to Grangemouth Golf Club.
‘Oh, yes, hello. I need to go inside and give something to somebody.’
Max chided herself – she was sure she’d slurred at least half of her words. And she was even more sure the smell of alcohol from her breath and pores must have hit the man, who was dressed like a butler, like a body slam.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I don’t think so, young lady,’ the man with the posh voice was telling her. Taking in every inch of her, from her steel-capped toes to her ruffled hair, he straightened himself up and cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake. Our dress code is, erm, rather strict, miss.’
‘Listen, I know I’m dressed for a wild night in Ibiza.’ Max laughed as she tried to make eye contact with the posh doorman and win him over. As she heard herself speak she felt detached from what she was saying. Her Scottish accent had never sounded so broad. She felt so out of place.
‘Thank you, miss. Our members expect a certain, erm, standard.’
She felt like a tart. A dirty stop-out. How cheap she must look, with her tiny skirt and corset, her boobs thrust up and spilling out. The doorman must think she was like Sheri – after a rich golfer.
But she wasn’t bloody Shagger Sheri, was she? She’d had a big night and smelled of pure alcohol, but so what? Did that give this jumped-up bouncer the right to make her feel unworthy of stepping inside his precious club?
The only person feeling sorry for themselves should be this nugget, for thinking he had a right to stand there and put anyone down. Even if Sheri presented herself before him dressed in a PVC catsuit, he should politely tell her to beat it rather than ooze the disdain he so clearly felt.
A sense of anger bubbled inside her as she readied herself to come up with a witty put-down for this plank.
‘Nice view.’
Max looked up and met the eyes of the man… the man who had said that before.
‘Max?’
Luke. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the man of her dreams had appeared. Granted, she could have sworn her heart actually stopped when she saw him. But what did it matter? He was engaged to Miss Perfect Tits and Teeth and would have white-haired, perfect children who would ski, play tennis and talk French before they could walk.
‘Yes,’ Max said weakly, her tone a mix of resignation and fatigue.
‘So it’s true?’
‘What?’ Max said, barely audibly.
‘You only ever leave your house half-dressed. Hey, I’m not complaining.’
‘Ha ha,’ Max said deadpan, with no sign of laughter.
‘Listen, Michael,’ Luke addressed the doorman.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with this lady. I’m sure Miss Summers will overlook the situation, Michael. You really had no reason to realize she is a very highly regarded journalist and my personal guest.’
‘Oh… oh – I-I do apologize, miss, erm, M-M-Miss S-Summers,’ Michael was stuttering profusely. ‘P-Please forgive me.’
Before Max could take in the situation, Luke had put her arm in his and whizzed her through the entrance into the private members’ lounge.
‘How do you know I’m a journalist?’ Max asked slowly.
Luke seemed not to hear. Stopping at a small table beside the bar he said: ‘Max, I would like you to meet my father, Peter.’ He gave her a beaming smile. ‘My brother, Ben.’ Another welcoming smile. He looked familiar. ‘Last but not least, my sister, Lucy.’
The blonde girl with her back to Max turned round. As her face came into view Max saw it was… her sister.
‘No, Luke, that’s my sister Lucy.’ Max looked bewildered, suddenly unsteady on her feet as she looked uncomprehendingly from Lucy to Luke.
Peter and Ben had stood up and were kissing Max on the cheek. She returned the gesture as if on autopilot but her mind seemed frozen.
Finally, after what seemed a baffling eternity, Lucy spoke.
‘Max, this is my brother Luke. You remember him from my photos? He’s just been telling me how you met the other day. He recognized you from my pictures.’
Taking the situation in, Max made a strange noise – half sharp intake of breath and half laugh. Lucy’s brother? Oh Christ, she had thought he might have fancied her when all along he must have wanted to ask if she was his half-sister’s sister.
Max’s voice was thin and robotic, strangled in her throat. ‘Yes, I’ve met Luke a couple of times.’
It was all too much for Max to take in. The impossibly gorgeous Luke, with his sapphire eyes, his broad shoulders and charm, was Lucy’s half-brother.
Max realized with a jolt that this was the boy she had seen in family snaps over the years, skiing, diving and riding with Lucy. He looked so different to the chubby-faced teenager hiding behind his long dark blond hair. He had grown into his features, his face now handsome and strong, his body manly and firm, his shoulders broad. But those beautiful smiling eyes, they were the same.
‘Oh Max, what a shock for you. I’m sorry. Luke was always a bit grungy as a teenager, a real surf dude. Ben’s hardly changed, I guess, but Luke’s so different…’
Luke was staring at Max, his eyes wide with concern.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘It dawned on me the first time I saw you – climbing over the wall at the premiere. Lucy’s always talking about your exploits at the paper and she’s shown me pictures. I tried to explain when I saw you again… but, well, Jenni…’
‘Oh yes, please don’t worry. It’s fine. Funny, I suppose.’ Max tried to force out a laugh but it caught in her throat. This bloody hangover was reaching an almighty crescendo as she took in the situation – there was so much to compute it hurt her head.
Max wondered what must be going through Luke’s head. How could one sister be so trashy, the other so elegant?
This was beyond weird. She made herself smile as she took in Lucy’s dad and Ben. It was as if the old photos her sister had shown her were staring at her. Peter’s hair was greyer, Ben’s face had filled out a little, but they hadn’t changed much. She could see the undeniable resemblance between Peter and Lucy – the bright blue eyes and strong cheekbones. Was there any way of turning this fiasco round so that she looked dignified? God, this was not the first impression she’d imagined making should she ever get round to meeting Lucy’s family.
Taking a deep breath, Max composed herself. The sooner she spoke, the sooner she could get out.
‘Finally we meet,’ she addressed Peter and Ben, who were still standing, looking at her kindly yet expectantly, ‘I’m Max.’
Without warning Peter opened his arms and put them around Max, squeezing her tightly.
Fuck, she must smell like an unwashed beer mat.
‘Isn’t it just ridiculous we’ve never met?’ he asked as he pulled away. ‘We’ve heard so much about you I feel like I know you already.’
Max laughed, turning her head slightly so as not to knock him out with the vodka fumes. ‘Oh, you too. I think I’ve seen pictures of every family holiday you’ve ever had,’ she said, meeting Peter’s eyes, hoping he would laugh, relieved when he did.
Ben leaned in and gave her a warm hug. ‘It’s a travesty we’ve never before encountered the magnificent Max.’ He beamed.
‘Oh I don’t know about magnificent,’ Max replied, shifting from foot to foot.
‘Please, you must join us for a coffee. You have time before your flight, don’t you, Lucy?’
Before her sister could answer, Max cut in.
‘That’s so kind, thank you. I’d love to, really, but I’m in a bit of a rush.’
Rush where? Shit. Think. Why would she be dressed for clubbing before midday?
‘I’m on my way to an audition.’ Max wasn’t exactly sure what would come out of her mouth but she was forming an idea as she said the words. ‘I have to audition for the new Britain’s Got Talent – you know the talent show with Simon Cowell? It’s for a feature for my paper… hence the get-up.’
Peter, Ben, Luke and Lucy were smiling back at her. Peter was nodding, as if to say, ‘Ah that explains it.’
So long as he hadn’t smelled the alcohol she was sure must be oozing through every pore, he wouldn’t think she was a raving alcoholic. Situation salvaged?
‘Luce, sorry to barge in like this – and me looking like this.’ Max attempted a laugh again but managed only a whimper that caught in the back of her throat. God, this was draining. Maybe that’s what actors meant when they described their last film as a labour of love. Max felt she deserved an Oscar nomination for this little performance. All she really wanted to do was drink a gallon of water, curl up in a ball and sleep in a darkened room.
Catching her reflection in a huge gold-framed mirror Max saw how awful she looked. Chapped lips, sunken eyes and smudged eyeliner – pathetic.
Looking around the golf club she felt naked in this quiet, calm room with expensive canvases on the wall and cigar cases behind the bar. Michael wasn’t the only one who looked like he had a coat hanger up his arse – a couple in the corner were sitting opposite each other and leafing through newspapers, their perfect posture matching their pristine outfits, with starched collars and fine-wool V-necked jumpers straight out of a Good Housekeeping feature from the 1950s.
Clearing her throat she managed: ‘Luce, you left your passport. I thought I’d better get it to you.’
Handing it over, Max made a brave attempt at the motto that had seen her through so many mortifying situations: chin up, chest out, paint on a smile.
‘Right, pleasure meeting you all. Hopefully we can meet again soon. Lunch, maybe? I’m afraid I have to dash now, though.’ With a flash of teeth Max turned round. They seemed like such nice people. She really would like to meet them all again, under different circumstances. But as for Luke… She’d been so attracted to him, Lucy’s brother.
‘Hold on, Max. Wait.’ Lucy was on her feet, following Max. ‘Thanks so much. Please. You sure you don’t have time for a coffee?’
‘No, Luce,’ Max said in a hushed tone so the others couldn’t hear. ‘I feel as awful as I look. I have to go home. Have a great weekend with Hartley.’
Concern and love were etched across Lucy’s beautiful face. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
Max forced a smile to reassure her sister, who looked so effortlessly elegant in her Marc Jacobs khaki trouser suit with cream silk shirt underneath. ‘Yes, anyway my cab is waiting.’
As Max kissed her sister on the cheek and bid her farewell, she realized Luke was standing beside them.
‘Yes?’ Max asked him with a note of impatience, masking her humiliation.
‘I’m heading your way. You live in Kensington with Lucy, right?’
‘Erm, right.’
‘OK. It’s the least I can do – you coming all this way to save the day. Let me pay the driver and I’ll take you home.’
The sparkling sapphires fixed on her once more – though now they were tinged with concern.
Before she could answer, Luke had walked out of the club house. Max kissed Lucy once more.
‘Sorry, Luce.’
‘What for?’
‘For being such a fuck-up.’
‘Shush. I love you, Max. I think you’re wonderful and they do too.’
Turning away, Max felt a lone tear roll down her cheek. By the time she was outside, she was crying uncontrollably.
‘Hey. Max? What on earth is wrong?’
Luke, lovely Luke. With the Stepford Wife at home who would never reek of booze, wake up with a random, pee herself, watch someone else pee as part of her job, or any of the ludicrous things Max had done in the last few weeks alone.
Wiping away her tears Max tried to sound calm: ‘Luke, can you take me home now?’
‘Of course. Let’s go.’