Sallie was 36, and so -- besides being unmarried and needing a housecleaner -- couldn't really qualify as a Ladette, not that she'd want to. Ladettes reportedly liked George Clooney; Trevor bore a certain resemblance to Martin Amis. Still, it wasn't like her to be peevish about other women.

Trevor looked at me, jingling his house keys. "This is all about when England got knocked out," he said. "I got a little out of control."

"A little?" Sallie repeated. It was clear we were stumbling into an area that they'd discussed ad infinitum, but with little satisfactory resolution. She waved the nail file at me. "You should have seen him that night. I have never, ever seen Trevor as drunk. He was so drunk that he had to balance his head on the bed as he took off his trousers." She started to laugh, saying, "It would have been hilarious if they hadn't kept me up all night, all those people he brought back from the North Pole."

"People you knew?" I asked.

"Two Ladettes. And one of their boyfriends," said Trevor. "I was really, amazingly drunk. We all were. Nigel had been chatting up these girls and suddenly there we were, going back to my house at 11 o'clock on a Tuesday night to drink more. It was horrible -- uhhhhh." He cringed and shuddered. "I threw up all night."

"God," I said, looking at him with new eyes. Trevor rarely said very much, and when he did it was with measured cynicism, humor or both. I asked Sallie, "Where were you?"

"I decided to stay home that night," she enunciated dramatically. "I was really looking forward to Trevor and Nigel coming back to the house. I thought they'd bounce into the room, jump on the bed and we'd all have a good commiseration session. Instead they bring back two Ladettes, one with her drunken boyfriend, and not one person even sticks their head in the bedroom to say hello. Not even him." She shot an accusing look at Trevor. "They proceed to drink and shout all night, even after I'd gone out into the kitchen to tell them to please be quiet. Then I screamed at them. Once I went in to get a glass of water, and it was just the two Ladettes sitting there -- the rest of the boys were in the garden. They just stared at me as if I were a person from another planet. I felt so old."

Trevor looked at the ceiling, tossing the keys up and down.

"What possessed you?" I asked.

"It was not the Ladettes," he said vigorously. "It's the World Cup. It's so emotional. You just have no idea. Suddenly you're talking to these Ladettes, moaning about David Beckham and England. And you drink, drink, drink -- because you're so nervous about the match. Then the match is over, and it's like you've been through a war with them."

"That is true," admitted Sallie as she got up and started to collect dishes. "I have loads of male friends who've paired off with girls after watching the World Cup. It does inject the air with this intense sexuality." Trevor nodded.

"Not for you," I said to him. "Did they think they were going to get off with you?"

"No, no," he said. "We all just wanted to continue drinking. And flirting." He paused, searching for the words. "The World Cup is sexy. It does strange things to you." Sallie -- to her credit -- giggled. "Those Ladettes are the women that happen to be in the pub and they're very chatty. They'll talk to everybody. Add to that the frenzied, desperate feeling that the World Cup brings -- that anything can happen -- and, well. I'm glad England got knocked out. I wouldn't have been able to take another match." He rubbed his hands together. "There you are. Maybe it's like your Super Bowl."

"I wish." Now I couldn't wait to get to the bar.

We started down the narrow hall toward the front door. "Are you sure you don't want to do something else tonight?" Sallie asked as she put on her leather jacket. "Go to the West End? See a play? Go out for a curry?"

I sighed. "You still don't know me very well, do you?"
SALON | July 15, 1998

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