Nine: Lunch at The Secret Garden
…and arriving late for lunch at The Secret Garden, a restaurant just off the Brompton Road, I have to search out the guys from the busy midday throng. Finally, I find them sitting at a table next to one of the tall, leafy trees that help create the canopy that arches over the confined space, the restaurant’s outside seating area hemmed in tight between four high walls, luxury apartment blocks looking down on every side, the whole effect giving the impression of a high ceiling, living and breathing way above us, the garden unseen from the street, an enclosed and secret world right in the heart of West London.
I grunt, “Hi,” as I sit down and order a pint and a club sandwich from the passing waitress who’s tan and lean and good-looking but in a totally forgettable way.
“What’s the chat?” Charlie asks me casually as he polishes off the last chip from his plate, a satisfied look on his face. “We would have waited for you but Freddie got the hunger.” Charlie shrugs.
“Whatever,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. It’s cool.” I pause to let the waitress lean over and deposit my beer, my eyes straying down the front of her low cut t-shirt, her cleavage swelling up and through, the tanned flesh between her breasts smelling faintly of sunblock – Hawaiian Tropic, I’m thinking.
“Got some good news,” I murmur, my hand going out to the cold Stella. “Forrest told me they have decided to order another print run.” I sup heavily, a foam moustache forming on my upper lip. “And they want to include a photo of me on the inside cover – so I was thinking, Mark, that you might do something for us?”
“Cool,” Mark says. “What you have in mind?”
“Not sure,” I reply, shifting on the bench uncomfortably, my abs and pecks stiff from the gym. “Come round to the office? We can shoot the shit with the design guys.”
“Cool,” Mark says, nodding. “Will do.”
Freddie leans in. “Any word on the film situation?”
I smile thinly, scratching the back of my head. “Freddie mate, I’ve no idea. Cedric says one thing one day and another the next. There’s talk about something. If it happens I get two choices: either take the money and run or less cash for more involvement, maybe get to write a draft of the screenplay.”
“And?” Freddie asks, his chiselled chin working overtime.
“Mate, it’d be totally fucking cool to work on a film.” I scratch my head again, ruffle my hair, feeling damp from the humidity, the heat wave blistering through into September, the garden hot in the dappled light. “But I’d be in way over my head. I don’t know the first thing about screenplays and, from the impression I get from Cedric, writers on set just get in the way. So it’s not like I’d hanging out with all the model-turned-actress types. I wouldn’t be in the movie.”
I pause, feeling the smooth glass with my thumb, nudging over the bump in the logo lettering, tracing lines through condensation. “I’ve a feeling it might just be better to take the cash, buy a car, throw down a deposit for a flat or something.”
“How much we talking?” Marks asks.
“Absolutely no idea,” I reply slowly, feeling strung out. “Cedric says if I make the shortlist – which is like, a big-fucking-deal in the first place – we can ask for more money for the movie rights, y’know? Use the hype to drive the price up. Personally I think he must have done way too much coke in the Eighties. The bookies have me nowhere, man. I’m not even an outsider. Not even in the ball park.” I smile, inwardly feeling dazed. “Right now I’m having a hard enough time dealing with the standard shit without spazzing out on more attention.”
“Yeah, right. Must be terrible,” Freddie says straight faced, dead pan. “Must be hating this.”
I grin coyly, looking down and away, sipping my pint.
Learn how to pose, I am thinking.
Going to Flight Night at L Bar had been Freddie’s idea. Air hostesses in uniforms had been drinking for free so we had sat at a table in the middle of the room scanning for off-duty cabin crew, the décor not far removed from the average Airport lounge bar, raised tables surrounded by tall stools with foot rails, the dimly underlit effect working towards a charged atmosphere. We had ordered drinks from a waitress who, for a second, I had thought might be good-looking but, I had quickly realised, she had been nothing to get excited about.
“My mother was an air hostess.” Charlie had told us, sipping his Michelob. “When she was a student. Back then you could do it as a summer job.”
Raising his eyebrows, glancing around the room and wetting his lips with his tongue, Freddie had asked, “Was she hot?”
Charlie had looked at him. “Dude.”
“Just trying to get a mental image.” Freddie had proffered his hands, grinning. “Okay, just tell me what airline she worked for?”
Charlie had looked disgusted but only in a half-arsed way, like he had known Freddie was yanking his plank, like he had only been pretending to be appalled.
“Does it matter?” Mark had asked, looking confused, like he was only just joining the conversation.
“Does what matter?” Charlie had looked over at him, eyebrows furrowed. “The airline she worked for?”
“Totally matters,” Freddie had said, crunching an ice cube between his teeth, making a crackling, brittle sound, telling Mark that the better the airline, the more expensive the tickets and so the more exotic the destinations, that in the seventies the best airlines had the hottest girls working for them, that it was glamorous and not the sort of thing they let you do as summer job now.
“Yeah,” Charlie had agreed, playing with the swizel stick in his drink. “Should have heard some of the stuff that went on – wild shit. Layovers in Jakarta, in Sydney, in Hong Kong. She worked for a different carrier every summer. Got to see loads of the world, man.”
“Must have had a lot of cock.” Freddie had grinned, eyes lowered, baiting Charlie. “Your father really a pilot dya’reckon?”
“No dude, not a pilot.” Charlie had smiled back at Freddie sweetly, a loaded look. “But thanks for asking.” Charlie had thrown his swizel stick at Freddie, spraying his cocktail over him.
“Easy ladies,” Mark had said, sitting between them, eyeing the door, and Charlie had sighed and looked away, playing with a bar coaster.
“…Hello boys,” brings me back over the buzz of the lunchtime mob and I look around to see Mark’s sister, Alexis, standing in my blind spot.
Mark rises to go over and when she sees me she smiles, the red and blue Superman t-shirt under her sharply cut blazer tight enough to give my imagination something to work with, to work towards. Her two-tone aviators look metallic silver and utterly reflective and her hair is untidily pulled back into a medium length pony tail, rogue strands hanging from it, all a little uber-eighties, just a little Miami Vice, I half expect Crockett and Tubbs to turn up, almost certain Don Johnson must be in town. The fullness of her lips smile through the carved features of her face and her jeans are tight-fitting, showing her arse – high and tight. Alexis’ legs are athletic-looking and end in brown moccasins that match so well the deep tan of her small feet that they seem to be in a constant state of corporeal flux, shifting in and out of some quasi-reality, making it seem, at times, that maybe she’s barefoot.
I start nursing a semi.
“You’ve met the boys?” Mark says-asks and Alexis pauses momentarily to shake our hands, her own delicate and slender, and from the corner of my eye I notice Freddie’s nostrils flare, his gaze cloud over and his jaw flex involuntarily.
“Hey,” Alexis says to me and my pulse quickens and adrenaline flows, sweat glands fire and skin secretes. For a split second I think maybe she’s holding onto my hand for a moment longer than the others, that she’s looking at me in a different way.
“Hey,” I reply, smiling, and she sits down next to me and asks what we’re talking about and we fill her in but soon the conversation turns to other stuff, like what everyone is doing for New Year, general holiday plans, lists of cities that we’d like to visit, and about how hot it is. Through all of it Mark just takes a back seat in the dialogue, his sister holding court, paying attention to us all equally, conducting the conversation like a symphony…
As if to ease the tension, a bunch of stewardesses had walked in, wearing stockings and bright red, Virgin Atlantic knee-length skirts but I had been sure their dumpy arses must have been too big for economy seats and had watched as they had hit the bar in a hurry, momentum almost carrying them through the wooden panelling; I had wondered what their combined stopping distance would be at Mach One.
“Dude,” Mark had said, pointing over with his eyes, possibly excited. “They’re hot.”
“Hot?” Freddie had sighed. “Just not what they used to be – all this low cost shit. Little better than dinner ladies.”
“I don’t know,” Mark had said, looking over. “Those red outfits aren’t flattering.”
“Their outfits aren’t flattering?” Freddie had spat out. “Mate, in order to even consider a girl she’s got to be essentially perfect-looking. She has to be able to wear anything. I’m talking bin bags and frumpy dresses, Challenge Anneka jump suits and tracky Bs. Any-fucking-thing. Otherwise what are you after? Her wardrobe?” Freddie had leant over using his drink to emphasise his point.
“Maybe,” Mark had replied, glancing over wistfully at the Virgin girls. “But I think you’re being overly harsh.”
“Look at them,” Freddie had replied, the table lighting picking up on certain facial features, over-emphasising his grin. “There are some truly wide loads over there. Plus, they’re wearing about as much fucking makeup as the vapid bitches in the cosmetic halls of department stores. They’re fucking covered in that orange shit – and that’s not a good thing.”
I had tried not looking straight at them, which had been hard as there had been just so much of them to see, and had wondered how they made it down the aisle on the smaller planes, fearing for passenger safety during turbulence.
“Any news from the guy who was at your Exhibition?” Charlie had asked Mark, trying to change the subject, steer the conversation away from Freddie who had obviously been agitated for some reason. “That guy from the Observer?”
“Wait. What guy from the Observer?” Mark had replied quickly, eyebrows arched.
“The, er, reviewer dude?” Charlie had shrugged and looked at Freddie who had looked back blankly. “Somebody pointed him out.”
“Who?”
“Mate, couldn’t tell you. I was pretty wasted. All that free champagne.”
Freddie had jumped in. “Mate, never know, there might be a review in the paper on Sunday.”
“Yeah,” Mark had agreed, clearly in two minds, and then had sat there in silence, contemplating something. Finally, he had turned to me and asked what I had thought of his sister. I had told him that we had just chatted. Mark had looked at me squarely.
“Mate,” Freddie had said, misreading Mark’s look. “Far as I remember you asked him to hit that.”
“…You gonna finish those?” Freddie asks, looking over at the food left on my plate.
“What?”
“You gonna eat the rest of your chips?”
“You want them?”
“If you’re not gonna finish them.”
“Alright,” I say, considering the half empty plate. Freddie reaches over.
“Wait.” I pull it away, teasing him. “Describe the waitress to me.” I lean in to Alexis and explain to her how Freddie has a photographic memory, that he has ninety-nine percent visual recall, that it’s like his brain takes photographs.
“What?” Freddie asks, not amused.
“The waitress,” I insist. “What did she look like?”
Freddie sighs. “Blonde.”
“And?” I goad, feeling tacit approval from Alexis.
“Tan.” Another sigh.
“Freddie.” I grin. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
“Alright,” Freddie says, stealing a look at the boys. “She was wearing blue, denim cut-offs that were tight fitting and worn. Too big to be hot pants but definitely in the same…region.” He runs his hands through his hair and closes his eyes as if trying to picture her.
“Her lipstick was red, her hair light blonde with little flecks of white running through it. Highlighted, y’know? Her name badge said Gwen and she looked and sounded a little foreign. Maybe from Scandinavia, someplace like that. She had that look.”
Freddie’s eyes are still shut but you can see them twitching like he’s in REM sleep. “On her chest the skin had caught some sun and her eyes were blue. Looked a bit like Helena Christensen if Helena Christensen were blonde and sunburnt .” He opens his eyes and looks up. “Good enough?”
“Very good,” Charlie says, slow clapping, mock applauding. “Ten out of ten.”
“You always remember the hot ones,” Mark says, beer in hand, touching his glass to Freddie’s.
“What about the other one?” Alexis asks, hiding any opinion.
“What other one?” Freddie says, looking around at us, at me, meeting blank faces.
“There were two people working our table,” Alexis tells him. “The one you just mentioned and another one.”
“Must not have seen her,” Freddie says.
“You’re telling me that you can give a blow by blow description of one girl like you’d known her forever but that you didn’t even notice the other one. Tell me,” Alexis says. “What were you going to do around tip time?”
“Fifteen percent of the bill?” Freddie shoots back, puzzled-looking, shrugging his shoulders, looking at her like she’s insane.
“Don’t give him the chips,” Alexis tell me. “He doesn’t deserve them.”
“Wait, you’re gonna listen to her?” Freddie asks, incredulous. “C’mon, you don’t even want them.” He tries to reach over Charlie for the plate.
I pull it further out of reach and eat one. “I think Alexis has got a point.” I grin at him, feeling merciless.
“What point? That I didn’t see the other waitress? So what? So big-fucking-deal. You’re telling me you notice ugly chicks?”
Charlie guffaws and Mark just sits there, amused.
“You’re saying you didn’t see the other waitress because she was unattractive?” Alexis presses. “What? You looked away every time she came to the table?”
“It’s not that,” Freddie says, exasperated. “She just didn’t show up on my radar, babe. Was like she simply wasn’t there.”
“Simply wasn’t there?” Alexis repeats. “Like she wasn’t human? Some sub-species or something?”
“Listen,” Freddie replies, “I’m not passing judgement. I’m not saying she’s a bad person. This waitress that I didn’t see, I’m not saying there was anything wrong with her. Just didn’t find her attractive. Just didn’t notice her. Maybe she was fat or…something?”
Charlie giggles into his pint and Mark almost joins him, holding back. I look away, biting my tongue.
“She was fat? So, you did see her?” Alexis stares intently, tan skin and brown eyes. I’m thinking that I’ve never seen anyone talk to Freddie like this before.
“No. Shit. Dunno…whatever.” Freddie seems to be clutching at straws, coming up short. “The point is that there are a lot of people living in this city. You’re on the tube, you’re on the train, you’re walking down the street, you’re surrounded by people but never actually look at each other. Nobody makes eye contact. Everyone’s just trying to get along. Default setting is not to notice anybody.”
“And pretty girls?” Alexis flutters her eyelashes…
“…Don’t look now,” Mark had said in a hushed whisper, looking over our shoulders. “Hot stewardesses at three o’clock,” and we had paused, Freddie doing a flyby with his eyes, sweeping the whole room, stealing a glance at the new arrivals.
“Good call,” Freddie had said to Mark and I had looked over, slyly eyeballing girls in green uniforms, air hostesses meandering over to a table, calves cut and defined, figures slim, arses trim. Visions of in-flight entertainment.
“Man, it’s like I can smell them from here.” Freddie had said, his jaw spasming, making biting motions, nostrils flaring, breathing deeply. “Can almost taste them.” I had looked at Freddie, gauging the fervour of his reaction.
“Dude, you’re totally freebasing,” Mark had told him but Freddie had not been listening, his ears pricked and alert, emitting a faint guttural growl.
“It’s been a while since Freddie…y’know?” Charlie had said to me quietly, leaning in, eyes flicking up at Freddie.
I had asked how long.
“Almost two weeks,” Charlie had replied and I had winced, familiar with Freddie’s massive libido.
“Know what comes into my head when I see some hot, little piece of ass just looking to get waxed?” Freddie had asked nobody specific, looking straight over at the stewardesses, reciting some sort of pre-game mantra. Charlie had rolled his eyes. “I see meat. Red meat. Steak. Raw and juicy. I can smell it. I want to bite it...taste the flesh.”
“Run for cover,” I had muttered under my breath.
“I’m going over.” Freddie had looked back at us. “Wingmen?”
“Count me out, Maverick.” Charlie had shaken his head. “Got stuff to do tomorrow. Annabella’s parents are in town.”
Freddie had said nothing but directed his eyes, glazed over like he had shifted gear, to Mark and me. “Gentlemen?”
“You’ll never pull it off,” Mark had said, shaking his head. “They only fuck pilots.”
“In or out?” Freddie had looked on the verge of frenzy, over pronouncing every word.
“Sorry dude.”
“Welcome to your gayness.” Freddie had looked at me. “Mate?”
I had paused, leaning in, aware how the light from the table had played across our faces. “Only for one drink, okay? One drink?”
Freddie had grinned and the glint in his eyes had made me wonder what sort of macabre, fucked-up shit he had planned, making me think something pretty fucking dark was about to happen and, I have to admit, I had quite liked it.
…and the conversation heats up in the Secret Garden. “You’ve seen Schlinder’s List, right?” Freddie asks Alexis, staring straight back at her, meeting her look. “You remember the little girl in the red coat? The whole film’s shot in black and white to set the mood but there’s this one little girl who wears a red coat. You can’t miss it.” Freddie stops to drink his dwindling pint. “The reason it makes the impact it does is because it contrasts so well with the rest of the film, the grey around her. A hot girl is like that. They’re shot in colour in a black and white world.”
“And if the waitress had been a waiter?” Alexis asks, eyebrows raised, a trace of a smile on her face; I can’t tell if she’s being serious.
“What?”
“If the other person serving us had been a guy?” This is awesome, I think Alexis might be playing with him.
“If the guy had been a dude? Yeah, I may noticed him. It’s…possible?” Freddie shrugs, noncommittal.
“Are you gay?” It happens fast.
“You’re asking me if I’m gay?” Freddie sounds confused, on the back foot, and the following comes out quick fire:
“If you’d notice a guy over a girl?”
“I’d notice them for different reasons.”
“You can’t notice women for reasons other than sex?”
“Listen.” Freddie pauses and leans in, grin full beam, and stage whispers, “I don’t see why you’re getting so upset about this. I mean, you’d be one of the ones I’d notice. Baby, you’re in Technicolor. You don’t need to worry about that. I mean, I was thinking…dinner sometime?”
Alexis nudges Mark, grinning, still a trace of something playful in her expression – the way she bites her finger, touches her hair – and asks her brother, “You gonna stop this friend of yours hitting on me?”
“Shit,” Mark says, laughing, shaking his head. “You can handle yourself just fine…”
Ten: Centre Point
…and still feeling a little drunk from the night before. My mind’s wandering, dancing across the ceiling of some designer shop off the Fulham Road, the clothes rainbowy and translucent in the over-priced boutique, a visit here a tradition of Freddie’s in the lead up to a big audition.
Then, when a tune I like comes on the radio, something I recognise in an uncertain way, I start to feel a little high, giddy perhaps; I start experiencing some deluded euphoria and I feel myself slipping into a different mode when an Italian man comes up to me and asks where I bought my shirt, his accent almost too thick to understand, and I think for a moment that maybe he’s like, the designer or something, like maybe he’s the guy who made the shirt and wants it back, that perhaps the shirt was never supposed to be sold, that technically it’s stolen property. So I tell him where I found it, smiling, pointing to the logo on my shopping bag.
“I like. Where you get? Where this?” The Italian asks and I tell him that it was just down the street, pointing in the direction, my mind working overtures on this latest sonata, and when he smiles I try to explain to him that I bought it there last year and that they probably won’t have it anymore, showing him instead a new one I bought today which he quite likes and I leave the store feeling a little bit like a super-hero.
And outside in the bright sunlight I slip on my sunglasses, needing the wraparound protection of the lenses as my focus starts shifting. Looking over at Freddie I can see that he’s kinda affecting the Connery walk – the one that got him noticed for the role of James Bond – all predatory and menacing; Freddie’s long lifeguard legs are tan and his cool Brazilian flip-flops straight out a favela, pulled from some shanty town sweat shop. Then, almost stopping, we spot this blonde as she cuts in front of us, her white trousers tight at the top and baggy at the bottom, the material wafer thin round her arse, her high, tight, black thong totally visible as she struts down the street, her handbag yellow and expensive looking. I can’t see her face but I’m certain she must be gorgeous.
“That’s outrageous,” Freddie whispers, breathing deeply, nostrils flaring, and I agree and we hi-five and lo-five, making biting expressions.
Freddie snarls, “Got to eat it”, catching her lingering scent and it makes me think that this is just the reaction she wants…
Hurrying out of the rain I had sat down for a long, boozy lunch with Cedric. Over a couple of bottles of something from the department in France he was from he had totally convinced me, despite a lithe, wiry frame, horn rim spectacles and weak jaw-line, that he had been the man to represent me. At that point I would have taken anyone but, even so, I had struggled to keep some pretty major reservations about him at bay as his reputation was of an alcoholic, drug-abusing, womaniser. However, the over-riding factor had been that his sister had worked as a buyer at a massive chain of bookstores and so, no matter his personal demons, Cedric could always get in front of the best editors in the business. Therefore, for that reason, and because at the time I had been one hundred percent desperate, I had taken the lunch meeting.
“Zis book, I sink it will sell,” Cedric had said. “Ze structure is not so good but editing will fix it. Tell me, are you familiar wiz how a diamond is made?”
Fairly loaded, I had told Cedric that I had only a vague notion about diamonds, that all I really knew was that it all started with a mine somewhere, probably in South Africa, murmuring something about them being a girl’s best friend.
“Ze beauty is always zere,” Cedric had explained, ruffling his hairline: side parted and ever so slightly receding. “But in order to uncover ze beauty zey must first cut and polish ze diamond. It is ze same wiz novels. Zey must be cut. Zey must be polished. It is also wiz your novel. N’est pas?”
I had sort of known what he had been talking about, nodding and smiling, soaked with the claret he had plied me with, and Cedric had expanded on his theory of publishing, the long and short of it being that he hadn’t necessarily enjoyed the book but that he felt he could sell it, that it had a particular appeal, whatever that had meant.
Just get it published, I had been thinking, I want to see it in a bookstore.
We had ordered imported crabs, the little booth of ours out of the way, far from the main spotlight, the restaurant an old favourite of his, a thick, red lacquer on the bar’s surface, each table like a cosy inlet, the bottles chilling in ice buckets a throwback to the business lunch of yesteryear, the place still very old school, and actually pretty empty.
“I sink zere is some real potential.” Cedric had still been giving his agent’s pitch. “For Hollywood to have a look. I have friends, I know people in ze business.”
Cedric had talked executive producers and screen plays, hard back versus soft back, launch party timings and release dates, my head swimming from ideas he had been sparking inside of me. Feelings I had been struggling to keep under control, that had always been on the verge of the precipice, had come close to the surface. I had feared I would unravel.
Although at the time it had seemed too easy, the wine and Cedric’s Gallic charms had overridden all my doubts and destroyed all my efforts to keep my expectation bottled up. I had needed my ambition reigned in and contained but he had managed to install a sense of self-belief, a hope I had been trying to hide from. When he had said I could be the next Martin Amis, the British Bret Easton Ellis, I knew I would always love him.
…and it’s getting late on a sunny Friday afternoon when we hit the King’s Road, the sun dipping low behind buildings as good-looking girls start streaming out of a London Fashion Week satellite venue, a show just finished.
Pointing across the street, Freddie starts checking out girls shopping with their fathers, the dads just out of work, the daughters all pretty and tan and wearing the right clothes, the couples merging with the outpouring Fashion Week crowd, everybody wealthy-looking. Freddie notices two holding hands which he nods over at and I think it’s a bit weird but I’m wearing sunglasses – so it’s ok.
Stopping, a pair, father and daughter, pause to look in a shop window and, as we watch them turn and kiss on the lips, I realise just how wrong we’ve been, that it’s not really his daughter, and we both totally freak out, wondering how the guy can look at himself in the mirror before realising he probably has one ceiling-mounted in his bedroom…
Over dessert, Cedric had begun telling me that he had already aroused some interest from a publisher. “Forrest is a fairly small Publishing House, an offshoot of a larger American imprint. Ze editor I want you to meet, Anthony Forrest, is a young man trying to impress his father. For him, as a young, debut novelist, you have more going for you zan you may imagine. You are exciting…no?”
Cedric had looked totally money while he had talked, positive vibes flowing from the smartly dressed Frenchman, his dark suit sharp, his shirt open necked and uber-white. I had tasted the cash.
“Every publisher needs a big hit or two a year to make zere money,” Cedric had told me, pouring us both more wine, finishing the second bottle. “But people don’t know zat most books actually lose money. A lot more is gambled zan is realised. Some Publishing Houses spend nothing on a small novel by an unknown and zen it gets on Oprah’s Book Club and becomes a surprise bestseller and earns millions. Other times publishers get all excited, whipping out ze fat cheque-book only to discover zat zere hot young talent isn’t so…hot?” Cedric had sipped his claret and considered the glass, squinting at the waitress, leering at her when she had approached.
“It’s all about selling. Do zat and zere is no other problem. If people want to buy your books zen you’ll have a license to print money.” Cedric had chewed on his salad, gesticulating with his fork, tonguing something caught in his teeth.
“What sells a book? Ze marketing, ze design, timing…luck?” Cedric had raised his bushy eyebrows, making his point, motioning to a passing waiter for a third bottle of wine. “Ze business as changed over ze last ten years. Ze accountants run ze show now but sometimes a commissioning editor might add a zero to ze advance to get some publicity.”
I had salivated, completely loaded.
“Editors know zat newspaper journalists love to write about big, fat, juicy piles of cash going to some author. Ze big advance, especially for first time writers, makes zem dream zat someday it’ll be there name on the six figure cheque.”
I had asked if that really happened, the lettuce crunching gently, eyeing the third bottle arrive, feeling like I had been far more drunk than Cedric, off balance.
“Naturellement – of course it does. Not so often as we’d all like, but yes it happens. We shall see. Zere are negotiations to be made. We shall show it around to a few houses to turn up ze heat. See if we can increase ze price.” Cedric had paused, looking over the white table cloth at me, the cheese course arriving. “More importantly, we’ll show you around, non?”
I had asked what he had meant, sipping the heavy red, thinking about the bill, all paid for by Cedric and therefore, ultimately, by me.
“Such a pretty boy.” Cedric had sighed. “It’s as much about ze man as it is ze manuscript, to sell your book I must also sell you. This book is just one product, a publisher will want me to prove zat you are capable of more.” Cedric had grinned at me as he had ordered brandy for us both and had rolled on, telling me about discounting to take the number one spot, volume deals with supermarket chains and book clubs, explaining why it’s never wise to release anything at the same time JK Rowling does.
Later, alone and diving into a cab, slouching onto the backseat feeling drunk and greedy, I had wondered where the art had gone, the love of literature, of writing. Where were the imagined Oxford Don-esque editors in brown corduroy, smoking pipes with elbow patches on their jackets?
Headlights had flashed past the cab, beams catching it at intervals, dusk dimming the exterior and, paused in traffic for a time, street lights had started to come on outside. Looking through the darkening window, starring at a sad-looking face on a billboard, I had felt my consciousness slipping and the image on the advertisement had started to blur with my reflection in the cab window, the two faces merging in an unsettling way as a hot, dry wind had blown on the pavement outside, swirling dust and the occasional leaf.
A chill had ran down my spine, sweat forming on my brow, and I had watched as some Australian-looking girls had wandered past followed by a couple of ancient Chinese tourists with cameras, the old Chinese guy wearing an ill-fitting but expensive-looking grey suit and huge, white, pumped-up trainers. His wife, nondescript, had chattered away excitedly to the man, filming him in Super-8, and I had remembered that in London there is a place you can go, that you can actually visit, called the ‘Centre Point’, wondering if perhaps I had passed that stage now, if I had been beyond the middle ground.
Eleven: Fragments of a Saturday Night
“…Walked past a bookstore today,” Charlie tells me as he sits down in front of the TV, watching Dorothy on the yellow-brick road, the four of us having a pre-game drinking session and pretty drunk already, this the third or fourth straight day of boozing, tonight being just another party at Rebecca’s, not something I want to go to sober.
“Saw your book,” Charlie continues. “Nice cover. You draw that shit yourself?”
I mumble a reply but am distracted, watching the lion cower in the bushes, hiding from the scarecrow and the tinman. I’m trying to concentrate on what Charlie’s saying to me but it’s Saturday night and we’re lying around in the flat, watching the Wizard of Oz with the sound muted, the CD player loaded with Pink Floyd’s ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’; we’re trying to see if the urban myth is true – whether the album really is an alternative soundtrack to the movie – while smoking a joint.
“God, the music fits so well,” Mark says, watching Dorothy sing along, mesmerised by Judy, spaced.
“Trick is to start the CD when the MGM logo comes up,” Freddie tells him, tin of wife-beater in hand, lying beside me on the sofa. “Got to press play right when the lion roars.”
“It’s so cool. The music is happy. Dorothy is happy.” Charlie says absently, drawing on the joint.
“See anyone buy it?” I ask him.
“Buy what?” Charlie looks up, confused-looking.
“My book, dipshit.”
“Only walked past the store,” Charlie replies, pulling on his can of Stella, Dorothy skipping along the path. “Didn’t go in.”
“Were there copies left?” I turn to face him, hearing the roar of the music, the surge of the track.
“Looked like they had this special display,” Charlie replies, half listening, his mouth open and slack-jawed. “For the recommended reads.”
“Yeah?” I say, needing details, feeling hopeful.
“Didn’t see yours though.” Charlie tells me, squinting as if trying to remember.
“—What?” I stare at him.
“Saw someone reading it on the tube the other day though.”
“Hey, that’s very tres, baby,” Freddie remarks, complimenting me, pointing with his beer.
“Very what?” Mark asks, confused-looking, suddenly interrupting the conversation, turning from the TV, out of his trance.
“Tres.” Freddie replies simply. “It’s French.”
“But very tres what?” Mark asks again.
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean ‘nothing’?” Mark sounds irrascible, like maybe he’s having a bad reaction to the grass.
“I mean – nothing.”
“You can’t say very tres.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t.”
“Why not, you stupid bastard?”
“Because, Freddie, very means tres. You’re just saying something is…very-very.”
“Uh-huh.” Freddie shrugs, tokes on the joint and passes it back to Charlie who takes a hit and moves it on to Mark who just holds it.
“But very-very what?” Mark keeps at him.
“Just…very…very.” I can see Freddie is trying to wind him up.
“No. Very, very – what?”
“Very tres…nothing.”
“I’m going to hit you.” Mark tells Freddie.
“Try it.”
“I said I’m going to hit you.”
“And I said – try it.”
“If you say very tres again, I’m going to hit you.”
“Do it then.”
“I will. I will do it.”
“Well, I think that’s um, very tres, er…childish.”
Freddie grins at Mark who drops the joint and dives off his seat, catching Freddie by surprise, smothering him with his body, dryfucking him. Joining in, Charlie forgets Dorothy momentarily, and Freddie cries out, “Rape…anal rape,” but his muffled screams are met with cheers from Mark and Charlie who call out, “Hard and fast,” and, “Let’s take his anal virginity.”
Eventually, Freddie fights them off, his butt unreamed, his back passage untouched, and all three sit back on the sofa recovering as I stand to deal with the beer cans they spilt, their play fight having created small pools of hoppy mess. Stooping, I have to step around week old pizza boxes discarded next to the sofa and well thumbed issues of GQ and Vanity Fair lining the carpet. The room is a mess; a stray copy of Guns and Ammo and an empty box of Montecristos sent by Freddie’s father lie on the coffee table with the Pirelli calendar Mark somehow managed to acquire.
Freddie hunts in the beer crate. “Any Stella left?”
“Check the box,” Charlie replies, taking his seat on the sofa and reaching for the remote controller. “Were twenty-four in there, man.”
“What you think I’m doing?” Freddie asks, looking up. “There’s none in there.”
I groan; should have gone to the gym for a workout instead, anything to relieve the tension.
“You’re not ready to go out?” Charlie asks and Freddie shakes his head so I head to the kitchen and return with some black-label vodka, ice-encrusted and glistening, the bottle so cold to the touch that it feels like my fingers might stick to it. I sling four ice-filled tumblers down onto the coffee table, their sides cut in sharp, square shapes, the bases loaded and heavy, and spin the top off the bottle, pouring out four generous measures, the thin, hurtful juice dashing on the rocks.
“Mate,” Charlie begins. “Why so hardcore?”
Leaning back I sip the mellow yellow, the temperature just right, the vodka coating my senses in the shadow of forgetfulness. I reply slowly, “Gonna be a long night.”
“Your book?” Charlie asks, hand reaching for the bottle.
I nod slightly, letting a rueful expression become my face.
“Shit,” Charlie says, grasping the situation. “Knew something was up. Totally forgot the first month’s numbers are announced tomorrow. Didn’t realise it was this, um…soon.”
“Dude,” Freddie says, sitting down opposite me, taking up a glass.
“Freaks me out that I’ve got no control over it,” I say. “Tomorrow…” I trail off, sighing.
“Yeah,” Mark says, reaching out for his glass, nodding.
“D’you know that most authors can’t afford to live in London?” I blurt out on a tangent. “They can’t afford the rent,” I say and let the statement resonate for a moment, sitting in silence.
Maybe a minute passes.
Freddie breaks the hush. “You need to get laid.”
I laugh, then wince, reaching for my abs…
Earlier in the day we had been in our quiet local, The Henry, but it had been crowded with the members of some wedding party, a few of the congregation escaped from the church across the street, the necks of their morning suits pulled open as they had watched the Chelsea game. The overdressed watching the overpaid.
Sitting with Freddie and Mark, we had been surrounded by workmen chewing on jars of Guinness, fishing lazily into packets of crisps while focused on the match. Pints had been pulled, pork had been scratched and betting tips had been discussed over The Racing Post. Regulars had sat around in their usual seats, their corner office for the day, wealthy builders talking on mobiles, the sound of the latest ringtone incessant from polyphonic speakers, shrill voices calling, demanding answers.
Charlie had turned up late, bounding in all hustle and bustle, breezing by and obscuring my view of the television. Straddling a stool he had flopped down a ragged copy of The NME as the half-time whistle had gone and, looking up at him, Freddie had said, “Tell me a story.”
Saying nothing, Charlie had turned the well-thumbed magazine to one of the middle pages, pointing his long musician fingers at it, jabbing at something. Reaching for my pint, Charlie had taken a swig, grinning at me through a white foam moustache while Mark had leant over, peering into the New Bands section, following Charlie’s finger to a column.
Mark had read it silently, Charlie watching him, his eyes following Mark’s across the print.
“God,” Mark had said finally and Freddie, still the dirty beard, had nudged him to one side, nosing his way to the text, and when the two of them had looked up they had been all smiles, victims of some shock and awe campaign. Neither, though, had said anything, their hands going to Charlie, patting his back. I had leant in, checked it out.
“Mate.” Freddie had looked impressed, still a paw on Charlie’s shoulder.
Charlie had explained, “It’s all on the back of our radio play and website.”
“That’s uber darkness,” Mark had said and Freddie had agreed, the football forgotten as we had called for another round of beers, the barman, who we had known, starting the flow.
“How fucking happy are-you?” Mark had asked and Charlie had given us his Cheshire Cat impression, gurning uncontrollably, and ten seconds later his phone had gone skitso in his pocket, chiming in with the pub’s background noise.
“Sorry boys,” Charlie had whispered, rising, one hand over the phone’s mic. “Gotta take this: it’s that guy in New York,” he had added, stealing the remainder of my beer, eyebrows raised as he had retreated to the quiet of the street, and looking over at the bar, at the waiting pints, I had jabbed Freddie in the ribs.
“Your round,” I had told him and, fishing for his wallet, Freddie had gone up to get them and I had rotated The NME, bringing it round to read it properly, absently asking Mark what it had said.
“Round up of new talent,” Mark had replied, feeling the buzz. “The Merkins got a mention, just general stuff about their airplay. Looks good though.”
“Yeah,” I had said, looking over the pages, nodding. “Awesome.”
Setting down the beers, Freddie had rejoined us, but had suddenly turned back in the direction of the bar and asked us if we could see Paris Hilton alone in the corner, almost to himself, squinting at some blonde, bobbing his head to get a better look, asking if we thought it was her.
Mark had looked at me and I had shrugged.
“Freddie, what are you thinking?” Freddie had asked himself, finally turning back to us and shaking his head, bemused, regaining perspective. “What would Paris be doing in The Henry?”
…and after a few quick rounds in Penny’s, a couple of Coronas with Tequila chasers later, we hit the party and although it’s already past midnight Rebecca comes over wearing Gucci sunglasses. She purrs as she welcomes us and I can tell she’s as loaded as we are; the tannin on her teeth and tongue give her away totally.
Freddie kisses her on the cheeks, double tapping, and, leaning in, asks if there are any hot girls at the party. Rebecca smiles toothily at him and he grins suggestively back.
“Get yourselves drinks,” Rebecca suggests, waving her hand in the direction of the kitchen, and then heads into the sitting room. Freddie goes with her, his arm guiding her by the small of her back, almost pushing her along.
Leaving Mark talking to an artist he seems to know, Charlie and I wander into the busy kitchen where we find a case of imported Heinekens and a bottle of Jose Cuervo and the theme of the party is ‘Bring your own bling’ and no-one’s allowed into the house without shades on. Inside the kitchen a couple are standing in the corner making-out hungrily, really eating face. The guy’s leaning against the work surface, the wood light tan and in need of polish, while she goes to work on him, and we go over to take a closer look but Robert Stennings emerges out of the left field and tweaks my nipples, telling me I look money tonight, and I think that it’s good that Freddie’s not about to see him.
Loaded, I tell him, “Touch me again and I’m gonna break my dick off in your arse you curious little fag,” but I’m so drunk I’m pretty sure he mishears me as he squeals and bends over, gesturing for me to mock spank him, giggling, and when I remove the dark glasses from his face I see his eyes, loose-looking and bloodshot, and wonder what he’s on, whether I can get some.
After a minute’s garbled conversation I manage to shoo him away and look over to see our dealer, Sammy, enter the kitchen, realising suddenly then why everyone’s making like a kite, why they’re all sky-high, making the connection in my head, internally, and it’s all I can do to keep it together and not start laughing or freaking out and it’s all because I’m so nervous about tomorrow, all because I just can’t seem to settle and I’m loaded.
Leaving the kitchen I move out into the hallway, staggering slightly, everything a slight haze, and am bounded into by Alexis, who I didn’t know was going to be at the party, and she says something quietly to me, possibly drunk, leaning in and pressing me up against the door frame. Her shades are jet black and all concealing, lips uber-red, glistening intensely and all inviting. Alexis raises her left heel, sling-backed and slinky, as she brings her lips to mine, her eyes closed maybe, I think, her breath sweet like a candy fog, and we kiss, so sloppy, like we’re lost, and she tastes of strawberries and not in a bad way. I reach up to touch her supple, pouty lips, and run my finger along them, the skin wet slightly, and the beat is turned around.
Alexis reaches down. “You’re hard.”
Breathless and distracted, whispering into her ear, I reply, “I’m a lean, mean, pussy-eating machine.”
“And I’m totally shaved,” she murmurs, nuzzling into me, grinning, biting down on my lower lip playfully til I’m forced to pull away as my phone rings, my pocket going nuclear, spazing out totally. She fishes it out for me and hands it over and everything seems to start happening at once.
Cedric: “Zere are some things…” Alexis starts to nibble gently on my ear, causing me to totally lose it, go weak at the knees, “…Zat you need to hear...”
All seat backs are in their full, upright and locked positions.
Cedric still: “…I had dinner with my sister tonight...”
Tray tables are folded, all seat-belts are fastened.
“…The numbers are good…”
I get hot flushes and cold panic and the beat goes sideways. Inside I’m doing the hokey-kokey; I’m dancing the light fantastic; inside I’m crashing on the rocks, waves beating against me.
“What?” I ask, dehydrated, almost unable to speak, an arrid landscape my mouth.
I’m spinning out totally.
“What?” I try to repeat, hoarse.
“…GQ wants to do a piece on you,” Cedric is telling me over the phone but all I can hear background noise and a whooshing sound. He sounds like he may have been drinking; I can’t make out where he’s at.
“…I’ll call you tomorrow and,” Cedric is saying but I’m disorientated. I look around and all about me the party is swilling, the party’s in love with itself; everyone’s wearing sunglasses and telling each other how good they look; everyone’s referring to themselves in the third person and discussing new bars opening in West London, everyone’s recommending this restaurant and that new movie, and I just can’t get over how many people there are here that I recognise from school, or how many different friendship groups are represented. I just can’t get over how everyone seems to know each other when I’ve not introduced them – London can’t be that small, surely?
I get dizzy. I get a little giddy.
The line goes dead and we disconnect, the phone slipping from my grasp onto the shag pile, cream and easy on the toes but not on the knees when going nuts making it doggy-style with your Saturday afternoon piano tutor. It’s all a bit of an out-of-body experience and someone, somewhere, I think, is playing the Loony Tunes theme song and, in what seems like slo-mo, Freddie falls out of the bathroom and staggers past with a dancer we know called Hip-Hop, young-looking and wasted, and she’s clinging to Freddie’s shoulder, wraparound shades hiding her eyes and the nastiness she’s most likely on.
“Dude,” Freddie leers at me, utterly wasted. “Gonna give her a Freddie enema.”
“Hip-Hop,” I reply, my face blank, unable to think of anything else. “She don’t stop.”
Grinning at me, Freddie adds, whispering, “Dude, chick spreads like peanut butter,” and they leave, stumbling out the door together and Alexis starts to me ask me what my agent said…
Before Penny’s, the four of us had decided to share a quick joint, sitting in the flat together before heading out.
“When’d you last see a good-looking bride?” Freddie had asked suddenly, out of the blue, as Charlie had finished rolling.
“A what?” Mark had asked, confused. “A bride? What?”
“Like, a hot one,” Freddie had tried explaining, taking the spliff from Charlie who had started to chuckle and roll another one. “You ever seen a good-looking bride?”
Intrigued, we had thought about his question for a minute or so in silence, unable to picture any good-looking brides, so Freddie had passed the first joint to Mark and taken the second from Charlie.
Lighting it, Freddie had said, “I walked past that wedding today and I’m telling you.” Freddie had paused, taken a drag, “I saw the girl getting married and she was a hound. I mean, there were dogs lined up in the street and some of them were, um…howling.” Freddie had shrugged.
I had opened my mouth to respond but Mark had jumped in. “The maid of honour hot?”
Freddie had grinned, shit eating. “She was…feasible.”
“Feasible?”
“Yeah.”
“Feasible?”
“…Yeah.”
“What do you mean by…feasible?”
“I would fuck her…feasibly.” Freddie had shrugged. “I could feasibly see myself doing her. I could imagine Dr. Freddie giving her a slip-in-dick-to-me.”
And shaking his head in mock disgust, Mark had passed me the first joint and had taken the second from Freddie. Charlie, who had rolled a third in what had seemed like an incredibly short time, had then passed it to Freddie who had looked at him blankly. Charlie had giggled. Taking a drag, I had wheezed, my eyes watering.
“And if not…feasible?” Mark had asked Freddie, puffing on the second spliff.
“Then I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Imagine myself fucking them.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Fair enough.”
“Yeah.”
Outside the open window distant traffic could be heard, the panes pushed up to let as much cool air circulate into the hot living room, the familiar smell of grass and tobacco mixing with sweat and stale beer. Reality had started to blur; I had been fairly certain we had been sharing three joints.
“There are no hot brides,” Freddie had said softly, almost to himself, like he had been making some important statement, a conclusion of some gravity.
Replying, Mark had said, “And, um, what are we supposed to get from that little…gem?”
“Don’t you think it’s a little twisted?” Freddie had asked, handing the third joint onto Mark and taking a fourth from Charlie whose giggles had morphed into strange, dry, sobs, really strange. Mark had handed the second to me and, taking a toke, I had passed my joint, maybe the first, back to Charlie who had smoked it while starting to roll another, possibly a fifth.
“Er, Charlie, there are four of us and four joints,” Freddie had said. “You’re rolling a fifth? Don’t you think that we’ve, er…more than enough?” Everyone had been mashed.
Licking the paper on the fifth while trying to smoke the first, Charlie had shaken his head, still giggling, still manic, and the whole living room had smelt really strongly of the California Blue Grass that Freddie had got from Sammy. The Wizard Of Oz had been playing, still muted on the DVD player, The Dark Side Of Moon on the CD just finished, only the soundless images of flying monkeys left to freak us out. We had split for Penny’s sometime after that, every one of us feeling out-of-control.
…and I’m lying in bed with Alexis. We’re on her soft, satin sheets and we’re smiling. Our sunglasses are still on, her skirt is off and her hand is guiding mine to the bow tied at the side of her black thong. She tells me to pull it and, as I do, the garment washes away, the knot undone. Revealed, her pussy is small and pretty; the gently glistening mound is perfect in its symmetry, subtle in its simpleness.
Alexis goes to kick off her high heels but I ask her if she minds leaving them on and she laughs, giggling a little, and says, “Kinky, I like it.”
I grin and bring my hand to her vagina, feeling the texture of the golden flesh, the unmasked tan skin, and Alexis starts tugging gently at my Calvins, her hands slender and delicate, the epitome of femininity, her fingers slight and deft. “Come closer,” she suggests, unveiling my erection, upright and firm. “I like it. It’s pretty,” she coos, very gently rubbing it, her fingers playing out over the veiny contours. “You have a handsome dick.”
“Yeah?” I ask, leaning down to kiss her, just mumbling, unable to concentrate on speech, everything tonight just a collage of events.
“Oh yeah,” Alexis says, kissing me back, her words muffled in places, throaty and hoarse. “For sure,” she whispers breathlessly, our sunglasses clinking occasionally in the darkness. She reaches for me as we make-out, touching it lightly, feeling for it, her finger nails painted red, the colour sharp, almost black-looking in the darkness. I smile, grin, my hand meeting hers, and lie down beside her, one hand on her belly, the flesh smooth and clean, the skin creasing only a little. I stroke the golden, auburn hair from her delicate features.
Her porcelain white teeth flashing, Alexis nuzzles me a little and I remove my sunglasses, gingerly doing the same with hers, swiping them clear across her face, peeling them off tenderly.
Looking into her eyes, big, voluminous drops, large and doey, her eyelashes blink, disturbing the flight of mosquitoes in Arizona, causing tidal waves in the South China Sea. Alexis smiles up at me, warm and tender, and strokes my face, tracing a line with her finger across my brow, down my cheek to my mouth, the heat in the room intense, everything moist with sweat, the edges of her hair in damp points, matted to her shoulders, the sheen of tan skin reflecting light creeping in from the early dawn…
Twelve: Missing Persons
…and the theatre Freddie’s playing in is small. I think the word might be ‘cute’ or ‘cosy’, the acting school made out with pre-war furnishing and slender mahogany hand rails. Thick, purple cushions line the seats, rich in texture, heavy in comfort, plush.
Freddie had wanted to keep it intimate and so it’s just the three of us waiting for him in the lobby while he gets done backstage. This was the final performance before graduation and so the cast’s actor photos and resumes line the notice board, all neatly presented in case one catches the eye of a passing agent, tonight’s ultimate goal.
“Hey,” we call out as we see him emerge, a thick, black, beard grown long for the performance, his hair wildly ruffled, his whole appearance unkempt, the shaggy dog look, the sort of thing that only Freddie can get away with and still look totally money.
“Freddie mate, congrats man,” Charlie says as he draws closer through the growing crowd, parents and friends of the graduating class having come to see their end of year performance.
“Glad that’s over.” Freddie affects a smile, looking a little spent, sheepish as he reaches us. “What did you think?”
“Freddie dahling,” Mark says, mock luvie, camping it up. “You were simply soo-per!”
We laugh and Freddie lightens just a little and, looking at me, I can see he’s not managed to get all the makeup off; eye-shadow still lines his lids, giving them a deep, penetrating look, the rest of the cast all the same way, all milling around with semi made-up faces.
“Dude?” Freddie asks me, motioning away from the others to the street. “How was it?”
“It was good,” I reassure him, turning with him to head out of the school’s theatre, Charlie and Mark following a couple of paces behind. “Probably one of the best things I’ve seen you in.”
Freddie puts a hand lightly on my shoulder, drawing me to one side as we push through the double doors, out onto the street. “Really? Because there was a guy there tonight from something I auditioned for, something big – came to check out the play.”
“Really?” I ask, looking around. “Where?”
“He left after the interval,” Freddie says. “Some sort of talent spotter for one of those Film 4 – Canal Plus kind of collaborations. One of the big studios might get involved but would only be a minor role – if I get it.”
“Dude,” I say. “That’s awesome.”
Freddie smiles at me, tired-looking but happy. “Yeah,” he admits, pushing through to the edge of the pavement, like he’s trying not to get his hopes up.
“Just the break you need,” I say.
“Yeah,” Freddie says again blankly and is about to say something else I’m sure but the others join us at the kerb, chiming in, asking a whole bunch of questions, the word ‘audition’ overheard as we had moved out of the theatre.
Freddie seems nervous though and just says, “Listen, guys, I still don’t know…talking about it just kinda fucks me up.” He pauses as he catches the eye of a couple of hot, young-looking girls from the audience that waft by.
“I’m with you, man,” Charlie says, oblivious to the distraction, and asks where we’re going now. “Got to want to celebrate your last night of drama school. Be rude not to.”
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-29 show above.)