by Martin Amis
“Here, Dawn,” he said again. “How far gone are you?”
She told him.
“Go ahead then. Show us you gut.”
Dawn’s chair juddered slowly backward and she got to her feet. She turned.
“… You wouldn’t believe this, Des. But I seen it online. There’s blokes who like girls when they pregnant. Funny old world … Enjoy you meal. And you Big Match.”
They were busying themselves with the jars and pots and punnets.
“Have some of this. See, he’s nervous, Dawnie. If it’s true what they say about him and her. He’s nervous about starting a family. Don’t take it to heart.”
“Why would I? He’s touched, isn’t he. He can’t help it … Imagine empathising with ‘Threnody.’ Do anyone’s head in.”
“Exactly. Here, have a drop of uh, Rich and Sustaining Merlot.”
“That’d go straight through Baby, that would. All of it. As if Baby had ordered a whole glass of red wine. It’s the same size he is!”
“She is. A thimbleful. Go on … You know, I reckon he just fancies a night out in the old neighbourhood. He won’t do us any harm.”
“I should bloody well hope not. Here, look at this. Choice of cheddars. Which? Strong and Sharp,” she said, “or Family Mild?”
“Strong and Sharp.”
“No, Des. Family Mild.”
… Lionel returned in the small hours—the rattle and double-thunk, the thrown-on light, the Neolithic trudge down the passage, the pole of water drilling into the stressed tin of the sink. Not that it mattered—because Dawn and Des were wide awake anyway. They lay sighing together in the dark, giving off a swampy glow. Their stomachs conversed in a sawing Q and A, like two nests of cicadas.
“That’s all you needed. A lovely lie-in.”
“It wasn’t a lovely lie-in, Dawnie. I just couldn’t get out of bed.”
“Well you’re up and about now.”
“At the ninth attempt. How come you’re suddenly okay?”
“Because I only had a sip. You had going on for half a bottle!”
“Gaa, well I’m paying for it now. It was the food too. Any sign of …?”
Lionel emerged at four in the afternoon. His dramatic pallor was perhaps enhanced by his black satin dressing gown and also by the bright blotches on either cheek, where the flesh looked scuffed or abraded. Not hungover (Des thought): Lionel was never hungover. But he could tell that his uncle ached.
“D’you want a cup of something, Lionel? … You usually like a tea.”
“… Go on then. You never know. Might have some effect.” Glazed with a kind of comfortable vacuity, Lionel’s eyes patrolled the room. His face cleared and then immediately twisted away in helpless detestation. “Look at that. Shut.”
Des said, “Yeah it’s jammed again.”
“Shut …” With an unsteady hand he reached out towards it. And the tank, in what seemed to be coy anticipation, yawned open.
The three of them reared back.
After a moment Lionel said, “What happens when you wedge it?”
“It hates it if you wedge it,” said Dawn. “It bites down on it and then it won’t move either way. For a month. It hates a wedge.”
“It’s no good to you when it’s always open, either, is it,” said Des.
“The rubbish,” said Dawn. “After a bit you can smell it.”
“You want something you can open and shut. And when it’s open you can’t shut it.”
“And when it’s shut you can’t open it.”
Lionel considered all this. “So what d’you do with it?”
“We sit on it,” said Dawn. “When it’s shut.”
Their stares returned to the tank’s black gape. Which now with a soft hiss of compressed air snapped to.
The three of them jolted in their chairs.
Lionel said, “It’s fucking haunted, that is. Like the lift.” Minutes passed. “Here, Des. When they write about you in the papers, Des. When they write about you in the papers … I don’t know. They up you arse,” said Lionel, “because you black.”
He showered and changed, and called from the passage for Des to come and see him out.
The day had begun freshly, with a light scattering of cloudlets floating low enough to cast their individual shadows. But promise and colour were siphoning themselves from the sky, and a hard wind blew. Beginning his first smoke of the day (a substantial cigar), Lionel said,
“I had a call from Dr. fucking No in Cape Wrath. What’s his name? The deep-eye.”
“Endo. Jake Endo.”
“Here. When you go up there.” Lionel frowned and his mouth widened. “Does she know you you?”
“Know I’m me? Hard to tell. She remembers the old times. Her schooldays.”
“Well they didn’t last long. She make any sense?”
“Yeah, now and then. Talks about Dominic. And Lars.” Lars: father of Uncle John. “Dom and Lars.” With reluctance Des went on, “She uh, she talks a bit salty. Sex stuff.”
“That’s what Dr. No was telling me. The life force. Fucking disgusting.”
Lionel enfolded himself in his fur. Now a silver Mercedes approached and came to a halt, keeping its distance, ticking over.
“The doc. He reckons her memory’s coming back. Can’t remember if she had her fucking pills five minutes ago. Can remember the past. It’s coming back. In chronological order! Think. She’ll do the six dads. Then, who was it, Kevin. And bleeding Toby. Then she’ll do Rory! That’s all we need.”
He tugged on the warped door of the Ford Transit. Respectfully trailed by the Mercedes-Benz, Lionel pulled away—a white-van man in a black mink coat.
And so the pattern formed and settled. The businesslike entrances, on a Friday night, a Saturday night, sometimes a Wednesday night; the brief greeting and the submission of the house present (the house presents became increasingly bizarre); Lionel changed, went out, returned in the smoky gunmetal hour (waking both of them up), rose at teatime with his face grazed and chafed, drank some tea as he sneered at the tank and the newspapers, sighed, stood, torrentially showered …
Soon he started bringing one or the other of his dogs with him—now Jek, now Jak. The first time it happened (this was Jek—piebald, with his four-inch tail anxiously tucked between his thick back legs) there was a lot of clacking around till Lionel located the litter tray, which he filled from the bag he brought with him in his calf valise, and then laid out the dog’s evening meal: what looked like a hunk of filet mignon clumsily stuffed with peppers of a bilious, glistening light green. The pitbull, with indifferent appetite, dined on the Avalon balcony.
“Give him a drop of water, Des—after he’s done. Just a cupful, mind,” said Lionel as he took his leave.
Jek was still sobbing with heartburn when (so to speak) the Pepperdines invited him in. He hesitated—and cowered at first as Dawn leaned down to give his back a stroke. They gave him water and, far more efficaciously, two saucers of milk; and pretty soon he was belly-up on the sofa, as if inanely and joyously submitting to some childish sexual charade—to some childish orgy in which he himself, moreover, was the undisputed star … As with Jek, so with Jak. Jak was piebald too, but like a negative image of his brother. Jak, mostly white, wore a black tanktop and four black moccasins; Jek, mostly black, wore a white dicky and four white spats. One Friday it would be Jek. The next Wednesday but one it would be Jak. But never Jak and Jek at the same time.
The dogs and the Pepperdines were soon very fond of one another. This was a development that Lionel would be certain to deplore: the Pepperdines knew it—and so, uncannily, did the dogs. All four of them dissembled; they behaved with the polite reserve of experienced adulterers till the moment Lionel stamped off down the passage. As the front door slammed shut, Jak or Jek would be lying on his back with forepaws cocked and tail awhirl, or springing five feet in the air …
On Friday it would be Jak. The next Wednesday it would be Jek. But never Jek and Jak at the same time.
12
Over these summer weeks “Threnody” got going on a little project. She wanted to bond with Dawn.
A text message. A series of emails. Then daily phone calls …
“She just checks in. Asks how we are. She wants to give us dinner at the South Central. Just the three of us.”
“What d’you think?”
“Wants to talk about Lionel. Wants to talk about her parameters with Lionel.”
“… Are we playing along? It’s all a kind of madness, Dawnie.”
What people don’t understand is this, said “Threnody,” in the course of a groundbreaking interview in the Daily Mail. Okay, one, we’re on decent money and, two, all right, we’re well known. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have problems! That’s what people are too bloody dense to understand. We’re just like any other English couple, for goodness’ sake! We’re ordinary people, the same as everyone else. Hello? Can’t they get that through their thick heads?
You see, Melanie, there’s two main issues. He’s a passionate man, my Lionel, which is why I call him “Lionheart.” But he’s madly jealous of my past. And jealous I do glamour. He’s like, “All those blokes w***ing off over you!” But glamour’s who I am! What’s “Threnody” without glamour? Glamour and myself are virtually synonymous.
And he won’t travel. He’s put his foot down. He’s that patriotic. He hasn’t even got a passport—and he won’t get one! And I need my destinations. “Threnody” then went on, We’ll compromise. We’ll have to. Now that we’re trying for a baby. And I do mean trying! I know it in my heart: everything will fall into place the minute I’m up the duff.
You see, Melanie, I haven’t forgotten my roots. I’ve now become close to Lionel’s niece, Dawn Pepperdine. She lives in a pokey council flat just like I used to. And she’s in the family way. So we’re always on for a good old natter. We understand each other completely. And we’ve so much to share …
On Tuesday the Pepperdines high-spiritedly met up after work at Pimlico tube station and walked in the rain to the South Central Hotel. As they approached the forecourt Des was hailed by a colleague from the Mirror, who told him that the press was there in force: Danube herself would be attending a function in the penthouse casino.
They sat and waited with their Cokes. Round about them the clientele sat drinking and snacking in its usual fancy dress—like the cast of an opera or a pantomime; but the most conspicuous person in the Los Feliz Lounge, it turned out, was Dawn Sheringham.
“I feel pregnant now all right,” she said as she returned from her second visit to the bathroom. “See the way they all stared? Are pregnant women even allowed in here? … Where is she? She told me seven-thirty!”
At twenty to nine a bespectacled and preoccupied Megan Jones clicked up.
“Hello there! Change of plan. ‘Threnody,’ ” she said, “is upstairs.”
“Oh, is she not coming down?”
“With Danube on the premises? You’re dreaming. Dawn, love, pop in on her for me. She’s feeling really shit and she needs to vent … There’s a good girl.”
Des sat on. The hotel’s centre of gravity, that night, had levitated sixteen floors, and only a handful of the uninvited resentfully remained in the bar. So the whole two hours passed almost without incident. Someone laughingly stripped in front of the new shark tank, someone laughingly drowned a garden frog in an ice bucket. And the affectless TV screens—Laurel and Hardy, tsunami, Popeye, September 11, royal wedding, Pinocchio, volcano, Mandingo, martyrdom video, Thriller, Godzilla …
“She was in bed with an eye mask on,” said Dawn as they walked in the rain to the Chelsea Kitchen on King’s Road. “And she spoke in a whisper.”
“Look out, puddle coming up. What did she say about Lionel?”
“She didn’t say anything about Lionel.”
“Then what did she talk about?”
“Danube.”
They ate a mushroom pie, and took the Underground from Sloane Square to Diston North. At 33F, Avalon Tower, all the lights were on; in the kitchen they found a jeroboam of Rebel Yell bourbon (another house present) and an ecstatic Jak.
He readied the bowls of Wotsits and Fairy Toast, and checked the temperature of the “Mirage” Chardonnay. “Threnody” was due at seven-thirty.
Preceded by security guard number one (thickset, apologetic, in an ageing blue suit), and escorted by security guard number two (much younger, ponytailed, in a boxy three-piece), who positioned himself at the front door, “Threnody” arrived at twenty past nine.
Then in she disconcertingly came at speed, with her busy eye-movements taking the whole of her head and neck with them, in strict and fluttery inventory, and jarred to a halt in the full light with her hands on her hips.
“Twelve floors,” she said bitterly.
“I did warn you.”
“Yes, Dawn, you did—but what about my heels? What about my heels? See?”
She slid off a shoe as she sat herself down and held it up for them. It reminded Des of something he had seen the day before: an almost 0-shaped hook securing a freighter in the canal lock.
“They were fucking killing me. Twelve floors. Mal had to give me a piggyback up the last five! … Twelve floors. Where’s the consideration? Stressing me out.”
After a silence Dawn offered their guest a glass of “Mirage.” “Threnody” proudly declined—and then very briefly burst into tears. She said,
“Oh, Dawn. It’s happened. Lionel’s gone and filled me with his child!”
Haltingly the Pepperdines made it clear how pleased they were by this news.
“Ah, you should’ve seen your uncle when I told him. The tears were streaming down his face … Mums, Dawn. That’s what we’re going to be. Proper mums. Mums.” She turned to Des and said, “Would you excuse yourself for me? I want to have a mums’ talk with your Dawn.”
He went off to the bedroom with his book. In the passage the older security guard paced and loomed; after ten minutes (and a warning cough) he peered round the door and said,
“You can go back in there now. If you fancy it.” He had a way of dropping his head, chin on chest, and looking upward from under his brows, as if over a pair of invisible spectacles. “Mal MacManaman,” he said and offered his hand. “I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. Centrefolds. Glamour queens. Page Three. And you know uh, Desmond, it’s right what they call them. They’re fantasy girls. They live in the clouds.”
When Des went on through, “Threnody” was raising a huge glass of “Mirage” and saying, “It’ll be a precious bond between ourselves, Dawn love. So precious. Just between you and I—the mums.”
She gave a signal. Mal MacManaman went down the passage and you could hear the front door give its sigh. They came in very quietly, two men, introduced as Sebastian Drinker and Chris Large (Des recognised Chris Large: Daphne’s photographer from the Sun). Mal MacManaman leaned back against the wall with folded arms and penitently dropped his head.
“Let’s sit on the sofa, Dawn,” said “Threnody,” “and have a little smooch. Then a few standing up. So they can see your tum.”
Her face solar and leonine under the striplight, Goldie was looking on as they cleared the table—the glasses, the Wotsits, the Fairy Toast.
“Look at that. She drank the whole bottle!” Dawn’s eyes widened out into space. “And she had a go at the Rebel Yell and all. That baby’s paralytic.”
“Yeah. If there is one.”
“If there is one … She knows what she’s going to call it. Boy or girl. Lovechild.”
“Lovechild?”
“Lovechild. And she’s going to do what we’re doing with the middle name.”
“… Lovechild ‘Threnody’ Asbo?”
“Lovechild ‘Threnody’ Asbo. State of England.”
“State of England.”
“And anyway. It won’t be a lovechild, will it. What about their dream wedding?”
So for the next few days Des faced reasonably mild ri
dicule at his work station in Canary Wharf, and Dawn rose from archangel to seraph in the eyes of the pupils of St. Swithin’s, what with Aunt “Threnody” all over the papers—and the unbelievable poem, “Sisters” (God’s gift of generation/We hold in veneration …). It was official. Sebastian Drinker: Mr. Asbo is frankly overjoyed. He greeted the news with absolute euphoria.
… It doesn’t sound right, does it, said Dawn. “Euphoria.”
No, it doesn’t. As if he meant to say “euthoria” … I hate this. I mean, where’s the truth? Where’s the poor old truth? And what’ll we say to him when he comes?
“Congratulations, Uncle Li.”
“Yes, all the very best, Lionel.”
Lionel halted, filling the doorway in his ambassadorial suit, holding in both hands a thick glass jar of what looked like Chinese seaweed. He said,
“What’re you on about?”
“Or uh, shouldn’t we believe everything we read in the news, Uncle Li?”
“What? Read about what?”
Dawn said, “The baby.”
“Oh the baby. Oh the baby.” Lionel gave the glass jar to his nephew and with his freed hand reached up to jerk at the vast valentine of his Windsor. “You know what she’s calling it?”
“… She told us Lovechild.”
“Lovechild, my arse. She’s calling it her exit strategy. Work that one out.”
The thick glass jar—Lionel’s house present—turned out to contain hydroponic marijuana. The week before he had given them a thousand cigarettes (Balkan Sobranies). It seemed that Lionel, too, had been reading the baby books. Other donations included a whole hamper of sushi, ceviche, and fish tartare.
One Sunday afternoon (this wouldn’t happen again) Lionel surfaced from his room and was soon joined, at the kitchen table, by his childhood sweetheart, Cynthia. This silent Distonite was now twenty-eight. Cynthia—her face as bleached as a London sky but not quite colourless, with a faint rumour of mulberry in it, like the blue of cold.
