Work in Progress

by Paul Thomas

  ‘Tipsy women in bikinis,’ he says reverently.

  On the way we run into Stanley, who’s attired in black silk pyjamas, a red smoking jacket and embroidered purple slippers. An unlit pipe protrudes from the corner of his mouth and there’s a leggy, underdressed blonde on his arm.

  ‘Hey, swingers,’ he says, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing bunny, ‘welcome to the Playboy Mansion.’ He checks a leaf-thin gold watch. ‘Topless bathing starts in half an hour.’

  The blonde kisses me on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, dear Max.’

  On closer examination she turns out to be Brigit. As I’ve never seen her. She’s wearing a long blonde wig, a man-size, tantalisingly unbuttoned paisley shirt that just makes it to her tanned thighs, hippy sandals, rings on every finger, a collection of pendants and necklaces and a loose belt of silver hoops.

  Chas processes this information before I do. ‘It’s BB, the original sex kitten, my all-time fantasy girl.’

  ‘Join the club, pal,’ says Stanley. To me: ‘And who the fuck might you be?’

  ‘Andy Warhol,’ I say. ‘Cultural impresario and interpreter of the Zeitgeist, at your service.’

  ‘Speak English.’

  ‘Campbell’s Soup? Mao? The guy who said in the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes?’

  ‘He was right,’ says Stanley. ‘Look around.’

  I ask after Alan.

  ‘He’s out by the pool,’ says Brigit, ‘having a perv.’ That’s Chas’s cue. She tells him, ‘Look out for Bjorn Borg. You should see him, Max — he’s in a wig, not that different from mine actually, with a headband and tight little shorts. I’d almost forgotten how skinny his legs are. All in all, a truly comical sight.’

  ‘The racquet cracks me up,’ says Stanley. ‘That old wooden piece of shit. And he’s stuck with it; it’s like the key to his identity.’

  ‘He should’ve thought of that, shouldn’t he?’ says Brigit.

  ‘So, Brigit,’ I say, ‘were you able to persuade Stanley to join your committee?’

  ‘I was.’ She glows at him, re-linking arms. ‘It’s fantastic. We’re so lucky to have him.’

  Stanley wiggles his pipe jauntily. I excuse myself to go to the toilet.

  Stanley and Brigit are where I left them, still arm in arm, talking to my mother and sister. My mother’s wearing a floor-length gown, a tiara and a dead fox. Felicity, whose hair is dramatically short, is in a multi-coloured mini-dress with white stockings and buckled shoes.

  Stanley says, ‘Sorry, Mrs Napier, did you say you were the Queen Mother or the queen’s mother?’

  My mother, bless her doughty old heart, doesn’t join in the chortling. She kisses me, wishes me happy birthday and asks who I’m meant to be. The explanation takes some time.

  ‘I associate Twiggy with the sixties,’ I tell Felicity. ‘Carnaby Street, Swinging London and all that.’

  ‘She overlapped,’ she says. ‘Just. I checked.’

  ‘Where’s Murray?’

  ‘Good question,’ says Felicity. ‘He’s been at work all day. He said he’d be a bit late but I thought he’d be here by now.’

  ‘Who’s he tonight?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘Frank Sinatra.’ Late at night and under the influence, Murray performs a murderous rendition of ‘My Way’.

  ‘Close,’ says Felicity. ‘The Godfather.’

  ‘No shit?’ I say. ‘Complete with mouthful of cotton wool?’

  ‘The whole nine yards,’ she says. ‘He’s even been practising the voice — I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.’

  ‘Well, that’s something to look forward to,’ I say. ‘Let’s hope he gets here soon.’

  I look around. Jim Morrison has the Queen Mother in stitches. Hef and BB are nowhere to be seen.

  I’m with Sally and Rick, who’ve come — and this can be read a number of ways — as Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. In front of us the dance-floor crush heaves and sways and sings along to Bachman Turner Overdrive’s ‘You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet’. Stanley’s dancing with Felicity, Alan’s dancing with Brigit (a virtually statuesque Brigit, perhaps conscious that exuberance might expose her underwear; I can’t be the only man in the room keeping an eye on developments), and Chas has hooked up with a bunny.

  The song ends. Brigit and Alan decide to sit out Bowie’s ‘Rebel, Rebel’ and thread their way to the sidelines, passing Sally and Rick. Alan, who’s ditched his racquet, volunteers to fetch a couple of cold beers, a sensible move at this point in the evening — the pause that refreshes between the champagne and the serious business.

  Brigit stands on tiptoe to shout in my ear. ‘Sally’s putting up a good front, don’t you think?’ My expression amuses her. ‘Don’t tell me you thought you were the only one she confided in.’

  ‘That’s what she told me.’

  ‘Ditto, but it never occurred to me to believe her.’

  ‘Why lie?’

  She shrugs. ‘All part of the intrigue, I suppose. And compared to the whoppers she must’ve told Rick, it’s just a wee white one.’

  ‘That’s a point.’

  ‘It was quite weird, really. Even when she was telling me it was out of this world and how she felt really alive for the first time in years, blah, blah, blah, I had the feeling she wanted me to disapprove, to haul her back into line. Of course, like you, I was far too sophisticated to do that.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘She was hugely fucked off with me when she thought I’d sent lover boy packing.’

  That also amuses her. ‘Stanley’s quite something, isn’t he?’

  ‘He sure is. You two seem to have got very chummy very quickly.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘What I said. Just making an observation.’

  She gives me a cool smile. ‘In that way people do when they’re having a little dig. Is there a problem with me being chummy, as you put it, with Stanley?’

  I see Alan coming. ‘Well, if there is, it won’t be my problem. Be careful, Brigit.’

  Her smile disappears into itself, like a computer screen shutting down. ‘Be careful yourself. You’re giving a very good impression of someone whose nose is out of joint.’

  Alan shoves a beer into my hand and plunges into a rave about his latest TV ad.

  Brigit says, ‘I’m just going to freshen up.’

  ‘Okey-doke,’ says Alan, barely missing a beat.

  I watch Brigit over his shoulder. She exits without looking left or right. I glance over my shoulder: Stanley’s yelling in Felicity’s ear. She smiles and nods. They negotiate their way through the crush, Felicity to join us, Stanley to follow in Brigit’s footsteps.

  I ask Felicity where Murray is.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to take this the wrong way,’ she says, ‘but who gives a rat’s arse?’

  It seems everyone’s a party person except the birthday boy.

  Bunny-girls circulate, encouraging the friends of Max Napier to gather in the library.

  The library’s modelled on the reading room of a gentlemen’s club. This is where Stanley comes when he feels like resting on his laurels. There’s a full-size snooker table, leather armchairs, a baronial fireplace and a sideboard stacked with airmail editions of British and American broadsheets and recent issues of Fortune, New Yorker and Vanity Fair.

  The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are a paperback-free zone. There’s lots of Churchill — a good half-dozen slabs of biography plus the four volumes of the great man’s History of the English Speaking Peoples. Churchill is the man of destiny’s man of destiny: the meteoric rise, the headstrong behaviour, the calamitous fall, the voice in the wilderness, the resounding vindication, the date with destiny. He’s a role-model for all those driven men, unhinged by ambition, who are convinced they’re different from (read: superior to) the rest of us and for the greater good should be given their head rather than being hamstrung by pygmies, like Gulliver in Lilliput. De Gaulle is another favourite. Napoleo
n and perhaps Bismarck will get a look-in but today’s man of destiny tends to stick to the modern era. To the Self-Made Man, secure in his utilitarian ignorance (‘History is bunk’), everything before the invention of the steam locomotive seems like a fairytale.

  One whole wall is dedicated to money. There’s also brand-name journalism — the likes of Theodore White, Alistair Cooke and Bernard Levin — and a surprisingly contemporary selection of fiction, although Dellasandro’s breakthrough book is in pristine condition and opens stiffly, as if for the first time.

  Stanley stands with his back to the fireplace, waiting for quiet.

  ‘Evening, all. For those who don’t know me, my name’s Stanley Muir and you’re drinking my piss. I hope it’s hitting the spot. We’re here tonight to celebrate the fiftieth birthday of your friend and mine, Max Napier. Where the hell is he? Show yourself, man.’

  There’s a murmur of agreement. Someone yells, ‘Yeah, Max, front and centre.’

  It can’t be avoided. I join Stanley by the fireplace.

  ‘Now when I first put the idea of a party to Max,’ he says, ‘he was lukewarm. What’s that? That doesn’t sound like the Max Napier you know?’ There’s a collective scream of laughter; God help us if Stanley says something funny. ‘Eventually he agreed, on three conditions: he wouldn’t organise it, he wouldn’t pay for it and there wouldn’t be any speeches. Well, Max, two out of three ain’t bad and, anyway, talk is cheap. Or, to put it another way, fuck you and the horse you rode in on.’

  Stanley grins wildly. You’d swear he’s having the time of his life. He reminisces about London, making it sound like a non-stop bohemian carnival in which I was the most daring performer. The Queen Mother looks on anxiously, fearing he’ll dredge up filth in the worst tradition of best-man speeches: the indecency arrest, the phone-booth shag, the lost weekend with a transvestite. But with a few surprisingly deft brushstrokes he creates a flattering portrait of the artist as a youngish man, then fast forwards twenty years to freeze on a secure and worldly figure approaching the height of his powers: ‘Max took a hard road but he’s still on it, still moving forward and the best is yet to come. And through it all, through the ups and downs of a writer’s life and some pretty tough times, he’s stayed true to himself.’

  ‘Steady on, Stanley,’ I say, ‘these people know me.’

  ‘They don’t know the half of you,’ he says. ‘I was proud to call Max a friend twenty years ago and I’m even prouder to call him a friend tonight. Okay, bunnies, let’s have you.’

  After the bunnies have dispensed champagne, Stanley presses on: ‘I’ve been to fiftieths where there’ve been toasts to the next fifty years, as if the aim of the game is to live as long as possible. Well, I’ve seen too much bad shit come out of nowhere to take anything for granted and just lately I’ve visited a few relatives in old folks’ homes and if that’s longevity, you can shove it up your ass. So let’s just drink a toast to Max at fifty and wish him all the success and happiness he deserves.’

  They drink. Someone starts up ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow.’ ‘Why was he born so beautiful?’ inevitably follows. My cheeks burn and there’s a rainforest under the wig. I’d rather be in the pool.

  I’m about to respond but Stanley’s not finished. ‘Hang on, Max, one more thing before you bore the crap out of us: your presents are in the dining room but I can tell you there’s booze, booze and more booze. Like you said, these people know you. I’ll have it delivered on Monday.’ He takes an envelope from the breast pocket of his smoking jacket. ‘When I was thinking about what to give Max, I asked myself, what do you give the man who has nothing? I suppose I could give him everything I’ve got but where would that leave me?’ He hands me the envelope. ‘Besides, some things you can’t put a price on, right?’

  The envelope contains an open return first-class air ticket to Paris. I thank Stanley but can’t resist adding, ‘Anyone would think you’re trying to get rid of me.’ His eyes narrow; he knows what I’m talking about.

  The crowd bays, wanting in on it. When I tell them, they ooh and aah and applaud Stanley’s largesse.

  He says, ‘There should be something else in there.’

  It’s a folded, A4 sheet of what the Queen Mother would call quality writing paper on which someone — not Stanley, whose handwriting is a ludicrous scrawl — has written a Parisian street address and a name: Samantha Marchand.

  ‘I hired some people in the States to track her down,’ he murmurs. ‘It would’ve been a lot easier if she’d reverted to her maiden name after her marriage broke up.’

  eighteen

  The security men have emptied the pool and herded the die-hards down the sea-shell drive back out into the real world. The caterers are cleaning up. The married couples have taken each other home and Chas has disappeared into the night panting after a bunny.

  Felicity left as she arrived — alone — having woven a narrative around Murray’s no-show: ‘You score a commission on a Saturday, you want to celebrate. A few of you score commissions, it’s party time. Muz would’ve thought one drink, half an hour of telling each other how wonderful we are, then do a quiet fade. The obvious flaw in this plan is that, like most men, without his wife there to tug on his sleeve, he’s incapable of having just the one. And when he finally managed to tear himself away, he had to go home to get dressed up, which is where he made his second mistake: the old I’ll just lie down and rest my eyes for a few minutes trick. Well, all I can say is he’d better get a good night’s sleep because tomorrow he’ll have some serious grovelling to do. You’ve got one more thing to look forward to, Max: an abject apology from your dear brother-in-law.’

  The host and I are deep in leather armchairs, sipping single malt scotch, not saying much. Tomorrow, as always, I’ll berate myself for adding an oily layer of hard liquor to the pond of beer and wine but right now, as always, it would seem perverse not to.

  Stanley breaks the silence, insisting I stay the night. ‘There are four guest bedrooms up there. You should find one of them to your satisfaction.’

  ‘What’s the difference? They’ve all got harbour views and ensuites, haven’t they?’

  ‘True,’ he says, ‘but only one of them’s got a bunny.’

  ‘A bunny, you say?’

  He nods. ‘I would’ve put a voucher in the envelope — this entitles the bearer to a night of consensual activity with a bunny — but someone was bound to take offence.’

  ‘You can’t be too careful these days. I’m interested in the consensual part: that means neither party has to be coerced, bribed or otherwise inveigled into it, correct?’

  Stanley dismisses my qualm with a seigneurial chuckle. ‘Not an issue, Max. I wouldn’t say these chicks are working girls but they ain’t debutantes, if you get my drift. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a tag-team upstairs waiting for me.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll do justice to them?’

  ‘Maybe not tonight,’ he says, ‘but tomorrow’s another day. I might even take on the water-jump.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s like this: morning has broken; shafts of golden sunlight filter through the curtains; birds twitter. As you emerge from a drunken stupor, you become conscious of three things. Your bladder feels like Krakatoa; you’re not alone, the other party in the bed being a near-naked young woman whose name escapes you; and you have the mother of all boners. But there’s something not quite right about it — if anything, it’s too hard. It’s so fucking hard that it’s lost all feeling. It’s like it’s been injected with rhino tranquilliser. You could drop the Oxford Dictionary on it or zap it with a cattle prod and you wouldn’t feel a goddamn thing. You assume this state of affairs is related to the fact that you should’ve had a leak four hours ago but now there’s a decision to be made: do you slip out of bed, make your way to the john, contort yourself into a position where you can unload without hosing down the shaving mirror and then watch that mighty boner shrivel up and die? Or do you decide to strike while
the iron’s hot, holler “Incoming” in your young companion’s ear and go for the doctor? The latter option, my friend, is the water-jump.’

  ‘If you’ve got no feeling in your dork, what’s the point?’

  Stanley shakes his head. ‘Fifty years old and it’s still all about me. Didn’t your vicar ever tell you it’s better to give than to receive?’

  ‘No, but then I was never an altar boy. Tell me, in the course of your frequent one-on-one moments with Brigit tonight, did you happen to mention the tag-team?’

  ‘I don’t think the subject came up.’ Stanley puts his drink down on the side-table and leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees and softly clapping his hands. His laugh-lines melt away. It looks like the party’s over. ‘I really hope you’re not going to be a pain in the ass about this, Max. That’s not what friends are for.’

  ‘What exactly is “this”, Stanley?’

  ‘You know fucking well. I’m not asking for your blessing; I’m just asking you to stay the fuck out of the way and let nature take its course.’

  There’s a knock on the door. It half opens and a caterer hovers in the doorway. ‘Excuse me, Mr Muir, one of your guests is here …’

  He steps aside for Felicity. She’s changed out of the Twiggy kit. It looks like the party’s over for her too.

  ‘I tried your place first, Max,’ she says, as if that explains everything. ‘Sorry about this, Stanley, but I’m a bit worried about my husband. You know he didn’t make it here tonight? Well, he didn’t make it home either.’

  The house was as she’d left it. The kids had checked in as requested, leaving cryptic messages that left plenty of room for manoeuvre. On nights like this she wished she could believe in a guardian angel but there were no short-cuts to peace of mind and nothing she could put her faith in except their sense of self-preservation.