Piers giggles and slides down his chair. “You could say that.”
“Inspired casting I’d call it,” says Philip, patting his lap and gesturing me to sit down on it. “Have you named the day yet, Anna?”
I take the seat next to Piers and try not to look as pissed off as I feel. “Valentine’s Day, most probably.”
“But how remiss of me,” says Philip, waving his glass like a rat-arsed best man. “I forgot to congratulate you on your charming, putative mother-in-law.”
“Stop it, Philip. It’s not funny.”
“On the contrary, I find the whole scenario most amusing.”
“You owe me for this.”
“I said I’d come down to Toad Hall with you, didn’t I? What more do you bloody want?”
Piers looks none too happy about the idea. “You mean you two are really going to spend a weekend together?”
“I said one night,” snaps Philip. “I can’t afford a whole weekend in the middle of a rehearsal period.”
“Well, that’s great,” says Piers, sounding even less convincing than his Horatio. “I’m…so pleased for you.”
Philip’s voice somehow manages to rise above the drunken cacophony. “She still won’t screw me, you know. Think I must be losing my touch.”
Ever had the feeling that the whole world is laughing at you? Just as I’m about to die of embarrassment, good old Piers flies to the rescue. “Where are your people from, Anna?”
“Hampshire.”
“Do you know the Chamberlain-Webbers?”
“Absolutely. Mummy and Auntie Pru used to be great chums.”
“James and I were at school together.”
“Gosh…really?”
“Oh, God,” says Philip with a huge yawn. “Is there anything more tedious than the incestuous ramblings of the middle classes?” (Daddy says that the true aristocrats don’t need to be snobs; Philip must be the exception that proves the rule.) “If it’s small talk you’re after, maybe you’d be better off with Gommo over there.”
“Maybe I would,” I say, glancing across at Michael and his sainted mother. “At least he’s not a stuck-up wanker.”
“Well, he couldn’t be, could he?” says Philip, roaring with laughter. “I’d say that was something of a physical impossibility. In fact, there’s not really a lot he can do.” He waves drunkenly at Michael and gives him the thumbs-up. “All right, mate?”
“At least he’s got a decent sense of humour,” I say, trying to sound like a feisty heroine. “At least he doesn’t treat people like pieces of meat.”
“So go out with him then,” shrugs Philip. “I can see you’ve got the hots for the bloke.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Now that I would like to see,” says Philip, lurching to his feet. “Still, I suppose it would end up exactly the same as one of our dates.”
“What do you mean?”
The corners of his mouth twist upwards into a sly smile: “Totally shagless, of course!”
“Why do you always do this to people?” says Piers. “You were exactly the same with that girl from St Hilda’s.”
“I guess that’s just the kind of guy I am,” mutters Philip. “Now, if you’ve quite finished, I’m going to put a song on the jukebox.”
Piers smiles sympathetically and clicks The Archers theme with his tongue. “By the way, I got you something, Anna.” He reaches into his waistcoat and pulls out a Ripple. “I know you’re a bit of a chocolate fiend.”
“Oh, Piers, I could kiss you.”
A flicker of concern dances across his face. “No need for that, old thing. And you mustn’t worry about Philip either. I know how much he’s looking forward to meeting your parents – he told me so himself.”
The Actor
The party rages around us. Thanks to yours truly, filming is finally over for the night. It’s quite possible I could warrant a writing credit. If I hadn’t stepped into the breach with my joke about the two prostitutes on Brighton Pier, no doubt we’d still be at it.
Michael looks deeply peeved. Five minutes ago they were his bezzy mates, but now they seem quite content to let him sit in the corner and watch with Mother. SOWINS maintained that the expression ‘tight-arsed’ might have been invented for me; however, looking across at the woman who can make one Britvic orange last an entire evening, I’m beginning to feel like something of a libertine.
“To make you come, just stick it up your bum, CUCUMBER, CUCUMBER!”
Luckily for Mrs Owen, the young gentlemen of the boat club are not au fait with the articulation exercises in Voice and the Actor. “What on earth is all that about, Timothy?” she says, pulling at the cuffs of her cardigan. “They’re not really singing about vegetables, are they?”
“It’s what passes for undergraduate humour these days.”
“That’s right,” says Nikki Hardbody, downing her third Flying Fuck, “unlike the sophisticated wit of Timothy here. “One swallow doesn’t make a summer” – very droll, Tim, very droll.”
I’m not so out of touch that I don’t realize the legend on Nikki’s T-shirt is supposed to be ironic, but I can’t help hoping it has some basis in truth. Just because she has ‘Dirty Slag’ tastefully emblazoned across her chest, doesn’t necessarily mean she’s taken a vow of chastity. “One does one’s best.”
“And I think you’re doing very well, Timothy,” says Valerie Owen. “And so does Michael, don’t you, dear?”
The young gentleman in the wheelchair is not quite so keen to endorse my credentials. “Haven’t you got a train to catch, Mum? I don’t want you to miss it.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, love. But don’t worry; it’s not until five-and-twenty to. I’ve got heaps of time.”
Michael looks as fed up as I feel. There’s no way I can start having a crack at Nikki with the ‘moral majority’ sitting opposite. “Michael’s right,” I say. “You really shouldn’t risk it.”
“You hear that, Nikki?” says Mrs Owen, proudly. “Now I’ve got two young men looking out for me – how about that, eh?”
Nikki inhales deeply, like a world-class athlete, and puffs out a thin plume of smoke. “Good on you, Val.” Although I’m cautiously optimistic that Nikki may be partial to the mature type, I’m still hoping she registered the two ‘young’ men comment.
“I tell you what,” says Mrs Owen. “I’ll just finish my drink, and then, perhaps, I’d better be making tracks.”
Despite the fact that he’s been known to hand out crap presents like chummo there, I’m thinking that maybe there is a loving God after all. Things get even better when someone puts an old favourite of mine on the jukebox.
“God, I love this song,” says Nikki, shaking her boobs like a slightly worse-for-wear go-go dancer. “It reminds me of the old college bop.”
“Were you at Oxford too, then?” says Mrs Owen.
Just for a moment Nikki’s knockers are becalmed. “No, no, I was at the other place.” She stares up at the ceiling and sings along to the chorus of ‘Like A Virgin’ in a husky tenor. “Jesus, that was a long time ago.”
Michael appears to have gone into hibernation, Mrs Owen is still smarting from the profanity, and Nikki looks to have succumbed to a nasty dose of nostalgia. The whole evening is taking on a regrettably maudlin feel.
Anna’s arrival at the table of doom is a welcome relief; that is, until I clock the puffy eyes and the ubiquitous Kleenex. “Hi,” she says, distracted for a moment by the whoop of laughter that goes up by the jukebox, “how’s it going?”
“Very nicely, thank you, dear,” says Mrs Owen. “We’re having a good old chinwag, aren’t we? Why don’t you join us?”
“No,” says Anna, rather too emphatically. “Actually, I just wanted a quick word with Michael.”
The three able-bodies at the table turn towards her in unison: “What about?”
“I was thinking of going for a pizza,” says Anna, looking over her shoulder at the jukebox. “I wondered if Michael might
like to tag along.”
“I don’t think so, dear,” says Mrs Owen. “He finds that sort of thing a bit of a strain.”
“I’m not sure young Anna here realizes what it entails,” I add, with feeling.
“I know he’s not a dab hand with a knife and fork, if that’s what you mean,” says Anna, somewhat tastelessly. “Come on, Michael. What do you say?”
“Tell her, love,” says his mother, “you don’t want to be out on a night like this.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’d be really nice,” says Michael. “I love pizza.”
“I think it’s a stonking idea,” says Nikki. “I mean, just because he’s in that chair, doesn’t mean the poor kid shouldn’t have a social life. You don’t mind if I film it, do you?”
“Yes, we do, actually,” says Anna. “I think we’ve all had enough of that for one night.”
“Please yourself,” shrugs Nikki. “Little Pepe, the boy with no nose, didn’t like me filming him eating to start with, but he soon got over it.”
“What about your medication, Michael?” says Mrs Owen. “You know what happens when you eat at this time.”
“You’d better take these, Anna,” I say, reaching into the baby changing bag that I carry with me on all Michael’s little expeditions. “These ones are for before the meal. And he’ll tell you what to do with this when he’s finished.”
“OK, cool,” says Anna, stuffing the packets of pills into her orange rucksack, obviously keen to get out of here. “See you back in college, Timothy – and nice to meet you, Mrs Owen.”
Valerie Owen smiles unconvincingly and stabs the back of her hand with a cocktail stick. “Don’t forget your Colosac, Michael!”
Nikki slugs down another Flying Fuck as Ironside and his dinner-date make their way to the door, unmourned by their contemporaries.
♦
The Flying Fuck (or Flying F**K as it is coyly titled on the blackboard behind the bar) has nothing to do with acrobatic sex. Judging from Nikki’s conversation, it derives its name from the fact that once you’ve imbibed a few you cease to give a fig for the sensibilities of those around you. Under certain circumstances, I will allow that the story of Beryl the transvestite’s taste in lingerie could be (mildly) amusing, but I share Valerie Owen’s distaste for Nikki’s anecdote about Pepe, the boy with no nose.
“It just slipped out,” giggles Nikki. “Thank Christ, his parents didn’t speak a word of English. Otherwise I’d have been in dead shtuck. Anyway, it was that Channel 4 guy’s fault for asking me how he smelled.”
“I’d better pop to the little girls’ room,” says Valerie Owen. “Don’t want to miss that train.”
“Terrible!” repeats Nikki, proving once again that there is no such thing as a new joke. She watches Valerie Owen disappear into the Ladies before sliding towards me and whispering conspiratorially, “Can you believe that woman?”
“I know what you mean,” I reply, sympathetically, “but I’m sure you can salvage some of her best bits. She’s not that bad, is she?”
“Not that bad?” says Nikki incredulously. “Not that bad? She’s a fucking wonderful gift from our heavenly father.”
“I’m not with you, Nikki,” I say, suspecting it’s something to do with the ‘good is bad’ thing that passes as accepted wisdom amongst the under thirties. “What do you mean?”
“The silly cow’s a total nightmare. She’s got everything, the terrible clothes—I mean, what does she think she looks like? – the 1950s shop-girl accent: ‘Isn’t it wonderful that my darling son shits into a plastic bag?’” (Nikki’s impression is cruelly accurate.) “I knew it was going to be special, Tim, but I didn’t think it was going to be this good.”
“So all that’s good, is it?”
“She makes Sister Wendy look well-adjusted. The woman’s a complete joke, the public will love her. They adore anyone who makes them feel intelligent. And what about all that stuff about Michael’s dad – talk about getting her knickers in a twist. It’s gold dust, that is.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to use any of it.”
“You’re joking. Why do you think I got them to sign those consent forms? I’m not making that mistake again,” she adds, bitterly. “If Beryl’s wife had let me film his funeral the sodding BAFTA was in the bag.”
It’s another one of life’s cruel paradoxes: my slim chances with Ms Hardbody increase with every drink she downs, and yet the more inebriated she becomes, the less alluring she appears. Still, as Simon Butterworth once said (and I think rightly), “A fuck is a fuck is a fuck’. ‘Did I ever tell you my Hamlet joke, Nikki?”
“No,” she says, reminding me of SOWINS whenever I suggested a euphemistic early night, “I don’t think so.”
Humour is the last resort of the ugly and impecunious, but needs must and all that. “There’s this young method actor playing Hamlet. After a rehearsal, he asks the chap giving his Polonius if he thinks that Hamlet slept with Ophelia, and the old pro replies, “In my day, dear boy, invariably.” Not that that’s going to happen in this production,” I add waggishly.
“No,” whispers Nikki, “but wouldn’t it be great if it did.” My attempt at humour seems to have jolted her into sobriety. She jumps to her feet and slings her handbag over her shoulder. “Sorry, Timbo, got to get back to my hotel. Do you know the Bath Place? You’ll have to come over for a drink sometime.”
“Let’s grasp the nettle while it’s hot, shall we?” I say, struggling for a metaphor that doesn’t sound like code for ‘Fancy a shag?’
“That’d be nice,” she says, “but not tonight, eh? I need my beauty sleep. The kids from Fame are letting me film their first run-through tomorrow.”
“How did you get Sidney to agree to that?”
“Oh, I have my methods,” says Nikki, smiling enigmatically. “Thanks for today, Timothy. You’ve been bloody fantastic. I don’t know your work, but I feel sure I’d like to use you again sometime. Ciao.”
“Don’t go yet,” I say, marvelling at her perspicacity, and then clutching at a passing straw. “What about Mrs Owen? Don’t you want to say goodbye?”
Nikki is already on her way to the door. “Do it for me, will you, Timmy? I can’t face another second with that dozy bitch. Tell her I’ve got Spielberg on the line if you like. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Even the lads on the floor freeze mid-drinking game to watch the rise and fall of Nikki’s derriere as it makes its way towards the exit.
Valerie Owen emerges from the Ladies, raincoat belted like an evacuee. “Where’s Nikki?”
“She had to leave, I’m afraid – something to do with work.” I’m not used to lying for other people (except Simon Butterworth when he was having that affair with the marriage counsellor) so I’m amazed she doesn’t smell a rat. “But she sends her apologies.”
“Isn’t that nice,” says Valerie Owen, reaching for her shopping basket. “She’s wonderful, isn’t she? Nothing’s ever too much trouble. Did you know she was paying all my train fares?”
“Good old Nikki.”
“Talking of which, I’d better be on my way. It’s not far to the station, is it?”
“No, no, I’ll point you in the right direction if you like. That is, normally I’d walk you there myself, Valerie, but I’ve got rather an important appointment.”
“That’s quite all right, Timothy,” she says, offering me her hand. “I know how precious your time must be.” Somehow it would seem churlish not to take hold of her delicate fingers. “Cheery bye then. I’m so glad Michael’s got someone like you looking out for him. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
I shrug modestly. “You’re very welcome. And please, feel free to call me any time.”
A quarter of an hour later, I’m sitting in the Fatted Calf with my second pint of Guinness, feeling ever so slightly guilty that I didn’t escort her to the station.
∨ The Opposite Bastard ∧
9
The Primrose Path of Dalliance
/> The Quadriplegic
Oxford’s nothing like East Croydon; there are a lot more Observer readers for a start. Venture into the Arndale Centre and chances are that the happy shoppers will react to me in one of two ways. First up there’s good old-fashioned repulsion; shock horror followed by a sudden interest in the window displays. (I include in this the sniggering taunts of frightened schoolchildren.) The other one is pity: the sympathetic smile, the forced conversation, the traffic cop who pretends to book you for speeding. The repulsion I can deal with. It’s the pity that really pisses me off.
Here in Oxford, on the other hand, I’m often met with what people imagine to be the perfect, liberal response. No patronizing friendliness, not even the slightest hint that they wouldn’t be anything but thrilled if you asked for their daughter’s hand in marriage. The only thing that gives them away is that, in their anxiety to prove they’re treating you exactly the same as a normal person, they hold the look just a tiny bit too long.
But tonight is rather different. With a fit girl like Anna by my side, even I can see we make a pretty unusual picture. Luckily, she’s far too preoccupied to notice the funny looks we’ve been getting. “Who does he think he is anyway?” she says, holding the door for me. “That guy’s so up himself it’s not true.”
“You mean Philip, I suppose?”
She stands in front of the ‘Please Wait to be Seated’ sign, nodding angrily to the 1980s soundtrack. “Who else would have put on that bloody Madonna song?”
Pizza Express (my number one choice) is up a load of stairs so we’ve ended up at a place near the theatre, which has one of those crap punning names (Pizza the Action, Piece of Pizza, or some such) and black-and-white photographs of 1950s Hollywood stars on the wall.
Mandy, our waitress, looks about twelve. “Table for two, is it, madam?” she says, doing her best not to stare.
The Opposite Bastard Page 9
