The Opposite Bastard

by Simon Packham

“Don’t give me that,” screams Anna, “just tell us how to make it work.”

  Philip has a malicious grin on his face. “You’re not going to like this.”

  “Try me,” says Anna.

  “Well, if it was anyone else, I’d be advising them to get bladdered and fuck each other’s brains out. But seeing as it’s you, well, you see my problem? I’m not talking about Mike, of course,” he adds, hastily.

  “Not this again,” says Anna. “This is so boring.”

  Philip looks across at me and nods vigorously. “Tell me about it. Did you know that Miss Cartland here is saving herself for Mr Right?”

  “Can’t we just get on with the rehearsal?” I say. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  “No,” says Anna, “I’ve had enough. Sorry, Michael, do you mind if we do this another time?”

  “Yeah, sure, cool.”

  “Come on, babe,” says Philip, patting her on the bum, “one more time, eh?”

  “No. And keep your hands to yourself. I’m not in the mood, OK?”

  “Ha,” snorts Philip, “that’s what you always say.”

  “Just go!” says Anna. “I can’t stand to be with you when you’re like this.”

  “Have it your way then,” says Philip, backing towards the door. “We’ll talk about this at the Old Rectory.”

  Anna watches in silence as he swaggers across the quad. She blows onto the window and scribbles ‘bastard’ in the condensation. “Sorry about that, Michael. He gets on my nerves sometimes.”

  This is the moment when a real boy would make his move; a consoling arm, a friendly squeeze, perhaps even a kiss (no tongues) if the arm goes down OK. Words are totally crap for this sort of thing, and so is the cuddly-cripple-boy smile that women over sixty find so appealing. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Tell you what,” says Anna. “I know we can’t…well…do what Philip said, but we could get pissed together, couldn’t we? Don’t go away, Michael, I’ll be right back.”

  She reappears, five minutes later, with a Marks & Spencer’s bag, a bottle of champagne and a portable CD player. “Hope you like Monteverdi.”

  ♦

  Anna’s lying on the sofa, mug of champagne in one hand, smoked-salmon-and-cream-cheese bagel in the other. “Did you know that Piers was gay?”

  “Is he?” I say, trying to focus. “Never really thought about it.”

  “Oh, come on,” says Anna, “you must have seen the way he looks at Philip.”

  “Not really.”

  “He does that thing with his lips.” She pouts like a fish. “He did it the other day when he forgot his lines.”

  “Oh, yeah, that was so funny. When he started trying to ad-lib in blank verse, I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”

  “Don’t!” says Anna, sucking cream cheese off her index finger. “He’s a really sweet guy actually. He was ever so nice when I told him about Mummy.”

  “Why, what’s up?”

  She squints at me through the hole in her bagel. “Doesn’t matter, it’s really embarrassing.”

  “Come on, Anna, you can tell me. Embarrassment’s my middle name.”

  “Daddy’s been weeing on the compost heap again.”

  I feel as rough as a badger’s arse. My eyes won’t open properly, this classical-music bollocks is doing my head in, and I’m sure she just said something really weird. “What are you talking about?”

  “He only does it to annoy her.”

  “I think you’d better explain, Anna.”

  It’s one of those waving-or-drowning moments; at first she looks like she’s going to cry her eyes out, but a nanosecond later she’s laughing her head off. “In the beginning, he took his wee down the garden in an old whisky bottle. He’d read about it in the Telegraph or something. “No use wasting money on one of those fancy activators when a drop of Jenkins ‘97 will do the job just as well.””

  Pastor Reg was always warning us about the evils of alcohol. “What are you on about?”

  “Mummy thought that if the neighbours saw him pouring bottles of whisky away, they’d assume that she had a drink problem.”

  “And has she?”

  “No,” giggles Anna, “but she’s been back on the Prozac ever since Daddy discovered Viagra. Anyway, he promised he wouldn’t use the bottle again, and next thing we knew, he was up on the back wall with his cock out.” She rolls off the sofa and stumbles towards me. “Here, have some more champagne.” She manages to get some of it in my mouth; the rest trickles down my chin. “Whoops…sorry.”

  “So your mum’s not happy, right?”

  “Mummy’s never happy, that’s the problem. I’m just terrified that if Daddy pushes her too far, she might do something silly.”

  “I bet my mum’s sillier than yours,” I say, wishing that Anna would have a go at my chin with a damp cloth. “One summer, we were halfway to Winchelsea when she made Dad turn the car round and drive all the way home because she thought he might have left the bog seat up.”

  “I liked your mum. I bet she’s really proud of you.”

  “Mum’s not that big on pride.”

  She scrabbles around in her Marks & Spencer’s bag. “Hey, I almost forgot; I brought down some strawberries—hope you like them.”

  “Love them,” I say.

  “Scuse fingers.” I get a sort of shivery feeling as she rips off the cling film, places a ripe berry between her lips and bites off the stalk. “Open your mouth and close your eyes and you shall have a big surprise.” When Anna withdraws her hand from my mouth, I touch the end of her fingertips with my tongue, and she smiles at me. This is about as good as it gets.

  The Virgin

  This is the moment I’ve been dreading. Even after half a bottle of champagne and the first two acts of The Return of Ulysses, I’m still not sure I can do this. As soon as he finishes that last strawberry, I’m going to have to bite the bullet.

  “I suppose we’d better get on with it then,” I say, trying to sound like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  Maybe Michael’s as nervous as I am. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  “I do want to,” I say, taking a quick peep at his flies. “I don’t want to mess it up, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

  I take a deep breath and try and do it in time to the music. To start with I’m all fingers and thumbs, but I eventually manage to prise open his Velcro flies and slide his trousers down to his knees. So far so good, just don’t look down, girl – at least, not yet. “Now where’s that bottle thingy?”

  “Timothy left it on the coffee table.”

  “Right, yes, here we are. Let me see now.” This time I need to keep both eyes open. But do you know what? I’m not frightened at all. His little pink…addendum is such a far cry from Philip’s burgundy battering-ram that I don’t even flinch when I take it by the throat and slip it into the specimen bottle. “Are you ready for this, Mike?”

  “Go for it.”

  It feels wrong somehow, but I aim for the sweet spot, an inch or so beneath his belly button. “Nothing’s happening. What’s wrong?”

  “You don’t have to be quite so gentle, Anna. Go on; give it a bit of welly.”

  “I’m frightened of hurting you.”

  “That’s the one thing you could never do.”

  What a sweet thing to say. This time, I’m determined to get it right. I focus for a moment before sinking my hand into his lily-white belly. A second later there’s a reassuring tinkling sound. “Yes!” I shout, so pleased with myself that I almost break into a little victory dance. “Look at that, I’ve done it.”

  Michael doesn’t seem quite so ecstatic. “What do you want, a medal?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “This is my life, Anna, not some stupid fairground attraction.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, holding the specimen bottle up to the light. “I just got a bit carried away. Wow, is it a
lways that colour?”

  “Think your dad might want some Owen ‘99 for his compost heap?”

  I love the way he manages to joke about it. “You’re so brave, Michael.”

  “Where do people get the idea that you deserve the Victoria Cross just because you spend your life in a spaz-chariot? I just get on with it, that’s all.”

  I wish he’d learn to take a compliment. “I think you’re amazing. I mean, you’re really funny, you hardly ever complain, and how you manage to cope with all this… quite frankly, if it was me, I think I’d…”

  “Kill myself? And how would I do that exactly?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant at all. All I…”

  “Would you mind pulling my trousers up, please?”

  “Yeah…sure.” He looks just like Maggie after I’ve taken one of her toys away: sad eyed and reproachful. All I want to do is bring a smile to his face, but instead I struggle silently with the Velcro, and try to psyche myself up for the 64-million-dollar question. “Michael, do you mind if I ask you a big favour?”

  “Try me.”

  In the end I just blurt it out. “I want you to come down to the Old Rectory to meet my parents.”

  “What?”

  “I know it’s a big ask, but Philip and I are supposed to be going down on Friday and staying overnight. It would be really nice if you could come too.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because…because Mummy and Daddy would love to meet you and…” That sounded so much more plausible when I practised it earlier. “OK, OK, it’s because I want to teach that bastard a lesson. Philip thinks he’s going to have me all to himself.”

  He looks at me with those big brown eyes. “Oh, right, I get it.”

  “But it would be really lovely to have you there, Michael. We could even do a bit of rehearsing if you like. Please, say you’ll come.”

  “I don’t think so. Playing the gooseberry in a wheelchair doesn’t sound like much fun to me.”

  The weird thing is, I actually want him there. “It wouldn’t be like that.”

  “I’m sorry, Anna, it’s much too complicated. I don’t exactly travel light, you know.”

  Somehow, it just wouldn’t be the same without him. “I could look after you, I know I could. I’ve done all right today, haven’t I? Come on, Michael, it’s only for one night. You might even enjoy it.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  The Quadriplegic

  And I’m still thinking about it eight hours later, when the door crashes open and a gun-wielding New York cop bursts upon the scene. “OK, you motherfucker, FREEZE!” Except that it isn’t a New York cop. It’s a worse-for-wear, middle-aged man with two pointed fingers in the pocket of his ill-fitting, double-breasted suit.

  “You said you’d be back before six.”

  “You what?” says De Niro, still amused by his humorous entrance.

  “I’ve been sitting here for the last two hours.”

  He totters towards the sofa. “Yes, I’m terribly sorry about that, old dog. I popped into the Fatted Calf for a swift half, and I must have lost all track of the time.”

  “You’re supposed to be my carer.”

  “Yes, and don’t I bloody know it,” he says, crash landing on the sofa and sending up a cloud of dust. “Which reminds me: your dear mama phoned again. You’ll be pleased to hear the dancing lessons are progressing most satisfactorily.”

  “Anything could have happened.”

  “Yes, well, it didn’t, did it?” snaps De Niro. “Look, would you mind awfully if we save the post-mortem for tomorrow? I’ve had a bitch of a day.”

  He loosens his trouser button and belches. I’d say the answer to my next question is fairly obvious.

  “How did your audition go?”

  “Bunny will be furious,” he says, sinking his fist into my Chelsea cushion. “The buggers didn’t even get me to read.”

  “Why not?”

  “Apparently I don’t look sophisticated enough for the father of the bride. Can you believe it?”

  That one’s so easy I don’t even bother to answer.

  “I hate bloody weddings anyway.”

  “You were married once, weren’t you, Timothy?”

  The ghost of a smile flickers across his forlorn features. “She was a dancer. We met in panto – Babes in the Wood. I was giving my Will Scarlet. It was the happiest six weeks of my life. Even Scunthorpe can be relatively tolerable when you’re in love.”

  “How did you know you were in love?”

  “Oh, the usual: constant throbbing erection, intellectual paralysis, a sudden penchant for singer-songstresses, and the complete demolition of the emotional Berlin Wall that was supposed to protect me from such things.”

  It sounds so familiar – apart from the throbbing erection, of course. “So what happened?”

  “We got hitched that July. Of course, it didn’t last. My brother was right, as usual: “You’ll never hang onto a bit of totty like that, Tim.” Well, as soon as the Cats crowd got their claws into her, our marriage didn’t stand a chance. Anyway, I never talk about it.” He stares into the distance like a shell-shocked war poet. “Now, I expect you’re hungry. Why don’t I fix us both a snack?”

  “No, thanks, I think I’m a bit hungover.”

  “Don’t say the delicious Anna has been leading you astray.”

  “We had a bottle of champagne with lunch.”

  “You want to be careful, old chap. She probably wants to have her wicked way with you.” His forced laughter swiftly dissolves into a flatulent silence. “Sorry, that was below the belt, I do apologize.”

  I’ve been dying to tell someone all day: “Anna wants me to go down to Hampshire to meet her parents.”

  His double chin hits the floor. “Good grief, what on earth for?”

  “I don’t know. To make Philip jealous, I think. What do you think, Timothy, should I go?”

  “Look,” he says, massaging his temples with his pudgy fingertips, “despite what I might have implied the other day, I’m probably not the best person to ask. How do you feel about the idea?”

  “It would mean staying overnight, which could be tricky, but Anna thinks she could cope with the…well, you know.”

  For a man I would have described as dead behind the eyes, the transformation is incredible. “Oh, so you’d be making a night of it then?”

  “Fraid so.”

  “And when would all this come to pass?”

  “Friday.”

  “Perfect,” he says, plumping my Chelsea cushion and placing it carefully back on the sofa, “it’ll give me a chance to celebrate my birthday in style.”

  “Your birthday?”

  “Yes, the big four o. Don’t look forty, do I?”

  “So you think I should go then?”

  “That’s entirely up to you, of course. But let’s face it, Michael, what have you got to lose? And I for one wouldn’t want to miss out on an opportunity to get one over on Master Philip Sidney.”

  ♦

  Just before De Niro switches out my light, he says something really weird: “I don’t quite know how to put this, Michael, but the thing is, whatever may or may not happen in the future, I want to assure you that, well – it really is nothing personal.”

  ∨ The Opposite Bastard ∧

  13

  A Dream of Passion

  The Actor

  I wait until their train is a dot on the horizon before pulling out my phone. My text today is ‘Far better ask and be refused, than not ask at all’. (Be Your Own Psychotherapist, Chapter Nine: ‘My Family and Other Anima’.) Besides, I’m quite sure the gods are smiling on me. With no Ironside around to cramp my style, it’s the best opportunity I’ve had since the casting department of The Bill were looking for a slightly overweight, balding man (forties) who was prepared to have rats crawl over his naked torso.

  “Yah, who is it?” She sounds half asleep. I get a tantalizing vision of Nikki Hardbody, all trick
ed out in black, lads’ mag suspenders.

  “It’s Tim here.”

  “Who?”

  It’s a bugger having to compete with the station announcer. Fortunately, it’s glaringly obvious which one of us has read An Actor Speaks. “Timothy Salt? Your voice-over artist for Wheelchair of Fire?”

  That seems to rouse her. “It’s not Michael, is it? He is OK, isn’t he? God, that’s all I need.”

  “Michael’s fine. He’s going down to Hampshire with Anna. How was Lesbos, by the way?”

  “What did you say?”

  “How was Lesbos?”

  “Never mind that. Are you telling me that those two are spending the night together?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I suppose…”

  “Hamlet and Ophelia are getting it on, and I wasn’t told about it? Jesus Christ, I don’t believe this.”

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, Nikki. And anyway,” I add, trying to console her, “I don’t think you should go reading too much into it.”

  “Are you kidding? A couple of shots of those two walking into the sunset would be like gold dust. Do you know what happened to the ratings when little Dylan’s mum started screwing his oncologist?”

  Things are not going quite the way I intended. “Well, I’m afraid they won’t be back until tomorrow. And seeing as I haven’t a clue where they’re staying,” I lie, fairly convincingly, “I suppose you and I will be at a loose end tonight?”

  Nikki sounds distracted. “How can I get them into bed together without it looking tacky?”

  Why’s she getting her knickers in a twist about the most unlikely alliance since King Kong and Fay Wray? Perhaps she’ll come to her senses when I make her an offer she can’t refuse. “Rather serendipitously, it’s my birthday today.”

  “Come on, Nikki, think.”

  “And I was rather hoping you might care to join me for a celebratory meal.”

  “Mustn’t waste our last two weeks together.”

  “We could meet in the Fatted Calf for pre-meal drinks if you like.”

  “Yeah, yeah, if you like. Now first, we’ve got to get his stupid mother onside – can’t do anything without that dopey cow’s approval.”