The Opposite Bastard

by Simon Packham

  ♦

  Five minutes later, I hear three sharp knocks on my door. Philip doesn’t wait for an invitation; just saunters in, modelling a ‘Never Mind the Bollocks’ T-shirt and a massive mushroom in his Calvin Klein boxers. “So, Miss Jenkins, we meet again.” He reeks of self-satisfaction and Daddy’s second-best brandy.

  “You can’t come in. Mummy will go crazy if she finds you up here.”

  He closes the door behind him and turns the key in the lock. “I don’t think so. And anyway, it seems to me that ‘Mummy’s’ halfway there already.”

  “That’s not funny,” I say, suddenly wishing I wasn’t wearing these daggy old jim-jams. “You shouldn’t make jokes about mental illness.”

  “Come on, babe, it’s probably just what the old girl needs to cheer her up.”

  “What do you want anyway?”

  He slips his silver cigarette case onto my bedside table. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  His body language says it all. “Come on, Philip, do we have to go through this again?”

  “I thought that was what tonight was all about.”

  “You said you didn’t mind waiting.”

  “Yes, but not until bloody Godot turns up.” He lies back on my bed, still grinning at his Samuel Beckett joke. Lashings of antiperspirant can no longer disguise the disgusting odour of testosterone. “All right then, babe, have it your way. I can wait, if that’s what you really want. Come on, let’s have a cuddle. I just want to be close to you.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  He climbs under the duvet and kisses me tenderly on my earlobe. “I’ll wait for ever, if that’s what it takes.”

  ♦

  Thirty seconds later I feel a cold hand in my pyjama bottoms.

  ♦

  “What are you doing?”

  “Come on,” he groans, “you know it’s what we both want – just enjoy.”

  “Look, for the last time, I’m not ready for this, OK? And anyway we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got my period.”

  “No worries, babe,” he says, reaching for his cigarette case. “I’ve slept with loads of women on the blob. Some of them really got off on it.” He bites into the condom wrapper like a ravenous tiger. “These ones are specially ribbed ‘for your ultimate pleasure’.”

  “If you come anyway near me with that thing, I’ll call Daddy.”

  I’d never really noticed his thuggish laugh before. “I’m sure ‘Daddy’ would pay me handsomely for breaking you in.”

  I’d always assumed it was just something that actresses did in plays, but I can’t tell you how good it feels when the flat of my hand makes contact with his designer stubble. “You bastard, Philip. I thought you were supposed to be a gentleman.”

  For some reason, my last comment seems to have touched a nerve. He climbs out of bed and walks slowly towards my dressing table. “So that’s it,” he says, his mood deflating as rapidly as the mushroom in his boxers. “I knew it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He sits in front of the dressing-table mirror, examining the red handprint on his cheek. “Don’t try and deny it. You posh tarts are all the same.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Like fuck you don’t. I never did buy that ridiculous little virgin act of yours. I know why you won’t shag me. It’s because I’m working class.”

  “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “What gave me away this time? Passed the sodding salad bowl the wrong way, did I?”

  For a second, I think it might be one of his horrid improvisations. “You can’t be working class. You were at Winchester.”

  “Winchester comp,” he mutters. “Huh, told you I went to a good school.”

  “What about your estate?”

  “Heard of the Stanmore, have you? It’s the sort of place that Nikki Hardbody would wet her split-crotch panties over.”

  (At least he’s come to his senses over that uber-bitch’s dress sense.) “And why would she do that?”

  “An award-winning documentary on every street corner: smack-heads and joyriders, tarts without hearts and right-wing politics, can’t scratch your arse without a youth worker trying to sign you up for rapping lessons – she’d love it. I can just see her hanging out with some thirteen-year-old Kylie and her brown babies.”

  “But why would you…?”

  It pours out of him, like a soliloquy. (That’s another thing I thought they only did in plays.) “Don’t know Winchester, do you, Anna? It’s a bit of a shithole, actually. You’ve got your townies and your squaddies beating the crap out of each other in the Broadway on a Saturday night…and then there’s your college boys. I used to follow them around: rich wankers with credit cards and loud voices who ponce about the place like they own it, arrogant dickheads who look straight through you – unless they want you to serve them in McDonald’s or die for them in one of their wars, of course.

  “And you know what? I envied them. I wanted to sleep with birds called Emma, I wanted to make the rest of the world feel like shite, I wanted to direct neglected masterpieces at the National Theatre, I wanted a voice that everyone would listen to. So I ditched ‘Loser Phil’-Psycho’s kid brother off the Stanmore – and became Philip Sidney, as in anyone I fucking wanna be.”

  Why are some people so obsessed with class? Why can’t they just be happy with who they are? “I still don’t understand. There are plenty of guys like you in college, and none of them are ashamed of their background.”

  “Oh, you think so. Well, let me tell you: Oxford’s full of middle-class tossers dropping their aitches, and making out they’re working-class heroes because they’ve been to a couple of football matches.”

  His self-pity is so much less attractive than his blind arrogance. “So what’s your problem then?”

  “It doesn’t work the other way round, does it? Breeding tells, eh, ‘Pumpkin’? I mean, look at the way you treated me.”

  “That had nothing to do with class.”

  “Come off it. Why else would you keep turning me down? Cock-teasing went out with Jane fucking Austen.”

  “I’ve had enough of this.”

  “Going to break the bad news to Mummy, are we?”

  All I want to do is get away from him. “I’ve got to see Michael, he needs turning over.”

  “I don’t know what you’re bothering with him for. He’s just as much of a prole as I am.”

  “You know what, Philip? I feel sorry for you. I didn’t realize you were such a snob.”

  He stands between me and the door, his shrivelled testicles peeking out from the bottom of his boxers. His voice is taut with desperation. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. It would be disastrous for company morale, and I’m sure we both have the best interests of the production at heart.”

  “Yes, all right,” I murmur, fumbling for the key and making a mental note never to take anyone at face value again.

  The Quadriplegic

  When the wind’s in the right direction, I smell like an old people’s home: air-freshener mingled with industrial disinfectant but, underneath, a suspicion of something rotten in the state of Denmark. Anna’s unexpected arrival brings with it a fragrant combination of jasmine, camomile, ylang-ylang, patchouli, spearmint toothpaste, fresh apples and that powder they put on babies’ bums.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She clicks on the Thomas the Tank Engine table lamp.

  It flares in my face like a torturer’s anglepoise. “I’ve come to roll you over.”

  “You’ve only been gone five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “couldn’t sleep.”

  “That makes two of us then; must be all the excitement of having a different ceiling to stare at.”

  “Sorry, didn’t quite catch,” says Anna, moving into my field of vision, clutching the top of her pyjama jacket like she’s got an irrational fear of vampires. “I’ll come closer
, shall I?”

  “Take a pew.”

  She perches on the side of the bed. A few more inches and I could feel the warmth of her breasts on my face. “Oh, Mike, why are men such arseholes?”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Not you, Michael. I don’t mean you…you’re different.”

  “Well spotted.”

  “Most guys just want to stare at my tits all night.” Her whole body is quivering, like a little kid after his first swim in the sea. “I hate being out of control, you know? All my life, it seems like whatever happens to me, it’s because someone else is pulling the strings, not because I want it for myself. It does my head in.”

  “How do you think I feel?”

  “Scared, I guess,” she says, hugging herself.

  “I ought to be used to it by now,” I say, wishing I could run my fingers through the purple streaks in her hair, “but being trapped in this totally crap body doesn’t get any easier. Especially when there’s something you really want to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh…I don’t know.”

  “Come on, you can tell me.”

  (Not without making her throw up, I can’t.) “Oh, you know…swim with the dolphins, punch our director smack on that toffee-nose of his.”

  “Maybe it’s not made of toffee after all.”

  “Come again?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she smiles, “it’s not important. Who wants to talk about Philip Sidney anyway?”

  “Philip Sidney?”

  “You don’t mind if I stay with you for a bit, do you, Mike?”

  “Be my guest. Hang on a minute, what are you…?”

  Anna peels back Postman Pat’s head and squeezes in beside me. “Mnn, toasty! Come on, we can run through some lines if you like: You are keen, my lord, you are keen…”

  Imagine arriving at the most beautiful oasis in the world, and not being able to drink. “I’m sorry, Anna. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Can’t you breathe or something?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just…” (What is this, Beauty and the fucking Beast? Who am I trying to kid?)

  “Is that light bothering you? I’ll turn it off, shall I?”

  “Yeah. Look, Anna, what I was going to say was…” She must be a mind reader. Why else would she be pissing herself? What’s so funny?

  “What do you think Philip would say if he could see us now?”

  “‘Be more real’?”

  “Yeah, that’d be right.”

  Her warm breath is burning a hole in the back of my head. If I don’t say something soon, I’m going to have a heart attack. “The thing is, Anna…God, this is hard…but…Look, you mustn’t think that just because I’m paralysed, I don’t have…feelings.” (Well, she’s certainly not laughing any more.) “I really…don’t take this the wrong way…I really like you, Anna. I know it’s the last thing you want to hear right now, but you’ve got to see that this is difficult for me…I…”

  “Shhh…it doesn’t matter.”

  “You mean…you don’t mind?”

  I feel her lips on my neck. “I think I might feel the same way about you.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Why? This is nice, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose…”

  “It feels pretty good to me. Let me stay with you, Michael. You’ll let me stay, won’t you?”

  The Virgin

  “I guess so, Anna. If that’s what you really want.”

  I close my eyes and snuggle up to his cold, lifeless body. The last time I felt warm and safe like this, I was seven years old. You probably won’t believe it, but I was quite the little Daddy’s girl. Every Saturday morning, we’d wander into the village to pick up his Telegraph and a Curly Wurly or something for me. He’d sit on the bench in the corner of the swing park opposite the church and shout encouragement from behind the business section: “Come on, Pumpkin, you can go higher than that.” I loved the feeling of his weekend stubble on my fingertips, the stench of his illicit cigar, and the delicious sense of complicity when he whispered, “Better not tell Mummy I’ve been smoking, eh, Pumpkin?”

  Mummy chose my clothes and taught me never to say thank you to waiters, but Daddy was special. He was the one I wanted to amuse with my silly stories about Whoops A Daisy Eddie, the Clumsy Teddy, he was the one I wanted to impress with my grade three clarinet pieces. Only a child could believe she’d feel that way for ever, only a child could fail to see that untainted happiness is like a really impressive sandcastle – it’s only a matter of time before someone sticks their boot into it.

  ♦

  “A lady never reveals her age, Anna Panna,” Mummy smiled, as she buttoned me into my Snow White outfit. I knew it was her thirtieth because Daddy told me when he was showing Maurice where to put the ice sculptures: “Better not mention it to your mother though, eh, Pumpkin?”

  “I like your hair, Mummy,” I said, amazed that she’d gone blonde overnight. “You look ever so pretty.” It was true. She was the spitting image of Lady Diana. A few years later, all they’d have in common was their eating disorders.

  Daddy came as Napoleon. He looked really handsome in his uniform. I couldn’t wait to dance with him to the hideously expensive swing band he’d hired. After the meal (I was banished to the children’s table; Toby Morton was telling jokes about his bum and willy) Daddy thanked the wonderful caterers and said some sweet things about Mummy: “Every morning, when I wake up next to her, I have to remind myself what a lucky man I am – as does my mother-in-law. And I’m sure you’ll all agree that my lovely wife Camilla makes an absolutely ravishing Lady Di. God bless her, and all who sail in her.”

  I never did get to dance with him. After he and Mummy had foxtrotted round the marquee a couple of times to ‘Lady in Red’, he disappeared into the crowd to charm the ladies with his ‘Not tonight, Josephine’ routine and entertain the gentlemen with tales from the stock exchange. I sat beneath a trestle table with a bowl of pavlova, hiding from Toby Morton and his ugly sister, and hoping that Daddy hadn’t forgotten the clarinet solo I’d prepared.

  I don’t know why I went back into the house. I didn’t develop my IBS until the lower fourth, so I can only assume I needed a wee. The band was playing ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’. A tired little teddy bear hauled herself up the banisters. And I would probably have fallen asleep on the landing if I hadn’t heard noises from the guest room.

  (You know, when I told Philip this story, he laughed like a drain and made one of his clever-clever comments about something in the woodshed. I must have been off my rocker to think I’d get any sympathy out of that hard-hearted sod.)

  They really were the strangest sounds I’d ever heard: one deep and guttural, the other breathless and squeaky, but both marching to the same tune, a tune that was getting more allegro vivace by the second. I stood outside the door trying to decide whether to investigate. When a woman’s voice screamed out, “Yes, yes, yes,” I took it as my cue to enter.

  “Bloody hell, Pumpkin, don’t you ever knock?”

  It was only years later that I was able to appreciate the glaring anachronism. Napoleon was standing at the rear; in front of him, on all fours, an arch-backed, pre-Jean-Paul-Gaultier Madonna – aka the lady from the pony club, aka the head caterer.

  “Why are you hurting Mrs Chamberlain-Webber, Daddy?”

  “I’m not hurting her, Pumpkin,” he said, still pumping. “I’m just helping her find her contact lens, that’s all.”

  “Are you really?” I said, wondering why they hadn’t tried the more obvious places first.

  “That’s right, now run along, Pumpkin, there’s a good girl.”

  Madonna laughed maniacally. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  “One thing before you go,” whispered Napoleon, pulling up his white breeches. “Better not tell Mummy about this, eh, Pumpkin?”

  I had no intention of mentioning it to anybody. I didn’t even want to think about i
t, let alone relive one second of the whole sick-making episode. But a few days later, curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn’t resist asking Mummy if it was possible for a lady to lose a contact lens up her front bottom. Mummy didn’t think that it was.

  ♦

  Daddy and I were never as close after that. We didn’t have our little secrets any more, and he was always too busy to play with me, or too exhausted after one of his running battles with Mummy. A year later, Barnaby was born, and the rift was complete. Daddy devoted all his energies to the burbling brat in the Babygro, and I gradually realized that he wasn’t my hero any more.

  And quite frankly, Mummy needed me. Post-natal depression gave way to something more permanent, and I made it my mission in life to alleviate her misery. I suppose, in a way, I felt responsible for it, so I spent every hour of the day trying to please her. Which was silly really, because the one thing I had learnt was that you should never rely on another person for your own happiness.

  Well, I’m right, aren’t I? No matter who it is, they’ll always let you down in the end. That’s what’s so lovely about a dog. A dog loves you for who you are, not who they want you to be. People aren’t like that; people only want to use you until something better comes along.

  Or have I just been looking for the wrong kind of person? There must be at least one man in the world who isn’t full of shit. There must be at least one man in the world who wouldn’t walk out on me.

  The Actor

  Meanwhile, back at the Fatted Calf, desperation is setting in. So I call her mobile. Something tells me it’s the closest to intercourse I’m going to get with her tonight. “Hi, Nikki Hardbody at your service,” she purrs, her sexy rasp reminding me of the shapely masseuse in one of those Confessions books I found so stimulating as a boy. “I’m afraid I can’t take your call right now, but – please – leave me a message after the beep, and I’ll get straight back to you. Go on, you know you want to. Ciao.”

  I’d planned calling my autobiography something self-deprecating like A Talent to Abuse, but Trying Not to Sound Too Desperate would probably be a more apt summation of my life so far. “Nikki, hi, it’s er…Tim here…Timothy Salt. Sorry to call you again so soon…I’m sure you must be on your way. I’m in the Fatted Calf…still…wearing a red carnation…ha. Now, I’m afraid Bellini’s will probably have had to let our table go. So, er, why don’t we have a quick birthday drink before closing and then move on to college for coffee? Yah…good…that’s it…er, over and out.”