The Afterparty

by Leo Benedictus

  ‘I can’t see shit out me right.’ Malcolm winked to check. ‘That one were blind as fook.’

  ‘OK,’ Mellody said, and left it at that.

  Because in her relationship with Pete, no actual terms had ever been contracted. Fun was all she wanted – fun at last – after so long watching Hugo sit and drink away their days. And fun meant nothing obligated, an avoidance of the weight of life. The world’s a crashing plane, Pete had summed it up the night they got together. Let’s all fuck in first class. So now they both had license. But it was something that she could not get comfortable with. Not like he did, going back with nameless other girls in threes or fours, not even offering a token furtiveness. His wit, his speedy cleverness, his thin-boned looks and gathering success: he made the most of those. She did not particularly care, of course. But, well, she felt at least as though she could have not cared first.

  A waitress, in that idiotic costume, placed three champagnes in front of them.

  ‘Sean’s here,’ Mellody said as they drank. ‘He’s looking for you two.’

  In fact, the bassist from Pete and Malcolm’s band, The French, had already been sniffing around when Mellody herself arrived. Networking, no doubt, and passing phone numbers to his drippy girlfriend.

  ‘Oh right. Well, he’ll find us.’ Pete shrugged. ‘Do you want a little snifter?’

  The world’s a crashing plane. She had heard the line recently in one of his songs.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ He rose, an eagerness easy to read upon his limbs. ‘Isn’t there somewhere in this place that we’re supposed to go?’

  ‘There is.’ Mellody tarried on the word. There simply was no way that she was going to line up with the little weekend cokeists in their special snorting room. ‘But let’s go someplace else, OK?’

  As ever, Pete counseled simplicity. ‘Just do it here,’ he said, gesturing casually at the table. ‘Just do it, Mell! Swoosh!’ He drew a tick in the air, his finger two inches from her eyes.

  Mellody looked at him.

  ‘Seriously,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll rack up behind the flowers and stand in front of you while you tuck in. No one’s watching.’

  And once she might have done it too. Even now, yes, the fiery little impulse leapt within her. She had discharged her duty, after all, striking faithful shapes on the carpet with her husband, politely flattering his guests. Her agent Karl would say (as he frequently did) that she had done enough for Hugo Marks already. But then there was her own position, and its vile truths: she was a woman of thirty-three, with employees and a brand. Frolicking did not become her anymore, and it never would again. Karl would second that.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said, rising like a lady in her shoes. ‘Let’s just use the bathroom. That’s what they’re there for, right?’

  ‘Pussy.’

  But already Pete was walking with her to the door marked LOOS.

  And already in her, rising, was the thrill of secrecy. The coded proposal, those clandestine texts (‘mensroom, 2nd on left’), the dirty, locked-in intimacy: coke was so much fun. She was not supposed to take it anymore, of course, after all her other problems. But then coke was not about the coke. It never was. It was about the in and out.

  Half a dozen toilet doors were open in the bathroom; just one was closed. Mellody led Pete into the stall beside it.

  ‘Come on then,’ she whispered, with eyebrows.

  He set to work.

  ‘This is totally stupid,’ he said.

  ‘This is stupid, is it?’ She was gleeful. ‘This is stupid? And just racking up out there in the middle of the party, that would be intelligent, I guess?’

  ‘Too right. I mean, if one is going to muck about – and one should muck about – then at least have some fucking balls. No balls, Mell. That’s your trouble. Ball-less. With a triple L.’

  It was a joke, but it irritated her, so she said nothing.

  ‘Are you allowed to leave this knees-up when you like?’ Pete whispered after a while.

  ‘Somewhere between no and maybe,’ she said.

  ‘I mean we could skive off, right? After a bit?’

  ‘Well, there’s an afterparty set for back at the house. I guess as long as I show up at that later …’

  With a deft swipe across the wood, he collected the dust into a heap, bit the blade of his card in crosswise, and began another pass of stripes.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Mellody said impatiently.

  ‘Keep your hair on, love!’ Pete administered some final touches. ‘There you go.’

  She pulled the flush, and bent down.

  Then he took his.

  She patted him on the ass. A nice ass. In tight black pants.

  ‘Don’t touch what you can’t afford, love,’ he muttered through the echo of his sniff, swivelling to fix her with a grin. A face of life and wires. Hot. Admittedly. Despite the mismatched eyes. A talent he had: to look good wasted. As did she indeed. Sexier than ever, she would have said she was these days. Not as fresh as once, no, but taut still where it mattered. Good blonde hair, shorter now and not too dry. A gently pointed calf, hinting at musculature. And still healthy at her weight, without that equine model look, like a big girl thinned, the will of giantess’s genes frustrated outwards into oar-sized hands and feet. Uh-uh, not her. Mellody was in proportion, and she ate well. Heartily even. It was on the other side of the ledger, in her expenditure of energy, that the explanation for her slimness lay. And moreover now, with age, some wry sophistication too had slid into the picture. You could watch it grow in phases through her work. From the playful stringy body of the adolescent, almost ancient in its purity; into glaring glamor next, the territorial strut, staking claim upon the age; and on, on into the now of woman-hood. Mellody’s was a face these days, no longer a complexion.

  With a cleansing pinch, she dusted off her septum and opened up the toilet door. Strode out. Left Pete behind. And through: wading back into the thickness. Her feet, soft and polished, framed by dear Manolo, darted through the dance like companion matadors. Some thigh, only just too much, whispered in and out of the split in her dress. Toe. Heel. Toe. Heel. Her hips flicked the air. Mellody had been looked at all her life, and had learned to put on a show.

  ‘Oh hi, Sean,’ she said, lighting a cigarette. He was sitting in her seat, with the girlfriend next to him.

  A waiter was mopping wet fragments of glass from off the fizzing floor.

  As he descended the staircase, Hugo looked out through its old iron helix, turn by turn, to check if Mellody was there. She wasn’t. And it made him anxious. Not jealous. Not exactly. (That species of anxiety was self-correcting. Whatever pleasures Sheen or anybody else had borrowed from his wife, he knew, would in the end be multiply repaid with pain.) Instead her absence made him anxious in a dreading way, as if there was an assumption in his life now that something terrible was about to happen, though he had missed, or just forgotten, the reason for assuming it. Then this – that he had forgotten why he was so anxious – this made him anxious too. And ashamed. He, after all, had been the strong one when Mellody and he had met, back when her wild ways were beginning to outgrow their joyfulness and wilt into despair. Both of them then had needed Hugo’s strength, as he stood guard beside her Arizonan rehab, watching his funny, famous girlfriend shiver strings of spit into an orange bucket. He had been strong then, and proud of it. But now he weakened frequently when she was missing, and for other stupid reasons. Especially in crowds, where he found he could be gripped by sudden, unsourced fear, and have to scurry home. Or when, in company at home, he would feel forced to dismiss his guests and drink himself calm. Yet the new quirk, the dread when Mellody was out of sight, was looming almost daily at the moment. He often nuzzled her, annoyingly he knew, with pretext calls and messages, beseeching reassurance that, if it came, was never reassuring enough. Often it was wrought with irritation too. And recently, more worryingly, without.

  ‘It’s the birthday boy!’
/>   It was Warshak. He waited at the outflow of the stairs, positioned in a power stance.

  ‘Rick, hi,’ said Hugo with a hasty grin, and supplied his hand for pumping.

  Warshak was a big man in all directions, and he smiled with everything he had. Legs, nose, ears, even hair, it seemed, were pressed into the effort. A supporting cast of Pantheon executives gathered behind him, with smiles they had made themselves.

  ‘How the hell are you doing?’ Warshak said, encircling Hugo with an arm. ‘I haven’t seen you since … well it’s been a long time. How’s Mellody? You treating her right?’

  ‘She’s never been treated better, Rick,’ Hugo said. ‘And she’s been treated pretty well.’

  The Pantheon executives laughed heartily at this, and Warshak contributed his own odd puffing sound, like he was surreptitiously deflating a beach ball behind his back.

  ‘And how are you, Rick?’

  ‘Oh I’m great, thanks. I’m super-dooper. Have you met the guys? This is Curtis. Gloria. Ruth.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Hugo generally. He recognised them all from Renée’s briefing sheet.

  ‘We’re really looking forward to Sinbad, I can tell you,’ Warshak said.

  ‘Oh, you’re going to hate it, Rick. Believe me, you’re going to hate how good this movie is.’

  Warshak did his puffy laugh again, and this time Hugo heard the cruelty in it. Since the movie’s earliest days, Sinbad the Sailor: Voyage of Vengeance had been a banquet for the LA gossips, who had gleefully dismembered it beneath the nickname Sinbad the Failure. Unfair at first, the designation soon fulfilled itself when a dispute between producers had spilled into the courts, delaying principal photography until late 2002, by which time questions had begun to surface about the wisdom of making an expensive movie with an Iraqi hero. After consultation, the studio, Independence, had decided to continue. This news, however, was swiftly followed by the surprise success of two other boat movies, Pirates of the Caribbean and Master and Commander. Back in India for reshoots as the latter’s Oscar nominations were announced, Hugo straight away caught giardia, to the undisguised amusement of the crew. Actually, the patched-up film was not too bad, he thought, and might do well. More than its success, however, he had started looking forward to people shutting up about it.

  ‘Well it’s been a long wait.’ Warshak stretched the words lazily from his mouth like gum. ‘We going to see you in LA for the premiere?’

  ‘Absolutely. My flight is booked.’

  Hugo hazarded another glance beyond him. Two guys from Pete Sheen’s band were installed at a table, taking fresh drinks from a waitress.

  ‘Great. Well, you must drop by my office when you’re there. Curtis has something in development I’d like you to take a look at.’

  ‘Oh yes? What might that be?’ Renée would be thrilled.

  ‘Ahh … Well, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you yet. Can I tell him yet, Curtis?’

  ‘No Rick, you can’t.’ Curtis grinned. ‘We’re still getting a last polish on the script. You’re going to love it though, Hugo. Trust me on this.’

  The guys from the band had turned their attention to the waitress’s wig. One of them inserted his finger into a ringlet, pulled it out, inserted it again. The waitress smiled bravely. Bending down to inspect her petticoats, the other clipped the edge of her tray with his head. Glass, metal, dregs of drink clanged about him on the floor. His friend cheered, and most of the party turned round to look. The waitress left quickly, trying to prevent the drips from falling off her clothes.

  ‘So …’ Hugo wanted to move on. ‘Listen Rick, I’m so glad you guys could make it. Are you in town long? It would be good to catch up properly some time.’

  ‘Ah, well I’m seeing my daughter for lunch tomorrow –’

  ‘Of course,’ Hugo cut in. ‘And she’s with us tonight, is that right?’

  ‘That is right.’

  ‘Coral, yes?’

  ‘That’s her. She’s studying in London, and I said I’d take her out while I was here. She’s a fan of yours too, Hugo. That’s for sure. I told her you’re taken, but she likes the whole British thing. When you get bored of Mellody, you be sure to look her up, OK?’

  ‘First thing I do, Rick.’

  ‘But you’ll give me Mellody’s number too, right? Ha ha ha ha …’ Warshak’s wheezing laugh was loud enough that Hugo did not have to make a noise with his. ‘So anyway,’ the big man continued, ‘after Coral tomorrow, I think Gloria has plans for me in Germany …?’

  ‘I do, I’m afraid, Rick,’ Gloria said. ‘All our sales guys are going to be there. Plus there’s that thing in Budapest. And I know you need to be back for Monday.’

  ‘Gloria’s our head of European operations,’ Warshak explained. ‘She’s trying to get me to see all twenty-eight countries before I die, aren’t you Gloria?’

  And there was Mellody at last! She was back at her table, looking pleased about something.

  ‘Well, look, I’ll see you in LA for sure,’ Hugo said. ‘And you’ll be back for Cannes, right?’

  ‘Never miss it.’

  ‘Fantastic. It’s been great seeing you.’

  ‘You too, Hugo. And really good luck with Sinbad, OK?’

  The enthusiasm of Rick Warshak attacked his hand.

  ‘Thanks. Enjoy the party, guys and,’ flapping out a wave as he set off towards his wife, ‘you must try the whiskies here. They have some fantastic rare malts. I’ll get someone to bring a few over.’ Then, deflecting several wayside Hi’s and Happy Birthdays, he burrowed off towards his wife. Music hummed through the bodies around him. ‘Let’s Push Things Forward’ by The Streets. The air was curly with the heat of people. A glitterball danced gently in their turbulence. The party was getting stronger.

  ‘Hey Hugo!’

  A young man was suddenly in his way. A very handsome young man, smoking a cigarette. Face familiar from Renée’s notes. Vince? No, Vance. Calvin Vance, the singer from that chat show. And next to him, he recognised Coral Warshak.

  ‘Calvin!’ Hugo said, leaning for a hug into his smokey shoulder. ‘How are you doing? It’s been ages.’

  ‘Grand, mate,’ Calvin said. He looked a little wasted. ‘Yeah … totally. It’s all good. Happy birthday!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Hugo, mate.’ The boy was chewing hard, gathering his courage up for something. ‘I’ve just promised these young ladies I’d introduce them to you.’

  ‘Have you now?’ said Hugo. ‘I don’t suppose one of you would be Miss Coral Warshak?’ He sounded like a shopping centre Father Christmas.

  ‘That’s me!’ she chirped. ‘I loved you in Little Steve.’

  ‘Thank you very much. It was a great part. I was very lucky.’

  ‘You were awesome!’ There was a shine in her eyes.

  Mellody was talking on the phone, just a few feet away.

  ‘Oh now you’re embarrassing me!’ Hugo said.

  ‘Hi Mell,’ said Sean. He was wearing a hat.

  ‘Hi Mell,’ said Sean’s girlfriend.

  Mellody expelled a jet of smoke.

  ‘What happened here?’ she said.

  ‘Malcolm had an altercation with a tray of drinks,’ Sean explained. ‘Made a bit of a mess.’ He formulated a grin of pastiche embarrassment, teeth lined up neatly in their lip-slot.

  Mellody did not like Sean. He was always thinking. You could tell.

  ‘I never touched it,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘Never touched what?’ This was Pete. He had swaggered over and almost put an arm around her, before obviously remembering where they were and lifting it to his hair instead.

  ‘Malcolm never touched the tray of drinks that he knocked over with his head,’ Sean explained.

  ‘Pillock,’ said Pete.

  Through the crowd, Mellody could see her husband. He was standing just a few paces away. Then he disappeared again. Had their eyes met? She decided that they hadn’t. Hugo seemed always to be checking up on her for somethi
ng.

  ‘Listen,’ Sean said quietly to Pete. ‘I’m hooking up with Giles later. He’s …’

  The conversation drifted out of earshot as Mellody sat down on the booth’s opposing bank. She did not need to hear it, though, to know what was being said. Giles was her former dealer, a man worth knowing, whom she had introduced the band to. And now, scarcely six weeks later, Sean already acted like the connection was his. Which was pretty typical of Sean.

  Wiping down his hair, Malcolm slid in stickily beside her.

  Sean was already on the phone now, talking. The girlfriend Sasha sitting silent in her high-school indie gear, hands in lap. You forgot that she was there. Then when finally she did say something it was always ‘we’ and ‘us’ she spoke for, like she and Sean had formally been merged. They had argued badly once, Mellody and Sasha, about Janis Joplin, in an underlit recording studio dizzy with the stink of days. Since then no word of it had been resolved.

  Mellody blew out more smoke. She could feel that line now. A subtle, egotising lightness in her thoughts, a feeling you could nibble at for days. And the desire for more.

  Sean was laughing, at a joke of Giles’s, or one of his own.

  ‘Is that Giles?’ she shouted over to him. And again, louder, when he looked back dumbly: ‘Is that Giles?’

  Sean nodded.

  She motioned for him to pass her the phone, and he did as he was told.

  ‘Giles,’ Mellody said.

  ‘Mellody darling.’ That lovely voice.

  ‘How the hell are you, sugar-pop?’

  Giles said something, but Mellody could not hear it.

  ‘And we’re seeing you later, yes?’ she said.

  ‘I hope so …’ … something something … ‘… o’clock.’

  Fucking DJ. The music was way too loud.

  ‘Sorry, Giles. Could you say that again?’

  ‘I have to leave at eleven o’clock – paternal duties. So you’ll need to be here by then. I’m on the third floor.’

  He spoke precisely. Loud, but not a trace of impatience.

  ‘Sure. We’ll be there … Where?’

  ‘… in …’ Something something.

  ‘Sorry Giles. Where are you?’