The Afterparty

by Leo Benedictus

  Frustration was threatening to rasp away her mood.

  ‘Sean knows,’ said Giles. ‘… later.’

  ‘OK. See you later Giles. I’ll be there.’

  And why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she be there? And score a little for herself. Why not? To say yes please, and afterwards no thank you. That was true recovery. The thing addiction counselors never understood. And she was so past those problems now. Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself? It wasn’t like she did it all the time. She tossed back the snapped-shut phone.

  ‘You coming then?’ Pete asked eagerly.

  ‘Sure. When we’re done here.’

  ‘We can’t be long,’ Sean said, looking at his watch. ‘He’s leaving at eleven.’

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be there.’

  Don Scarlett slid into focus at the table’s edge.

  ‘Don!’ Mellody yelped, climbing over Malcolm to get to him.

  ‘Mell, love!’

  At last someone she really wanted to see. He embraced her with his smell of suitcases.

  ‘How the hell are you? It’s been so long.’ She was excited, thoughts overlapping. ‘How was Paris?’

  ‘Great, great,’ said Don. ‘I di’n’t see you there.’

  ‘Nah, I couldn’t make it this year. I’ve been tied up with this fragrance thing.’

  ‘Yeah, Hugo said. What’s it called?’

  ‘“Me”. It’s just called “Me”.’

  ‘OK. And it smells of you, does it?’

  A bus-wide cockney beam. He actually leaned toward her for a sniff.

  ‘Jesus, Don!’

  She laughed.

  ‘Is that it you’re wearing?’

  ‘Yes it is, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Mm. So Mell …’ This again. She could see it coming. ‘Hugo says you’ve chucked it in with the runway. Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so. I’ve got too much other shit going on.’

  ‘Well look.’ He grabbed a passing champagne glass and she followed his example. ‘I’m going to change your mind.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘Listen: I’m gonna give you some clothes. From my spring range, but autumn’s even better. Try ’em on, then call me. And I’ll send some to give to Hugo as a birthday present.’

  ‘I already gave him a present.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What you get him that’s better than my suits?’

  ‘A Japanese kitchen knife. He’s very particular about his knives.’

  Pete and Sean were mocking Malcolm’s hair. Sasha was laughing.

  ‘A kitchen knife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What, to cut his cake?’

  ‘He didn’t get a cake.’ She did this in a sad little voice.

  ‘No cake?’ Don was such a pussycat. ‘D’you sing him “Happy Birthday”?’

  Hugo was talking to some guy, with that courteous look on his face. He still took such trouble for the opinion of strangers.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Mellody said. ‘But we could sing it now if you like?’

  ‘Hi,’ the man said, stepping forward. ‘I’m such a big fan.’

  No one had briefed Hugo about him.

  ‘Hi,’ Hugo said, shaking hands. ‘That’s really nice of you. Thanks. I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?’

  ‘No. We haven’t.’ The chemistry teacher was nervous and dared not meet his eyes, except by furtive accident. He was leaning so steeply away from the junction of their hands, that it felt like Hugo’s grip was all that held him up. ‘I’m Michael,’ he said.

  ‘Hi Michael.’ Hugo was intrigued. He seemed an unlikely friend of Calvin’s. ‘So how do you know these guys?’

  ‘Um …’ Michael looked at the girls, and then at Calvin. ‘Well, I don’t really,’ he said eventually. ‘We just met.’

  ‘I see. But you’re in music, too, right?’

  ‘No, no!’ Laughing. ‘No, actually …’

  ‘What’s your surname?’

  ‘Knight,’ said Michael. ‘But I’m not a musician. I’m a kind of journalist.’

  The music faded suddenly, grasping everyone’s attention with a jolt of absence.

  Hugo looked around, instinctively and anxiously, for explanations. Whatever was about to happen was about to happen to him. He saw his wife, and the sight was followed immediately by a broad cheer. She was getting up on to a table, whooping with delight as her trailing ankle skipped across the surface.

  ‘Gentlemen and ladies!’ she called to the room. It cheered again, and paid attention.

  Had Renée put her up to this, Hugo wondered? Was that why he had been sent downstairs?

  ‘Gentlemen and ladies, I just wanted to say–’ Mellody stumbled slightly against a margarita glass and looked down, crossly, to see what the matter was. It was a margarita glass. With princess poise, she closed her eyes and backheeled the offending object precisely into someone’s lap. The room blared with laughter. Cameraflash sequins twinkled on her little who, me? smile.

  ‘I just wanted to say,’ she continued, ‘that my darling husband, Mr Hugo Marks, is thirty-one today – sorry, not today, last week. Oh, you know what I mean!’

  Laughter, general and synchronised.

  ‘Anyway, he’s thirty-one,’ she cut it off, ‘and I think we should sing him a song.’

  There were agreeing cheers.

  ‘Now what sort of a song should we sing?’

  The words tumbled out, bruising at the edges. And the crowd responded with a mottled batch of shouts, most of them demanding ‘Happy Birthday’. From her vantage point, Mellody could see Hugo clearly. Everyone nearby was looking at him too.

  ‘Was that “Happy Birthday”?’ she asked, cupping a hand to her ear.

  Yes!! the room shouted back, and Happy Birthday! until the words became a chant. Ha-ppy! Birth-day! Ha-ppy! Birth-day!

  ‘All right, all right, all right!’ Mellody yelled above it. ‘We’ll sing “Happy Birthday”!’

  Somewhere behind her the piano had been opened. A lush ribbon of introducing notes was bubbling up. Mellody turned to see Elton John announcing the first line. He smiled. Good old Elton. He always got into the spirit of things.

  ‘Ready everyone?’ she said.

  The music trembled on the brink.

  ‘Happy Birthday’. A holy obligation for the dead at heart. Hugo hated it. As Mellody surely knew.

  ‘Ready everyone?’ she asked. ‘One, two, three, four …’

  Ha-ppy bir-thday to yooooo!

  The congregated loudness rocked Cuzco with a wallop.

  Happy birthday to you!

  Even the serving staff were joining in. Coral Warshak with especial gusto, sincerity ripening her cheeks.

  Happy birthday dear Hhhyooo-goh! …

  He alone was not singing. He alone.

  Happy birthday to you!

  Elton’s fingers twiddled a departing scamper up the keys as whoops, cheers, whistles and stamps rumbled all around.

  ‘Enjoy the evening, everyone!’ Mellody shouted.

  No way had this been Renée’s idea.

  ‘Enjoy the evening, everyone!’ Mellody shouted, before placing a hand on Don’s shoulder and beginning her descent.

  Hugo folded himself into a bow and raised his drink in her direction.

  Speech! shouted one or two bold voices. Speech!

  Reluctance creased her husband’s face, though a merry glint of weakness leaked out, too. Just enough to bait the calls to a crescendo. At the crest, he relented, raising his hands in surrender. He was so good at this, so comfortable in control. No one, seeing it, would realise the rest.

  ‘Friends …’ Hugo cried theatrically …

  ‘… agents …’ He got a laugh …

  ‘… tax lawyers.’ He got a bigger one.

  ‘Thank you all so much for coming. I hope you’ve been enjoying yourselves?’

  There was a rowdy affirmation.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ he barked. ‘Thank you for yo
ur exquisite singing. And Elton, for your contribution.’

  More riotous applause. Elton looked pleased, and glanced acknowledgement at Mellody.

  ‘One take,’ Hugo noted drily, ‘and without sheet music too. The boy’s got a big future, trust me.’

  Even she found this funny. Pete’s face, too, was lit up with the glee of a child.

  ‘Anyway, listen. I really am so grateful to you all for coming. Everyone at Cuzco has been superb in planning this.’ He paused to make way for more polite applause. ‘But there really is no such thing as a party unless people turn up to make it happen. So thanks again, to all of you. And if you’re having half as good a time as I am, then … erm … I’m having twice as good a time as you. Cheers! Thank you very much!’ he shouted, raising his glass again above the noise.

  Peering out at Mellody, the DJ raised his thumb and formed his face into a question. She nodded, and the music resumed.

  ‘Right,’ she said to Pete. ‘I’m going to go say goodbye.’

  And in response, a throng of other glasses turned to Hugo. There was a tender pause as everybody sipped. It cheered him. Surprisingly. Those anxious little gnawings of five minutes ago, what had become of those? Quite forgotten. But he was starting to think about them now. So leaning towards the chemistry teacher, he said: ‘Is your name really Michael Knight?’

  And the music resumed.

  Calvin had seen photographs of Mellody, of course. Hundreds. And, in common with the general view, he held her beautiful. But never before had he felt the oddly painful joy that her actual presence had provoked in him just now. It was a sudden sense of certainty, both immediate and total, from the moment that she climbed on to the table, that she was the most attractive woman he had ever seen.

  He sang as instructed, but robotically, and with little sense of why.

  He simply could not stop looking at her.

  Hugo was a lucky guy. Guys like Hugo always were.

  And now she was coming over. Fucking hell, she was actually coming over. Cornering sideways through the crowd like a breeze-caught wisp of cloth.

  And looking at him. Was she looking at him?

  Calvin battled to control himself. Even above the pulsing rhythm of The Streets again, it felt as if the beat of his own blood might still be heard. This would be a very good time not to do something thick.

  ‘Hey darling, happy birthday,’ she said to Hugo, kissing him on the cheek.

  Another look, this time unmistakably at Calvin. There was eye contact …

  The moment was so strong it made ghosts in his head. They walked through walls.

  Hugo and she were talking.

  Then, ‘Hi Calvin.’ She was offering him her hand. It was pale and soft and slim. And there was significance in the way she said his name, he was sure of it. Something intended. That soft American voice had taken the sound of who he was, wrapped it in a silk-lined box, and returned it with a big red bow marked ‘Pull’.

  ‘Hi,’ Calvin said back, prolonging the contact with her skin.

  Beep.

  What had he been thinking of with Venetia? A tasty little thing for sure – and his – but really, what was the point in having what he had already?

  Mellody: she was the prize.

  She had stopped talking. She was looking at him again.

  He was looking back.

  Pete Sheen was standing behind her, bouncing on his heels. His eyes were different colours.

  In defiance of her industry, Mellody had never let herself become a snob about clothes. Some people were interested, and some people were not. Yet still it was a serious surprise to see her husband talk to anybody who would come to anything in a suit like that. She felt sorry for the man, and wondered who he was. That he lacked the cocksure calm of influence was clear. And certainly he was not rich. If something in his life had brought him fame, then she could only suppose that it was not the kind of fame where people took your picture.

  The man disappeared from view again as Mellody jinked around a knot of media people she had spoken to before: Andy Coulson, Elisabeth Murdoch, Matthew Freud. Coulson acknowledged her in passing with a burst of silent applause tapped out on the stem of his glass. Mellody gave him a smile in return. After Sinbad, when she could at last admit that her marriage was over, Karl had warned her many times that she would be needing friends in the press. And it was a friendship often offered, with gifts with notes, and valuable information indiscreetly shared. It tempted her at times. And she could see its sense. Still, more friends she didn’t like? She already had enough of those.

  Aiming now at Hugo’s group, she noticed another figure, standing slightly to one side. It was a young man. Boy, some would say. And he was just totally gorgeous. Slimly muscular, with shining eye-whites and cappuccino skin, a study in fine-boned masculinity, with none of the preening seriousness that emanated from so many male models of Mellody’s acquaintance. His was the magic beauty of an innocent, a piece of the divine. Beside him, three young girls stood also, saying nothing. (One of them had a kind of jailbait prettiness, not the kind that lasts.) But the boy … oh, yes please. Oh yes fucking please!

  ‘Hey darling,’ Mellody said to Hugo, bringing her lips briefly into contact with his cheek. ‘Happy birthday.’

  She looked at the boy again, and he gazed right back. A warm craving shuddered through her abdomen, something primal that twisted and strummed against her nerves. An urgent need. Not a need that could wait, or cared for consequences, or meant well. Jesus. Sex with this boy just had to be had.

  ‘This is Michael,’ Hugo said, introducing the badly dressed man. ‘This is Coral Warshak, and her friends Poppy and Venetia.’ He waved at the girls. ‘And this is Calvin Vance.’

  Calvin Vance. It was not a name she knew.

  ‘Hi,’ said Mellody all round. ‘Hi Calvin.’

  ‘Hi,’ he replied, still holding her hand.

  Beep.

  ‘Thanks for that, Mell,’ Hugo said. ‘Very spontaneous.’

  It took her a moment to realise that he was talking about her song.

  ‘Oh … no problem, sweetheart. Actually I just came over to say toodle-oo. I’m shooting off to this thing for a little bit. But I’ll see you back at the house later, OK? Things kind of seem to be winding down anyway.’

  Calvin was watching her. She caught him at it.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Hugo said. And attempting to be casual: ‘Where are you off to?’

  Mellody was ready for the question.

  ‘Just this music industry thing in north London. There’s some people in town from Boston I haven’t seen in years. I won’t be long.’

  ‘All right Calvin!’ Pete’s voice at her shoulder made her jump. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Hi Pete,’ Calvin replied. ‘Yeah, not bad.’ He had a cute northern voice, a bit like Malcolm’s.

  ‘You guys know each other?’ Mellody asked this very casually indeed.

  ‘Yeah, we met at the Brits, didn’t we?’ said Calvin.

  ‘You were fucking sizzled, mate,’ said Pete.

  Hugo could not believe that she was doing this. And she seemed to think that it was no big thing. Like it was just a trifle to leave him – publicly to leave him – and go somewhere else. What could he say? He said nothing.

  Pete and Calvin were emitting barrowboy banter. The imbeciles, obviously, were friends.

  ‘So you’re a musician too, are you Calvin?’

  Was that flirtation in his wife’s voice, Hugo wondered, or mockery?

  ‘Yeah,’ Calvin said. ‘I’m a singer, and I write songs.’

  ‘Come on, Mell, you know Calvin Vance!’ Pete jabbed her reproachfully in the ribs.

  It was the first time that Hugo had seen something physical pass between them.

  ‘Oh of course!’ Mellody pressed her hand in shame to her décolletage. ‘I am so sorry, Calvin. Of course I know your work. Listen, I have to run, but why don’t you come along? I’m just going to make an appearance, but you guys can catch up i
n the car.’

  ‘All right,’ Calvin said instantly.

  ‘Hi,’ Mellody said to Michael kindly, looking directly at him for a moment before she moved on to the others.

  Beep.

  His phone vibrated twice in his pocket. A text.

  Instinctively, he pulled it out. But what was he thinking? To check a text now? He slid it back. Yet it was too late; he had produced it. To retreat looked indecisive. So out it came again. No, no, no, no. Put it back. Put it back. What an idiot he was. He must look deranged if anyone (they weren’t) was watching.

  ‘Oh, OK. Where are you off to?’ Hugo Marks sounded disappointed.

  ‘Just this music industry thing in north London. There’s some people in town from Boston I haven’t seen in years. I won’t be long.’

  This music industry thing … People from Boston … What a world he was witnessing! Here in front of him, right now: the domestic transactions of Mellody and Hugo Marks. Incredible. He did not know if it was gossip. In his life it was news.

  ‘Hi Pete,’ Calvin said to a young man in a leather jacket. ‘Yeah, not bad.’

  Michael looked shamefully at his shoes. What could he say? He said nothing.

  He wanted to disappear, but he did not want to leave.

  He reached for his phone.

  1 new message

  His favourite screen.

  How’s it going with hugo m? said Sally’s text. Got me a signed pic yet?

  * * *

  From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk

  To: williammendez75@gmail.com

  Subject: Buon Giorno

  Date: Thursday, 3 September 2009 09:33:40

  Dear William

  Sorry to bother you on holiday, but I want to put my cards on the table without delay: I think this is marvellous. Stylish, funny, inventive, and I feel sure that the story is going somewhere. I would be honoured, therefore, to represent you. I thought I should let you know.

  You also asked for any early impressions, so here is what I’ve jotted down. Idle musings all. Disregard at your leisure.

  - Pete Sheen/Pete Doherty comparison intended? Change name if not?

  - Clash of styles/characters? Sophisticated literary register perfect for Michael and Hugo, but wrong for Calvin/Mell? First-person better maybe?