Wishful Thinking

by Jemma Harvey

  ‘It was Hamlet.’

  ‘Shit. So it was. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My brain’s gone on hold.’

  ‘Have you talked to Cal lately?’ I said.

  Georgie threw me a dagger-look, and reverted to considerations of publicity.

  On Wednesday, Lin reported her conversation with Andy. ‘Acme City’s a new shopping centre they’re building in Birmingham,’ she said. ‘Andy’s going to find out about the other names and call me back. He said he was really pleased to hear about Ivor. He wants to come down to London before the wedding to meet him. He might bring Cat, if she can get away.’

  ‘You can have a cosy foursome,’ I said, a little too drily.

  ‘I could take her round the shops,’ Lin pursued. ‘Andy said she’d like to go to Harrods and all the glamorous boutiques.’

  ‘You never shop in Harrods!’ Georgie objected.

  ‘I know. That’s why you’d have to come with me.’ Lin’s voice was pleading. She’s good at pleading.

  ‘Georgie isn’t safe in Harrods,’ I said. ‘Unless you lock up her credit card first.’

  On Thursday, we went to the Ultraphone Poetry Awards.

  Before the advent of the gramophone, poetry was a big deal. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries great poets were like rock stars, idolised by the masses, or at least the masses who could read, their verses quoted by all and sundry, their celebrity lifestyles the subject of envy and scandal. Drink, drugs, sex – they had it all. Where Sting went off to save the rainforest, Byron fought for the freedom of Greece and died of fever in the process. Where Mick Jagger was arrested for possession of cannabis, Coleridge swigged a quart of laudanum a day. Hutchence hanged himself, possibly by mistake in the course of hazardous sexual practices; Chatterton took arsenic at the age of seventeen. In those days, poetry had rhyme and rhythm, it was catchy and memorable, the words made a tune in your head. For music in the home you needed an instrument, a musician and a singer, and while many families had a piano the level of talent available was limited to your immediate circle. Then along came His Master’s Voice – the wind-up, hi-fi, sound system – 78s, LPs, tapes, CDs – the Sony Walkman and portable CD player. Pop had arrived. Like painting on the invention of the camera, poetry shot off down a side-street. Rhyme went out of vogue, metre vanished. The parameters of language were breached, whether they liked it or not. The poet gradually became an obscure figure, celebrated only in his own field. Even if he did take drugs or have sex, no one cared any more.

  Now, poetry is struggling to get back on the scene. We have rock poets, performance poets, post-modern poets, protest poets. Larkin epitomised a sort of grey northern dullness and Betjeman was a rather camp character from P. G. Wodehouse, but the new generation of poets are starting to be glamorous again. Televising the Ultraphone ceremony – even on BBC4 – meant there would be as many egos on show as at the Brit Awards, but without the millions of fans, the multi-million-dollar incomes, or the multiple minders. Georgie marked the occasion with the floating chiffon dress she had once offered to lend to Lin; it was far more frilly and feminine than her usual style, and I couldn’t help feeling she didn’t look quite like herself. But then, nor did I. The posh dress clung and scooped and plunged, its angled skirt going for a little flutter down one side, its blood-orange tones enhancing my topped-up tan and newly trimmed, anti-frizzed cloud of hair.

  ‘This dress isn’t me,’ Georgie said, surveying herself critically in the mirror in the Ladies’ loo. ‘I think I’ll give it away. But it doesn’t matter. You’re the star tonight; I’m just your sidekick.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ I said. ‘You always look stunning.’ Which was true, but I couldn’t help feeling a tiny thrill of anticipation. My dress was something special, a centre-stage kind of dress, and I’d never been centre-stage in my life. For once, I really did feel like a sex goddess, exotic and voluptuous . . .

  Beware the day your wishes come true.

  Lin joined us, in a two-piece of crinkly rainbow silk which wouldn’t have worked on anyone else and probably didn’t work on her, but no one would notice. Even without Ivor, who was babysitting, she glowed with inner bliss. I still found it slightly scary, but I wasn’t in the mood to worry any more.

  We took a taxi to the Reform Club, Georgie gave her name to the doorman, and we went in to mingle with the throng. Throngs are rare at poetry events, but the lure of the TV cameras had done the trick. The usual accoutrements of television were in evidence: tripwire cables, very bright lights, and young men balancing chunks of expensive technology on their shoulders. We looked round for any of ‘our’ poets. Mainstream publishers won’t normally touch poetry, but in the last couple of years Ransome had produced an annual anthology of work by first-timers. It had a print run of about fifty copies and made no money whatsoever, but it was good for our lit cred, and our presence at the Ultraphone Awards was the result of it. At least two contributors who had started with us had gone on to higher things: protest songs for the more intellectual rock bands, or prize-winning verse for upmarket ad campaigns. To survive, the modern poet has to be versatile.

  ‘D’you know what our guys look like?’ Lin asked.

  ‘No,’ said Georgie. ‘But it doesn’t matter. They’ll have labels like everyone else.’

  It was the kind of occasion where you were given a badge with your name on it as you came in, but only Lin was wearing hers. Georgie and I, not wanting to mar the impact of our dresses, had pinned ours to our shoulder bags. In any case, name tags at a party aren’t as helpful as you’d think. People peer at your shoulder when speaking to you instead of looking you in the face, and even when they’ve deciphered your name they still have to ask if you are animal, vegetable, or mineral, and precisely what you’re doing there. I did a good deal of shoulder-peering, but never found a poet who belonged to us. Not that it was relevant: we’d come for the party, not the poetry.

  Poets are even rarer than writers at any literary function, even a poetic one. I did recognise a few of the more glamorous variety: Angus Dudgeon, the only poet whose very name sounds depressive, his bony good looks now going to seed (he would have been craggy, but Ted Hughes had the monopoly on cragginess); Philip Wells, whom I’d once seen perform, resembling a rather dishy footballer, prowling the stage and throwing out rhymes in all directions; Aidan Dun, with long black hair and the face of a Burne-Jones knight, who writes the way Keats might have done if he had been a latter-day hippy with Coleridge’s opium habit and no doorbell. Around them, writers posing as journalists, journalists posing as writers, critics, publishers, publicists – the usual mob. There were even a couple of those rent-a-celebs who will turn up at any event just because it’s an Event. I exchanged a few words with a children’s TV presenter who was producing a book of verse for kids, possibly to counteract the stories of sex-and-cocaine binges in the tabloids, and nearly collided with an ex-Olympic runner who was talking earnestly to someone from Faber and Faber, last bastion of poetry publishing.

  Just as everyone tends to believe they could write a book if only they had the time, so far too many people nowadays think they can write poetry. It doesn’t have to rhyme or scan any more: how difficult can it be? All you have to do is remember to stop the lines before you reach the edge of the page. If it sounds like gibberish, that’s because it’s inscrutable, and the meaning is beyond the ken of ordinary readers. Sentimentalists may claim we are all poets at heart, but they forget to mention that we are not all poets at brain. ‘There won’t be readings, will there?’ I whispered to Georgie in sudden horror, as the tapping of microphones and the turning of heads prefaced a pause for speeches.

  ‘God, I hope not.’

  I was experiencing worst fears again, but on this occasion they weren’t realised. There were five awards: Promising Newcomer, Comic Verse, Lifetime Achievement, Publisher Who Has Contributed Most to Poetry, and Ultraphone Poet of the Year. The winners, three of whom I hadn’t heard of, were selected by a panel of rather more famous jud
ges, including a popular scientist and even a celebrity chef. Philip Wells won Comic Verse for a selection of nonsense poetry, Aidan Dun Poet of the Year. I didn’t recognise the Lifetime Achiever, and the Publisher Who Contributed emerged from obscurity to make a robust acceptance speech and then vanished again. When it was over everyone applauded enthusiastically, probably out of relief that there had been no readings, and went back to guzzling champagne. (Not real champagne, of course, but whatever substitute they were serving was suitably fizzy, reasonably dry, and went down easily.) I began to be aware, rather mistily, that my flame-coloured dress and Page 3 cleavage were attracting a good deal of attention. Poetry, unlike prose, is male-dominated, and suddenly a lot of them seemed to be eddying round me. At one point Angus Dudgeon was hovering over me (‘Watch out,’ Georgie whispered. ‘Love rat.’); at another Aidan Dun, looking too otherworldly to notice anything as carnal as a pair of tits, was explaining in his deep, musical voice how the Holy Grail was hidden in King’s Cross. By then, such was my state of intoxication, I believed him.

  ‘I have this terrible problem with women,’ he informed me with a heart-shattering smile. ‘I simply can’t say no.’

  In view of his extreme physical beauty, I reflected, that really would be a problem. (I was only surprised he found time to write poetry.) However, I had no intention of putting it to the test. I waited till his notice was claimed by a gushing magazine editor, and moved away. I’d seen a familiar face.

  ‘Hi, Cal. What’re you doing here?’ Designers don’t normally attend these affairs.

  ‘I came for the booze.’ He raised his glass. ‘And the scenery.’ His gaze travelled over the visible portions of my anatomy – both of them.

  ‘Georgie get you in?’ His name would have had to be on the door for him to gain admission.

  ‘Mmm. Where is she?’

  ‘Don’t know. She was with me a moment ago.’ Scanning the room, I saw her standing a dozen yards away with Angus Dudgeon, who had evidently switched his leer to her bosom. She appeared her usual sparkling self, but in view of her comment earlier I guessed she was on autopilot.

  ‘Who’s that git?’ Cal demanded, following my gaze.

  ‘A very famous poet.’

  ‘I’m not much of a one for poetry,’ he confessed, unnecessarily. ‘It all sounds silly to me. Like those poems in greetings cards.

  Roses are red,

  violets are blue,

  let’s go to bed

  and – have a good screw.

  ‘That the sort of stuff he writes?’

  I giggled. There’s something irresistible about a total philistine on the literary scene. ‘Pretty much,’ I said.

  Seeing us, Georgie extricated herself gracefully from Angus’ dudgeon and came over. ‘Are we talking,’ she asked Cal, in a flippant tone, ‘or just arguing?’

  ‘Up to you.’

  I left them to it, hoping that at last they would sort themselves out and normal service would be resumed. Heading towards Lin, I was waylaid by a broad Yorkshire accent who thrust a book of his verse into my unresisting hands – always a hazard at these events – and proceeded to tell me he saw himself as the Emily Brontë of the twenty-first century. Glancing through the book, I found it difficult to agree. He had a sobering effect on me, and I hastily grabbed some passing champagne. In the main, I was enjoying myself – anyone can be sought-after in Greece, but it takes rather more effort at an Awards ceremony in London. However, despite the feedback from the dress I didn’t feel my success matched up to Cinderella’s. It would have been fun if – say – Todd Jarman had been there . . .

  No. Mustn’t think like that. I had promised myself no further fantasies, erotic or otherwise. That way lay embarrassment and potential humiliation. After all, he was still with Helen Aucham – Helen the high-minded, Helen of the Inns of Court. Was this the face that launched a thousand briefs, And burned the topless towers of lawyerdom? Damn: all these poets were going to my head.

  The New Brontë was holding forth on the need for a Romantic Revival and required little prompting from me, which was just as well, since I gave none. He was a large man with a sagging gut (unusual for a poet, since most of them tend to be worn thin from starving in garrets on inadequate Arts Council grants). A Brontësaurus, I thought. I let my gaze wander, and saw Lin in earnest conversation with the Publisher Who Contributed and Georgie and Cal separating abruptly. Georgie looked stormy, Cal merely bleak. He put down his glass and strode towards the exit. On an impulse I excused myself from Yorkshire Romanticism and ran after him.

  (Well, not exactly ran. Not in that dress – plus the three-inch spike heels I had chosen to go with it. More like walked very quickly.)

  ‘Cal . . .’

  He stopped, the bleak look softening a little when he saw me.

  ‘Please stay,’ I said. ‘If you keep stalking out, and Georgie keeps storming off, you’ll never make it up. Give it another go. You want to; she wants to. You just have to try.’

  ‘I’m not sure she does want to,’ Cal said. ‘She resents my being married. I can’t blame her for that; but she knew the deal when we got started. I’ve told her, I can’t leave the kids. That’s it. And now she wants to see other men . . .’

  ‘No she doesn’t,’ I said. ‘She just talks about it. I think – I think she’s scared of what she feels.’

  ‘You’re a nice girl, Cookie,’ he said with a tired smile. ‘Kind. You say kind things. And you’ve got fabulous tits.’

  ‘Come and have another drink.’

  We found more champagne and Cal produced a hip flask of brandy to make it more interesting. ‘Never enough booze at these affairs,’ he said. ‘I always come prepared.’ The brief flicker of sobriety induced by twenty-first-century Brontë had faded, and I advanced into second-stage inebriation, which is even mellower and more comfortable than the first stage, but without the disagreeable side effects of the third and fourth stages. Unfortunately, it does tend to cloud your thought processes, as I realised when it was too late. At one point, the Yorkshire brogue came over with the obvious intention of cornering me again, but Cal wrapped a possessive arm around me and gave him a fuck-off smile, which did the trick.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, unwrapping the arm. ‘This was supposed to be my evening to pull, but somehow, he wasn’t my type.’

  ‘Don’t give up yet,’ said Cal. ‘Georgie said I should go back to shagging around. Perhaps I could start with you.’ His tone was half teasing, half serious; but I turned it off as a joke.

  ‘One of the crowd, huh? Boy, you really know how to make a girl feel special!’

  ‘Sorry. I never was much of a smooth talker. But I mean it. You’ve got so gorgeous lately – I expect you always were, underneath, but you’ve really blossomed. That dress is sensational.’

  ‘Georgie helped me choose it,’ I said. ‘Georgie did the whole transformation thing. She’s incredibly generous – and not just with my credit card.’

  ‘Could we stop talking about Georgie?’ He essayed another smile, but it went awry. ‘I’m trying to come on to you.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ I said. ‘Aside from the fact that Georgie’s my friend, you’re treating me like – like one of those temps you used to get off with. Or the estate agent. You only want a quickie. D’you think that’s all I’m worth?’

  ‘’Course not. But you’d never take me seriously; you’re too smart. Oh, I know Georgie’s smart, but you’re smarter. I’m just a dumb guy who can draw.’ I noted the contents of his glass were now mostly brandy, with a cursory bubble or two floating on the top. He took a large gulp. ‘All you would want from me would be to – to use me for a night of lust, then toss me aside. That’s okay. I could do with being used.’

  ‘You love Georgie,’ I reminded him, a little sharply.

  ‘Leave it.’

  ‘You love Georgie,’ I persisted.

  ‘Georgie’s in my gut,’ he said, through what sounded like gritted teeth. ‘She’s in my blood – in my bones – in what
ever part of the body women get into, when you can’t get them out.’

  ‘Heart?’ I suggested.

  ‘Balls,’ he said. ‘She’s in my balls. Damn her. I haven’t had sex for weeks, and I need a shag. You look like . . . like a goddess in that dress. The Goddess of Lust. The Scarlet Woman. You should be surrounded by devil-cherubs with pointy horns and spiky tails.’

  ‘Sounds very artistic,’ I said. ‘Positively Baroque.’

  He grinned, gazing rather muzzily into my eyes, and then suddenly leaned forward and kissed me.

  Somewhere, I could hear the Wyshing Well fairy, laughing and laughing, but this time it wasn’t funny. It really wasn’t funny . . .

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ Georgie. One look at her face told me she too had had far too much champagne – even without the addition of brandy. Behind her, Lin was making anguished faces at me.

  ‘I’m propositioning Cookie,’ Cal said. Ouch. ‘She’s being nice to me, and I’m taking advantage of her. Pretty low, isn’t it? But there you are. I always was an arsehole.’

  ‘How nice is she being?’ Georgie rounded on me. ‘How nice?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘You know I wouldn’t—’

  But Georgie wasn’t listening. Nor was Cal. ‘Dog-in-the-manger,’ he said to her. ‘Just ’cos you don’t want me, doesn’t mean – doesn’t mean – well, maybe Cookie does.’

  ‘I don’t!’ I was yelling now, as if it would do any good. In our vicinity, people were staring. Nothing like a good row to liven things up. I felt like a scarlet woman – and it wasn’t any fun at all. Georgie’s face was ablaze with rage and pain.

  ‘You bastard!’ she screamed, I’m not sure who to. ‘I thought you were my friend!’ Me. Definitely me. ‘I trusted you, I cared for you – I made you buy that dress – and all the time you were planning to – scheming to – You have him. Go on. You want him, you have him. I wish you luck. He thinks he’s got a big dick, but you know what? He is a big dick. You have him. You’re welcome.’