Bright Stars

by Sophie Duffy

  Equally important to her is her charity ‘Happy Feet’, which she set up three years ago.

  ‘I’d been so busy with the winery – learning everything I possibly could from Dad and totally immersing myself in the business – that when Pete left, I realised that I had to do something more than just be Christie the obsessive business-woman. I was watching a news report about child soldiers in Africa and how so many of them had lost limbs as a result of war and the next day I set about creating Happy Feet. We work with kids in both Canada and the developing world to provide prosthetics for children who otherwise might not be able to have the kind of high-quality support that I rely on. I love my winery but I get a special kick out of seeing the difference the charity makes to so many young lives.’

  At this point, a maid asks if she can get us tea or coffee.

  ‘I’ll take a coffee, please. And would you mind getting my leg for me. It’s over on that chair. I have to go to the washroom.’

  I wonder if the poor woman is about to freak, but to give her credit, she quickly recovers, fixes her smile and picks up the prosthetic.

  ‘And don’t drop it,’ Christie says. ‘It’s worth 25,000 bucks.’

  As I leave, I try once more to squeeze out of Christie which supermarket she was talking to and she laughs that huge laugh and says ‘Not even off the record, but trust me, you’ll hear me shouting about it from Niagara when I sign that deal.’

  And I’ve no doubt that I will.

  Puttin’ on the Ritz

  Irving Berlin, 1927

  London, Friday Evening

  Cocktail

  I put on the pinstripe suit, straighten my silk tie in the plush en-suite. I’m hoping the mirror will reflect back Sean Connery. But I look more like John Craven. With a perm. Tommo never did manage to trendy me up.

  Amanda tried. I was her special project. I’m not entirely sure why she chose me as her special project. Maybe she had the end in sight, could visualise the finished article: husband, home, baby. Security. After all, ghosts are more permanent than actors. She said she’d had her fair share of actors.

  Amanda was an actor herself, a ‘resting’ actor with a few years too many out of drama school and a need to do something off her own back, rather than sponging off her parents for ever. She became a tour guide. I became her manager. She did all the chasing. I was flattered. I let her.

  We all went out for our usual monthly curry. She sat next to me and ordered chicken korma and a Cobra beer and before the night was out I’d had both my thigh and shoulder squeezed. If I hadn’t restrained her she’d have played my bagpipe. The next time we went out – just the two of us to the Italian – she was more persistent. I was well on the way to being her special project.

  But here I am on my own, my double-bed-in-a-suite-at-the-Ritz completely wasted, the project spectacularly dismantled. I should be running to catch a northern-bound train. I should be hunting down Amanda in her mother’s frilly house. I should be rescuing her from that fossilised pony bedroom. I shouldn’t be here, on the verge of walking into my past. I shouldn’t.

  I brush my teeth. Floss. Listerine. I need a drink. A glass of white wine. I have no valuables to hide away in the safe so I just leave the room with the Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle. Down in the lift. Into the huge hallway of chandeliers, palms and gilt. The high tea is over, the touristy queues diminished. It is hushed and orderly, all neo-classical bling and Louis XVI opulence.

  In the bar, I order a large Pinot Grigio and find a table. The wine has that weird taste you get after brushing your teeth but it’s a welcome feeling, the alcohol slipping down my throat. I’m a wee bit calmer, more stoical. Tomorrow might be a risk but what do I have to lose?

  Another gulp because now I’ve spotted her.

  Bex?

  No, not Bex, far too young, but she’s the spit.

  And there she is, Bex herself, tall and slim still, hair shorter, lighter, caught back in a thick pony tail, the colour of a fox brush.

  Bex.

  I feel queasy, drinking on an empty stomach, caught unawares. But I should’ve known she’d be here tonight, which is maybe why I put on a suit, to impress her. As if that would impress her. And why would I want to impress her?

  More wine. A deep breath. I shut my eyes and count to ten.

  … seven… eight…

  ‘Cameron Spark.’

  I open my eyes.

  Tight black trousers and a leather jacket. Skinny as ever.

  ‘Tommo.’ I stand up, try to put on my happy face but my mouth is too full of teeth and tongue.

  He shakes my hand. His nails are short and jagged, his grip tight. Tommo points towards a table on the far side of the room. ‘There’s Rebecca. With our twins, Ethan and Loulou. Come over, bring your drink.’

  ‘Okay then. For a wee bit. I’ve got to meet someone soon.’

  ‘Oh right, well, you’ve got time for another drink, haven’t you?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘Don’t go getting all gloomy and nostalgic, now, will you. We’ve got all weekend to do that.’

  ‘We have, aye.’

  I follow Tommo to the table, with each step my chest constricting, my stomach contracting. I am teetering on the edge of passing out or vomiting. Teetering on the edge of the world.

  But now I’m pecking Bex – Rebecca – on the cheek, breathing in her fresh smell, wisps of hair stroking my cheek and I am eighteen years old again, my future ahead of me, instead of behind. What twenty-plus years can do to a man.

  I sit down, can’t look her in the eye, try to concentrate as I’m introduced to their kids, my heart working overtime.

  The boy’s sort of like his father, the girl completely like her mother, (though with far too much make-up and a very short skirt). *

  ‘What are you drinking?’ Tommo’s on his feet, reaching for my glass.

  ‘Pinot.’

  ‘Right, I’ll get this round in.’

  ‘No, let me. I insist.’ I’m on my feet too, no idea why this need to insist but it’s somehow important. I take the orders and go to the barman. At these shocking prices he can bring our drinks over. A Coke is £6 and a glass of Pinot £15. Tommo, Bex and the lassie – who easily passes for eighteen

  – have requested Manhattans at nearly £20 a knock. But I do my best to make this seem normal, I’m used to such prices, such places. Life is good.

  The next ten minutes pass by excruciatingly slowly. (Ten minutes can seem endless.) While I want to be here, with Bex, I want to ask questions, to delve into their lives, but I can’t ask. All I can do is pick over the scraps. All these years and I can’t say the words that have followed me round since that night in 1986. Words that have pestered and bullied and harassed me however hard I have tried to flatten and squash them.

  I’m not ready for this.

  I make my excuses, I have to meet this (imaginary) friend, not sure they believe me, but I need to get away.

  ‘Have a good evening.’ Bex stands up, kisses me on the check again. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow.’ She smiles and a stab of misery cuts into me, shreds my heart all over again. I miss her. I miss my friend.

  Tommo holds out his hand and my arm is heavy as I reach to shake it, like I’ve been lying on it awkwardly. Tommo smiles, that familiar smile, a hint of jest in his eyes.

  I won’t play along. I won’t.

  ‘See you tomorrow.’ I nod at the twins. The lad carries on drinking his Coke but the lassie, she stops mid-text, grins, gives one of those half-hearted half-waves. And I turn and walk away, aware that I am being watched with curiosity by this family, trying my very best not to crash into the tables or trip over the chairs.

  I pace the streets, up and down Piccadilly, a blur of Christmas lights, tourists, posh people. Past a huge Waterstones, the Royal Academy, Fortnum and Mason’s. Shopping, shopping. Money, money. Spatters of rain so I duck into an Italian where I order a pizza and a Peroni. I’m not the only person eating alone, not the only saddo in
the room. And I have a copy of the Evening Standard, which assures me that I live in the better of the two capitals.

  I’m halfway through my tiramisu when I spot them walking past. (How could I not spot them? A double vision of Bexness, a double whammy of Tommo.) Fortunately I am not seated in the window, so they don’t see me. Or at least I don’t think so. Maybe just the lassie, lagging behind in her killer heels. She might’ve recognised me but I think I ducked behind the menu in time. She might’ve waved at me. In which case I probably should’ve waved back. But I’m hideously aware of being alone. If she saw me then she’d know I lied about having to meet someone. I don’t want to come across as a saddo, or worse, a liar. Why didn’t I wave back, embrace the situation? My dining companion could’ve been in the loo. He or she could’ve left to catch a train home. They could’ve blown me out. But instead, I pretend not to see her, like when you play hide and seek as a child and you close your eyes believing it will make you invisible.

  I see Peter. I see Jane.

  I see Loulou standing in the rain.

  Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day. I hurry back to the hotel as fast as I can, waddling like one of those long-distance racewalkers, no umbrella, my soggy Evening Standard offering meagre protection.

  Back in my room, I strip off, and get in the shower, embracing the hot, powerful water. I shut my eyes tight to squeeze out the memories brewing in my brain. Sometimes I could cry. Sometimes I actually do cry. Over stupid things, small things, trivial, tiny, miniscule things.

  I never cried in prison. Not once. I knew if I let that happen, I would never stop and I would never survive. So I took everything that was dear to me, my friendship, my family, my pride, my memories, and I locked them up in a secret, secure place until I was released. Only, when I was released, when I returned home to my brothers and my dad, I couldn’t open that place. I didn’t have the strength.

  I didn’t look back. I didn’t hanker after the past (my personal past – history was still my bag. My tartan bag). I craved the ordinary, everyday things. A long, hot bath. A home-cooked meal. Countdown. The only excitement I craved was the whisper of a ghost in the underground world of Edinburgh.

  Life, on the whole, is boring. And boring is under-rated. If the stove is hot, and you feel you must touch it, wear oven gloves, because once you lose your safety, you realise that is all you crave. A shame Amanda never got that. She’s one for risks. A flutter on the Grand National. A trip to Mecca Bingo. A last-minute getaway that’s not been tried and tested on Trip Advisor. I want a baby, Cameron.

  I turn off the shower and step out onto the bathmat, rub myself down, thoroughly, carefully, between every toe and in every crevice. If Amanda were here, the walls and mirrors would be steamed up, the floor deluged with a sea of soapy water and leg shavings.

  Into bed in my tartan PJs, a bathrobe, a cup of tea and a biscuit. Shortbread. I shuffle under the sheets, relish the clean crispness of them, and turn on the television to catch up with the day’s news, check the weather, mute it and open the hefty biography (Ramsay MacDonald), leant to me by my father (Andrew Spark).

  Clean sheets. There was a time when I envisaged my wife changing the sheets, but Amanda soon put me right. She divvied up the chores and even though I’d grown up in an all-male household and was used to doing my fair share, I harboured this hope that someone might do those things for me, like my mother used to.

  I can barely remember her now. (My mother, not Amanda. I remember everything about Amanda from her shell-pink toenails to the flag of St George tattooed on one smooth arse-cheek.)

  The book. The biog. The words are black blobs on a white page, my mind far too jittery to make sentences out of them, mainly jittering towards tomorrow night, seeing Bex and Tommo again. Seeing Christie.

  I let Ramsay MacDonald rest on my chest, heavy as a tombstone.

  I got into biographies in prison. Mainly sports personalities, stories of overcoming adversity and training hard in the early morning, blah blah blah, and even though I hated sport, was always one of the last to be picked at school for football, swimming, whatever, I enjoyed reading about these ordinary people achieving great things in their field. (Though I still identified myself with the fictional Pooter. Thank you, Rose.)

  I didn’t think I’d ever achieve anything. But I survived prison. I came out (of prison, not the closet, thank you, Dad) and I got a job. I stopped my brother losing his legs, which partly made up for Christie losing one of hers.

  I open the book again. The same paragraph. But I am back in the university library with Christie, me huddled against the radiator, Canadian Christie bare-armed in a Lancaster University T-shirt. I can remember the actual conversation, word for word, a memory so vivid I can’t believe how old it actually is.

  ‘You’re going to manage the band?’ I asked, bewildered. ‘Why would you agree to do that job?’

  ‘I didn’t agree. I told them and they agreed.’

  I laughed, quietly, as we were in the reference library, a pile of unopened books spread out on the table between us.

  ‘Now I’m injured, I thought I might as well try something new. Despite what Tommo says, we Canadians do know something about business. And this is a business, like any other. And don’t forget, I’m having a year exchange from the University of Toronto’ – pronounced ‘Trono’. ‘Toronto’s a big city. Lots of bands and I’ve seen a few.’

  Then she flipped open her Marketing book and I watched her annotate it with her sharpened pencil, wondering why an extraordinary woman like Christie would spend time with nurd-boy-turd-boy Cameron, when she could choose anyone.

  And I will see her again tomorrow, a woman who has done so much with her life, despite what we did to her that night.

  Jeremy says there is irony here. It is alcohol that tore us apart. And it is alcohol * that is bringing us back together. Back to what, I have no idea.

  I force myself to read till my eyes blink shut and the book falls with a slap onto my face. My heart quickens and I think I call out in fright but then I realise what has happened, where I am. When I am calm, I place Ramsay MacDonald on the bedside cabinet and fumble for the light switch. Darkness swamps me and I am back in the prison cell, lying as still as I can so the ranting vicar will forget I am there, won’t wind me up or pass on his unwanted words of wisdom.

  I put the light back on. The telly back on. I lie there, in my big bed with the clean sheets, watching Newsnight, volume down, listening to the lullaby lilt of Kirsty Wark, wishing Amanda were here, whispering words of love into my ear.

  Just as I am drifting into that elusive place of sleep, the phone rings. For a second I hope it will be her, my wife. But it isn’t. It is Tommo.

  ‘Allright, mate? Fancy a nightcap?’

  Tommo is clutching a glut of miniature bottles of cheap blended whisky. Against my better judgement and the déjà-vu-ness of Tommo appearing when I am in my pyjamas, I let him in. He sheds his jacket and boots and plonks himself onto my bed with an expansive sigh.

  ‘You’re in your pyjamas.’

  ‘That’s never stopped you before.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The first time we met.’

  ‘The first time?’

  ‘You climbed in my bedroom window.’

  ‘I did? Oh yeah. I’d forgotten.’ He finds us two glasses, pours us both a dram, shoves one in my hand. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Slàinte.’

  ‘God save the Queen.’

  ‘Long live the King.’

  He shakes his head. ‘McCameron McSparkle. I might’ve known you’d be a Salmondite.’

  ‘Only an Englishman could make that sound like an insult.’

  ‘It is an insult. The Tories will walk all over us if you get your independence.’

  ‘They’ll walk all over you. We’ll have our freedom. The Tories will never bother us again.’

  I’ve stumped him. I’ve actually stumped him but there’s little comfort. Something he said. Something eating at me
.

  Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten.

  ‘What else have you forgotten?’

  ‘Sorry?

  ‘You forgot the first time we met. What else have you forgotten?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten plenty, what with having an addled brain, but I remember the important stuff.’

  A moment’s pause. Then I have to ask. ‘Do you remember the last time you saw me?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘That would’ve been in a somewhat less salubrious environment than this.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘Sorry, shouldn’t joke.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re more direct than you used to be, Cameron.’

  ‘Amanda says I’m evasive.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Aye. Just.’

  Tommo tips back his whisky. Pours himself another. I sip mine. I’m better at whisky than I used to be but still not that great and even though it burns, the smell of it is comforting. Peat and malt and the bonnie lochs of Scotland.

  ‘The bonnie lochs of Scotland? Are you getting all Rabbie Burns on me?’

  ‘Did I say that out loud?’

  ‘Yes, you did McSparkle.’

  ‘Can you stop calling me that?’

  ‘It’s a sign of affection.’

  ‘It’s a sign of cultural appropriation.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s patronising.’

  ‘I stand corrected.’ He actually stands up, sways a bit. ‘Cameron.’ He salutes me.

  ‘Thank you, P-tolemy.’ I salute him back. Two can play at this game. He’s not going to stamp all over me ever again. No way, MacJosé.

  He shoves his feet into his boots, leaving the laces undone, props his jacket over one arm, bids me farewell.

  I watch him stumble towards the door. I watch him leave. I listen to the Scotophobic numpty’s clod-hopping footsteps jackboot back to Bex. I listen to my past trampling all over me again.

  I am who I am, a woman in a smart black outfit with a guitar slung around her neck who knows she can sing.