The History of Us

by Jonathan Harvey

  My fella refers to him as the Diva. But that’s another story.

  I’ve been lucky really, what with this week being Jocelyn’s funeral and me and Kathleen suddenly hanging out together like old times, because Jay-Jay is away this week, so I have a tiny bit of breathing space to mingle. And it’s been so good to see old Kath. Thank God she’s put on weight. I thought it was just me who got to forty-five and turned into Giant Haystacks. My weight’s got even worse since I don’t have to go into work every day in an office. Now when I do venture out to meetings and see people I’ve not seen for a few months, I see them looking me up and down, and then I get the inevitable:

  Oh, you look well.

  You suit a bit of weight.

  See, I didn’t like you when your face was thin.

  You look healthy. Good for you.

  And believe me. None of these are compliments in the circles I move in. That’s why I wanted to leave the business. Bitch Central. The people I deal with make RuPaul look like Pam Ayres.

  The phone goes. It’s Jay-Jay. He’s back from wherever and wants to meet for lunch, coz he has something important to tell me.

  ‘Can’t you tell me now? You’ve got me worried, Jay-Jay.’

  ‘No.’ He sounds solemn. ‘This deserves face to face.’

  I immediately go into panic mode. It’s what every agent does when a client says they can only meet face to face and they need to talk. It can only mean bad news. He wants to leave me. He wants to go in a different direction. He doesn’t think I’m doing enough for him. He wants me to take a lower per cent of his income. He thinks I’m too fat for him. But all roads lead to the first one.

  He wants to bloody leave me!

  I quickly phone Jason as I’m picking out clothes from the wardrobe.

  (I know. It’s confusing. The two men in my life having such similar names.)

  ‘Jason, he wants to leave me. Jay-Jay wants to . . .’

  ‘Bollocks. He thinks the sun shines out of your arse.’

  ‘He thinks the sun shines out of his dog’s arse, doesn’t mean he’d want fucking Pauline to be his agent.’ Pauline is Jay-Jay’s bull mastiff.

  ‘You’re overreacting.’

  ‘I’m not! What’s so bad that it has to be done face to face? It’d be OK if I had a client list as long as my arm, but I haven’t. It’s just him. If he goes, I’ve got nothing left!’

  ‘Adam . . .’

  ‘Oh, shit, who’s going to look after Denim?!’

  ‘Denim’s at school, darling. And we have a nanny.’

  Right. Yes. Of course we do. Of course he is.

  ‘Now calm down, Adam. You know what Jay-Jay’s like. He’s a coward. If he wanted to leave you, he’d be too scared of saying it to your face. He’d ping you an email.’

  Actually, that rings true. My heart rate starts to slow.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go. But let me know how you get on.’

  ‘Tar.’ And I fling my phone on the bed, pissed off with myself for being unable to pick out a simple outfit, and head to the shower.

  An hour later, I’m sitting in my private members’ club in Soho looking like something Graham Norton threw up in the Nineties. Why did I choose this stupid spangly jacket? And the dayglo yellow leopard-print pants? If he comes here undecided, this garish ensemble will make the decision for him. Not so much it’s not you, it’s me, but it’s not you, it’s your clothes. And who could blame him, eh?

  Why am I doing this so much lately? Why am I making such poor choices? Jason says it’s the shock of Jocelyn dying. It’s made me forgetful and I keep getting confused. The other day I couldn’t for the life of me remember where Jay-Jay had gone to, and I had to go to my laptop and check his diary to confirm. When I lie in bed at night I worry I’ve got early-onset Alzheimer’s and I keep thinking of Still Alice and how sad that scene was when Julianne Moore’s in bed panicking, and it’s enough to send me into a panic, but when I wake Jason like Julianne wakes Alec Baldwin, Jason’s not half as accommodating or supportive as him and growls at me to get to fucking sleep.

  He thinks I’m a drama queen.

  If the cap fits.

  A waiter approaches with a garish cocktail.

  ‘Here you go, sir.’

  ‘Is that a porn-star martini?’

  I recognize the lychee.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  But I don’t remember ordering it. I feel panic rise in my chest. Oh God. It’s started. Jay-Jay will walk in and I won’t recognize him, and I’ll think he’s my nephew or something and I’ll offer him a toffee. I have early-onset Alzheimer’s and it’ll kill me quickly coz I don’t go running like Julianne Moore.

  But then I see the waiter’s eyes flitting across to the other side of the bar, then he bites his bottom lip. And he says,

  ‘I’m so sorry, sir. This isn’t yours, is it? I got the wrong table. I do apologize.’ And he whisks it away.

  And I relax. I’m not going mad, and I’m not losing my memory.

  Bloody hell, I should sue this place for giving me palpitations.

  But then I think, Was it a lychee? Or was it a slice of passion fruit?

  Damn. I can’t remember the ingredients for a porn-star martini. And I can’t remember the names of simple fruits.

  Mind you. Lychees and passion fruits. They’re hardly oranges and lemons.

  See?! I can remember oranges and lemons! Things are looking up.

  Or is there a fruit-based spectrum for the diagnosis of dementia? Exotic fruits are at the lower end. When you get to everyday fruit – well. Basically, you’re fucked.

  Just then, Jay-Jay arrives. He can’t look me in the eye as he orders a Diet Coke. He’s been in AA for years and tells me all the alkies drink Diet Coke.

  ‘Jay-Jay, about the outfit . . .’ I start to say, when he swings round in his seat and looks me straight in the eye.

  ‘I got you here today, Adz, because . . .’

  He looks like a deflated football. Like there’s no oxygen inside him to help him form any words. I feel a catch in my throat. He is. He’s going to leave me. Shit on me from a great height. Why didn’t I at least wear a hat?

  ‘I feel so bad about this. And I was just going to send you an email, but . . . I discussed it in the rooms last night, and everyone agreed I owed it to you to see you and say it to your face.’

  Oh, shite.

  Mind you, what are rooms? Oh yes, that’s what he calls AA.

  ‘You want new representation?’

  He looks genuinely bewildered by that. Sort of throws his neck back in a jolt so his head does a weird whiplash thing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got a new agent? Is it Lindsey at Premier? I know she looks after Sam.’

  ‘Oh fuck off, Adz. The thing I want to say is this.’

  He leans on the table. And again can’t look me in the eye. He carries on.

  ‘A few weeks ago, I put this thing on Twitter.’

  ‘A tweet. It’s called a tweet.’

  ‘Aye, a tweet. And in it, I said that I wished that cunt Jocelyn Jones would hurry up and die.’

  WHAT?

  Is that what this is about?

  ‘And then she did. And I forgot she was your pal. And I was like “Fucking great news aye”, and I was really slagging her off and posting Vines of her being vile. And . . . see, I didn’t like her. But I keep forgetting she was your pal.’

  I’ve given up policing Jay-Jay’s tweets. I had no idea he’d been doing this.

  ‘And I just want to say how sorry I am. Coz someone told me you had the funeral the other day. When I was in Miami.’

  I’m so relieved he’s not leaving me, I break into a smile. An agent’s job with any client is to make them feel good at all times. In case they leave you and you lose their commission. And as he’s my only client, it is imperative he stays. So even though part of me wants to argue a little and point out there was a nice side to Jocelyn, I don’t.

  ‘Oh, Jay-Jay, please. There’s no
need. Yeah, she was my mate, but even I was horrified about what she said about . . . so many things. She liked a reaction. She’d’ve probably loved you posting Vines after she’d died.’

  He looks so relieved now. ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye,’ I say, mimicking his Scottish accent, which is my way of signalling that everything is all right. He takes my hand quickly. I wonder what he’s going to say next.

  ‘I’d never wanna hurt you, Adz. You’re my rock. You get me?’

  ‘I get you, Jay-Jay. Now come on. Man up. And tell me all about Miami. How was Kate Winslet? Did she behave herself?’

  He does a head toss and a grunt as if to say ask a silly question. ‘See that girl, Adz? I fucking love her. She’s my rock.’

  OK. So everyone is clearly his rock at the moment, and he loves them. I let him witter on for ten minutes, then order some soft-shell crab. I ponder on how much I’ve changed recently. I don’t mean the ‘I think I’ve got Alzheimer’s’ stuff. More . . . when I wanted to leave the agency, I never wanted to look after a hairdresser again. And Jay-Jay convinced me to keep him on and work for him, and a huge part of me didn’t want to, but I thought I owed it to him and the situation wouldn’t be too manic. Now, a few years later, I realize I must enjoy my job and the kudos it brings and the job satisfaction, if I’m going to panic so much about him leaving me.

  Which he isn’t.

  And I feel utter relief.

  And that makes me feel good. I must be enjoying my life.

  My food arrives. As I’m tucking into my first claw, Jay-Jay brings the conversation back to Jocelyn.

  ‘So. She killed herself.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m trying to be sympathetic, but . . .’

  Here we go. How many people have said this to me lately?

  ‘. . . well, I guess at least it shows she had a conscience. About all that bile she was always spouting.’

  ‘I guess.’ Though I don’t necessarily know that’s true.

  ‘I guess when you live your life through soundbites, there’s a hole in your soul.’

  ‘Erm . . .’

  ‘That was a good song, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Abba?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, I can’t remember it, but I remember the title. So how was the funeral?’

  ‘Oh, you know . . .’

  What can I say? What can you say when someone’s killed themselves, and they weren’t that popular, and no-one really seems to care?

  ‘Suicide was the elephant in the room. It was nice hooking up with friends I’d not seen for ages, though. I saw my best mate from when I was a kid. Kathleen. Me, her and Jocelyn used to hang out together all the time.’

  He laughs. ‘She knows where the bodies are buried!’

  Which makes me laugh, too. ‘Yeah. Something like that!’

  ‘Adz?’ He’s sounding tentative. I don’t like it when he sounds tentative.

  ‘Aha?’

  ‘She did commit suicide, didn’t she?’

  And the tone of his voice shows he’s inferring something else. Or that he wants reassurance. He often wants reassurance, and it’s my job as his agent to give it to him.

  ‘Yeah. Sure. Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, what? Tell me, Jay-Jay!’

  ‘Well d’you remember that day? Months back. And she’d written that piece in the paper and we were both raging. The piece . . .’

  ‘I remember that piece.’

  How could I forget?

  ‘Well, d’you remember what we talked about afterwards?’

  I shake my head. It’s true, I can’t. Can I?

  ‘We went for a walk. Up to the Heath. Och, it doesn’t matter.’

  And he grins as if to say it’s nothing, and he’s making a mountain out of a molehill.

  And then I start to feel weird, as certain memories flood back. And then I remember. I know what we discussed; I just didn’t associate it with that particular day.

  I change the subject and talk about some of the options that have come in for him while he’s been in Miami. A TVC for Pantene, shooting in New York, and the upcoming shows in London, Paris and Milan.

  But he glazes over and says, ‘So you hadn’t seen this girl since you were a kid?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘So how many years is that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Well, no, I knew her well into my twenties. We moved to London together, but then we eventually lost touch. Well, we fell out. All three of us. Big time.’

  ‘God, that sounds like my life. What did yous fall out over?’

  ‘Oh, I . . .’ Of course I can remember. How could I ever forget? ‘It was so long ago. It was probably dead trivial, but back then it felt so huge.’

  And I steer the conversation back to Pantene.

  After a while he asks after Denim. I tell him Denim is fine.

  ‘Awwww, my little godson. Give him a big sloppy one from me tonight.’

  I know. I asked Jay-Jay to be Denim’s godfather, and he accepted. It was a business move more than anything. As Jay-Jay is so loaded I knew Denim would never be short of a decent present on birthdays and Christmas. Shallow? I hold my hands up.

  ‘And how’s that nanny thing?’ He sounds less keen now. Jay-Jay doesn’t like the nanny.

  ‘Jay-Jay, I’ve told you . . .’

  ‘That boy needs a nice gay boy for a nanny,’ he spits.

  ‘In order to get the adoption passed we had to prove that Denim would have a female influence in his life, other than our mothers. And so we said we’d have a nanny who was a woman.’

  ‘Was a woman?’ Suddenly he’s interested. ‘Is she transitioning?’

  ‘Get you with all the jargon. No, she’s not. She’s cis.’

  He nods. And then I realize. He just thinks I’m abbreviating her name. Our nanny is called Cissy.

  ‘No. Cis. It means you’re born with . . .’ And then even I can’t remember the proper definition. ‘Well, it’s short for cis-gender anyway. And you identify with the gender you were born with. Or something.’

  And then I’m saved by the bell. Or the buzz. I feel my phone pulse in my pocket. I whip it out and check what’s occurring.

  A text from Kathleen.

  Still on for tomorrow?

  I reply, You betcha.

  And Jay-Jay’s words ring in my ears.

  She knows where the bodies are buried.

  London, 1990

  The air was thick with the sound of Sinead O’Connor emoting the frig out of her never-ending number one song, ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’. Some days I liked it. Some days it made me want to peel all my skin off and jump in a vat of salt.

  ‘It’s so pretentious,’ I said to Kathleen over a cheeky Coke in the Pullman carriage. ‘Fancy spelling it “2 U” rather than spelling it out properly.’

  ‘Lazy bitch,’ she agreed. ‘Oh, change the subject Adam, I’m sick of thinking about her. She’s everywhere.’

  ‘She’s ubiquitous,’ I said, showing off that I knew the word and what it meant.

  I could tell Kathleen wasn’t so sure.

  ‘In fact, that should be the name of her next album.’

  ‘Change the subject,’ Kathleen repeated.

  What could I say? Oh yes. Gossip.

  ‘Paula Yates was in with her kids again this morning.’

  Kathleen rolled her eyes. ‘Christ, have they nicked anything?’

  ‘No, they were just creating merry hell.’

  ‘Huh, what’s new?’

  ‘They better not’ve spilt cherry Vimto over any of the frocks again.’

  Kathleen rolled her eyes again, this time more dramatically. ‘Jesus, Sinead, will you just GIVE . . . OVER?!!’

  As she boomed the last few words, a figure loomed large over us. A six-foot woman with a severe orange bob, dressed in a hot-pink geisha dress complete with wooden shoes that were a cross between a clog and a flip-flop. Our boss, Wendy.

  ‘Adam? Kathleen? Why’s the concession
closed?’

  Shit. She wasn’t meant to be coming in today.

  ‘Oh, we were just taking a break, Wendy,’ I said, as if we’d both just run a marathon and were staggering round in tinfoil blankets drinking orange squash. Actually, I thought it sounded quite good, so I added a pathetic whimper on the end.

  Wendy was unimpressed. ‘Together?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘When the concession’s closed, I’m not making money.’

  ‘Sorry, Wendy. It’s my fault,’ Kathleen said. ‘My granddad just died.’

  Wendy’s nostrils flared. ‘Again? That’s the third time. Get back to fucking work.’

  I liked how cheeky Kathleen had got lately. I just wished she’d remember which lies she’d used before. Wendy was heading away from the train and back onto the shop floor.

  Kathleen and I were working at Hyper Hyper, an alternative fashion emporium on Kensington High Street. Yes, in that there London. It was an incredibly eclectic, cacophonous place on two floors, crammed with stands that sold clothes from up-and-coming designers. We worked in the basement for Wendy Wan (pronounced one), for her label Wendy1. The Pullman carriage was the shop cafe and was the carriage of a train that you went into to sit down and have a cup of tea in. To our minds it was the quirkiest, trendiest thing on the planet. Even if it did appear to play Sinead O’Connor on a loop. Every time I heard it I pictured her in the video, that solitary tear running down the valley between her nose and cheek. Only they played it so much in here that in my imagination there’d been so many tears, the place was drowning in her pretentious pain.

  Wendy Wan had not long graduated from Central Saint Martins and had created quite a buzz with her futuristic, clubby clothes. They were really cool, but at twenty-five quid a T-shirt, me and Kathleen thought they were a complete rip-off. Especially as that was currently what we each earned in a week here. Wendy had recently married a Chinese bloke, hence the surname, and expected all her staff to dress in Chinese clothes. When I say all her staff, I basically mean me and Kathleen. She’d interviewed us the day she set up stall here and liked that we came as a double act, could be quite funny and had Liverpool accents. She said it made her enterprise very ‘global’. Scousers in Chinese dress selling weird shit: that, to Wendy, was the essence of global. Whatever global meant – I didn’t really get it. But it paid me my wages, so who was I to argue?