by Miles Hadley
The spell was broken for Gary. It was the baby. Warren. He was screaming from his neighbouring room.
‘Oh, shut the fuck up,’ Gary muttered to himself.
Warren screamed even more loudly, prompting Gary to yell back. ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU LITTLE SHITE!’
Gary heard Sheila yell at him. It was a threat.
‘I ever hear you yell at my son like that again, I will fucking twat you!’
Gary put his hands over his ears. He needed to be with Paulette. With Rose. Just looking at her was like purgatory. The image so heavenly. The daydream so wonderful and yet, all around him, there was shit on a plate. Shitty, shitty, shitty. He needed to wank; to imagine himself with her. He was so horny, but now that horny spell had been so rudely smashed. So rudely shattered that he slowly got up off the bed, swivelled his feet onto the floor and shook his head.
Gary could hear a loud, regular thumping on the stairs as the weighty figure of his sister negotiated them, huffing and puffing, as she climbed. The thumping seemed to encourage Warren all the more.
Gary scowled as his bedroom door burst open. He heard her shitty Britty words.
‘Oi, Gary, who the fuck are you to tell my son to shut up? He’s only a few months old!’
‘Oh, fuck off!’ Gary yelled. He barged Sheila out of the way, using some of his pent-up rage and sexual frustration for fuel. He thumped down the narrow staircase and out the front door.
‘GARY!’ he heard his sister shriek behind his back.
He breathed deeply and angrily strode past the skeletal shell of a rusty, burnt-out car and onto Bevan Road. A fresh blast of cold wind bit into his face and, for a brief moment, the fresh sharpness of the wind was a relief to him. As he walked, he kept his hands in the warm haven of his tracksuit pockets. He strode on, powered by his anger and his rage.
Gary’s phone buzzed. It was Crystal. She asked him over to hers that evening.
***
‘What do you want in life, Crystal?’
Crystal was combing her mousey brown hair. They were in her bedroom. A room with damp and mould on the walls that the council had promised it would fix, but had not yet got round to sorting out.
‘I want to be a hairdresser. How about you?’
‘Anything well paid and away from here.’
‘What like?’
‘Lawyer or an accountant or something.’
Crystal began to cackle. ‘Fat chance of that, Gaz! You’d have to go to school again. Then the University fees are meant to be massive.’
Gary went silent. For a brief moment a cloud of anger enveloped his face. He thought of ending his days on the estate and how miserable his life would be.
‘Is that all you want to be? A fucking hairdresser?’ he retorted.
Crystal frowned at him. ‘Yes. What do you mean, “Is that all you want to be?” Is a hairdresser not good enough?’
‘Why do you want to be a hairdresser?’
‘Because. You know... I like beauty stuff.’
‘Oh, right,’ Gary said resignedly. He decided he needed to ditch the bitch. Pronto. He needed escape. It felt like a prison. He needed to grow and develop before his whole life became stunted and doomed for ever more. ‘Fuck this situation,’ he said. ‘Fuck this life.’
Crystal put her comb down. She reached for Gary’s hand. Gary was soon aroused. They kissed. They stripped each other of their sports gear. After Gary got hard, they fucked. Gary’s heart was not in it anymore and he wondered if Crystal had noticed. He liked her body, but sought the whole fucking thing. He wanted everything. A Paulette or Rose to blossom beside him.
Spent and dripping with sweat, Gary extricated himself from Crystal’s pale, slim body. He got out of the damp bed and looked down upon the estate through the cheap, plastic double-glazing.
It was just starting to get dark and one of the street lamps below flickered. The place looked desolate. There was a burnt-out car on a piece of litter-strewn scrubland casting a grim, angular shadow beneath the flickering light. Gary wondered to himself what the estate must have been like when it had just been built. The older residents said that there had been so much hope, so much faith that it would work. Yet, it had not. It had rapidly become a dangerous place; too dangerous for anybody who had ambition in life.
Darkness had enveloped light. Despondency had suffocated and squeezed out positivity. Gary was desperate to grab at whatever positivity he might find. He would grab it, even if it came from his vivid imagination. Anything, he decided, had to be better than this grim reality that was his life.
‘Gary?’ Crystal was now awake.
‘Mmm?’ He did not turn. He remained standing at the window. Staring at what was below.
‘Gary?’ she repeated drowsily. Then she said it. ‘What’s wrong?’
Gary turned. He was still naked after their fuck. She was half naked under the bedcovers. Gary’s member was now flaccid. He looked at the beautiful, half nakedness of her body, but still he wished for something more in her.
‘Everything,’ he responded. ‘Every fucking thing.’ He shrugged his shoulders and hurriedly began to get dressed. He repeated the words as he walked over to the bedroom door to leave. ‘Every fucking thing is wrong. That’s what’s wrong.’
Crystal didn’t say anything. She just stared at him as he left. He gave the door an extra loud slam.
Gary pressed the button of the graffiti-emblazoned lift entrance and waited for the battered doors to open. They revealed a urine stench that he had become accustomed to smelling in the locality. People were pissed and they let their piss out to show it. To reveal their pissed-off ways. To reveal their own stench of piss to the world. Gary did it, too. There was no inhibition about doing it. It was a ‘Fuck life’ attitude for pissing on them. There was no proper lift in their lives. It was always down.
5
Morrelli’s, Morrelli’s, Morrelli’s! God, he loved this place! Right on the King’s Road and boasting such winery and finery! The exquisite tastes – champagnes and wines from all over the world that only the refined connoisseur such as he deserved! After all, Archie knew, just as their fathers and mothers knew, that Morrelli’s was a complete and utter institution!
Archie looked across at Jake Coxwell, his slight paunch leaning against the bar. Next to him was Cressilla Fraser-Bing of the supposed Bingie notoriety. Not bad looking. Apparently well-bred and educated. Mother an Honourable, he thought. He glanced at Charlie Darnard, who was wearing retro designer glasses. He was sitting down, quaffing a glass of red. Never warmed to Charlie. Bit of a bore. Desperate to name drop and brag about his family shoot. Admittedly a bloody good shoot, but a bit vulgar to constantly mention it. Bit nouveau, actually. Bulk of their wealth from Hedge funds. Corporate pirates.
Archie saw him enter – Konstantine Zugalov. A Russian oligarch’s son. Desperate to be seen as a ‘man about town’, and to shake off the image of how his family had really got their money. He bore all the hallmarks. Pretensions to the landed aristocracy. Some spurious claims about a family Faberge egg and being descended from white Russians. Nothing verifiable, of course!
‘Hey, mate,’ Archie said to him, his eyes barely concealing their contempt at Zugalov’s presence.
‘Ah, Archie. Can I get you a drink?’ They shook hands. Handshake weak, cold and clammy. So damned pathetic – outsider alert! Rank outsider at that! Champagne requested. The good stuff. His family could afford it, flowing constantly if they wanted – or so the gossip columns said.
‘What is the celebration?’ said Zugalov. Oh, don’t give me that crap. I know what I read, you stinking-rich Ruskie.
‘You, mate,’ Archie responded. ‘Your illustrious presence.’
‘I’m very flattered,’ replied Zugalov. That Meltonian accent. Really pisses me off.
‘How is that lovely lady of yours?’ Archie asked. She
was not lovely at all, Archie knew. Daughter of one of Essex’s most dangerous crime lords going. She was called Donna and had a fake tan that made her look luminous. No English rose would have had Zugalov. Their parents wouldn’t stand for it. Get them tangled up with a Russian Lacevine? No thank you!
Archie’s eyes lit up when Henry arrived. They hugged and kissed.
‘Henry!’ Immaculately dressed Henry. No boy band garb à la Zugalov. Just a sleek-looking semi-casual look. It went so well with his Mayfair-based firm that he had called ‘With Pleasure’. Such a clever concept. Henry now had a staff of about thirty. All of them young, hot and well bred. Yes, he’d pissed Archie’s parents off – but who didn’t, other than Razza? Good old Hen. Tall, fair-haired stud muffin that he was! There had been rather a good orgy in his folly at Pulfret – an Arabian Nights theme – only without any Arabs.
Archie waved at their old school friend, Razza. He was a distant cousin of Henry. They had similar noses, but that was as far as the resemblance went. Reliable, chuckling Razza. But who was that? No... it can’t be! It had been years since Archie had last seen her. She had quite blossomed into one of the most extraordinarily attractive women Archie had ever seen. Razza’s sister. Polly Raynard.
‘What a beauty!’ he muttered to himself, gobsmacked. If only he had his bloody camera with him! Complete and utter stunner alert! Raynards. Interesting family. Owners of lots of London property. Freeholds here, freeholds there. Swathes of the stuff. Lots of old money, but incredibly progressive with it. A Lutyens house in Surrey. Constantly producing radical, arty types. The Raynard father liked to think of himself as a mini Saatchi. Emins, Hirsts, Freuds and Bacons galore. On the first Saturday of every month, they opened their barn gallery for charity.
Archie looked across at Polly from the bar and gave her one of his lingering, yet charming, smiles with a glint in his eye. He could tell that Polly was Razza’s sister, for they shared similar mannerisms. But that was where the similarities ceased. She was comparatively tall, slender and elegant, and with a nose that was not part of the Raynard or Arbuthnott-Percy side, but came most probably from her mother, who had been an actress and model in the eighties and nineties.
Once Zugalov had poured the champagne, Archie immediately took two glasses over to Polly. She was sitting down with a girl he had not met before. On the way, Henry tried to snatch a glass from Archie and said, ‘Thanks, mate.’
Archie looked at him and promptly laughed, telling him to fuck off. He spilt some champagne as he tried to avoid him.
‘Finally. Made it!’ He plonked himself next to Polly and gave her another lingering look. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me. I’m Arch. Would you like a glass?’
‘Thanks,’ Polly reciprocated, and Archie noticed that she subtly gestured to Izzy next to her, who was Charlie Darnard’s latest date. He took the hint and asked Izzy if she would like his glass.
Izzy responded. ‘Oh, are you sure? That’s seriously kind.’
Archie smiled politely at Izzy and asked her what she did. He noticed Polly observing him intently with those gorgeous eyes. Izzy replied that she was an interior designer. Archie didn’t really listen to her small talk, for he was now determined to speak to Polly.
He finally got the opportunity to speak to her. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘Yes. You’re one of Razza’s Melton friends, aren’t you?’ she replied. ‘Archie Hodgkin-Smith?’
‘That’s right,’ Archie replied excitedly. ‘I’ve been to your parents’ home a few times. Gorgeous place.’
‘Thanks,’ Polly replied before sipping some champagne.
‘So,’ Archie began, ‘Razza often mentions you. How’s Cambridge and modelling?’
‘Well,’ said Polly, ‘the modelling is pretty quiet at the moment. When they do ask me to model, I feel like a piece of cattle or something. As for Cambridge, I love Politics and Philosophy, but absolutely loathe Economics. Oh well, c’est la vie!’ She moved her legs slightly at an angle towards Archie and sipped a little more champagne.
There was an awkward silence. They both looked at each other and started to laugh. Polly gave a snort afterwards.
‘What?’ Polly asked, giggling, giving another small snort.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Archie responded. She was quite the loveliest being he had ever seen. ‘This champagne must be getting to me already.’ He had managed to find another glass of champagne, courtesy of Henry.
‘Have you not eaten this evening?’ asked Polly.
‘Actually, no, I haven’t,’ Archie replied.
‘They do an amazing brochette here. Why don’t we share?’
‘That sounds seriously awesome,’ said Archie.
The brochette finally arrived and they both took a piece.
‘You know I read PPE as well, don’t you?’ said Archie.
‘I think my brother did mention that.’
‘At Oxford we had a different acronym for PPE,’ he sniggered.
‘Oh really? Do tell.’
‘Pretty Pissy Egos.’
They both burst out laughing. Archie found her snort endearing. So charmingly different to other females with whom he had interacted.
‘God, I hate some of the people who do PPE,’ said Polly. ‘Pretty Pissy Egos indeed! It used to crack me up so much. With some of them, I could have already assumed that they were sitting in the House of Commons making each other’s lives a Machiavellian misery! Certainly, they were doing it at the student union!’
They laughed again. After a while, Archie forgot about everybody else in the room. All the other conversations around them became a muddled blur as his ears focused on the sole, beautiful voice of Polly. He felt that her voice was so elegant and yet so babbling, like a beautiful brook that he might find meandering in a corner of Risely. Her laughter, her chat, so charming and yet so flowing, in contrast to his crude male self.
Eventually the spell was broken by the interruption of Henry. He was, perhaps, getting a bit jealous of Archie’s exclusive attention on Polly.
‘Are we going anywhere after this?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know, mate,’ Archie replied, having to blink a bit.
‘We could go to Steals?’ Razza suggested cheerfully.
‘What, the club in Mayfair with the Hookah pipes?’ Henry asked.
‘Yes,’ said Razza. ‘It’s meant to be seriously good at the moment. That DJ, Charlie Rex, is playing tonight. What do you reckon, Arch?’
‘Sure,’ Archie responded vacantly. Piss off, Hen. I’m talking to this stunner, he thought.
Archie heard the none-too-discrete Razza whisper into Henry’s ear. ‘I think he’s got eyes for my sister. What do you reckon?’
Henry smiled and chuckled quietly in disbelief. ‘What, your little sister? No way, mate!’
Razza laughed. ‘Well, we’ll have to see how the night progresses, won’t we!’
Archie felt Razza’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Oi, Arch, Poll... Come on... we’re all going to Steals.’
Archie sat beside Polly in one taxi, while Razza sat down on the opposite fold down seat. Henry, Izzy, Charlie and Zugalov had got into another taxi. Jake and Cressilla had said their goodbyes earlier – for, as Jake had mentioned to Archie, he was still keen to ‘Get his pinging right’.
God, Archie loved being beside Polly and could not stop chatting to her! Razza shot Archie a secret look and a not-so-subtle wriggle of his eyebrows. Archie wondered how much of his previous love life Polly knew. Certainly, Razza knew a lot of it. Perhaps things like that don’t matter to the Raynards, he thought to himself. So much more open minded than my stuffy old clan.
To Archie, the most notable thing about the nightclub was the lounge area, with its Arabian theme and Hookah pipes. According to Henry, who had booked them a couple of tables, the young manager was said in some circles to be a pal of one o
f the Princes. The Princes were rumoured to have been there once or twice.
Archie noticed that the nightclub proper was not very busy when they entered. It was even less busy in the Arabian lounge area. Eventually, however, more and more people began to arrive and the club began to fill up. Archie felt that, as the night progressed, there was a good, friendly buzz in the air, that seemed to connect well with the music of Charlie Rex.
After a period of sitting and drinking, Archie finally asked Polly if she would like to dance. Archie was relieved that Polly seemed keen to accept his invitation, for they had not stopped talking together in the lounge area, replete with oriental pillows on which to recline. The wine and champagne had allowed their tongues to wag even more freely and, if not physically connected yet, it was becoming obvious to Archie that, mentally, they now were.
Archie did look briefly at Henry and smiled. He seemed to be chatting up a leggy blonde at the bar.
As Archie and Polly danced, their bodies drew closer on the now packed dance floor. Archie had to confess to not being a bad dancer. Polly was a complete natural and she kept pushing her hands through her luxurious, long hair as she gazed into his eyes, her pupils alive with sexual attraction. As she swayed her hips to the music, Archie fell in love with her more than ever.
After a while, Archie noticed that there was a slight kerfuffle on the other side of the dance floor. He saw that Zugalov appeared to be involved in an argument with one of the bouncers. Evidently, Donna, his girlfriend, had been refused entry to the club because of her appearance. Zugalov had then been refused entry after yelling, ‘Do you know who I am?’
