by Unknown
I lean close into him. — I am the cunt who’s gaunnae brek your fuckin nose for chatting up my bird, I say, putting an arm around Nikki. The wanker blusters a bit on the spot, then timidly exits. Unfortunately, so do Nikki and Mel, making the pretence of getting more drinks, but both singularly unimpressed with my performance.
I go back to the bog where one guy who shared his ching with me approaches hopefully. — Sorry, mate, private party, I tell him.
— That’s not exactly fair . . . he complains.
— Post-democracy, mate. Now fuck off, I boom as I slam the door in his face and powder my nose.
Soon I’m back outside, swanning around, in my element, when I’m interrupted by this sing-song accent in my ear. — Si-mon! How are you, my friend?!
It’s that revolting cunt Miz, and I’m about to be offhand or even rude now that he’s expended his usefulness, when he says: — I want you to meet somebody, and he nods to a tall guy with a moustache beside him who looks familiar. — This is Lars Lavish.
Lars Lavish is one of Europe’s premier porn actors turned producers. His ability to find wood was legend and he was known as the godfather of gonzo porn, accosting lassies in the streets of Paris, Copenhagen and Amsterdam and enticing them back to a studio to make an impromptu porno flick with him. The man’s gift of the gab is renowned. All he used was charm, persuasion and cash and cock inducements. He recently signed a big deal with a major distributor and now does all his own stuff and has complete editorial control. In other words, I’m absolutely fucking star-struck. This is my hero, my mentor. I can hardly fucking well think, never mind speak.
Lars Lavish.
— Lars, I shake his hand and I don’t even mind that he’s now got his arm round Nikki.
— Pleased to meet you, Simon, he grins, glancing down at Nikki. — This girl is so hot. She’s the hottest, man, the hottest! Seven Rides, man, it is so goood! I am thinking that we are going to have to be having a serious talk about the distribution of this movie. I am thinking even limited theatrical release.
I have died and gone to heaven. — Any time, Lars, any time, mate.
— This is my card. Please call me, he says, then kisses Nikki and heads off into the crowd with Miz, who looks back at me with a satisfied shake of his head.
Nikki and I are soon in a strange discussion which turns a bit narky. — Why is it all those men’s mags like Loaded, FHM, Maxim are just like porn mags like Mayfair, Penthouse and Playboy, scanty cover outside, nudes inside? Because men’s magazines are for men who are wankers, which means all men, but who like to pretend that they’re not. How can you have an imaginative space and a sexuality and not be a wanker? The shit that somebody like Renton would come out with is that he gets aroused thinking about certain things so he goes and has a nice, mature discussion with his nice, mature girlfriend and they negotiate sensibly and play out those fantasies in a loving, supportive, mutually rewarding and fulfilling way . . .
— But . . .
— WHAT A LOAD AY FUCKING PISH! No, we need tits and arse because they have got to be available to us; to be pawed, fucked, wanked over. Because we’re men? No. Because we’re consumers. Because those are things we like, things we intrinsically feel or have been conned into believing will give us value, release, satisfaction. We value them so we need to at least have the illusion of their availability. For tits and arse read coke, crisps, speedboats, cars, houses, computers, designer labels, replica shirts. That’s why advertising and pornography are similar; they sell the illusion of availability and the non-consequence of consumption.
— Your conversation is boring me, Nikki says, and she walks away.
Fuck her. I’m cruising on a massive fucking high and everybody else, everything else, will just have to fit in with my fucking plans.
74
‘. . . killer cystitis . . .’
Lars Lavish’s trying to get into my knickers. These porn guys are pretty thick, if brutally single-minded. It’s dull, but more interesting than Simon’s company. He’s being a tedious, coked-up pain in the arse. I don’t want to be too hard on him, because it is his moment and he should enjoy it, with pride coming before a fall and all that stuff. But he’s just impossible. He wants to fuck everything in sight, like Curtis, who actually is fucking everything in sight. The posh girls are queuing up, morbid and squeamish and girly-girl for a shot of that prick, news of which is flying round the marquee grapevine. And his swagger tells you that the young lad is growing into that penis at last. From burger bar to porn star.
He vanished for a bit with a companion, and now they’ve reappeared. — How are you doing, Curt?
— Great, he says, pulling this girl along by the hand. Her eyes are bulging out and she can hardly walk straight. — This is the best time I’ve had in my life!
And I’m finding it hard to argue.
I pull him to me and whisper in his ear. — Remember what you were saying about those guys? You were at school with? How they teased you about being a freak? Well, who was wrong, and who was right?
— They were wrong, ah wis right, he says. — But . . . it’s a shame that the likes ay Danny and Philip n that couldnae be here tae see aw this. They’d love it.
Simon has heard this and cuts in. — It’s like the Underground in London, mate. They rely oan enough people tae be sheep. They dinnae supply bins, ye see, they expect you tae carry yir rubbish aroond wi ye. Ah don’t do that, ah jist drop it anywhere. But enough people do it tae make it pay for them no tae provide bins.
— Ah dinnae get ye . . .
— What ah’m sayin, pal, is that ye drop rubbish, ye never carry it aroond wi ye, and here, it’s just excellent without the rubbish, he says snootily.
Sick Boy, God, he is that, is making a fuss of this girl called Roni, who he says is from Fox Searchlight. — Roni’s invited us all to the Fox Searchlight do tomorrow, he beams.
I pull him aside. — Just take her back and fuck her now, Simon, she looks well up for it. Or is it a purely nasal romance?
— Don’t be petty, Nikki, he sneers. — It’s just a vehicle to get the tickets for this bash.
He’s full of bullshit. The party ends and we head to a club for a bit, but it’s so busy that we can barely move so we decide to go back to our suite at the hotel. — This is barry, Curtis says, impressed by the opulence of the place.
Our little party is confronted by a commissionaire who asks rather imperiously: — Are you guests at this hotel?
— No, by no stretch of the imagination could you say that, Simon replies starchily. As the uniformed official is about to turf us out, he then produces his room key. — Being a guest involves receiving some kind of hospitality, some kind of rudimentary courtesy. We do stay at the hotel, however, but no, you couldn’t call us guests.
The commissionaire goes to say something, but, dismissing him with the waving motion of somebody brushing aside a noxious odour, Simon strides on ahead. I follow, with a somewhat apologetic grin, as do the others. We get up to the room and drink the bar dry, Simon irritating me with his overbearing smarm directed at Ms Fox Searchlight. The way they shovel up the cocaine together is quite frightening.
— A pornographic film . . . and Curtis here’s the star? she asks, looking all bug-eyed at him. Curtis is lying on the couch as Mel shakes her head.
— Aye, well, Curtis, and Mel and Nikki too, of course, Sick Boy deigns to elucidate. — The girls always rule at porn. But Curtis has a certain asset which elevates him way beyond the standard ten-inch a penny actors! Of course, I have a part myself . . .
— Reeely . . . Ms Searchlight says, rubbing his arm as they devour each other with their eyes.
Their molten flirtation makes me feel as if I’ve eaten too much candyfloss. I listen to him slavering away for a bit and then I drift off to sleep on the bed. When I wake up in the night, my bladder heavy, I stagger to the toilet for a long, jagged, broken-glass pee which heralds the start of killer cystitis. The minibar is empty, Simon and Fox Searchli
ght have gone and Curtis and Mel are crashed out on the chaise longue in a fully-clothed embrace.
I’m sitting on the toilet seat, trying to press this toxic piss out of my bladder. I phone room service and ask them to send up some Nurofen. Fortunately I have some Cylanol in my bag and I take a powder. It’s agonising though; I can’t sleep, and I’m in a fevered sweat. Simon comes in and sees my discomfort. — What’s up, baby?
I tell him as the room-service guy enters. Simon brings the Nurofen over. — They’ll soon kick in, babes, don’t worry . . . have you taken your Cylanol?
I nod weakly.
— I didn’t fuck that Roni, you know, he explains hastily, — we just went for a stroll along the beach because everyone else was crashed out. I’m a one-woman man these days, baby, well, off-screen anyroads.
A stroll along the beach. It sounds so romantic that now I’m wishing he had just fucked her quickly in her hotel room. He sees Mel and Curt and goes over and shakes them awake. — It’s nearly morning. Can you head back to the Beverly and give us a wee bit time alone, folks? Please?
Mel’s face screws up, but she rises. — Right . . . c’mon, Curtis.
Curtis gets up and sees my tears. — What’s wrong wi Nikki?
— Women’s problems. She’ll be fine. See you in a bit, Simon says.
Curtis doesn’t accept this though, and he comes over to the bed. — Are you awright, Nikki?
I acknowledge his concern, and as he kisses me sweetly on my fevered brow, I throw my arms around his skinny waist. Then Mel comes over and I give her a hug and a kiss. — I’m okay, I think the powders are starting to work. It’s just this cystitis. Too much wine and spirits. I think that corrosive champagne’s bad for it as well.
When they depart Simon and I get into bed, lying with our back to each other, stiff and tense, me with my pain, him with his cocaine.
Eventually, I start to ease up and unravel in the bed. It must be mid-afternoon when I wake up, disturbed by his moving around. He comes and sits on the bed, with a room-service tray: croissants, coffee, orange juice, rolls and fresh fruit. — Feeling better? he asks, kissing me.
— Yeah, loads, and I’m looking into his eyes, the both of us in silence.
After a bit he squeezes my hand and says: — Nikki, I behaved abominably last night. It wasn’t just the drink or the ching, it was the occasion. I wanted this to go so right, and I was a control freak, a fascist.
— What’s new? I remark.
— I want to make it up tonight, before we all go to the Fox Searchlight party, he says, his face split with a huge grin. Then he adds: — I’ve got some brilliant news.
He’s glowing. I have to ask. — What’s that?
— We’ve only been shortlisted for best film at the Adult Film Festival Awards! I got the call this morning!
— Wow . . . that is so . . . like, wonderful, I hear myself say.
— Too fucking right it is, Simon gleefully observes. — And yourself, myself and Curtis have been nominated in the best newcomer categories. For actress, director and actor.
I feel such a massive surge of elation, I’m almost sticking to the ceiling.
To celebrate our nomination, Simon’s taking me to dinner at what he refers to as: — One of the finest restaurants, not just in Cannes, but in France. Which, of course, means the world.
I’m wearing a sparkling pea-green Prada dress with some high-heeled Gucci shoes. I have my hair up and am adorned with a small pair of gold earrings, a necklace and some bangles. Simon, who’s wearing a yellow cotton suit and a white shirt, is looking at me and shaking his head. — You are the very essence of femininity, he says, seeming almost awestruck in admiration.
I’m tempted to ask him if he said the same thing to Fox Searchlight last night, but I let it go, because I don’t want to spoil the moment. We are here, and it is now, and I know that won’t always be the case.
And it is wonderful, the sort of small Provence restaurant where cooking is raised to high art. From the amuses-bouche through a sublime homard bleu, suc lie de truffe noire et basilic pilé and chicken breast demi-deuil covered in an inky truffle sauce to the pièce de résistance, a pile of truffles that enveloped a crisp green salad. Lovely.
For dessert, I went for the coffee-chocolate coupe glacée with a daring cup of liquid chocolate and a brioche to dip in it. All this was washed down with a bottle of champagne, ‘Cristal’ Louis Roederer, a Clos du Bois Chardonnay and two large Remy Martin cognacs.
We’re intoxicated by everything, lisping seductively at each other in pidgin French, when Simon’s mobile rings, the green one. It annoys me that he can never seem to switch them off. — Hello?
— Who is it? I hiss, more than mildly irritated that our moment has been invaded.
Simon puts his hand over the receiver. He looks quite concerned for a bit, then breaks into a waspish smile. — It’s François. Some wildly important news about a card school in Leith I forgot about. How remiss of me to double-book my diary. He speaks calmly into the phone. — I’m in France, Frank, at the Cannes Film Festival.
There’s a sharp voice buzzing on the other end. Simon holds the phone away from him. Then he winks raffishly at me and says into the receiver, cupping the other hand over his ear: — Frank? Are you still there? Hello?
He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and giggles. — François is being rather difficult. Trust me to forget that the Cannes Film Festival and the Leith Card School clashed. I should get a helicopter to Leith straight away, he sniggers, his shoulders shaking, and now I’m laughing too. — Are you still there, Frank? Hello? he shouts into the phone. Then he scrapes the grill of the mouthpiece with his fingernail. — I can’t hear you and you’re breaking up. I’ll phone you back later, he says, then snaps the phone shut and switches it off. — He is such a prick you can’t even hate him. It’s beyond that, he says in stunned admiration. — The man is beyond love or hate . . . he simply . . . is.
Then he grabs my hand across the table. — How can somebody like him and somebody like you exist in the same world? How can planet Earth produce such a range of humanity?
And we were straight back into each other again. Simon arrogantly tossed the odd withering glance around the room, but mostly our complicit eyes ate each other, dancing and teasing in and out of each other’s souls. To have enjoyed such intimacy, to fuck would actually be an anticlimax. Almost.
— Do we have time to go back to the room before we meet the others? I ask him.
— I’ll make time, he says, waving the mobile.
I repair to the toilet and push my fingers down my throat, throwing up the food and gargling with mouthwash from my bag. It’s lovely food, but far too rich and fattening to actually digest. Like most modern, intelligent women, I’m a Jungian, but Freud did have one thing going for him in that he hated fat people. Probably because they were happy and well adjusted and therefore didn’t line his pockets like the skinny neurotics. But now, at this moment, I’m happy. I’ve had my cake and eaten it, then sicked it up before it could damage me.
When I go back to the restaurant, there’s a row going on and, to my mounting unease, I can tell that it’s over at our table.
— This card cannot be over the limit, that simply cannot be the fucking case, Simon shouts, his face florid with the drink and probably cocaine.
— But please, Monsieur . . .
— I DON’T THINK YOU’RE HEARING ME! THAT SIMPLY CANNOT BE THE FUCKING CASE!
— But, Monsieur, please . . .
Simon’s voice breaks into a low hiss. — Don’t fucking gies it, ya froggy cunt! You want Cruise in here? You want DiCaprio to eat in here? I’m supposed to be meeting Billy Bob Thornton here tomorrow to discuss a major fucking project . . .
— Simon! I shout. — What’s going on?
— Sorry . . . okay, okay. There’s been some mistake. Try this one. He hands over another card which instantly goes through. Despite the maître d’s sour expression, Simon looks smug and vindicated, an
d not only does he refuse to leave a tip, he shouts back into the dining room in parting: — JE NE REVIENDRAI PAS!
Outside, I’m teetering between finding this whole thing annoying and amusing. As I’m still on such a massive high, I opt for the latter, bursting into a drunken, nervous fit of giggles.
Simon looks sourly at me, then shakes his head and starts laughing himself. — That was nonsense, it’s the Bananazzurri company card I tried to pay with. There’s loads of cash in there. All the one-six-nine-zero scam money is in there and only Rents and I are the signatories and he’s in the Da . . . He stops dead for a second, and a cold panic fuses in his eyes. — If. That. Cunt.
— Don’t be so paranoid, Simon, I laugh. — Mark’ll be here tomorrow as planned. Let’s go back, I whisper in his ear, — and make love . . .
— Make love! Make fucking love? When a ginger cunt could be taking everything I’ve fucking well worked for?
— Don’t be stupid . . . I implore him.
Simon, as if trying to control and fortify himself, stretches his arms out in front of him. — Okay . . . okay . . . I’m probably being silly. Tell you what, you go back and give me fifteen minutes to compose myself and make a few phone calls.
I respond with a sulky frown, but he’s not moving. I head away, reluctantly going back to the hotel room, where I pour myself a drink, thinking about the bastard on the beach with that Fox Searchlight bitch.
When he returns, he’s calmed down and is in better spirits. — You got Mark, I take it?
— No, but I spoke to Dianne. She said he’d just called her from Amsterdam. He’s calling her again later, so I told her to tell him to phone me straight away, he explains, then pleads: — Sorry, babes, I was jumpy. Too much ching . . .
I move over to him and grab his balls firmly, through the material of his trousers, feeling his cock stiffen. A big smile grows over his face. — You fuckin dirty cow, he laughs, and he’s on me and in me and we make frenzied love, hotter even than our first few times.
