by Mark Dawson
If I’m completely honest there’s a fourth reason too.
Reason No.4
Miles Mackay finally popped his clogs last month. 86 when he finally called it quits, found dead at his desk by the cleaner with his head resting on the pages of a letter to Jimmy Tarbuck he was working on, possibly the world’s oldest practicing lawyer. With his passing, a vacancy opened up in the partnership at work. Only at a junior level and certainly not the full equity package, but partnership is partnership and not something you sniff at.
And if I’m going to get nominated for it I need to get myself noticed.
I’m six years qualified. That makes me a candidate for promotion. If you haven’t been made up by the time you’ve got seven or eight years’ experience behind you, you figure you never will be. You’re on the shelf.
That’s when you resign and set up your one-man high-street practice. An office above a Chinese with my name on a stenciled window (Tate & Co), and a low-rent secretary who comes in whenever she feels like it. The work would be shitty, depressing stuff: wills, boundary disputes, immigration, grimy divorces, custody battles. Beepers going off in the middle of the night because some drunk has put a brick through a pub window and needs the duty solicitor to smooth his passage down at the station.
Hell.
I’m not doing it.
McKay’s death has come at precisely the right time.
It offers me a way out. Partners do zero work for fat salaries. That’s something to aspire to. So I’ve been putting myself about more than I usually would (not difficult) and, as I say, it’s good to get your face seen at this kind of thing. And it won’t hurt my cause to land a new client or two.
The rumours become more precise. People are saying John French has hanged himself. His body was found swinging in the hallway of his Mayfair pad. The police haven’t ruled out foul play; there was no suicide note, and it’s difficult to imagine why French - successful, rich, basking in the lavish praise for his new role with the Dahlias - would want to do himself in. The gossipers recall Michael Hutchence and wonder whether this was another kinky sex trip gone ‘tragically wrong’. Soon fact and fiction will merge until people like me are called in to start sifting truth from lies.
I wonder how Brian will take the news. He and French were hardly on cordial terms after the nonsense that followed the band split. And then, when French replaced him as singer… Brian took it very badly. But they’d known each other since childhood, so Brian is bound to be upset. I’ll have to be diplomatic. I tell myself that I can still do diplomatic, despite all this booze.
Monster Munch take the stage and play a couple of songs from their album. Their names are Scooter, Bam Bam and Mooch. I’m not joking; these are the only monikers they’ll answer to. I’m supposed to be drafting their record contract but I haven’t done it yet. I’ve already got more work than I can handle and I’m finding it difficult to find the enthusiasm to work for the spoiled, rich, successful brats.
101 REASONS WHY I HATE OLIVER DAWKINS
Oliver Dawkins heads my way as I enviously watch the kids on the stage. I notice the light sparking off the sweaty sheen of his bald dome before my attention is drawn down to his porcine features.
Some facts about Oliver Dawkins:
Dawkins is a corporate lowlife from the office.
Dawkins hangs a spare jacket over the back of his chair and leaves his desk lamp on overnight to fool the partners into thinking he’s working late.
Dawkins bills fifteen hours a day (and can justify all of them).
Dawkins is going places.
Dawkins is the favourite for that spare place in the partnership.
His nickname in the office is obvious.
‘Tate,’ nods The Dork.
‘Dawkins.’
‘You heard the news?’
‘Awful,’ I say.
He yawns. ‘Strictly entre nous,’ he says, already sizing up opportunities over my shoulder, ‘this is all so passé - I was hoping we’d done away with these awful little events. I can’t stand half the people here, although of course you can’t say that. Still - already set up business lunches for the next two weeks.’
‘Me too,’ I lie. I haven’t been on a business lunch for years.
‘Good for you,’ the Dork says. ‘A good spread of clients is the first thing the partnership will be looking for in the new boy, know what I mean? Keeps the old cash rolling in.’ .
Dawkins is the odds-on favourite for McKay’s place in the partnership, and he knows it. He’s already got a list of blue-chip clients to die for. His iPhone is bursting with the details of all the best managers and agents in London, plus a few stand-alone celebs and showbiz personalities. This gives him the ability to dangle lucrative work in front of the partnership’s nose. That’s a big advantage since the partners know he could just resign and take his clients and their money somewhere else if they overlook him.
‘New boy or new girl,’ I correct.
‘Come on, Tate,’ Dawkins sports. ‘They’re never going to pick her.’
‘Caroline’s a first-class lawyer.’
‘Yes, maybe, but let’s just say I’ve got it on good authority that we don’t need to worry about her. We know who the real candidates are, don’t we.’ He ticks the names off on his fingers: ‘Me. You. Cohen.’ David Cohen is my room-mate. We know we’re both trailing the Wunderkind.
‘Maybe,’ I concede.
‘So that’s why you’re here tonight?’ he says. ‘Trying to make a good impression?’
‘I’d like to think they’re taking other things into account, other’n how often you turn out to schmooze. Legal ability, for example?’
‘Where’s Brian Fey? I thought he was coming.’
He’s feigning nonchalance - badly. The Dork’s been hankering after Brian for weeks, ever since the case fell into my lap because he didn’t even realize there was kudos in it. His current eagerness to usurp me might be tempered if he knew how impossible the job has become. Not even George Carman could have extricated himself from it smelling of anything other than the sticky brown stuff.
‘He’s coming later,’ I say.
‘Listen, come over and get me when he turns up, OK?’ he says. ‘I’d like to pass on my best wishes. I’m a really big fan.’
I start to respond (like the Dork has even heard of the Black Dahlias) but he’s already moved on to the next stop on his self-promotional tour of the room. As I watch him shimmy away I’m anxiously wondering who’s been feeding him the skinny on the partnership race.
THE THIN WHITE DUPE
At last: Brian Fey, my most important client, makes his appearance with two women in tow. I can see from his agitated carriage that he’s already made a start on tonight’s party fuel. More power to him, I say, so long as he’s got some left for me. I’m in severe need of refueling myself.
Brian’s new album is out tomorrow, his first solo effort since being thrown out of the band. He hasn’t had half the publicity that Monster Munch are getting. The official line is that Brian’s new stuff is so good it sells itself. There’s no need for expensive advertising campaigns and media parties costing thousands of pounds. Word of mouth will be more than enough.
Brian believes all this shit. He buys it. His ingenuousness would be charming if it wasn’t so sad.
The truth? Brian’s going to get eaten alive when his album hits the shelves. No review copies were sent out in advance -what does that tell you? The word from the studio says the album’s been cut ten times already and it still sounds like something Babylon Zoo would be ashamed to own up to ten years ago. The label have spent so much on it they have to release it, if only on the off chance that something remarkable might happen.
Brian says something to Emma Bunton and heads over.
‘Am I late?’ he asks .
‘Only a little.’
‘Got held up. Sorry.’
‘You heard the news?’
‘Yeah. Hence the delay. Terrible. Trying not to
think about it.’
He looks pale and drawn. His eyes are red-ringed, like he’s been crying for hours, with a dark bruise, partially obscured by make-up, visible on the right side of his temple. There’s a little dried blood clinging to the edge of his scalp.
I tell him I’m sorry and he manages a thin half smile. I decide not to press the point any further.
Brian introduces me to his companions. There is Carmen: a giantess who looks like Grace Jones in negative; she tells me that she’s an ‘artist’. And Lisa: an assistant at Brian’s new record company; blonde, well-proportioned, seriously cute. Both smile sweetly at me, probably labouring under the misapprehension that I have influence to wield. Leaving them in the dark might give the evening some swing, but before I can make any fraudulent claims pertaining to status and/or occupation Brian flattens my ego.
‘This is Daniel,’ he says. ‘My lawyer.’
Passion-killer.
My plans for an evening of amorous deceit fart away like a punctured balloon. Because, let’s be honest, being a lawyer ain’t got that much in the way of sexual magnetism.
I’m not jealous of Brian. Really, I’m not. He’s got things going on in his life you wouldn’t believe. Legal things, personal things - we’ll get to them later. Still, it would be easy to be envious and I could understand it. He’s still in fabulous shape, if a little (fashionably) gaunt. Scrawny? Think consumptive, circa 1750. Thin enough to fit the ‘Thin White Dupe’ tag the music press pinned on him from the infamous days when he shunned food for other, less legal forms of sustenance. White tracks on his arms from before he kicked the junk. He’s still famous for the dismissive ‘lightweight’ he offered when hearing of River Phoenix’s OD on the LA sidewalk outside the Viper Room.
‘I brought the blow,’ he says, forcing a smile.
I’m immediately optimistic the night will pick up. ‘Shall we make a start?’ I suggest.
The four of us cram into a vacant cubicle in the gents. Brian tips the contents of a silver vial from a chain around his neck onto the back of the toilet seat. The attendant by the sinks didn’t appear unduly ruffled as the four of us trooped inside. While we waited for a spare cubicle I listened impatiently to the telltale snorts from behind locked doors.
Blow’s everywhere these days. It’s not even taboo.
Say this quietly: Charlie’s even a little dated, darling. The missing septum look is so last year.
But I’m not complaining.
Brian chops the pile into four lines with his credit card, practiced hands slicing and scraping until the lines are roughly equal in length and width. We each hoover up a line through a rolled twenty; the first hit is always the best and I shiver in expectation, waiting for the rush to be released.
After ten minutes, it hits.
‘There is a God,’ Brian says, scrubbing a finger over his gums. He doles out extra lines and hoovers one up.
‘Amen to that,’ I say.
After twenty minutes I start to come down. The high recedes and paranoia seeps into the empty space left behind. I need more powder to force it back again.
CARMEN MAKES A PASS
We’re sitting in a booth together when Carmen slides closer to Brian and places a hand on his thigh. I know I shouldn’t be watching but the blow is playing havoc with my sense of decorum. And, OK, I admit it: I’m jealous. Any idiot can get laid when they’re famous that’s easy. It’s getting laid when you’re not famous that takes talent.
Carmen nuzzles Brian’s ear. He smiles softly at her, reaches down and gently lifts her hand away from his leg. He and Lisa share a knowing look, and Lisa, who has been observing the scene, crouches down to whisper something into Carmen’s ear. She blushes, apologizes to Lisa, takes a wrap of coke from the table and heads for the ladies.
A PROFESSIONAL CONFERENCE WITH MY CLIENT
Later, and I find myself alone at the bar with Brian. The girls have disappeared, finally working out that he’s preoccupied, and that I’m a no one. They’re right on both counts.
Guests are looking askance at us. Some at the bar are talking in conspiratorial tones, glancing in our direction, nodding. Denise Van Outen pretends not to look while glancing over her cocktail glass. She’s probably wondering how Brian’s taken the news of his ex-colleague’s death. Perhaps some of the less charitable souls might even be wondering if he could be somehow involved. Brian seems oblivious to this attention; he’s hunched over the bar, a drink resting between his elbows.
‘What happened to your head?’ I say, pointing to the bruise.
‘Fell over,’ he says.
We’ve been drinking shorts with lager chasers. We’ve worked our way through most of the spirits upended over in their optics, finally settling on vodka. I’m suffering from a feeling of dislocation, of being in two places simultaneously. I suspect another toot of nose candy would correct this existential imbalance but as I’m about to ask for a portion, Brian tells me he’s coming to court with me on Tuesday.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I slur in reply. ‘It’s just procedural.’ This last word, full of mutinous syllables, is almost beyond my present linguistic capacity.
‘No way,’ he slurs back, throwing an arm over my shoulders. His eyeballs are pinned from the coke and his breath reeks of booze. ‘I’ve been a terrible client. Terrible. I wanna be there to give some moral support. And maybe I’ll be useful. Maybe the judge would like to speak to me, or, like, something?’
If it gets to that you’re finished, I think, but there’s no point arguing. Brian is unshiftable when he’s made up his mind; he can be as stubborn as a mule.
‘Hey, Brian, gimme a shot,’ says a roving photographer, hoisting his camera into our faces. Brian - an old pro - puts an arm around my shoulders and raises his glass in salutation. ‘Cheers,’ he slurs as the flash bulb explodes.
THE LAW OF DIMINISHING RETURNS
We return to the toilets several times but each subsequent hit seems weaker than the last. And then Brian’s supply is exhausted and what was left of the evening withers and falls to dust.
DANIEL THROUGH THE DRINKING GLASS
Even later - and I’ve no idea when this is - I’m staggering out of a cubicle after snorting some badly cut coke. I bought it from a dealer selling wraps in the toilets. There was so much sucrose in the mixture I could have used it to sweeten my coffee. But at least it’s not brick dust or baby laxative, and I’m getting a mild rush like a prickling in the membrane between my brain and my skull, so it’s not a total waste of time.
The dealer is waiting outside. He seems to have established a dispensary in the toilets. ‘How ‘bout a cocktail?’ he proposes. ‘Viagra and disco biscuits, man - mental combo.’
I politely decline the handful of blue and white pills, They look like children’s sweets, and Viagra would be as much use to me tonight as a chocolate teapot.
The muffled thump of the music from the dancefloor resonates with the foggy mush in my head. Repeated freezes have burned up my overheated nostrils. Too much sherbet, buster. In the toilets a dribble of blood crawled out onto my upper lip. I tore off a paper towel and scooped wet red out of my nose.
I can’t find Brian. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I saw him. Several hours ago, for sure. I search through the club, bothered by the feeling that things are in the wrong place. The music is different. Europop has replaced Monster Munch’s punk-lite. Red velvet drapes have been fixed to the walls. Surely the DJ booth was somewhere else? And there’s a distressing dearth of celebrity. No sign of even a children’s TV presenter.
The atmosphere is feverish. The crowd are attacking the beat with a furious passion that was absent before. There is sweat everywhere, whooping and hollering, and the smell of amyl nitrate and hormones. I watch kids in love with the world dropping Es, speeding, pouring bottles of Evian over their heads, and dancing like they’ve been plugged into the national grid. A tattooed boy next to me cracks open a popper under his nose and sniffs greedily.
�
��In vino veritas,’ I slur at him.
He looks at me like I’ve crawled out of a sewer.
I’m feeling listless. My elbows are propped on the bar in a puddle of spilt beer. I order a double, handing over my last note and receiving a smattering of change. I have to find Brian or else I’ll never get home.
‘Have you seen Brian Fey?’ I ask a cute girl next to me, ducking her head to the beat. Her hair is shaved short and looks like velvet. I wonder if she’d mind me stroking it.
‘Excuse me?’ she asks.
I repeat myself more distinctly. ‘You know: Brian Fey? Rockstar? Famous.’
‘He’s great,’ she says. ‘We like him.’
‘Is he here?’
‘Not tonight.’
I notice her T-shirt: the words GIRL BAIT written across the contour of pushed-up breasts. The floor suddenly tips away. I grab for the bar.
‘Where am I?’ I ask dizzily.
Bored, she gives me the name of a club on the Charing Cross Road, famous for its gay and lesbian nights, and half a mile away from Soho and the bar I’m supposed to be in. I look around: a lot of guys in tight white T-shirts and a lot of short-haired girls in boots more suited to heavy construction or oil rigs. Jigsaw pieces are mashed into place. I’d feel spectacularly stupid if I wasn’t already so spectacularly drunk. I look at my watch. I’m missing two hours, and I don’t remember anything at all.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any drugs?’ I ask.
‘I’m a nice girl,’ she says, faking a sweet smile. ‘I don’t do nasty things like that.’
FINALLY, HOME
Somehow, I make it back home.
My flat is on the top floor of a converted pub. Given the booze I’ve been drinking lately, this irony has not been lost on me.
It’s a gorgeous place, architect designed and finished with top-of-the-range fixtures and fittings. Hannah and I bought the flat together: it was going to be our own place. We’d both shuttled our things around rented places for years and we were tired of it. The flat was outside our budget and we could only barely afford the mortgage by pooling our joint incomes.
