He wondered if he was turning queer, and as they worked in the studio he’d catch sight of Gordon’s tiny, well-shaped arse; but it did nothing for him, nothing at all.
8
Ken sat, not at the head of the table as he’d expected — seeing that Bunty had said that the dinner was for him — but on one side between a Greek boy who was trying to get money together to make feature films and a middle-aged woman with an unlikely name. She said she was a theatrical agent. After several glasses of the rather bad wine, she said her speciality was girls for skin flicks. The Hollywood musical producer didn’t seem to be there. There were two bankers, but they were up at the end near the film star, who was getting all the attention, even Bunty’s. At the other end sat a politician, and the least dim-witted guests, it seemed, were placed around him. Ken was furious. This had never happened to him in his life. He’d get through the main course and go.
Opposite him sat a short fat man in the same toad class as Joel. His washed-out face was vaguely recognisable. He had a New York accent and sensational hay-fever. His eyes were inconsolable.
He leaned towards Ken. ‘You know it’s unusual to see someone use right and left to cut with.’
‘Yes,’ said Ken shortly. He might be ignored, but things could be worse.
‘I suppose you were born like it?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m remarking on your ambidextrousness. I don’t know the correct term. I’m sure you do.’
‘Ambidexterity.’ Then it occurred to Ken that the pale toad was trying to pick him up. ‘I can assure you it does not apply to me. I am right-handed.’
‘But I’ve been watching you.’
The table was suddenly quiet.
‘I’ve seen you cut your steak with your left hand, then your right.’
‘For Godsake!’ Ken shouted. ‘Allow me the benefit of the doubt about my own habits.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought he was ambidextrous,’ Bunty cut in. ‘Not at all.’
‘I am not!’ Ken said angrily.
The agent said, ‘Methinks he doth protest too much.’
A woman squealed with laughter. Ken’s eyes flashed. The film star said, ‘It must come in quite handy.’ Loud laughter.
Bunty leaned over as she poured the brandy and her enormous breasts almost fell out of the dress. She giggled and held them in.
‘Are you a friend of Joel’s as well?’ asked the Greek.
‘Yes,’ Ken snapped and lit a cigarette.
‘I hoped he’d be here tonight. I want to meet him.’
‘He’s in New York.’ Ken turned to the skin-flick specialist.
‘You’re obviously not in the trade,’ she told him.
‘Why?’
‘The way you insulted fatty opposite. Don’t you know who is?’ She murmured some name Ken thought he’d heard of. ‘He’s the gossip columnist for all the movie mags. He makes and breaks.’
‘Well, he won’t get the chance with me. I’m in advertising.’
The pale toad was buried deep in a new bunch of tissues. Then Bunty moved the vase of flowers and things seemed to improve.
‘There’s a big deal going on at the top of the table,’ Bunty whispered as she poured Ken’s brandy. Her soft hair brushed his face. ‘There’s going to be something good in it for you,’ and this was the only reference she made, the whole evening, to his reason for being there. ‘Trust me.’ Her free hand, out of sight of the guests, stroked his back. ‘You haven’t drunk your wine.’
‘It’s vile.’ He looked again at the bottle and wondered what Mouton Cadet had done to their vineyards since he’d last had it.
‘Oh no! D’you think anyone else notices?’ She breathed into his ear. ‘I keep all the empty bottles with good labels and fill them with double litres of cheap stuff from the supermarket. I save pounds. Don’t tell Joel.’ She moved on.
Marooned among half-failures and nonentities, he watched the action at the ends of the table. The politician and the star attracted hangers-on like magnets, and they formed defensive groups and survived, even on the wine. The rest sat waiting for what had been privately promised. Bunty swayed round with the brandy and the black chocolates and whispered a ‘Trust me’ here and a ‘It’s all happening for you’ there. Her cornflower-blue eyes were innocent.
‘Bunty is very kind,’ said the Greek. ‘She is going to do a lot for me. When she smiles it’s like the sun coming out in a dark sky.’
Ken swallowed his brandy.
‘Are you gay?’ asked the skin-flick agent.
‘No I am not,’ he replied promptly.
‘Don’t mind my asking. I’m a dyke.’
He looked at her acid hair, dyed and curled almost out of existence — it had the sugary impermanence of candy floss — at her silver satin suit clamped to her flat chest like armour, at her wrinkles and bags held at bay — just. Neither she, nor her statement interested him in the least. Ken and his two neighbours formed a silent peninsular jutting conspicuously out of the gaiety all around.
‘Would you change places with me?’ he said to her. ‘The Greek man next to me would love to talk to you and I’d like to say something to the man at the end of the table.’ He also wanted to get away from those sneering pale eyes opposite.
They changed places. He leaned across diagonally, forced himself into the conversation and became another of the politician’s hangers-on.
It was after midnight and the guests were still around the table. The politician hadn’t known Ken’s name or anything about him. Ken had corrected this. He’d handled politics deftly; he’d hinted at his mother, he’d moved up next to the politician; he’d been invited to his home the following Sunday. Ken felt much better. The agent and the Greek film-maker sat silent. They hadn’t been rescued.
It was just before people started going home that it happened. Bunny sat on the politician’s knee, her bosom and legs looking safe, almost desirable. Ken had forgotten her dentures, her hairyness; and she was saying, ‘It’s nice to have everyone still at the table. Very French.’ Ken turned round for no reason and saw a young, pretty girl lean across the table and bite the skin-flick agent in the arm.
He thought it was a game until he saw the teeth, large and square, as they crunched into the thin upper arm. The agent, rigid with pain, tried to push the girl’s head away. She pulled her hair, tore at her cheeks. The teeth clung on. Blood appeared, the invincible crimson army, slowly at first, like sunrise, then rushing, splashing down the arm, on to the girl’s face. Nobody took any notice.
Ken jumped up. His glass tipped over. ‘For Crissake!’ People took no notice of him as he dashed from the room.
He couldn’t get to the lavatory in time. He was sick in the cat litter tray.
9
‘Why did you go like that?’ Bunty’s voice was cold. He didn’t answer, didn’t want to speak to her. ‘It comes to something when I, the hostess, have to ring you for an apology.’ There was a pause, but if she was waiting for an apology she didn’t get it. ‘I’ve done a lot for you. So has Joel. Joel’s put everything your way. Never mind about me. What a way to treat him. I know he wasn’t there; but it is his house, his food and his bloody wine. It’ll get back to him. You’re just a snob!’ she shouted. ‘Just because my guests aren’t quite up to what you think you’re used to.’
‘Your evening was a mess.’ His voice, though soft, was effective. ‘I have never been to such an incongruous dinner party in my life. No one knew anyone. No one was introduced. No one, not even a good hostess, would put those people together. They could never mix, except perhaps in some national emergency.’
Long peals of laughter. ‘Oh Ken.’
‘I didn’t expect to have to sit through that mess to be ignored.’ Her amusement was not catching.
‘Of course you weren’t ignored. Everyone loved you.’ She was still laughing.
‘I do not like being ignored; but more, I do not like people who behave in that way.’
> She stopped laughing.
‘Nobody helped her.’
‘I think there’s something I missed, Ken.’
‘The young innocent-looking girl —’
‘The banker’s girl-friend —’
‘Leaned right across the table and bit the blond agent in the arm — and I don’t think it was a hint she was hungry.’
‘I wish I’d seen it. She’s a dyke, the agent. Probably been touching the girl up under the table.’
‘It wasn’t like that. The woman was howling with pain. Blood shot out. It splashed ...’
Bunty waited for him to continue, then murmured, ‘Incredible.’
‘And people didn’t do anything.’
‘Perhaps they thought the women were just playing around. You know — kissing and stuff. The agent was very drunk. Anyway, why didn’t you do something about it?’
‘Because it was disgusting.’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve never seen people behave like that. I had to leave.’
‘Prig! Anyway I’ve heard of some excuses. If it did happen —’
‘If!’
‘It wouldn’t matter. So what!’ And Bunty remembered the agent leaving. She remembered especially her arms, the way they pushed lightly into the fur sleeves. ‘You know bloody well you’re just making excuses for your rotten behaviour.’ She smashed down the phone.
Christine came into the bedroom and seeing him still lying down decided to take advantage of it. She threw off her clothes. ‘You know, darling, Matt just said Weetabix.’
*
Christine started using the same responses for all phone calls. ‘Happy’ became ‘ecstatic’. ‘Fantastic’ and ‘incredible’ became ‘out of this world’. Her voice, edgy with panic, had risen unattractively. It could never have passed for excitement if every other sentence didn’t stress how excited she was. She brain-washed her girl-friends. She had no one to talk to.
She decided it could not go on when she got into bed with him only to have him leap out the other side and put his clothes on even faster than she’d taken hers off.
‘What’s wrong, Ken?’
‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong.’
‘You behave very oddly.’
‘Who wouldn’t with a sex maniac pawing him all the time?’
She pushed her head into the pillow and didn’t hear him leave. The phone seemed more insistent than ever as she lay, crushed, and Wendy, Pat and Lilly, deprived of her, kept ringing. She caught it during the few minutes it was free and called Frances.
‘I thought we might go shopping again,’ she said quickly. Agitation would have to do for excitement. ‘It was a wonderful day, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
She waited for Frances to mention his running away. When she didn’t, Christine said, ‘I can’t stand it.’
‘What did you say?’
‘His running away. Don’t you think running away like that was odd? I mean, what do you think?’
‘Yes, it was odd. Success does funny things to people.’
‘Success? That’s the last thing I’d have thought of. It’s not as though he’d be recognised, although that’s just how he looked before he ran. Did someone see him?’
‘I wonder!’
‘Perhaps he thinks he should behave oddly to go with the image. Is that what you mean?’
‘I think he can’t take success. He’s guilty about succeeding.’
‘Frances, you are so clever. You really are.’
‘He’s in conflict.’
‘What will happen?’
‘He’ll either learn to cope with being successful or start failing. He’ll do something — his subconscious will. It occurred to me he might crash the car.’
‘Oh no.’ Christine was so alarmed she lit the cigarette the wrong end and choked. ‘What’s the dog-food woman like?’
Christine mistook her silence, but Frances was just finding it hard to describe Bunty.
‘It doesn’t matter, Frances. I know he fancies her.’
‘No. I don’t think she’s got anything to do with it. She’s silly and rural.’
Christine sighed. ‘Suddenly it’s all gone. I sat naked in front of the mirror. I’d just washed my hair and I asked him to come and brush it. He wouldn’t. He always used to. I love having my hair brushed.’
‘It does happen, Christine, especially after a couple of years.’
Christine searched desperately for some piece of optimism.
‘His track record isn’t encouraging,’ Frances admitted.
‘He said he left the others because he didn’t love them.’
‘Found he didn’t love them. Anyway, he’s got a child this time.’
Christine hoovered the green carpet, polished the couch, took a few minutes off for her bending and stretching twenty. She phoned the studio and he said he would come home for dinner. She spent the afternoon cooking, massaged her face, found she was too fat for her new scarlet suit, and opened some wine.
He didn’t come home.
At nine o’clock the studio rang to say he’d run into a problem with cough-mixture 40-seconds and he’d gone to the agency. He wouldn’t be long.
At ten o’clock she phoned Frances. At eleven o’clock she started drinking.
Frances said there was nothing she could do except wait. ‘Be calm. Do something. Read — I mean —’ She glided over that delicate area. ‘He won’t be long.’
‘I’m not a saint. And I’m hungry. The dinner’s ruined. By the way, Gordon sent him a birthday card of a slim curly-haired blond. Does it mean anything?’
‘Perhaps Gordon thought thin, delicate blonds are Ken’s ideal type,’ she laughed.
Stunned, Christine threw away the dinner, locked the food cupboard and changed her life.
10
Christine lost seven pounds in one week and had her hair cut short and curled in one morning. She didn’t feel quite ready for the final bleached step yet. She put away her bright make-up and started using pale pinks, soft greys, a touch of blue. She polished her nails with an old-fashioned buffer and paste and coated her dark skin with ivory cream. She didn’t quite look like the girl on the card, but she was getting there. Ken thought it was nice for people to have a change.
*
Ken treated Joel as though he was highly intelligent, and Joel liked it, although he hardly understood a thing Ken was saying. He loved it when Ken pointed out the crassness and stupidity of other people.
He was sending Ken to Paris to supervise French Snap. First-class travel, best hotels and, afterwards, a holiday anywhere in Europe at his expense.
Bunty phoned, ‘When are you going to Paris?’
‘Next month.’
‘I might drop over for a few days.’
He felt uneasy. ‘That’ll be nice for you,’ he managed to say. ‘Bring Joel.’
‘I’ve told him to send you first-class and afterwards a holiday.’
He nodded. The studio was hot and he couldn’t quite reach the window.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘You have a funny way of saying thankyou.’
‘Sorry — I don’t feel myself ...’
‘Are you always so enthusiastic about what’s offered you?’
He thought about the big loose plates of teeth and shuddered.
‘Perhaps you’re frightened,’ she said.
The studio was getting very hot. It felt like late summer. For a moment he couldn’t remember what month it was. He took off his jacket. No longer sure what she was saying, he exclaimed, ‘At the moment I like things out of reach, yes. I’m sorry, Bunty. I’m so busy I can only tolerate the most superficial scenes with anybody.’
He hung up and tried to open the window. April 20. The studio, even hotter, smelt disturbingly of beer and fried fish and there was a stink of horse shit. Outside, shouting, laughing, rather drunken. There were a lot of people suddenly. Carts were passing, he could hear wooden wheels. They were fast for carts and he started towards the window and hea
rd a child cry, ‘Watercresses.’
Then the phone rang.
Bunty said, ‘Don’t be frightened of fatboy.’
‘Who’s fatboy?’
The line went dead.
He was sitting on the high stool with the ear-phones on, balancing a jingle, when she came in. She wore a blue silk dress, which brought out the colour of her eyes. Her hair had just been done in another regal style, and she was looking, as Joel would say, ‘like a lot of class,’ and she knew it.
‘What do you want?’ His eyes were slaty and disapproving.
‘I just phoned you.’ She pretended to be cross. ‘You don’t take any notice of anything I say. I told you I’ve got you a present.’
His heart sank. Did she mean the present of her body?
She dipped into the carrier bag and brought out two small plants in pots. ‘Tomato plants. You’ve got a conservatory. You can grow things. It’ll be good for you to get green-fingers. Calm you down.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Bunty.’ He fingered the crisp leaves.
‘You work far too much, you know. Gordon said you’re here all night sometimes. Ease up, Ken. You’re all right.’ She wanted to touch him but the way he was looking discouraged that move. She took out her compact and looked at her perfect skin. ‘You don’t like jingles do you?’
‘No I do not like bloody jingles. I’ll do French Snap and that’s it.’
‘What about writing music for a feature film?’ she said smoothly, touching on at least half of his cherished ambitions.
After a thoughtful pause, he nodded. He believed she could get him what he wanted, but he didn’t know if he could trust her.
‘Well, let’s get you fixed up with that,’ she was saying. ‘Come back to my place and we’ll talk about it.’
‘I’ve got twenty minutes to finish this. You’re welcome to stay here — or, better still, why don’t you pop over to the pub and have a drink?’
‘What pub?’
He indicated the window. ‘Opposite.’
She pulled a face at him. ‘Since when do they serve liquor in an office block?’
By Flower and Dean Street Page 11
