by Paul Magrs
TWENTY-TWO
Lance still hadn’t spared his scripts a glance. He had tried watching telly and, even though he wasn’t exactly expert with the remote control for all his digital channels, he had whizzed through what seemed like a hundred different programmes and nothing had grabbed him or diverted him for more than a couple of minutes. Now the sound was right down on a show in which six celebrities appeared to be swapping lives with six members of the UN inspectorate for weapons of mass destruction. All Lance could think was: no one asked me to take part. I’d have been good at that. In fact, it seemed like months since anyone at all had phoned, begging him to take part in a celebrity reality show. All those requests he had so graciously turned down had petered out completely. Maybe they all thought he was overexposed. Maybe everyone was sick of the sight of him. And maybe it was time he stopped gracing their screens altogether. Even late night TV had seen enough of him.
He shuffled back to his kitchen to lug out a second bottle of Montepulciano D’Abruzzo. He liked saying the name to himself, savouring the clipped consonants as he jiggled about in his striped sleeping pants, his bare feet on the stone floor. He had to wrestle with the elegant, wholly impractical bottle opener.
Exactly as the cork went plunk, there came a knock at his french windows. He froze, almost dropped the bottle and his heart palpitations started up. He imagined edging up to the glass doors and hissing querulously like an old woman: ‘Who is it?’ He coughed, ready to ask in a loud, hopefully intimidating voice. But someone outside, banging again on the panes, beat him to it.
‘Lance! It’s me! Let us in!’
He crouched down and did a kind of commando scramble through his own front room, barking his shins on the coffee table. There was one looming silhouette on the window: darker where its forehead and palms were pressed on the glass. Behind, two indistinct shapes – one tall and slender, the other much shorter – were hanging about like spectres.
‘It’s me! Colin! Open up, Lance. We’re a bit worried about you!’
Worried about him? For a moment he couldn’t even make sense of what was being said. No one worried about him. There was no one left around to even do such a thing.
‘Who is it, did you say?’ he asked, and his voice didn’t come out as terse and confident as he’d wanted it to be.
‘Colin! From Slag!’
He remembered. ‘What do you want?’
‘We were waiting for you next door, in the bar tonight. We thought you’d come out for a drink. I’ve got two friends …’
Colin’s voice was all breathy and gabbling. Lance couldn’t keep up. Well, at least it wasn’t anyone threatening and dangerous. Just that little lad from next door. He’d seen him this morning. Colin had served him with his first drink of the day. That seemed like months ago now. Even then Colin had been trying to blag his way inside Lance’s apartment, angling for an invite up here. Lance couldn’t really understand why. And now here he was. But in Lance’s mind Colin was associated with that first, crisp twist of gin and morning consolation.
‘Who have you got with you?’ Even to himself Lance sounded paranoid and mad. I’ve got a Sunset Boulevard default setting, he thought, amazed.
‘Two pals,’ Colin hissed. ‘They were desperate to meet you. I wouldn’t have knocked otherwise. But they’re both colossal fans of yours.’
Fans? Lance swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, just imagining the inky lipstick he’d be wearing from the wine. He couldn’t let fans in when all he had on were his old housepants. He’d be making himself far too vulnerable and available. He looked down at his bare chest. His nipples had gone hard as football studs. Fans. Coming to see him.
He went whirling back to the settee to fetch his dressing gown. ‘Hang on, Colin,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you in.’
TWENTY-THREE
The hotel management had been kind enough to ask if she wanted a private room for dinner. They could sort something out, themed in her honour if she liked: something Gothic and sepulchral. They liked a creative challenge at the Prince Albert and assumed she wished to be secure from prying eyes. Karla had already said that she wouldn’t eat alone in her suite. She had never liked doing that. It seemed too much like being in hospital, or a care home, and made her think of sitting up with a tray on metal legs. Stains down her nightie.
No, tonight she wanted to be downstairs. She wanted to be swish and aloof and maybe mysterious. She wanted to dine in public and let them all look at her. Let them get an eyeful of who was back in town.
So that was how the resplendent, servile Kevin came to be leading the voluptuous, silver-haired vampire lady across the foyer. Shoulders back, bust thrust straight out, drawing stares from fellow guests at eleven o’clock. She was eating late, as was her habit. She took tiny, painful steps to the main dining room. She paused in the doorway and let the maitre d’ go into a kerfuffle of praise; let him busybody and fuss and waft her with the huge, handwritten menu to the best table in the place, up on a kind of podium. Everything was accomplished with a flourish. Kevin even looked theatrically dejected when she sent him off for a break. She could see how pained he was to leave her and that gratified her.
All the crockery, glass and cutlery was pleasingly chunky and spotless. The tablecloth was starchy and brilliant under her trembling fingers. She examined it all: devoting special attention to the exotic frou-frou of the table’s centrepiece: some ridiculous arrangement of whorled and filigreed blooms, all dewy hoods and throbbing tongues. She took in everything through a pair of tiny, jewelled spectacles she then placed back in her evening bag, and she deliberately ignored the other diners. She knew they were looking. There were whispers from young and old alike. The heads of the weekend visitors, the well-to-do, the business class, all were bobbing up like meerkats. There was a Mexican wave of discreet interest in her presence. She even heard her name whispered and those quiet voices were molten on the air: a mist of speculation that rose above the tablecloths and up to her podium. Karla lowered her glance, decorously studying the menu.
Something light. Sole Veronique. The waiter shot over to her side and craned down to hear her whisper. She sat back to wait, and sipped cool white wine and dragged on one of her beloved black Russian Sobranies. The lilac smoke scrolled about her and she smiled to herself over her choice of dish. Once she’d had a psychotherapist – years ago, when she was on the Continent, on location for some drossy horror flick – and he had divined that she was a keen cook. Which she was, in those days. He had snapped at her: ‘Tell me, what is the distinguishing feature of the dish known as Sole Veronique?’ She hadn’t known what he was on about. He was a bald little man, a proper ugly brute with a beard like a shaving brush. ‘It is grapes!’ he had barked triumphantly. ‘The distinguishing feature of Sole Veronique is that it contains grapes!’ Karla had been none the wiser as to how that fact was meant to help with her therapy. In the end, that man had advised her to sit in a dark, silent cupboard for an hour each day and mew like a cat. She would find a solution to all her tensions that way. And he’d put her on the strongest drugs she’d ever necked in all her life.
Karla had watched a video of that Romanian horror film only recently, (English title: ‘Lick Me Out Slowly, Lick Me Out Quick’) and, for the first time, she’d had confirmed what she’d solemnly suspected at the time: the viewer could tell a mile off that here was a woman living solely off fish and antidepressants. A woman who sat in a cupboard and miaowed like a cat. I’ve had the most ridiculous career, she thought, in both cinema and psychotherapy.
Actually, the film hadn’t been all that bad. She wondered if, twenty years after these episodes of Menswear she was committing herself to had aired, they would hold up as well. She wondered if there would be special DVD boxed sets of them. If they would become Collectible or Cultish.
Karla had never had any idea of how her projects would turn out. It was the same with all of them. It was like playing the Wheel of Fortune, with divisions marked ‘Lost Classic,’
‘Camp Turkey’, ‘Kitsch Arthouse’, ‘Porno Trash’, ‘Highbrow Gorefest’ and ‘Nightmare Twatfest.’ And there was no way of telling which way it would turn. She was always astonished at the result: what distinguished a work of art from ludicrous, forgettable tat. As far as she could make out, nothing did. It just depended on who liked it; who could find something to say about the work. She was at the mercy of pundits in the end. Pundits and time. All she could do was her same old shtick. That never changed.
At last the waiter reappeared with her dinner under a silver salver. She was pleased to put thoughts of her oeuvre to the back of her mind and concentrate on the sight of the blue-green fish suddenly revealed on the plate before her. It was languid in a thick white sauce: a glittering state of repose. The eyes of the fish had the same milky opacity as the grapes strewn about it.
It didn’t look like any Sole Veronique she’d ever had before, but she was ravenous, and didn’t like kicking up a fuss in restaurants. Before picking up her knife and fork she had a glance around, to see that the other diners weren’t looking anymore. They weren’t. They’d had their fill of celebrity.
How to tackle this monster?
She hated being given things with faces still on. It looked like it had been asphyxiated none too carefully. Its thick blue lips were very disturbing. The fins and gills and the perfect sequins of its scales looked oily, uncooked, fresh from the sea.
What the hell had they given her?
Its milky eye juddered and puckered and flinched. It was suddenly blazing at her, orange and black. She knew it was staring right into her. Out flopped a fat, bloody tongue from between those swollen lips, and the fish licked some of the sauce thoughtfully. Then it cleared its throat.
Karla dropped knife and fork with a dreadful clatter. The fish was trying to shimmy around in its pool of grapey sauce and when it could look her in the eyes again, it started to speak in a fluting, accusing tone:
‘So, you’re back in Manchester, are you? Well, we know exactly what you’re up to. We know why you’re really here. You devil woman. You should never have come back.’
Karla couldn’t breathe.
‘You’d better keep your hands off that boy!’ the fish shrieked. ‘You leave him be, Karla Sorenson! Just you leave my boy alone!’
With that, the fish had exhausted itself. It slumped back down dead onto the plate.
TWENTY-FOUR
Vicki was in awe. Though she hated letting her bluff tough facade drop in front of the hated Colin, her reaction for the first hour or so inside Lance’s rooftop pad was simple, earnest, fan-girl awe. And she was secretly impressed with how cool Colin was being. He was treating Lance like he was just another person: as if he was, in fact, just a friend of his. Colin was in the kitchen, making thick, strong coffee and talking to their host. Vicki perched herself on the white settee alongside Raf. Neither of them had said anything other than a quiet ‘hello’ when Colin had introduced them to the drunk and mostly-naked Lance. Lance had let them in and he had looked rattled, wrecked, nervy, paranoid. The flat was dark and musty-smelling. It was the unaired den of some creature too anxious to forage.
Raf’s stock of cool had sunk just as Colin’s had risen. Vicki was obscurely disappointed in her best friend. He was saying thank you for the smoking coffee Colin poured and passed him. Vicki had never seen Raf so polite and subdued: sitting there with his knees clenched together. Vicki was feeling supremely conscious of her screen-grab Lance Randall T-shirt. It felt rude somehow: bad taste to be flaunting pirate merchandise in the great man’s own abode.
The man himself was leaning against his breakfast bar. He’d flung his dressing gown back off and was cradling a miniature coffee cup against his bare chest. There was dark stubble on his face and his mouth was set in a grim line. There was a confused look in his eyes.
‘So … I don’t understand,’ he was saying. ‘What are you kids doing here?’
Colin was having a good look around his kitchen. Figuring out what the various gadgets were for. ‘It was really boring in Slag! Just the same old faces doing all the same old things, and I remembered suddenly how you’d said I should pop in and see your apartment sometime soon. And we were a bit worried about you, because of how you were first thing this morning. Because you didn’t seem all that chuffed about the news and everything …’ Colin realised he was gabbling. ‘What news?’ Lance croaked.
‘About Karla!’ Colin laughed. ‘Karla Sorenson. You were taking it badly this morning. Is that why you’re drinking? Is that why you’ve locked yourself up in here? Is it all that bad?’
Lance slapped both palms on the counter: a deliberate, devil-may-care, dead drunk gesture. He spoke as if his tongue had swollen up. ‘I don’t care. They can put who they want in the show. It’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t get any say in the matter apparently.’
Vicki leant in to Raf and hissed, ‘God, he’s taking it worse than we thought.’ Raf shushed her and pretended to concentrate on the TV guide in front of them.
‘I think you could do with more coffee, Lance,’ Colin said quietly. ‘It doesn’t do to get … this despondent.’ Colin was conscious of Lance showing himself in a bad light in front of Raf and Vicki. They’d be lapping this whole scene up. Now Colin wished he hadn’t let them talk him into bringing them here. He felt bad for Lance, like he was making fun of him and taking a lend of his good nature. This was at the forefront of his thoughts. At the back – and thrumming along excitedly – were his thoughts to do with being up here at last: up in Lance’s world, where the expensive blinds were drawn against the moon and the overspill of city centre light. The faces of his friends were basked in orange and blue. Life up here was taking on a grainy tinge, and a dramatic, filmlike quality and Colin felt like he had stepped into his proper context at last. There was a sensation of impending calamity, an undercurrent of concern, but all of this was hand in hand with his pleasure in looking after Lance. Looking at those square, broad, naked shoulders with their collarbones sticking out, he just wanted to go over and give him a cuddle. Yet the presence of his friends put him off. He couldn’t do anything like that with those two there. They were like two schoolkids on that settee. It was like they were trying hard not to giggle at Lance’s plight.
Lance held up his cup for more coffee. When Colin poured it, he stared down like he didn’t know what he was being given. He sighed and said, ‘I have to do a photo shoot for the Press. Monday morning. First thing. With her.’
Colin put the pot down and looked at him. Their eyes met. Lance took a moment to focus and then looked away. ‘With her?’ Colin asked.
‘With La Sorenson herself. Pictures of me and her. Me welcoming her to my show. Welcoming her to the wonderful world of Menswear.’ It was like he was about to cry. Colin thought that would be a bad idea.
‘That’s fantastic.’ Raf came to life all of a sudden. He was sitting bolt upright and, for the first time, he was looking straight at them through the murky, film-stock air.
‘Is it?’ Lance said thickly.
‘You and Karla together! It’ll be great!’
Colin willed Raf to shut up. Beside Raf, Vicki was just looking dopey.
‘Yes, well,’ Lance croaked. ‘I’ve got to smile and grin and point at her knockers or something.’
Then Vicki was seizing up the TV listings magazine. ‘Hey – it’s on. It’s on right now. We’re going to miss it. Don’t you watch it?’
‘Watch what?’ Lance sounded weary.
‘Menswear,’ she rasped exasperatedly. ‘Your own show. It’s midnight, Mr Randall. Don’t you ever watch yourself?’
They all looked at their host. ‘Never,’ he said.
‘Can we?’ Vicki asked. ‘It would be such an honour.’ She made a grab for the remote control and started waving it at the blank screen of the television. Colin felt like stabbing her.
Lance waved his hand unsteadily. ‘Sure. Why don’t you kids just make yourselves at home?’ He pushed himself away from the breakfas
t bar. He reeled slightly, and Colin jumped forward to catch him. ‘I’m going to the bog,’ he announced, and slipped away.
At that, the telly burst into colour and noisy life. The blaze of static raised the hairs on Colin’s nape. Vicki and Raf were agog: leaning forward as the show began with the familiar cheesy, loungy funk of the theme. Colin watched them watching the sequence of splashy graphics that showed the grinning heads of the major characters. He heaved a sigh. No way were his friends this keen on watching the programme. It was an act.
The last star credited in the opening montage was Lance himself. He was pristine in a black suit and lilac cravat. He winked at the audience at home: confident, salacious, and very well-built.
‘Just imagine when Karla’s in it,’ Raf hissed. It was very nearly a squeal. He was squeezing his fingers into Vicki’s pale forearm.
‘We’ll have to ask him,’ Vicki said, ‘how long the telly’s behind. How many weeks it’ll be, until it gets good.’
Colin put down his coffee cup and left them to it. He decided he had to see how Lance was doing.
TWENTY-FIVE
The ladies had decamped. They managed to get a bit tiddly on Pernod and black at the fish restaurant as they watched the rest of their party leave. By the end they weren’t quite part of that group at all. All their supposed pals, the senior citizens, were slipping out of the place satiated on chips and batter cooked to that unique and secret recipe. They seemed pleased with their night out. It was just enough: they’d had a bit to eat and they had sang their songs and they had lapped up the good company and nostalgia.
Sally was still fending off her malaise. She was watching the sulky brute of a boy who was serving her drinks at the bar. Young enough to be her grandson: tall and sucking in his cheeks so the bones showed up; making his lips all red and flashing his dark eyes about. He was willing them to go home so he could finish his shift.
