Tony raises his glass. Looks Pete in the eye.
‘So here we are, then,’ he announces.
‘We are’. Pete. Deadpan is what he’s going for.
Comes out a bit strangulated.
Show’s over. That is, Tony has done what Pete asked him here to do. As Director of the Cultural Olympiad, he was asked to be guest of honour at the Media Arts Department’s end-of-year show, and to present prizes to winning students.
And now, in a glass-walled room adjacent to the auditorium (really rather corporate for a polyversity in the East End), there are drinks.
There is the excited chatter of students, imbibing too quickly because it’s free (except for the ones who don’t drink, but they are just as excitable); there is the steady drone of university staff, networking with the people formerly known as
‘urban regeneration’ (now re-named ‘sustainable communities’), divided between the ones who can’t wait to get home and others who are really quite enjoying it; and there is a re-union of sorts between two men who’ve known each other since childhood, two boys who played in a band together till way past the age when they should have known better.
Even that was 20 years ago.
‘So we are’, adds Pete. Only one extra syllable, second time round. But Pete’s voice is noticeably warmer, softer; and the muscles in his face are standing at ease, where only a moment ago they were straining to attention.
Of course he is not taken in by Tony’s charm, his I-only-want-to-include-you. How many times has he seen it turn into suffocating self-promotion?
I-only-want-to-envelop-you. And how often was Pete the python’s patsy? Part of him wants to run away from the horrible, hissing snake. But there is tenderness between them, too. Mixed in with the instinct for self-preservation.
I’m not going to blow this, Pete says to himself. I want him to know I’ve done all right without him, more than all right. That’s why I can afford to like him again. And I want him to know that I do.
There’s a waitress standing beside them. They duly download empty glasses and upload new ones (second round, third? Who’s counting?). ‘Rupa, this is Tony Skance.’ Turns out the waitress is one of Pete’s students, another year to go before graduating.
I’m only showing off by introducing her, Pete thinks to himself. She can’t really be included in the conversation because she’s got to walk round the room holding a tray of drinks. Admit it, I just wanted Tony to know I’m with the real people.
‘Rupa’s tipped for a prize next year,’ adds Pete.
‘That’s if she doesn’t win Britain’s Got Talent first.’
The girl says nothing, smiles like a waitress should. Tony ramps up the light in his eyes as he turns to her: full wattage; charm intensive.
‘Can’t shake hands because mine are all sweaty’, he announces. Bless him, he’s found a way to apologise, making out it’s his fault she’s waitressing instead of networking. ‘You’re a contestant...?’ She doesn’t say no, which he takes as a yes. Gives him a clue for the briefest flirtation. ‘You know the saying, Rupa, render to Caesar... It means you can snog Frankie Cocozza for now, but I’m the one to kiss when you pick up your university prize next year.’
Tony has all but dismissed her: till next year, sex slave. But he’s also got rid of the awkward ambiguity – student, servant – which Pete’s do-gooding only drew attention to.
Nice work, Tony. Still got what it takes.
But is that a bead of sweat on your brow?
Working the room seems to take more out of you than it used to.
(5) My show, I think you’ll find From where they are standing you can see the sun bearing down on Canary Wharf. On some evenings there are pink and pale blue sunsets, even here, in the heart of the East End, with clouds tipped in gold; but this particular sunset is lurid, dripping orange-red ink. There’s a stiffening breeze, too; and every time the door opens some kind of post-industrial dust blows in on the air.
The campus, it should be said, is further East than the corporate-style hospitality would have you believe.
This is (nearly) Barking, mate, not Barker’s Of Kensington.
Every five minutes a little train goes by. One of those worms on stilts. Going West or East, towards either the invisible money (darling, it’s all digitised now), or that good ol’ poverty where even the five pound notes feel like a piece of rag.
Which way will they get to go?, Tony wonders, as he observes these Katie Price girls and boys like Peter Andre.
No, that,s not quite right, Tony. You haven,t got the measure of them yet.
‘Top job – is it going well?’ asks Pete.
'Mixed’, replies Tony. ‘Some days it comes together.
Others...’
He made as if to leave the sentence open. But Tony Skance just doesn’t leave openings (takes them, silly).
‘It’s like being on tour’, Tony resumes. ‘Some gigs go better than others. That’s all you can say, really.’
No it’s not. Not now nor was it ever. There were many times when they came off stage and talked for hours about the show, dissecting every note played, every move they’d made, searching for the way to strike gold every night.
Pete lets that one go. It’s only sparring, after all. But there’s still a job to do (sparring has a purpose, don’t forget). Tonight’s the night for each to show the other that all was not lost that rainy day when Pete walked out on Tony, and the Heaters (three successful albums and one absolute dud) suddenly got colder.
Baahhh! Never mind getting it right. Forget about keeping a balance. Suddenly Pete’s yearning for the long lost years of their comradeship. Besides parrying Tony, he’s been on guard against himself, blocking the desire to see himself reflected once more in his oldest, closest friend.
Unbeatable then. Even now, we’re better than the rest.
Catching himself enunciating the word, entertaining the thought of Tony and he as ‘we’, Pete’s instinct is to take it back immediately.
Recall that message. Edit it out of your tiny mind, you fool! Too late, it’s already logged in a shared drive somewhere.
‘You still play?’, inquires Pete.
‘Only in my head.’ Tony fobs him off. Just the other day he took the guitar out of its case (noticing the flecks of his own dead skin on the fretboard), and strummed a couple of chords. Bashed through a few songs, actually. Just humming, though; no lyrics.
But even that would be giving away too much.
‘In my silly head’.
Nice touch, Tony. Enough to let Pete know some of it’s still in there. Lots of it, if only he knew.
‘Excuse me, I wonder if...’
They have an interloper. Pete feels hackles rising –
Tony’s.
‘Ah-hah – the prize-winning author.’
Tony the prize-giver has turned to greet one of the winners, student Dinky Dutta, last seen departing the stage having picked up this year’s creative writing medal from the fair hand of Skance.
Dinky. Real name, Shahid. Nicknamed Sash at school because sometimes he sashays like a catwalk model (or a ‘fucking poof’ as his fake hard schoolmates would say). At university he chose to be known as Dinky (Anglo-Indians still go in for this sort of name calling), suggesting small but beautifully formed. This is no exaggeration. His body is neat and supple. His face is a picture – a Paki Pre-Raphaelite with a bit of cheekie chappie mixed in.
‘I’d like to ask a favour, Tony.’
OK, I know first names are the norm nowadays, but don’t get too familiar, will you?
Why’s he shutting down?, thinks Pete, as the halogen lamps go out in Tony’s eyes. Is Tony jealous of Dinky’s young talent? Of his easy good looks? If Tony were Bill Clinton, would Dinky be his Obama?
‘I’ve been offered an internship at the BBC,’ Dinky continues. ‘But I’d much rather come and work for you.’
Now it’s Tony’s turn to deadpan. ‘Ain’t got no jobs’, he says, his mouth a narrow slit.
‘I don’t mean a paid job, Mr Skance.’
Formal use of the vocative - Dinky reads well.
‘Just work experience, for the experience of working in your office.’
Tony takes a business card out of a small silver case. Pete can see a family crest on it, the one Tony swore to disown before the family disowned him (they never did). Hands the card to Dinky.
‘Don’t drop the Beeb,’ he advises, ‘because this may come to nothing. But email my PA, send her your CV, and she’ll arrange an appointment.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do it tomorrow.’ Beaming, Dinky’s smile is set go on forever, but Tony cuts him short.
Tony flutters his hands extravagantly, spiriting away the previous exchange. My stage not yours, his gesture says. Then he lowers his voice and leans in towards Pete and especially Dinky, waving both of them in closer. Now they are a conspiracy!
‘I’m going to speak to you in a language hardly heard at the BBC,’ he confides, ‘and never, ever in a mealy mouthed institution like this one.’
Caesura. If this conversation has any kind of rhythm, it’s just shifted to the off-beat.
‘You’re a good looking boy, Dinky, and this is your big day...’
Long pause. Let it ride that extra beat, it’s all in the timing.
‘...So fuck off out of here and get laid.’
Now louder: ‘That’s what we would have done, isn’t it, Pete?’
Kerching! Pete can’t say yes – too revealing.
Can’t say no without lying. He shuffles and clears his throat. Meanwhile Dinky is taken aback. Steeped in ‘appropriate’ language between staff and students, he’s wrong-footed by Tony’s forthright manner.
More than that, Dinky heard the hollow ring in Tony’s jack-the-ladism. He saw an old man making a desperate play for playboy status. Some of the others have noticed it too, judging by the awkward silence.
Now Dinky’s bowing out, like a courtier, without turning his back on Tony: ‘I’ll email tomorrow, first thing.’
The boy’s signed out. Pete’s still in play.
Though the latest show has been a bit ragged in places, one more time, Ladies and Gentlemen, Tony Skance has made the stage his own.
(6) Over and Out
Games Makers: A London Satire Page 4
