“Well Jennifer, you are in a position to accurately clarify that rumour.”
“If I remember correctly, it was more than one position.”
I smile and sip my beverage. “So what are these rumours exactly? What have you heard?”
“One girl told me that you’re practically a conjoined twin.”
A laugh escapes my throat and I glance around the room again for Jemima. “I hate to be rude, but I need to find someone. I swear I’ll return…”
Jennifer just smiles. “You’re a busy man.”
“To be continued?”
“To be continued,” smiles Jennifer. “Do you promise to find me later, when you’re leaving?”
“Of course,” I smile.
Jennifer leans in and gives me another kiss on the cheek. Again her lips land dangerously close to my own.
I return the smile and push past her, drinking my orgasm in a quick gulp as I leave the kitchen. If my conversation with Jemima doesn’t go well, then I could do a lot worse than having Jennifer as backup. ‘Auxiliary tail’, as Dylan would call it.
When I get to the balcony, where I anticipate Jemima might be, I can’t find her. There’s at least one hundred people outside, smoking, laughing, gazing across the city below, but no sign of the one woman I want to see. They all turn and look at me, whispering, laughing. A few people wave, who I vaguely recognise from other parties. The record label. Possibly my bedroom.
I walk back inside and scan the entertaining area. Nothing. I push through the chatter and chinking of glassware towards the hallway. Three of the bedrooms are locked. I put my ear to one and can hear the muffled sound of a female crying. Nothing hysterical. Just tears. I listen to another door. Definite moans. Also female. Not Jemima’s.
As I follow the hallway and take a sharp turn to the right, I find her. She’s banging on a bathroom door, demanding to be let in. In the dim lights of the corridor, I can tell my ex-lover is not happy to see me. She lights a cigarette as I approach.
“Want a lighter?” I ask.
Jemima huffs. “Only if you’re flammable.”
“Wow, sparks are flying already. I better watch out.”
Jemima produces her own lighter and puts the tip of a cigarette to the small orange tongue of flame. “Jack, just because we’re surrounded by important people doesn’t mean I won’t harm you.”
“This is my record label’s after party. I’m celebrating several music awards. You knew I would be attending.”
“With all those trashbags at the ceremony, I honestly thought you wouldn’t make it back here.”
“We followed them here.”
“Don’t waste your precious time on me. There’s plenty of women here that will actually go home with you.”
“Maybe I should send them over to you for a character reference.”
“Ha,” says Jemima. “You’d be a very lonely man if I was your only advocate.”
I smile. Jemima doesn’t. She used to enjoy our verbal jousts, but now it feels like something between us is broken. I’m not going to have any success. Forgiveness won’t blossom in arid soil. It doesn’t matter how much glitter I sprinkle on the shit I’ve caused, it’s still going to stink. I give her this round.
“Sorry I bothered you,” I say, before walking away.
I push through the crowded living room, my mind rushing from the pills. One of Big Bang Theory’s songs comes over the stereo. I hear my voice permeate the room. People turn and smile at me. I give an embarrassed shrug. It’s one of my favourite songs. The lyrics tell the story of a man trying to shed the emotional burden of a broken relationship. He drags himself back out into the world and is greeted by apathy. A world where caring is creepy and everything around him is all surface and no feeling.
My band and I have done a decent job of recreating the magic of a few Shins songs, like this one, but I desperately miss hearing the originals. The drugs in my veins give me a sudden rush of euphoria as Dylan walks over to me. He holds out a glass of sparkling wine, laughing.
“Who put this shit on?” he jokes, putting his arm around me.
“Someone with popular taste,” I smile, before singing the next line out loud for the room to hear.
A photographer from Souljacker, a monthly magazine, appears on his knees in front of us, snapping off a number of shots with an overly exaggerated flash. Looks like we’ll be in print again. Dylan roars at him like an animal and more photos are taken. This is how rock stars behave.
“Come over here and meet my new friends,” says Dylan, leading me out of the room.
“Fuck yes,” I say, with an overwhelming, drug-fuelled rush of enthusiasm.
Back in the hallway, I’m introduced to three women. Dylan tells me they’re models and articulates their recent achievements in the hope of contextualising them for me. One is the face of a fairly extravagant brand of perfume. Another, Jessica, is on the album cover of a well-received new release called Fresh Blood, by a group called Mercy Beau Coup. They’re an electro, new wave sort of thing. Very stylish, but as deep and meaningful as a bowl of porridge. The third woman, who’s introduced as Cherie or Cherry, is in a children’s pop group called Spangle Road. I vaguely recognise her from morning television. Usually in the early hours of sunsrise when I’m trying to get to sleep.
I take each of their finely manicured hands and lightly kiss them just below the wrist. This old-fashioned form of greeting was uncommon on this planet, so it’s become my unique trademark. Another idiosyncrasy. But I perform this greeting on most of the girls I meet, so its stocks have slowly declined in value. “Pleasure,” I say to each of them. Somewhere in the background, I hear my voice singing ‘Novocaine For The Soul’.
Jessica is strawberry blonde and curvaceous. Two unavoidable breasts peer out from the V-shaped neckline of her red dress. In my addled state, I probably look at them for too long.
“You might know my boyfriend,” says Jessica.
“Really? Who’s that?” asks Dylan.
The perfume model giggles. “She’s dating Chris from the Known Associates.”
The plot thickens. “Wow, cool,” I say, grinding my back teeth and tapping my right foot.
“Yeah, we know Chris!” says Dylan. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“I know,” says Jessica. “He’s adorable.”
Another new Big Bang Theory track blasts over the sound-system and I hear my voice sing prophetic words that I’ve stolen from Mark Oliver Everett of the band Eels. I sing something along the lines of: “It is hard to recognise where I end and what they are making me begins.”
“So do you guys have a new record coming out soon?” asks Jessica, with genuine interest.
“We’re doing a symphonic record at the moment,” says Dylan, leaning towards Jessica flirtatiously.
“Wow, like, with an orchestra?” asks Jessica.
“Yes!” says Dylan, putting an arm around her waist. “See, I like talking to someone who actually knows something about music. I’m sick of all these poseurs.”
Jessica giggles. She seems a little awkward in regard to Dylan’s advances, but she makes no effort to push him away.
“Then we’re making a new studio album,” I add.
“Yes!” says Dylan again, suddenly releasing Jessica and grabbing my arm. “I forgot to tell you, I have a name for it.”
“Tell me,” I say.
Dylan holds up his hands, as if moulding each word individually in the air. Hanging the title in invisible neon. “Up Skirts On The Outskirts,” he says. I think for a moment, while Dylan studies me for a reaction. The three women look at Dylan, trying to determine if he’s joking. He’s not.
“Good,” I say, finally. “I like it. Yes.”
“Nice,” smiles Dylan. “I’ve got the cover all worked out. It’s a hot, brutal desert and we’re standing out in the distance, almost a mirage. As if, maybe, we’re not even there.”
“I’m listening,” I say, craving a cigarette.
“In the fore
ground, like right in front of the camera, is standing a girl. The hot desert wind is blowing her skirt up and you can see a portion of her ass,” adds Dylan, weaving his visual poetry. “She’s facing us. And we’re standing there, looking at her, as if to say ‘Come with us. Come with us and you will never need a skirt again’.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s powerful.”
“I know,” says Dylan, happy with himself.
“I’m going to leave you here with these lovely ladies,” I say. I need some fresh air and a change of scenery. I push through the room to the stairwell that leads to the roof. I can hear partying up there.
I squeeze past revelers on my way through the small, shadowed stairwell and then up the narrow stairs. There’s hundreds of party-goers up here, smoking and drinking. A few particularly loose people are dancing to the minimal beats of a DJ who’s set up in one corner, between two large ferns. I’m spotted by people. A few shake my hand and congratulate me on our awards. I smile and thank them politely. A well-dressed couple gets their photo taken with me.
Out of the gawking crowd appears a girl. She approaches me and instantly everyone else disappears. It’s just her and I, alone on a rooftop, surrounded by a fleshy, sweating haze that leaves our focus and never returns. This girl has a brown, bob cut that stops at her chin. Flawless caramel skin. Full bodied lips and dark green, seductive eyes. She’s wearing a short black dress with an over-sized, white man’s shirt over it, which hangs open. The plunging neckline of her dress warrants a criminal investigation. It’s an inadequate refuge for her large, seemingly natural breasts. She is a perfect and ideal specimen.
“Hi, Jack. I’m Natalie,” says the girl. She extends a hand, and I notice that she’s wearing fingerless black lace gloves.
“Pleasure,” I say, lightly kissing the fabric on the back of her right hand.
“We met once before, but you probably don’t remember.”
“You look familiar,” I say. “Was it another of Brannagh’s gatherings?”
“Yes, I believe it was,” she smiles, before adding, “I just wanted to say that you guys were awesome tonight.”
“It sounded ok?”
“Of course! That new song was so sexy. I just wanted to get up and dance in the aisle.”
Can’t go wrong with Zeppelin. “Yeah, the band’s really happy with it. You should have gotten up on stage with us.”
“Yeah, right,” she says, “and get molested by some security guard? No thank you.”
“So what are your plans for the rest of the evening?” I ask.
“Probably some mischief,” she says, smiling.
I take two glasses of sparkling wine from a passing waitress and offer one to Natalie.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Pleasure.”
We make our way to the edge of the rooftop and lean on the railing. The city stretches out below us, blinking and flickering with electric light and humming with traffic and street noise.
“You’re a very mysterious man,” says Natalie, sipping her sparkling.
I shrug. “I don’t know about that. I’m sure you’re equally mysterious.”
Natalie smiles and shakes her head. “No, not me. I’m an open book.”
“I bet you’re a real page-turner.”
“Well, put it this way,” says Natalie, leaning closer. “You wouldn’t put me down until the climax.”
I almost choke on my drink, but quickly regain my composure. “How about we play a little game?” I ask.
“Sure, I’m in the mood for a game,” responds Natalie.
“I ask a question of you, then you get to ask a question of me.”
“Alright.”
“So what do you do with yourself?”
“I... work for an agency, mostly,” smiles Natalie.
“Modelling?”
“I do some modelling,” she replies, elusively, before adding, “that was two questions. Now I get two questions.”
“Fire away.”
“What’s your earliest memory?”
This takes me by surprise. My earliest memory. I remember a Christmas present. I was given packets of glow-in-the-dark galaxy stickers to put up around my bedroom. Hundreds of stars, comets, and planets that would glow brightly straight after the light was switched off, then slowly fade away after I fell asleep. My father helped me arrange the stars in the formations of actual constellations. I remember the half-man, half-horse creature, Centaurus, with Alpha Centauri burning as its brightest star. I was a young boy with a clear sky above him every night. Long before the clouds rolled in and hung there forever.
“My earliest memory...” I say, pausing for dramatic effect, “is sleeping under a rail bridge in Lower Easton. Trains rumbling overhead. Freezing cold.”
“You were a little street urchin,” says Natalie, sympathetically.
“That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“How did you learn to play the guitar and sing?”
“Well, singing... I’m not sure. I suppose I had a lot of spare time to practice. To make music. When I was young I found an old guitar behind a block of apartments, in their garbage. I taught myself to play it and it became like a third arm.”
“That’s an amazing story,” says Natalie, gazing at me. One of her delicately gloved hands reaches out and touches my arm. Another drug rush comes over me and I realise I’m completely at this woman’s mercy. “Your turn to ask me a question.” Natalie smiles with her full, mesmerising lips. I suddenly have the urge to bite them from her face.
Glancing around the party, I can see people looking at Natalie and I. I can’t tell if any of them know her or whether they’re wondering who this devil is that’s holding my attention. Having me to herself. Across the rooftop I see Jennifer Fox. She’s talking to a few girls I don’t recognise and she’s laughing mildly, playing with her hair and watching me out of the corner of her blue eyes. Jennifer never breaks character, but I can see her inspecting Natalie, assessing this rival. This competitor. As beautiful, wealthy and famous as Jennifer is, Natalie is unequalled. Natalie is sex personified. Natalie takes what she wants. Natalie doesn’t like to share.
“Um,” I stammer, trying to think of a question. All I want to do is disappear from this party with Natalie and do unspeakable things to her. Abhorrent, profane things. I don’t know where this lust is coming from, but I can’t control it. Its tendril fingers are in my body, in my blood, and I’m utterly helpless. I’m at the bottom of a very dark pit, gazing up at a pinprick of sunslight.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see Martin Brannagh grinning at me. He opens his arms and gives me a hug.
“Jack, my favourite rock star. Are you having a good time?” he asks, with genuine interest. Brannagh looks like a veteran actor of daytime soap operas. He’s had a number of facelifts, but wrinkles still form in his tanned, leathering skin. His hair is white as snow, slicked back to his head. A wide, equally pale moustache balances confidently on his top lip. His pupils betray his real age, now a soft faded grey, but they are no less intense. Brannagh’s eyes are always studying and evaluating you.
“Marty, you needn’t ask,” I chuckle, slapping him on the arm.
Brannagh returns my smile, glances at my companion, then back to me. “I see Natalie has found you,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply, as Natalie wraps an arm around my waist. She gives Brannagh a knowing smile.
“I asked Martin to introduce me to you again,” says Natalie, feigning embarrassment. “But I found the courage to introduce myself.”
Brannagh laughs. “Natalie, I told you, Jack doesn’t bite.” Then, to me, he asks, “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, of course,” I nod, before adding, “Not unless you put something near my mouth.”
Brannagh puts a hand on my shoulder and laughs heartily. He then says, “Natalie’s a lovely girl. You’d fail to find more charming company.”
“Marty, stop it,” says Natalie, giving him a light, playful shove. M
ischief gleams in her emerald eyes.
“Jack, I’d love to catch up with you soon,” says Brannagh. “Will you come over for dinner this week? If you’re not too tired from recording the new album.”
“Sure, that’d be great,” I reply. “I’ll get Amelia to arrange something.”
“Excellent. We’ll chat when things are a little less...” says Brannagh, waving a casual finger at the crowd around us, searching for a word.
“Hectic?” I offer.
“Yes. Exactly,” says Brannagh. Turning to Natalie he adds, “Look after Jack. He’s very precious to me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll leave him in one piece,” promises Natalie, though I don’t believe her.
Brannagh is absorbed back into the party, as everyone bides for a moment of his attention.
“So where were we?” asks Natalie.
“I was about to ask you a question,” I respond. “But that was your second question, so now I get two more.” Natalie huffs, knowing I’ve caught her out. “So what do you do for fun?”
“I love art. I work with an art group. Curating exhibitions, organizing openings, that sort of thing.”
Exhibitions and openings. I let that one slide. I would ask her to elaborate, but every question is precious. “Ok, second question,” I say, pulling her closer to me. My interior is electrified, tingling, buzzing and pulsing. My exterior is in control. Focused. Like stone. My hand slides down the small of her back, feeling skin through the fabric of her dress. My fingers find the top of her g-string. Natalie takes an audible breath when I whisper my question in her ear. “What colour is your underwear?”
My new acquaintance looks as if she may blush. For the first time in our encounter, she’s not in total control. “You might get to find out,” she says, softly.
“I will find out,” I reply.
Natalie smiles, coquettishly. “You seem very sure of yourself.”
I position myself between Natalie and the raging crowd of party guests behind us. Instinctively, she moves back slightly, leaning against the white rendered wall that fences the rooftop. I lean in and smell the skin near her ear, then lightly run my tongue across her earlobe and upper neck. I sense her body buckling from the sensation and a soft gasp escapes those delicious lips. If she really wants to enter Jack’s world, then she will pay a toll.
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