“Come on.” Clay looked at the three of them in turn. “We spent a lot of time together once, did a lot of things together. Laughed a lot. Can’t we just go out and have a drink and remember a friend? Can’t we do that? I don’t know what he did, but you liked him once and that must mean something.”
There was a moment’s pause. One of those disapproving silences he was sometimes on the wrong end of, but then Judy said: “I want to go.”
“What? Why?” demanded Abigail.
“Because I want to see everyone’s faces again.”
Abigail and Belinda both looked at her and then to each other.
“Maybe you’re actually right Clay,” said Belinda. “Maybe it is a good idea.”
Abigail nodded. “Okay. We’ll go.”
“I told Toby we’d be in the pub at eight,” said Clay. “He’s going to contact the others.”
“That’s lovely,” a smile was tip-toeing onto Judy’s tear-stained face. “It’s terrible, awful news – I can’t believe it. But maybe something good will come out of it if we get to see our old friends again.”
She continued to weep, and Abigail continued to sooth her in the calming surround of the blue room.
Belinda took Clay to her bedroom, the sunlight streaming through the window and turning it into an English countryside idyll.
“It’s incredibly good of you.” She leant back against the door and regarded him slowly, sexily. “It’s very good of you to get everyone together to pay tribute to your friend. It’s touching. You’ve got a big heart, haven’t you, Clay? That’s what I like about you. That’s what we all like about you – the fact that you have such a tremendously big heart.”
She kissed him full on the lips, so hard that she nearly made them bleed.
CHAPTER SIX
The Murdered Bastard had once been their favourite haunt. They spent so much time there – chewing on the stodgy pub grub, making ‘important’ phone calls, whiling away the long hours in earnest discussions. If the landlord had had the foresight to set up some beds in the bar and open a rent book, they’d all have been happy with that arrangement. It wasn’t trendy or stylish, a place in which to be noticed, but they’d all spent so much time in those establishments – trying to be trendy, trying to be stylish, trying to be noticed – that they just wanted to relax, and The Murdered Bastard was a place where they could do just that.
The females did still frequent the IT bars, and would return with tales of how they’d stood three feet from the latest Hollywood heartthrob and had him smile in their direction. He would have come over too, if his publicist wasn’t pushing him the other way.
There were two corners of preference, one in the saloon bar with red benches against the walls and a long rectangular table, the other in the public bar with a large round table. Both allowed a good forum for tales about themselves. That was the primary reason they were there – they were frustrated artists, wannabes, talent on the move. They had thus far been thwarted in their ambitions and so needed to convince themselves again that it was going to happen. And those meetings in The Murdered Bastard gave them an opportunity to voice their ideas to an audience which wouldn’t heckle.
They were a union of the talented but ignored. They dreamt of Hollywood, of Palm Springs, of meetings with agents and producers in New York, of sold-out theatres, of recording studios. They’d looked around and knew it didn’t take much to become successful these days, to read their name in print, to have people genuinely excited to meet them. All it took for actresses was a juicy role and then one bikini photo-shoot in a men’s magazine, then they were officially ‘glamorous’. All it took for screenwriters was one critical success and they’d be hailed across the broadsheets. All it took for novelists was one commercial or critical success (either would do) and they could write their Magnum Opus knowing that at least some of the world cared. All it took for theatrical impresarios was that one right play. They had dreams of achievement, fantasies of fame and they spoke them out loud and puffed themselves up and offered creative opium to the group.
Anyone with a real job, mortgage, pension, children, responsibilities, would have indulged their talk with a sneer of condescension. There was none of that in The Murdered Bastard, where their dreams were greeted enthusiastically and they all knew they were as marvellous as they thought themselves to be.
A lot of time had elapsed since any of them had been there; many days had slipped by since the pub last rang with tales of impending glory. As such, it took Belinda, Abigail and Judy a long time to decide their outfits. They of course needed to demonstrate a touch of mourning, but they also needed to look their best.
Belinda was ready first. She wore black jeans, black cowboy boots and a crisp Country and Western black shirt. The boots added to the length of her leg, while the shirt showed the shape of her breasts without exposing any cleavage. She kept the same pink lipstick as earlier, it was a down colour. She looked mournful but still prepared to enjoy herself – like someone going to a sad rodeo.
Judy was next and clearly appreciated her role. She wore a black short-sleeved top and a black skirt – the skirt even made it halfway down her thighs. Her hair was long and straight to her shoulders and her make-up was minimal. She looked older, but older in the way that a sixteen year old would if she’d decided to dress adult.
Abigail was always last. Every choice had to be examined with a forensic thoroughness. She wore a black polar-neck and matched it with a black pencil skirt. Her hair was tied in a pony tail, and her faded red lipstick made her look like a character from film noir. However, she also resembled a trophy wife at the funeral of her nonagenarian husband – letting any rich mourners know what she had.
They walked out into the evening sunshine looking like they’d swallowed some magical elixir of chic. Even Clay – who although big and handsome, would never have been described as glamorous – seemed to radiate in the sunlight. The pub wasn’t far, just behind Oxford Street, but they took a cab anyway.
On arrival, they got out and tipped big and then readied themselves, the ladies setting their faces to the correct sombre but alluring position for the evening ahead.
It was clear from the outside that progress had hit the pub since their last visit. It used to look delightfully Edwardian, with battered wood panels and an old hanging pub sign which showed a man panicked by the prospect of the noose. That had all gone. The outside was now garish red, the pub sign and panels were missing and there were now just a few drawings of stick-men who may – or may not – be murdering each other. Clay stared at it, his hand to the small of Belinda’s back. There was a disappointment creeping up him that everything and everywhere he loved seemed to have changed, and so it was with a slow-punctured heart and a nervous shuffle that he led them inside.
Within, the changes were not as terrible as those wrought upon Ye Olde Burnt Parchment. In fact, it was just as if everything had been polished. The bar still carried the same choice of cask beers, the chairs and tables were laid out to the traditional plan and the television set was the same difficult to see forty-incher in the corner. There was still a jukebox, a pool table, a dartboard – only now everything was shiny. The dark wood which had been used for every one of the floorboards, the joists, the bar, the tables, the chairs – had either been ripped out or given the once over by some miracle varnish. It was light where once it was dark, it was shiny where once it was a rustic dull. It was young. Before they’d brought youth to the pub, they were the clientele with the loudest voices, the least inhibitions. Now it looked younger than they did, now they seemed out of place by being too old for it. It screamed for students and those not quite eighteen. Except – despite the improvements and all the money undoubtedly spent – the clientele appeared much the same. A couple of old geezers playing dominoes, a few middle aged couples with shopping bags, some business types needing a quaff at the end of their working day, and there – in the rectangular corner – was Toby Coops.
He gave a half smile, whic
h raised the corners of his mouth, but was clearly nowhere near genuine. Belinda, Abigail and Judy were not disconcerted though, beaming wide grins as they strutted over to join him.
“Hi!” they chirped in high excited tones. They each leant down to kiss his cheek. He was obviously ignoring the rule that you’re supposed to stand when a lady enters a room; either that or he didn’t consider himself in the presence of ladies.
“Evening.” He grimaced as each theatrical kiss was placed. “Hello again, Clay.”
“Hullo,” said Clay. “Did you speak to anyone else?”
“Yes, yes,” said Toby. “It was a popular suggestion, partly due to Raymond and partly due to your prodigal presence. They all said they’d be here – won’t that be nice girls?”
“It’ll be good to see everyone again.” Belinda’s tones were carefully neutral.
“Okay,” said Clay. “Who wants a drink?”
They all did, the larger the better. Belinda, Abigail and Judy all wore perfect smiles, but were clearly going to need some nerve-settling fast. Toby sighed and said he’d have one in a way that sounded casual but also desperate.
“So how are you then, Toby?” asked Judy. “It’s been such a long time.”
She’d taken the seat next to him and was leaning over with flirtatious eyes. Abigail sat next to her, holding that detached air she must have cultivated in her pushchair. Belinda sat on the opposite side of the table; Clay was next to her and she rested her hand on his thigh.
“I’m fine in myself,” Toby said, “thank you. Although obviously it’s not a good day, I’m fairly cut up about Raymond’s passing.”
“It’s terrible news,” said Belinda.
“But you’re okay?” asked Judy.
“I suppose so. The money is holding out, I have a roof over my head – so I guess everything is much the same as when you left me.”
“What about the love life?” asked Abigail. “Is it still a dry riverbed?”
“Don’t be mean!” tutted Judy.
Abigail looked at him with what to the casual observer would have been an impassive face, but to seasoned Abigail watchers was definitely a smirk. “That’s how he used to describe it,” she said.
“Well, unfortunately,” said Toby. “My love life has – yes – returned to a temporarily barren state. If we’d had this conversation nine months ago, even three months ago, you’d have found the bank in full bloom with green plants, flowers and all kinds of edible fungi – but now alas, the tap has been turned off, the water supply has trickled out and the river is running dry yet again.”
“What happened?” asked Clay.
“Paris happened,” said Toby. “I know Paris is supposed to be your great romantic city, and couples are supposed to dance in each other’s arms in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, say ‘Ooh la la,’ and always love the fucking place – but to me it’s a cesspool. My lover differed from me in one important aspect – she liked the French!” A sourness twisted his features, before quickly fading away. “But that was fine, I thought she was a lovely girl and we could get along if we didn’t mention it. So we went out for awhile and things were great, and we went out for a little longer and things weren’t so great. So to give us some elbow space and breathing room, she accepted a posting from her company to Paris. I was going to come and see her each weekend and it would give us a change of scene, an extra sense of romance, a kick-start to the passion. But did it really do any of that?”
He paused, as if actually waiting for an answer. His hands were thrown wide and were shaking as he told the story, as if he was still filled with a futile rage. The expression of sourness was now back and filling every inch of his face. He continued: “Did it fuck! Within a week of being there, she’d shacked up with some striped-jersey wearing, onion-selling, bicycle-pushing Pierre and ditched me. She ditched me and never even had the courtesy of telling me she was ditching me. She just sent an email saying it might be best if I didn’t come out next weekend and left it at that – not a word extra. Well, eventually I got so worried I went out there and found them together, in some nice little riverside café – kissing, kissing, kissing. Oh, it was sickening! So I threw some baguettes at them, caused a scene and ran off. As such, I think we can safely conclude it’s over.”
“That’s terrible!” Judy clutched his hand and fluttered her eyelashes in sympathy – as if flirting alone would get him over the heartbreak.
“What about you three, anyway?” he asked. “How are your lives? I can see,” he pointed at Belinda, “that you have your old faithful back. But what about you two? Do you still have that string of unfortunate men you’re torturing incessantly?”
Abigail smiled. “There are always men.”
“But we don’t really torture them,” said Judy.
“What about work?” he asked. “Anything in the pipeline? Are the theatre electricians getting ready to put your names in bright and shining lights?”
“I did some theatre recently,” said Judy. “It was a play in Nottingham. It was only a small part, but I think I might have impressed some good people.”
“I appeared in a shampoo commercial on Bolivian TV,” said Belinda.
“Did you?” asked Clay.
“It’s the red hair, honey,” she said. “There aren’t many Bolivians with red hair. It paid well and I think I’m getting noticed in the right circles.”
“What? Bolivian circles?” Toby smiled.
She didn’t smile back.
“I have a part in a film,” said Abigail. “It’s an independent feature, but it’s a wonderful script and I think it’s going to get a lot of attention.”
“There’s always an independent film somewhere, isn’t there?” said Toby. “I’m amazed the streets of London don’t grind to a halt with them. Every corner of the city clogged up with cheap cameras and clapper-boards.”
Abigail took a slow sip of her drink.
“Oh, hello!” said Toby.
They turned. Sitting at the top of the table, with drink already in hand, was Charles West, his face, as always, a strange mix of smugness and timidity.
For an actor, Charles West had little presence. He wasn’t somebody who was noticed if passed on the street, or riding in the same elevator, or even sitting at the same pub table. He had black hair, pasty complexion and wide brown eyes which didn’t pierce or look deep, but kind of sat there the way cat’s eyes do in tarmac. They were just there and he was just there.
“Hello,” he said. He immediately looked at the ladies and offered his most ingratiating smile. They returned the compliment – although with that professional actress smile they all had. If there were women present, Charles always greeted them first, like a true lady’s man; while, if there were just blokes around, he’d be laddish and boozy. Although an actor, he never seemed sincere in either role.
“Ah Charlie,” said Toby. “Good of you to come.”
“Well, I felt I had to. It was awful to hear about poor Raymond. I could not believe it.”
“It’s terrible news,” said Abigail.
“Did you actually see it on the TV news?” Charles asked. Nobody had, so he shook his head and gave a full face of concentration. “It was just dreadful to look at a friend’s house like that. I mean it’s really – in terms of time – not so long ago since I was there, and now it’s being seen by millions." He took a sip of his drink. “Hello, Clay. Good to see you. How have you been?”
“I’ve been good, thanks. You?”
“Yes, I have been wonderful – thank you. I have to say, at the moment, things are looking most promising.”
“Have you got work?” asked Judy.
“Yes, I do. It’s not paid work unfortunately, but it’s most definitely there. I am involved in a new independent film. We’re getting the funding together now and I think it is going to be big. The director is this beautiful boy who is going to be the new Tarantino and the script – which I gave a rewrite to, although I’m not taking any credit – is absolutely incred
ible. I play the lead role and we’re going to start shooting in a couple of months.”
“An independent film you say?” said Toby. “You don’t see many of those any more. I’m glad to know you’re keeping that end up.”
Charles smiled triumphantly, while Abigail just stared coolly at her glass.
Bunny was next to arrive, showing up in a very Bunny outfit of black trousers frilled white shirt and velvet smoking jacket. Pince-nez were tucked into his top pocket and he dappled his forehead with a white and pink handkerchief – the pink being an artist’s representation of some dancing girls.
“Ah there you all are!” he said. “Beautiful to see you once again. Ah, Clay! It has been too long, my dear friend.” He clasped Clay’s hand between his palms and shook enthusiastically. “You were very naughty to stay away for so long. You were naughty not to let us know where we could find you. But now you’re back! And I welcome you with a salute and a cheer and wish you nothing but good health.” Before Clay could respond, Bunny dropped his hand and said, “Drink anyone?”
Bunny boisterously arranged for everyone’s glass to be recharged. Clay considered that Bunny was annoyingly theatrical in the very best way. He was grand in his gestures, spoke as if a character in some terrible drawing-room play, wore outlandish costumes and was completely dazzled by the bright lights of Broadway, the West End, or even Scarborough Pier. Anywhere where there was a stage and neon, he was hooked. He was a member of the famous Eddingtons, one of London’s most prominent theatrical families – Producers To The Stars! Unfortunately, he was such a junior relative he’d never had an automatic entry to the business, and so had decided to prove himself by becoming a success alone. He longed for the day when one Eddington play moved in next door to another, only the new one was his and the old one was in the twilight of its run.
“Darlings, darlings,” Bunny said. He made a great show of kissing the cheeks of each female. “You’re all beautiful tonight, absolutely magnificent.” He stood at the top of the table and raised his glass. “But, as much as I would adore revelling in your loveliness, I think we should acknowledge the appalling happenings of last night. To our friend Raymond, ladies and gentlemen. A man we never failed to love, respect and admire.”
The Wannabes Page 5