The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

  Abigail smiled pityingly at him. “Yes, but being successful like that is the bespectacled ugly man’s ‘getting your tits out for the lads.’ You don’t have the talent it really takes and so you cheapen yourself. Let’s be fair here, Clay – look around you – each of us would have had a ‘successful’ career if we’d taken our clothes off for the mags. Yet we’re above that, we don’t demean ourselves – but obviously poor Raymond wasn’t above it at all.”

  “None of us have read it yet.” Clay took another gulp of wine. “It might be good.”

  “It might be incredibly good,” said Abigail. “But it doesn’t matter how good an actress you are, or how talented a singer – once you have your boobs out on page three, then that’s all you are. One of those girls who makes a living taking her kit off. It makes us serious artists mad. The women with real talent, who won’t degrade themselves are punished for it – because papers give attention to those who do. Look at the celebrities we have these days. All those one hit wonders and reality show contestants and glamour models. Big-titted tarts who have scantily clad photos taken every single day, just because they’ll sell papers and make a bit of money. Nothing more meaningful than that. Well, that’s all Raymond did. If he was going to write a book which was serious and about proper issues, he might have been applauded for it. As it is, he just cheapened himself.”

  Clay chewed around a mouthful of food and swallowed it back with a satisfied gulp. Judy smiled at him and filled his glass. He signalled when halfway up but she ignored him and took it to the brim.

  No, Abigail couldn’t have killed them. Belinda and Judy wouldn’t and couldn’t have helped. They weren’t murderers, they were just women who were struggling to break through – wannabes who needed that little bit of luck – and they hated it when they saw an opportunity snatched away from them. They had reason to dislike Raymond, they had reason to dislike Nick – but that didn’t mean Abigail would actually kill either of them. Abigail wouldn’t do anything to mess up her hair, certainly not bloody brutal murder.

  He swallowed and stared at them mischievously. “But, even though this book cheapened Raymond, you’d have appeared in the TV adaptation?”

  “Please,” sneered Abigail. “I don’t know how they run Channel Four, but if they want to take some crappy horror book with a terrible cover and make a big budget series out of it, then that’s their choice. Once they’ve made that decision, I want to be part of it. I’m a young actress, I have a lot to offer, I have roles to play – bills to pay – so yes, I’d like to be considered.”

  “It was incredible.” Belinda held her glass still in front of her. “When we first heard the book had been optioned, we were so excited. Even though we hadn’t heard from him in a while, we couldn’t believe he’d be so myopic. After all, he knew us, knew how talented we were. It was inconceivable he wouldn’t tell the casting director to come to this address.”

  Judy looked sad. “We even had the magazine interviews worked out – ‘Flatmates to Starmates!’”

  “But did we get a call? Like Hell! We didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Well, who did you hear about it from?”

  “Charles West told us,” said Abigail. “He was aggrieved that he hadn’t been considered for a part, but frankly that was understandable. Who’d want their drama tarnished by the presence of that talentless turd?”

  Clay took another mouthful, he’d nearly managed to clear his plate. “So are you jealous of Flower?” he asked, and instantly regretted it.

  There was a pause, a silence which might have been awkward if it wasn’t for the scraping of his fork against his plate.

  Then Abigail let out a laugh. “I wouldn’t say I ever really did jealousy, darling. Besides, Flower Honeysuckle is not a substantial enough figure to be jealous of, to worry about, to have strong feelings for. She’s like a blancmange – how can you desperately love or passionately hate a blancmange? It’s just blancmange. She flits from one ‘artistic’ notion to another, wasting her time and other people’s money and never getting anywhere. She’s just a silly school girl who one day wants to be an actress, one day wants to be a dancer, one day wants to own a pony. She’s not someone we’d be jealous of.”

  “She’s got a part in the show,” said Clay.

  Belinda raised her eyebrow in mild annoyance. “But that’s something to be irritated about, honey, not jealous of. Jake clearly got her that part because he’s besotted, because she refused to shag him unless she got the role. I guess Raymond went along with it, because – well, Raymond didn’t like us and wanted to stub out a nasty little cigarette on us. Nobody can really believe she’s an actress, that she’ll give a good performance. Maybe she does it in bed for Jake, but not on stage, not in front of the cameras. It doesn’t make us jealous, it just makes us feel the injustice of it. Who knows? Maybe the producers will realise when they watch her. Maybe they’ll get rid of her.”

  Abigail took a sip of wine. “Maybe she’ll be forced to drop out for some reason.”

  “Yes, we shouldn’t give up hope,” said Judy.

  “She’s a bitch!” snarled Belinda. “I saw her today, wearing this tiny little T-shirt that showed her pants. She was flirting like mad with Clay, while the same time stretching over Jake and claiming him as her possession.”

  “I don’t remember her flirting with me.”

  “That’s because you only have eyes for Belinda,” said Judy.

  “That’s because you’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.” Belinda held his hand across the table.

  Her fingers felt good in his and he took another gulp of wine, then wiped his brow. “Is the heating on?”

  “No,” said Abigail. “It’s probably just the hot weather and the food.”

  “Here.” Judy filled his glass again. “Have some more wine.”

  “What about Jake?” He was feeling a little light-headed now. A bit pissed, in fact. But he had a large glass of wine in front of him and thought it’d be rude not to drink it. Really, it was most palatable.

  “I like Jake,” said Belinda. “Although I think it’s a mistake he’s with Flower. He was a nicer guy when he was with Abigail.”

  Judy giggled. “I had such a crush on him. It’s a terrible thing to admit about your friend’s boyfriends, but I did fancy him.” She lowered her eyelashes and flushed. “I have a crush on your boyfriend too, Belinda.”

  Belinda laughed and Clay blushed. Judy sat beside him, so pretty.

  “Jake was an okay boyfriend.” Abigail turned the food over on her plate with polite disinterest; she seemed to have barely touched half of it. “He was all about himself though. All conversations were about him and what he liked and what he wanted and what he was going to get. All we did when we were together were things he wanted to do when we were together. They weren’t my needs satisfied, my desires – it was just about him. I sometimes wonder why I stayed with him so long. I guess because he was handsome, quite sweet and I thought he was going places. I don’t know, I suppose when you’re younger it’s nice to bewitch a man like that. Just on closer inspection, it turns out he wasn’t worth bewitching.”

  Bewitch? The glass stopped halfway to Clay’s mouth, thoughts jerking through his alcohol-addled brain. Nick had said Abigail bewitched him. But surely that was different. Jake and Abigail were actually lovers; it was proper that some level of bewitching took place. He took a sip of wine. He had to stop having these crazy thoughts. He shouldn’t be drunk and paranoid.

  “I didn’t like the thing he had with Raymond,” said Belinda. “The way the two of them – and Toby as well – made out they were more intelligent than the rest of us. The way they’d drop all those stupid cultural, historical references into conversation, and expect everyone to know what they were talking about. That annoyed me. And then you’d have Flower, who’d sit there with a knowing smile. Anything came up she didn’t know, she’d just sit there with that smile and not say a word. She didn’t know what it was any more than the rest of us, but
she liked to feel part of that superiority.”

  “There’s that smugness to Jake and there’s that smugness to her,” Abigail said. “They actually make a very good couple, they deserve each other. You wouldn’t think that two people who put themselves first, first, first could make it in a relationship, but obviously they can.”

  “How long have they been together?” asked Clay.

  Judy shrugged. “About a year I think.”

  “From when he started to get commissions to write proper TV shows,” explained Belinda. “She managed to find herself back on the dating scene then.”

  “Yes!” laughed Abigail. “Remember that penniless poet boyfriend? She had her suffering artist lover. Remember that architect? She had her professional lover. That builder guy? Her bit of rough lover. That actor? Her on-stage fling lover. Now she’s worked her way up to successful screenwriter lover. Although I can’t see her giving up this one as easily.”

  Clay was hot; he was full and tipsy. He looked at them and his vision blurred. He felt calm and relaxed though. He felt safe. It was incredible that he’d had such thoughts about them – about Abigail – even for a moment. “What about Charles?” he asked. “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s nothing at all in my opinion,” said Belinda.

  Abigail shook her head. “He’s a crap actor and an even worse excuse for a human being. I don’t mean that in a nasty way, I just mean he’s so inconsequential in both roles that there’s little point him being in either.”

  “Bunny?”

  “I like Bunny,” said Judy. “He’s sweet and funny and nice. Maybe some day one of his shows will be successful, maybe he’ll be lucky.”

  Belinda laughed. “He’ll have to be very lucky. But I suppose, if you see some of the shows in the West End, some of the crap ideas and crappier performers – then who knows? His lack of taste might come into fashion long enough for him to have a hit.”

  “I like him too.” Abigail gave one of her affectionate smiles, something she hadn’t really mastered, and as such it usually made her look sinister. “I don’t have much confidence in him making it though. I think he’ll always be at the edge of things, always trying to trade off that family name. No doubt, after we’re famous, he’ll try to use us in some way. He’ll try to get us to star in one of his crappy plays.”

  “He better have a better script than normal,” said Belinda.

  “Quite,” Abigail raised her glass. “Or maybe he’ll put on a play about us. Can you imagine that? A drama about three talented actresses and the gay Svengali who puts them on their path to fame.”

  They all laughed.

  “Here’s to you!” said Clay.

  The four of them came together in a whirl of wrists and glasses. He celebrated with another gulp.

  “Are you okay?” Belinda asked.

  He stared at her. “I’ve probably felt better.”

  “Oh poor honey. Would you please excuse us? It’s been a very long day.”

  “But we still have dessert,” said Judy.

  “I’ll eat it tomorrow.” He was slurring his words now, suddenly incapacitated by the drink, the food, the heat, the tiredness. He stood up and lurched forward and Belinda’s arm steadied him. Judy clutched his other side.

  He looked at Abigail – so beautiful, so smug, so superior, so lovely. He didn’t know what had happened this morning – God, was it only this morning? – and he doubted he’d ever know. They weren’t likely ever to discuss it, after all. But he knew she was a good person underneath. She was with Belinda and Judy, and she was a good person.

  “I know you didn’t do it,” he heard himself say.

  Her eyebrow rose. “Sorry?”

  “I know it wasn’t you.”

  “Oh. Okay then.” She was clearly baffled, but held her hand out for him to kiss, and he nearly toppled into the table as he did so. He felt Belinda’s arm on him, and Judy’s, and stood straight with a grin of embarrassment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  They helped him from the room. He felt large, as if he’d swelled in the space of one course. It was like he was walking on ornamental weights which had been lovingly carved into the shape of his feet. He had his arms around Judy and Belinda, and was amazed that they could carry him. He felt so cumbersome to himself – if he’d had to rely purely on his own muscle, he wasn’t sure he’d have moved anywhere. He was big and fat and hopeless. The light flickered as he tried to keep his eyes open.

  Belinda’s bed offered sanctuary, a green relief that he fell towards. He landed face first, a knee banging into the side. He heard one of them laugh, and then hands grabbed him and rolled him face down to the pillow.

  He felt a hand – Belinda’s touch – stroke his scalp tenderly. She maybe sang a snatch of a lullaby as well, he couldn’t really tell – everything was so fuzzy. Maybe it was just a gentle tune caught in his head. Her fingers moved through his scalp, going round in circles – a vortex of calm and relaxation. His eyes stayed shut, his breath got deeper, and the circles got smaller until they ended at a full stop.

  “Come on.” He heard Abigail’s voice. “He’ll sleep now.”

  The touch of the hand vanished, the soothing went and he was left in the dark. For some reason he couldn’t open his eyes and was glad of that: he didn’t want to see the real world, he just wanted to lose himself in beautiful blackness. He squeezed his eyes tighter and brought his fingers to his face.

  The images came quickly.

  He was with a man, a man whose face he couldn’t see even though they were kissing. The man must have been big though, as Clay had to tip-toe to kiss him. He was glad to see the man, happy to be kissing him again.

  They were in a hallway and they were moving. Clay was gently pushing him in the direction of the bedroom.

  The man took off his T-shirt, jeans, boxers and there he was – a beautiful specimen. He sat on the bed and Clay knelt before him. They kissed on the lips and then Clay moved his tongue down the man’s torso – licking his muscles, not yet touching the erection that was waiting for him. The man sat back, and even though Clay couldn’t see his face he knew he was smiling.

  Clay reached under the mattress and wrapped his hand around the hilt of a sharp knife. His kisses against the man’s chest grew more passionate. He was biting now, leaving little pinches on the flesh.

  He kissed him from his throat to his crotch and then swallowed his dick in one. The man pressed the back of Clay’s head, trying to keep him there, trying to make sure he never came up – but Clay wriggled a little and the man let go.

  Clay looked up at the man’s eyes, even though he couldn’t see them.

  He smiled at the man and spoke breathlessly. “You’re always mine. You will always be mine, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” said the man. “Yes, I will.”

  Raising his hand, Clay sliced the man’s chest open. The blade punctured the skin just above his belly and Clay pushed it through his ribs. The man didn’t scream, he was so happy and horny that he didn’t utter a sound until the blade was deep and working its way up. The blood splattered across the room, covering the bed and the pillows and caking Clay’s face and hair. The man sank back to the mattress, wearing a stupid imploring look.

  Clay jammed his mouth into the wound and started to lap away at the warm, flowing blood. The man reached out but Clay easily smacked off his weak, dying hand. Clay roared, a sense of glory in the gore, and there on the floor were the burnt bodies of Raymond and Nick.

  He grinned, his teeth smeared red.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  He leapt like a live man in a grave.

  The lights were off and he stumbled in the dark before managing – almost by accident – to hit the switch. The room came alive in sickening green and Clay stood in sweat-drenched clothes, his chest tight with breathlessness. Wide-eyed, he grabbed the wall to keep steady and sucked in vast gulps of air.

  He wasn’t drunk any more – instead, he felt faint, ill. It was still only m
idnight and he was alone and having horrible nightmares like a nervous little boy. Except he wasn’t like a nervous little boy – his nightmares came true, they actually happened as he dreamt them. But this one wasn’t like that, it was something different, something he could remember at an acute angle. He’d never kissed a man, never sucked a man’s dick – yet the dream was so real. He’d never killed a man – but could remember the coldness of the knife, the warm spraying of the blood, the triumph. Yet it hadn’t happened, it was just a dream like the others – but then it turned out the others weren’t just dreams.

  He tore off his clothes, actually ripped stitches out of stitches. He staggered to the bathroom, listening to the three women laugh as he stumbled past the closed dining room door.

  The pink light of the bathroom was harsh and he blinked as he stared at himself in the mirror. He’d picked up a tan in recent days, but right then looked grey, haggard, grimy – covered with a sweat that wasn’t clear and salty, but was moist and dusty. He took a flannel and wiped himself down, then with a lurch bent over the toilet bowl and threw up, vomiting out a viscous red-wine liquid. With the back of his hand he wiped his mouth and coughed, then flushed the toilet and watched it drain away. The sensation of drunkenness had gone. It didn’t feel like he’d ever even tasted alcohol. He straightened up as the most sober man alive.

  There were pink plastic cups by the sink and he turned the tap and filled one with cold water and threw it back in a bolt, then took another and another and another. He carried one final cup to rest on the bedside table.

  He quietly opened the bathroom door and crept down the hallway. There was no laughter from the dining room – just a complete stillness.

  Belinda was waiting for him in red knickers and bra, lipstick freshly applied along with empathy in her eyes. She lay on the bed, right leg arched. She smiled at him, managing to be both desirous and concerned. “Hello, honey,” she purred. “I was surprised to find you gone. I thought you’d be asleep.”