“Too bad you missed dinner,” Fitzsimmons tells me. “Pudding was the last of Jonny’s Narnian weed. We couldn’t very well let Mrs. Mop find it during her end-of-term clean-up, assume it was a turd nugget, and chuck it out with Jonny’s gluey copies of Scouting Ahoy!” Jonny Penhaligon, still draining his bitter, gives Fitzsimmons the finger; his knobbly Adam’s apple bobs up and down. Idly, I imagine slicing it with a razor. Fitzsimmons sniffs and asks Cheeseman, “Where’s your leather-trousered friend from the Mysterious Orient?”
Cheeseman glances at his watch. “Thirty thousand feet over Siberia, turning back into an upstanding Confucian eldest son. Why would I risk my reputation on being seen with a gang of notorious heterosexuals if Sek was still in town? I’m a fully converted rice queen. Crash us a cancer-stick, Fitz; I could bloody murder a fag, as I delight in telling Americans.”
“You don’t need to light up in here.” Olly Quinn is our pet nonsmoker. “Just breathe in.”
“Weren’t you giving up?” Fitzsimmons passes Cheeseman his box of Dunhills; Penhaligon and I take one too.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” says Cheeseman. “Your Hermann Göring lighter, Jonny, if you’d be so kind? I adore its frisson of evil.”
Penhaligon produces his Third Reich lighter. It’s genuine, obtained by his uncle in Dresden, and these fat boys fetch three thousand pounds at auction. “Where’s RCP tonight?”
“The future Lord Rufus Chetwynd-Pitt,” answers Fitzsimmons, “is scoring drugs. Pity for him it’s not an academic discipline.”
“It’s a recession-proof sector of the economy,” I note.
“This time next year,” Olly Quinn picks at the label of his nonalcoholic lager, “we’ll all be out in the real world, earning a living.”
“Can’t bloody wait,” says Fitzsimmons, stroking his chin cleft. “I despise being poor.”
“My heart bleeds.” Richard Cheeseman holds his ciggie in the corner of his mouth à la Serge Gainsbourg. “People see your parents’ twenty-roomed mansion in the Cotswolds, your Porsche, your Versace gear and jump to all the wrong conclusions.”
“It’s my parents’ loot,” says Fitzsimmons. “It’s only fair that I have my own obscene bonus to squander.”
“Daddy’s still sorting you a job in the City?” asks Cheeseman, then frowns as Fitzsimmons brushes the shoulders of Cheeseman’s tweed jacket. “What are you doing?”
“Flicking the chips off your shoulders, our Richard.”
“They’re superglued on,” I tell Fitzsimmons. “And don’t knock nepotism, Cheeseman; my well-connected uncles all agree, nepotism made this country what it is today.”
Cheeseman blows smoke my way. “When you’re a burned-out ex-Citibank analyst having your Lamborghini repossessed and your third wife’s lawyer’s got your nuts under a judge’s gavel, you’ll be sorry.”
“Right,” I say, “and the Ghost of Christmas Future sees Richard Cheeseman working on a charity project for Bogotá street-children.”
Cheeseman ponders Bogotá street-children, purrs, and desists. “Charity breeds fecklessness. No, it’s the way of the hack for me. A column here, a novel there, bit of broadcasting now and then. Speaking of which …” He fishes in his jacket pocket and retrieves a book: Desiccated Embryos by Crispin Hershey. REVIEW COPY ONLY is emblazoned in red across the cover. “My first paid review for Felix Finch at The Piccadilly Review. Twenty-five pence a word, twelve hundred words, three hundred quid for two hours’ work. Result.”
“Fleet Street beware,” says Penhaligon. “Who’s Crispin Hershey?”
Cheeseman sighs. “The son of Anthony Hershey?”
Penhaligon blinks at him, none the wiser.
“Oh, c’mon, Jonny! Anthony Hershey! Filmmaker! Oscar for Box Hill in 1964, made Ganymede 5 in the seventies, the best British SF film ever made.”
“That film robbed me of the will to live,” remarks Fitzsimmons.
“Well, I’m impressed by your commission, our Richard,” I say. “Crispin Hershey’s last novel was superb. I picked it up in a hostel in Ladakh on my gap year. Is this one as good?”
“Almost.” Monsieur Le Critic places his fingertips together. “Hershey Junior is a gifted stylist, and Felix—Felix Finch, to you plebs—Felix puts him up there with McEwan, Rushdie, Ishiguro, et al. Felix’s praise is premature, but in a few books’ time, he’ll ripen nicely.”
Penhaligon asks, “How’s your own novel going, Richard?” Fitzsimmons and I do hanged-men faces at each other.
“Evolving.” Cheeseman gazes into his glorious literary future and likes what he sees. “My hero is a Cambridge student called Richard Cheeseman, working on a novel about a Cambridge student called Richard Cheeseman, working on a novel about a Cambridge student called Richard Cheeseman. No one’s ever tried anything like it.”
“Cool,” says Jonny Penhaligon. “That’s sounds like—”
“A frothy pint of piss,” I announce, and Cheeseman looks at me with death in his eyes until I add, “is what’s in my bladder right now. The book sounds incredible, Richard. Excuse me.”
THE GENTS SMELLS well fermented and the only free urinal is blocked and ready to brim over with the amber liquid so I have to queue, like a girl. Finally a grizzly bear of a man ambles away and I fill the vacancy. Just as I’m coaxing my urethra open, a voice at the next urinal says, “Hugo Lamb, as I live and breathe.”
It’s a stocky, swarthy man in a fisherman’s sweater with wiry dark hair, whose “Lamb” sounds like “Limb”—a New Zealander’s vowels. He’s older than me, around thirty, and I can’t place him. “We met back in your first year. The Cambridge Sharpshooters. Sorry, it’s appalling men’s-room etiquette to put a guy off his stride like this.” He’s pissing no-handedly into the gurgling urinal. “Elijah D’Arnoq, postgrad in biochemistry, Corpus Christi.”
A memory flickers: that unique surname. “The rifle club, yes. You’re from those islands, east of New Zealand?”
“The Chathams, that’s right. Now, I remember you because you’re a natural bloody marksman. Still room at the inn, you know.”
Now I know there’s no cottagey thing going on, I start pissing. “You’re overestimating my potential, I’m afraid.”
“Mate, you could be a contender. I’m serious.”
“I was spreading myself a bit thin, extracurricular-wise.”
He nods. “Life’s too short to do everything, right?”
“Something like that. So … you’ve enjoyed Cambridge?”
“Bloody love it. The lab’s good, got a great prof. You’re economics and politics, right? Must be your final year.”
“It is. It’s flown by. Do you still shoot?”
“Religiously. I’m an Anchorite now.”
I wonder if “Anchorite” means “anchorman,” or if it’s a Kiwi-ism or a rifle club–ism. Cambridge is full of insiders’ words to keep outsiders out. “Cool,” I tell him. “I enjoyed my few visits to the range.”
“Never too late. Shooting is prayer. And when civilization shuts up shop, a gun’ll be worth any number of university degrees. Happy Christmas.” He zips his fly. “See you around.”
PENHALIGON ASKS, “SO where’s this mystery woman of yours, Olly?”
Olly Quinn frowns. “She said she’d be here by half seven.”
“Only ninety minutes late,” offers Cheeseman. “Doesn’t prove she’s dumped you for a gym rat with the face of Keanu Reeves, the anatomy of King Dong, and the charisma of moi. Not necessarily.”
“I’m driving her home to London tonight,” says Olly. “She lives in Greenwich—so she’s bound to be along by and by …”
“Confide in us, Olly,” says Cheeseman. “We’re your friends. Is she a real girlfriend, or have you … y’know … made her up?”
“I can vouch for her existence,” says Fitzsimmons, enigmatically.
“Oh?” I glower at Olly. “Since when did this cuckolding crim take precedence over your stairs neighbor?”
“Chance encounter.” Fitzsimmons
tips his roasted-nut crumbs into his mouth. “I espied Olly-plus-companion at the drama section in Heffer’s.”
“And speaking as a reformed postfeminist new man,” I ask Fitzsimmons, “where would you position Queen Ness on the Scale?”
“She’s hot. I presume an escort agency is involved, Olly?”
“Screw you.” Olly smiles like the cat who got the cream. “Ness!” He jumps up as a girl squeezes through the crush of student bodies. “Talk of the devil! Glad you got here.”
“So sorry I’m late, Olly,” she says, and they kiss on the lips. “The bus took about eight hundred years to arrive.”
I know her, or knew her, but only in the biblical sense. Her surname escapes me, but other parts I remember very well. An afterparty in my first year, though she was “Vanessa” back then; potty-mouthed Cheltenham Ladies College, if memory serves; a big shared house down the arse-end of Trumpington Road. We necked a bottle of Château Latour ’76, which she’d nicked from the cellar in the pre-party house. We’ve sighted each other around town since and nodded to avoid the crassness of ignoring each other. She’s a craftier operator than Olly, but even as I wonder what’s in him for her, I recall a drunk-driving offense and a suspended license—and Olly’s warm, dry Astra. All’s fair in love and war, and although I’m many things, I’m not a hypocrite. Ness has seen me and a fifth of a second is enough to agree upon a policy of cordial amnesia.
“Have my seat,” Olly’s saying, removing her coat like a gentle-twat, “and I’ll … er, kneel. Fitz, you’ve met. And this is Richard.”
“Charmed.” Cheeseman offers her a four-fingered handshake. “I’m the malicious queer. Are you Nessie the Monster or Ness the Loch?”
“And I’m as charmed as you are.” I remember her voice, too: slumming-it posh. “My friends have no trouble with just ‘Ness’ but you can call me Vanessa.”
“I’m Jonny, Jonny Penhaligon.” Jonny jumps up to shake her hand. “A pleasure. Olly’s told us shedloads about you.”
“All of it good.” I hold up my palm to say hi. “Hugo.”
Ness misses no beat: “Hugo, Jonny, the malicious queer, and Fitz. Got it.” She turns to Olly. “And sorry—who are you again?”
Olly’s laugh is a notch too loud. His pupils have morphed into love-hearts and, for the nth time squared, I wonder what love feels like on the inside because externally it turns you into the King of Tit Mountain.
“Richard was about to buy a round,” says Fitzsimmons. “Right, Richard? Aerate your wallet?”
Cheeseman feigns confusion. “Isn’t it your turn, Penhaligon?”
“Nope. I bought the round before this one. Nice try.”
“But you own half of Cornwall!” says Cheeseman. “You should see Jonny’s manor, Ness—gardens, peacocks, deer, stables, portraits of three centuries’ worth of Captain Penhaligons up the main staircase.”
Penhaligon snorts. “Tredavoe House is why we’ve got no bloody money. The upkeep’s crippling. And the peacocks are utter bastards.”
“Oh, don’t be a Scrooge, Jonny, the poll tax must be saving you a king’s ransom. I’m going to have to pimp myself later just to get a National Express ticket home to my Leeds pigeon-loft.”
Cheeseman is a fine misdirector—he still has ten thousand pounds from the money his grandfather left him—but I want no ruffled feathers tonight. “I’ll get the next round in,” I volunteer. “Olly, you’ll need to stay sober if you’re driving, so how about a tomato juice with Tabasco to warm the heart of your cockles? Cheeseman’s on the Guinness; Fitz, fizzy Australian wee; and Ness, your poison is … what?”
“The house red isn’t bad.” Olly wants a drunk girlfriend.
“Then a glass of red would hit the spot, Hugo,” she tells me.
I recall that quirky lilt. “Wouldn’t risk it, unless you carry a spare trachea in your handbag. It’s hardly a Château Latour.”
“An Archers with ice, then,” says Ness. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Wise choice. Mr. Penhaligon, would you help me bring these six drinks back alive? The bar will not be pretty, I fear.”
THE BURIED BISHOP’S a gridlocked scrum, an all-you-can-eat of youth: “Stephen Hawking and the Dalai Lama, right; they posit a unified truth”; short denim skirts, Gap and Next shirts, Kurt Cobain cardigans, black Levi’s; “Did you see that oversexed pig by the loos, undressing me with his eyes?”; that song by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl booms in my diaphragm and knees; “Like, my only charity shop bargains were headlice, scabies, and fleas”; a fug of hairspray, sweat and Lynx, Chanel No. 5, and smoke; well-tended teeth with zero fillings, revealed by the so-so joke—“Have you heard the news about Schrödinger’s Cat? It died today; wait—it didn’t, did, didn’t, did …”; high-volume discourse on who’s the best Bond; on Gilmour and Waters and Syd; on hyperreality; dollar-pound parity; Sartre, Bart Simpson, Barthes’s myths; “Make mine a double”; George Michael’s stubble; “Like, music expired with the Smiths”; urbane and entitled, for the most part, my peers; their eyes, hopes, and futures all starry; fetal think-tankers, judges, and bankers in statu pupillari; they’re sprung from the loins of the global elite (or they damn well soon will be); power and money, like Pooh Bear and honey, stick fast—I don’t knock it, it’s me; and speaking of loins, “Has anyone told you you look like Demi Moore from Ghost?”; roses are red and violets are blue, I’ve a surplus of butter and Ness is warm toast.
“Hugo? You okay?” Penhaligon’s smile is uncertain.
We’re still logjammed two bodies back from the bar.
“Yeah,” I have to half shout. “Sorry, I was light-years away. While I have you to myself, Jonny, Toad asked me to invite you to his last all-nighter tomorrow, before we all jet off home. You, me, Eusebio, Bryce Clegg, Rinty, and one or two others. All cool.”
Penhaligon makes a not-sure face. “My mother’s half-expecting me back at Tredavoe tomorrow night …”
“No pressure. I’m just passing the invitation on. Toad says the ambience is classier when you’re there.”
Penhaligon sniffs the cheese. “Toad said that?”
“Yes, he said you’ve got gravitas. Rinty’s even christened you ‘the Pirate of Penzance’ because you always leave with the loot.”
Jonny Penhaligon grins. “You’ll be there too?”
“Me? God, yeah. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“You took quite a clobbering last week.”
“I never lose more than I can afford. ‘Scared money is lost money.’ You said that. Wise words for card players and economists.”
My partner in recreational gambling does not deny authorship of my freshly minted epigram. “I could drive home on Sunday …”
“Look, I won’t try to sway you one way or the other.”
He hums. “I could tell my parents I’ve a supervision …”
“Which would not be untrue—a supervision on probability theory, psychology, applied mathematics. All valid business skills, as your family will appreciate when you get the green light for the golf course at Tredavoe House. Toad’s proposing we raise the pot limit to a hundred pounds per game: a nice round figure, and quite a dollop of holiday nectar for you, sir, if your luck holds. Not that the Pirate of Penzance seems to need luck.”
Jonny Penhaligon admits: “I do seem to have a certain knack.”
I mirror his chuckle. Who’s a pretty turkey, then?
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER we’re bringing our drinks back to our nook to find that trouble has beaten us to it. Richard Cheeseman, The Piccadilly Review’s rising star, has been cornered by Come Up to the Lab, Cambridge’s premier Goth-metal trio, whose concert at the Cornmarket was acidly ridiculed in Varsity last month—by Richard Cheeseman. The bassist guy’s a Frankenstein, lipless and lumbering; but She-Goth One has mad-dog eyes, a sharky chin, and knuckles of spiky rings; She-Goth Two has a Clockwork Orange bowler hat, exploding fuchsia-pink hair, a fake diamond hatpin, and the same eyes as She-Goth One. Amphetamines, I do believe. “Never done a
nything yourself, have yer?” Number Two is prodding Cheeseman’s chest with jet-black fingernails to italicize key words. “Never performed live to a real audience, have yer?”
“Nor have I fucked a donkey, destabilized a Central American state, or played Dungeons & Dragons,” retorts Cheeseman, “but I reserve the right to hold opinions on those who do. Your show was a bobbing turd and I don’t take a word back.”
She-Goth One takes over: “Scribble scribble scribble with your faggoty pen in your faggoty notebook and snipe and bitch and slag off real artists, you hairy lump of dick cheese.”
“ ‘Dick Cheese,’ ” says Cheeseman, “from ‘Richard Cheeseman,’ yeah, that’s really clever. Original, too. Never once heard it.”
“What d’you expect,” She-Goth One snatches up Desiccated Embryos, “from a Crispin Hershey fan? He’s a prick, too.”
“Don’t pretend you read books.” Cheeseman gropes for his review copy in vain and I catch a distant glimpse of a tortured gay child having his satchel emptied off a sooty bridge over the Leeds–Bradford railway line. She-Goth Two rips the book down its spine and tosses the halves away. The male Goth goes gur-hur-hur.
Olly retrieves one half, Cheeseman the other. He’s riled now. “Crispin Hershey’s last crap has more artistic merit than your lifetime’s output. Your music’s derivative wank. It’s parasitic. It’s a hatpin through the eardrum, darling, and not in a good way.”
He was doing quite well until the last sentence, but if you bare your arse to a vengeful unicorn, the number of possible outcomes dwindles to one. By the time I’ve put the drinks on a handy shelf, She-Goth Two has indeed extracted her hatpin and flown at Monsieur Le Critic, who topples operatically; the table upends and glasses slide off; female spectators gasp and shriek and go, “Oh, my God!”; She-Goth Two pounces on the fallen one and stabs downwards; I grab the hatpin (glistening?) and Penhaligon pulls her off Cheeseman by her hair; the bassist’s fist misses Penhaligon’s nose by a whisker; Penhaligon staggers onto Olly and Ness; and She-Goth One’s screeching becomes audible to the human ear—“Get your hands off her!” Fitzsimmons is kneeling down, with Cheeseman’s head on his lap. Cheeseman looks like a guy in a comedy seeing stars and birdies, but the ear dribbling blood is more worrying; I examine it closely. Good: Only the lobe’s torn, but the attackers don’t need to know that. I arise and shout at Come Up to the Lab in a fisticuff-quelling roar: “A monsoon of piss and shit is headed straight at you for this.”
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