Remix (2010)

by Lexi Revellian

  “Your special curry?” I kissed him. “I thought you were going to make it just for the two of us. And think of the hassle.” I’d gathered it was a major exercise, involving hours of preparation, split-second timing, and spring-cleaning the kitchen afterwards. “Cold ham and chicken will be fine for James and Posy. Potato salad, green salad and crusty bread. I can get it ready beforehand.” No one has ever accused me of being a domestic goddess. I’d rather talk to my guests than fuss in the kitchen. “I’ll get James a cake for afters.”

  Ric helped me stick pink tissue paper on some old jam jars, put tea lights in and distribute them round the roof, ready for nightfall. Then we drove to Waitrose for the food and drink, light-hearted, making silly jokes all the way.

  By eight o’ clock, after a hot day, the roof was warm in the deepening amber of the evening sun. It matched my mood; the golden glow was back brighter than before. In the background crickets stridulated softly. I’d laid the table and made it look festive with bright paper napkins, more tea lights and small pots of pinks, nasturtiums and snapdragons. The food was laid out in the kitchen ready to go, bottles of special offer Australian Sauvignon were in the fridge and I’d changed into my favourite jeans and a cheesecloth top. Ric wore jeans and a white shirt, with most of the buttons undone, and I could hardly take my eyes off him. This was nothing new. Sometimes, when he was out, I’d secretly go to Youtube and watch videos of The Voices performing, so I could stare at him as much as I liked without him noticing and teasing me.

  The bell rang and a minute later James came into the flat, Posy following. I gave him a birthday kiss and he handed me a chilled bottle of champagne.

  “Happy birthday! Hi, Posy, come in. Have a drink.”

  Posy air kissed me and looked around her. “Wow, this is so fabulous! You must be mega pleased with it now it’s finished.”

  Posy looks like a Boden model; pretty in a natural way, with wavy dark hair and an open smile. Maybe she wears Boden, too; she had a red cardigan with ‘fun’ oversized buttons over a patterned shift dress, a big wooden bead necklace, flat green pumps each with a flower on, and a flower-covered clutch bag to match. The outfit was like something a child might draw; the sort of clothes it just wouldn’t occur to me to try on in a shop.

  Paws pattered on the stairs. Dog appeared and Posy made a fuss of him. “He’s so sweet! Is he yours?” As she stood up Ric came through the door.

  “Posy, this is Joe, he’s an old friend of mine from college. Dog belongs to him.”

  Ric gave her one of his smiles. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” said Posy, staring at him. “You know who you look terribly like?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Ric Kealey - apart from the hair, of course.”

  “Yeah, I get that all the time,” Ric said. “Where I go climbing everyone calls me Kealey. Shame I can’t sing.”

  “But really, it’s amazing, you could get work as a lookalike.”

  “Maybe you should do that,” I said. “It’s quite well paid.”

  James shook his head. “You’d have to do something about your ears. They’re quite different. But I suppose you could grow your hair over them.”

  “Don’t tell me you know what Ric Kealey’s ears were like?” I said. “You’re a closet Voices fan and you’ve kept it from me all these years.”

  “No, I just happen to be extremely observant. Eyes like a hawk, memory like an elephant. Of course, Joe could have cosmetic surgery…”

  “Nah, I won’t bother,” Ric said. “Who wants to be famous for being the double of someone who really was famous? Dumb job. Bad enough looking like the geezer.”

  For a moment we grinned at each other, sharing the joke, then I realized that Posy wasn’t in on it and felt mean.

  “Let’s go on the roof and have some of the champagne I’ve just come into.” I handed the bottle back to James to open. “Hang on, I’ll get your present.”

  Like most men, James is difficult to buy for. He has all the cufflinks he needs, an unguessable taste in ties, and is well-off enough to buy himself anything he wants. I hoped he would like what I’d got for him.

  We sat round the table outside. James poured the champagne and we toasted his birthday, then he put down his glass and picked up the present. “It’s so beautifully wrapped, it’s a shame to open it.” I’d used black wrapping paper tied with scarlet and gold ribbons. “Maybe I’ll keep it like this for a few days…”

  “No!” said Posy. “I want to see what it is. Go on, open it.”

  James undid the ribbons, took off the paper and opened the box. Inside, on red tissue, lay a miniature rocking horse, a perfect Ayres six inches long. It had begun life as an idea for making extra money; the sort of appealing object I could sell by the dozen to the Conran Shop and similar chi-chi outlets. But I’d fallen in love with it. I couldn’t force myself to cut corners; I’d made the horse the same way I’d make a full-sized one, taking weeks. Not a commercial prospect.

  “Caz! It’s wonderful…” James put it on the table, and set it rocking. I’d weighted the rockers with lead so it rocked properly. “I dread to think how long it took you. Give me a kiss.” James leaned towards me, hugged me and kissed my cheek.

  The supper was a success. I’d been a little afraid that James would be reserved with Ric, because he disapproved of him, but in fact they got on reasonably well. It does help when people have a sense of humour. Posy was clearly intrigued by my guest, and he spent a lot of time telling her a totally fictitious and highly-coloured account of his life and career as a penniless sculptor, his struggles with the artistic establishment, and the squats he had occupied in Paris and Mayfair. While James and I reminisced about various birthday suppers and the Cornish holidays we shared when we were small, in the background I could hear Ric’s attractive voice, Posy’s exclamations and his laugh.

  We’d finished the cheese and were sitting over the last of the Metaxa when the doorbell rang. I glanced at my watch - eleven forty-five. A lost pizza delivery person? But when I checked the screen, it was Jeff Pike. I went downstairs and opened the door. Jeff glowered at me. He’d shaved off the silly scrap of beard; Ric had laughed at it and said it made him look a tosser. Behind him the Maserati gleamed against the dark bricks in the Yard like a car advert.

  “Where’s Ric?”

  “Upstairs.” Jeff pushed past me. “Hang on, I’ve got friends round. You’ll have to call him Joe.” He set off up the stairs. I scrambled after him. “You’ll have to say you’re my friend.”

  As we went through the door to the flat, I thought how nice the roof looked; the profusion of greenery and flowers, and my guests round the table sitting on after the meal, lit by glowing candlelight against the night sky. Ric’s arm lay along the back of the chair I’d occupied; he was smiling at something Posy had said, heart-stoppingly handsome. I felt a happy grin spread over my face.

  “Jeff, you know Joe; this is Posy and James.”

  Jeff mumbled a greeting, his attention on Ric. Posy’s eyes were like saucers.

  “You’re Jeff Pike! The Voices In My Head! And you know Caz!”

  “Yeah, me and Caz are mates,” Jeff said without conviction.

  “But this is, like, unbelievable! You’re Jeff Pike and Joe’s Ric Kealey’s double! It’s like we’ve got half The Voices here!”

  Thank goodness Dave Calder hasn’t got my address, or we might have had three of them…

  Jeff glanced at Ric. “Ric was better-looking.”

  “He’s not better-looking now,” Ric said.

  “You’re older, too.”

  “He’d be older, except he’s dead.”

  “Dead or not, he’s still the one with the talent.” Jeff sounded hostile, as if he was angry with Ric. It struck me as a distinctly peculiar exchange. What had Ric done to upset him?

  Jeff sat in the nearest seat, my one next to Ric. A black snake tattoo coiled round the pale skin of his arm, heading across his shoulder blade and disappearing beneath his singlet
. On his wrist was a Rolex like the one Ric had sold. James eyed Jeff, his kind face inscrutable. After an embarrassed moment reliable Posy said, “How did you two get to know each other?”

  Jeff didn’t answer. I waited - he was the one who was supposed to be good at inventing stories about his past, wasn’t he? The silence lengthened. Eventually, desperate, I said the first thing that came into my head. “He saved my life.”

  “Wow! Amazing! How?”

  James, bless him, interrupted. “Jeff hasn’t got a drink.”

  He picked up the wine bottle and looked enquiringly at Jeff, who said, “Yeah, okay.”

  In those few seconds’ grace, I did a speedy rethink. I ditched my first idea that he’d fished me out of the Regent’s Canal, on grounds of implausibility - it’s four feet deep. “When I say he saved my life, I’m exaggerating, but that’s how it felt at the time. It was a year or two ago, a dark and stormy night…”

  Jeff’s smile was sardonic. I longed to say that if he could do any better he bally well should have done. They were all waiting. I pressed on. “It was pouring with rain, thunder was crashing and lightening flashing, and my van broke down in the middle of nowhere. I’d been to a country auction - Bury St Edmonds - to buy a horse. A Lines Sportiboy,” I elaborated, “in good original condition. Been in the same family for three generations. A bargain. Anyway, I’d forgotten to charge my mobile, so I couldn’t call the AA. I looked under the bonnet, but had no idea what to do. I was soaked to the skin. Suddenly this limo screeched to a halt beside me, and who should get out but Jeff Pike!”

  “Oh my god! That’s just, so totally random…”

  “He was terribly kind. It turned out he’s really good with engines…” A faint snort came from Ric’s direction, “…and he managed to get the van going again. I wrote to his record company to thank him, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. We discovered we had a lot in common.”

  Phewf. Thank goodness that improbable farrago of falsehoods was over. Everyone was looking at me with assorted expressions of surprise, concern, derision and enjoyment.

  “That’s right,” Jeff said. “We both like modern art, don’t we, Caz?” He put his arm round my waist and squeezed.

  I laughed and removed his hand. “He’s such a tease. Jeff, have you eaten? There’s salad left, and some cake.”

  “No. I’m good.” He took a packet of Marlboros out of his pocket and waved it at Ric, who declined.

  “I forgot you’d turned into a fucking monk,” Jeff said, shaking one out and lighting up.

  I handed him a bowl for an ashtray, got myself another chair, then decided I might as well clear the table and make coffee. Posy got up to help me. She has very nice manners. I expect that’s one reason James’s mother likes her.

  In the kitchen she asked me a bit about Jeff, then moved on to Joe, trying to establish, without asking directly, whether we were an item. I had the feeling with Posy that she was happier when I’d got a boyfriend; that my friendship with James made her uneasy. She’d have preferred it if he saw less of me, which was silly because we were just friends and always would be. I suddenly remembered his lips on mine the night before…then dismissed it.

  James came and joined us, and Posy hugged him and rumpled his blond hair. “Hey, how’re you doing? I missed you.” She gave him a kiss.

  James extricated himself and said, “Apparently we’re all smug fuckers, according to your famous friend.”

  “It’s having all that money,” I said. “When you’re a rich celebrity, you get used to saying what you think. No one’s going to show they resent it.”

  “D’you think he’d mind if I asked him for his autograph?” Posy asked.

  I suspected Jeff might be difficult about autographs. “He’d probably insist on signing your skin with a felt tip.”

  Posy looked a little alarmed. “P’raps I’ll leave it…”

  I got them to make the coffee and went outside to finish clearing the table. Ric was leaning backwards, his chair tipped at a perilous angle, hands behind his head, as relaxed as a cat. “I turned it off while I was climbing. Forgot to turn it on again. No big deal.”

  Jeff leaned forward. “Yeah, well I didn’t know that, did I? I thought you’d got arrested, some shit like that, when I couldn’t reach you.”

  “Cool it, dude. I’m not going to get arrested. If I hand myself in, I’ll tell you first. Okay?”

  Jeff watched me stack the plates. “What the fuck was that half-arsed crap about me mending your engine? Couldn’t you have come up with a story someone with more than one brain cell might have believed?”

  Ric laughed. “Jeff knows as much about quantum mechanics as he does about the internal combustion engine. It would have been more convincing if you’d said you fixed his car.”

  “How was I supposed to know that? Anyway, nobody else knows either. It’s not like Posy’s going to march him outside and stand over him while he services James’s BMW. He should have made something up, then I wouldn’t have had to.”

  I picked up the plates and left. Jeff started on at Ric again, insistent, almost pleading. Ric didn’t seem to be taking it too seriously, mocking and reassuring him in equal measures, but I could tell Jeff was in deadly earnest. He had panicked when he couldn’t get hold of Ric, and come straight to my workshop.

  I hoped this wasn’t going to happen often.

  Chapter

  22

  *

  The next few days were quiet. I got on with my horses; I didn’t quite get round to dappling Saladin, but I did paint him the right colour so he was ready to dapple. I finished stripping Teasel, and got her first coats of gesso on. Ric was restless, and went out a lot while I worked; he did bouldering at The Castle Climbing Centre, or drove the Harley out of London. Though he didn’t say much, I guessed he disliked the uncertainty of his situation, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. I hoped Phil had succeeded in dissuading Emma from talking to the News of the World. Ric and I didn’t discuss it when we were together in the evenings. Evenings were great.

  On Thursday afternoon James rang, and told me he’d split up with Posy.

  “Oh dear.” I hoped he wasn’t upset. “What happened?”

  “You know Hannah offered her the job in London? She found a shop at World’s End and bought the lease. I said to Posy, I supposed she’d be looking for a flat here, and there was this really long silence. Then I realized she sort of took it for granted she’d move in to my place - perfectly reasonable assumption, she’s been spending nearly every weekend with me.”

  “But you didn’t want her to?”

  “No. We had this long awkward discussion, and I could tell, though she didn’t say it, she’d been planning for when we got married, and I hadn’t got to that stage at all - and knew I wasn’t going to, with her, at any rate. I felt bad.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “This morning, on the phone. She started crying. I felt dreadful, I hadn’t realized she was so serious about me.”

  “Oh dear…”

  James sighed. “It’s all for the best, it wouldn’t have worked out. My mother’ll be disappointed, she approved of Posy. Speaking of which, can I ask you to do me the most tremendous favour? I don’t suppose you could face a dinner party at my mother’s Saturday evening? Posy was going to come, and it’ll be just me and my mother’s friends if you don’t.”

  I hesitated. Rosemary is formidable. Her standards are more exacting than those of ordinary mortals. The parties she gives are not what you’d call relaxing; they have a lot in common with a job interview. You have to dress suitably and watch what you say. And she lives in Winchester, so getting there and back makes it a long evening.

  “I know it’s short notice. Don’t feel you have to.”

  “Of course I’ll come.” Poor James, dreary for him going on his own, and at least the food will be good. “You know me, I never turn down a good hot dinner.”

  “Oh, thanks, Caz. That should stop them all taking a kindly i
nterest in my lack of a girlfriend.”

  “Have you told Rosemary you and Posy have split up?”

  There was a thoughtful silence. “Not as yet…”

  Posy, I’d gathered from the little James let slip (he was a loyal son) was the only woman he’d ever been out with who had won maternal approval. James’s mother is critical to a fault, especially of her son’s female friends. I’d had to conceal my surprise when I first learned that she got on with James’s latest. Posy was what Rosemary called Suitable, a Nice Girl, and according to her, hardly anyone was. She wouldn’t think much of me as a substitute, even for one evening.

  When I woke Saturday morning, the day of Rosemary’s dinner party, Ric was fast asleep. I slipped out of bed, showered, dressed, went downstairs and had breakfast without waking him. My brain had been working overnight while the rest of me slept, and I wanted to check its results.

  I searched for one of the photos of Emma I’d found before on the internet. It took me a little while, but eventually there it was on the screen; Emma, young and pretty in a line-up of strangely-dressed people, her eyes seeking reassurance from Phil who was only just in shot. And this time I knew what it was; it was the Eurovision Song Contest audition she’d told me about. Four or five years ago, Emma had said. I checked the date; yes, she was right. But…it was a whole year before she was supposed to have met Phil Sharott while she was temping. Nearly four years before Paula, his wife, died. Four and a half years before she publicly became Phil’s girlfriend. Her association with Phil had started long before she was admitting.

  So she’d never temped at all - that was why she could only type with two fingers - it was simply an excuse to spend a week with her lover, and allow her to get a glimpse of the music industry she wanted to get into. The advantage to Phil was, he got her company in a way that would not arouse the suspicions of his wife, plus the opportunity to impress Emma by introducing her to The Voices. That bit had backfired, because Emma had met Bryan and decided he would benefit her career more than Phil. Phil must have been devastated. I guessed that while Emma was using him, he genuinely loved her.