“You mean…?”
“Absolutely. Go for it, Valerie, you deserve it.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it would do any harm,” she says, practically breaking into another dance routine. “Look at me, I’m shaking.”
Which is strange, because I’m not feeling so good myself. “I’d better be making tracks. Cheerio, Valerie. See you again next term perhaps.”
“Aren’t you coming up for that drink?”
“I don’t think so. I’m a little bit tired. I wasn’t expecting to be up onstage tonight – excitement must have got to me.”
“Yes, you really saved the day. Thank you for everything.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and kisses me on the cheek. “Say goodnight to Michael for me.”
The Virgin
Why’s he so quiet? And why does he insist on sitting in the dark? I can’t stand it when he’s like this. Trust his soppy mother to freak him out. And we were having such a lovely evening. Why did she have to ruin it all with that sick-making dance? He stares out of the window, like a movie psychopath, barely grunting when I ask if he wants a drink or a nice head massage.
“Would you mind turning that off, please, Anna?”
At least he’s talking to me now. “I thought you liked Mozart, babe.”
“Not really.”
Without my music, I feel so jumpy. “I could put on a bit of Hindemith if you like, or how about some Saint-Saens? You said you thought the Organ Symphony was amazing.”
“It’s OK, I suppose. But if you really want to know, I’m a country-and-western fan.”
“You’re not, are you?”
There’s a hardness in his voice I hadn’t noticed before. “Of course not, but I could be for all you know.”
“That’s not fair. How am I supposed to work out what you like if you won’t tell me? I’m not a mind reader, you know.”
Out in the quad, the rugger buggers are singing that disgusting song: “It’s green, it’s long, it looks just like my dong, CUCUMBER.”
“That’s all we bloody need,” he says, sounding almost as suicidal as when he did ‘To be or not to be’. “Listen to them. In ten years’ time, they’ll meet up at the college reunion, and after a couple of drinks, they’ll do several hundred encores and still be finding it funny. Where in God’s name will I be?”
“That’s easy, babe. You’ll be with me, of course.” It’s something I’ve been dying to talk about for ages; this is the perfect opportunity. “I’ve been thinking about our future together. I know it won’t be easy, but we can do it, I know we can.”
He looks right past me and shakes his head. I feel a sharp, stabbing pain in the pit of my stomach. “I’m not sure that would be a very good idea, Anna. I don’t think…”
“This isn’t about that silly dance, is it?” I fake a girlish laugh that comes out more like a twitter of pain. “Look, I told you, that was nothing to do with me. It was all Nikki’s idea. I tried to tell them how much you’d hate it, but they wouldn’t listen. And your mum was really up for it.”
“This isn’t about the dance.”
“Then what is it about? Please, babe, you’ve got to be straight with me.” I kneel in front of his wheelchair, looking up at him through a veil of tears. “I thought you said you loved me. You do love me, don’t you, Michael?”
He closes his eyes tight shut. He does that sometimes. I suppose it’s his equivalent of rolling up into a tiny ball. “Yes, yes, I think I do.”
Why’s there a ‘think’ in there all of a sudden? “That’s just what I needed to hear.”
“It’s not that simple. You know it isn’t.”
“We love each other – what’s so complicated about that?”
“I’m a fucking quadriplegic, Anna. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
He hasn’t heard a thing I’ve just said. “You think I don’t know that? I’ll do what it takes, Michael, whatever it takes for us to be together. I know it’ll be tough, I’m not stupid, but I can look after you, you know I can.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen him cry real tears. I thought that was a physical impossibility, but if this is a miracle, it’s absolutely wasted on me.
“I don’t want looking after. I’ve already got one mother, Anna. The last thing I need is a younger model.”
“I am nothing like your mother! That is a horrible thing to say.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Philip told me that – ”
“That bastard, I thought we weren’t going to talk about him.”
“Philip said – ”
I sink my nail extensions into the side of my head. “Oh, yeah, ‘Philip said’. And why would anyone take any notice of him after all the lies he’s told? You do know he’s not a baronet, don’t you? He didn’t even go to Winchester.”
“He never told me he did.”
All I want to do is dry his tears and give him a big hug. “Look, I can see you’re tired, babe. Why don’t I make you a hot drink and put you to bed? We don’t have to do this right now.”
“No, no, I want to.”
I summon up the falsest smile in Oxford and prepare for the worst. “So go on then, what did Philip say?”
His face is paler than Granny Devonshire’s on her death bed. He licks his lips and coughs up a gobbet of phlegm. “He said…he said you were only going out with me because you knew we’d never be able to have sex.”
“It’s green, it’s stout, it’s what this life’s about, CUCUMBER, CUCUMBER.”
“Unbelievable, isn’t it? Just because I wouldn’t sleep with him, he thinks there must be something wrong with me.”
“You mean it’s not true then?” says Michael, starting to sound like that wheelchair barrister guy that Mummy was so gaga about.
“Course not.”
“You mean you would if we could?”
“There’s nothing I’d like more in the world,” I say, trying to picture what making love to Michael would actually entail.
“But why me, for God’s sake? There are millions of guys out there. Why choose one with a plastic tube coming out of his dick?”
“That’s easy, Mike, because we’re soulmates.”
“Cell mates, more like it.”
“Why can’t I get through to you? We’re made for each other. You make me laugh, you know exactly what to say when I’m down in the dumps, and you’re a fantastic listener. What more could a girl want?”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s not what I want.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Michael.”
“Ask any man what he’d prefer, and you’ll get the same answer. Do you want a woman to love you for your sense of humour and your listening skills, or because every time she sees you, she wants to rip off her knickers and make love for three hours?”
“Yes, well, that’s just not possible, is it?” I say, smoothing down this nasty nylon skirt. “I’d like to but, well…we can’t.”
“Kiss me then.”
“I’m always kissing you, babe.”
“I’m not talking about the sort of peck on the cheek that Snow White gives Dopey before she pisses off with the first available Prince. I mean, kiss me properly.”
“All right then.”
Taking his head in my hands, flicking away a blob of dribble with my thumb, I lean forward and place my lips on his. I sneak a final peek at his china-doll features, close my eyes and wait for him to stick his tongue in my mouth.
But nothing happens. We stay, lips lightly touching, for what seems an eternity until, as if by some strange telepathy, we open mouths simultaneously and our tongues meet in no man’s land. Part of me’s expecting a tentacle to grab my tits or something, and all the time I’m saying to myself, You don’t have to do this, you can walk away whenever you want. Only I don’t want to walk away. He tastes of salt-and-vinegar Pringles, and his breathing sounds like a tubercular tramp, but he’s a phenomenal kisser. Where Philip tried to suck the life out of me, Michael is sweet and gentle and nervous and n
ever once forgets that it’s a duet not a flashy solo. It’s just about the perfect kiss, and I want it to last for ever. But it’s Michael who pulls away first.
“Don’t stop…please!”
“I think you’d better go, Anna.”
“What are you talking about? That was lovely.”
“I know.”
“I don’t understand. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Please, just go.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t think we should see each other any more.”
My mouth falls open. I let out a silent scream as it suddenly dawns on me exactly what he’s saying. “You mean, you’re…dumping me?”
He nods and stares down at his kiddies’ trainers.
This time my bitter laugh is for real. “‘You’re dumping me? I don’t believe this. You said I was the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“You are.”
“And you’re just going to throw it all away?” (Why’s he crying again? I’m the one who’s being dumped.)
“It’s wrong, Anna. I can’t do this any more, it’s not fair. You should have a proper boyfriend, not someone like me.”
“I don’t want a ‘proper’ boyfriend. You’re the one that I want.”
“Well, I don’t want you.”
“I can’t believe how selfish you’re being. I thought you were different, Michael. It turns out you’re just like every other bloke.”
And just like every other bloke, he doesn’t even know what he’s done wrong. “Hang on a minute, Anna. We can still be friends, can’t we? What difference does it make?”
“You know what, why don’t you just fuck off, yeah? I don’t want to talk to you any more. In fact, I don’t ever want to see you again.”
The Actor
By the time I get back to college, I’m beginning to think that things have probably worked out for the best. Valerie Owen is an admirable woman in many respects, but could I honestly cope with Michael as a stepson? Come to that, I don’t suppose he’d crawl over hot coals to have me as his wicked stepfather.
Valerie’s right about one thing, though: I do need to get myself some new interests. Masturbation’s a young man’s game, and what with the twenty-first century dawning, it’s probably time I experimented with Internet pornography or some other form of self-improvement. One thing’s for certain: I’m feeling a lot more sanguine than the tasty piece of jailbait who bursts from our rooms.
“What’s the matter, Anna, lovers’ tiff?”
“Leave me alone.”
“I didn’t manage to catch up with you at the party, but I thought your performance this evening was beautifully felt – congratulations.”
Unlike every other actress of my acquaintance, she doesn’t stick around to hear more. “Oh, sod off.”
I check my flies and enter. These days, there’s always a Mozart piano quartet or an early twentieth-century choral work playing in the background. It’s such an improvement on the ghastly, thuddy stuff that nearly drove me to assisted suicide (his, not mine) when we first moved in. But tonight, what hits me first is the sound of silence. “Michael, Michael, where are you?”
I step into the sepulchral gloom, secretly hoping that Anna has put him to bed, thus sparing me the torture of having to browse through the catalogue of tonight’s disasters with one of its principal protagonists. “Is everything all right in here?”
I reach for the light switch and try to locate the origin of the high-pitched whimpering sound that cuts across the silence like a surgeon’s knife. And I’m just about to contemplate the worst-case scenario when I realize that it’s not coming from a mortally wounded rodent, but from the wheelchair by the window and its young occupant who appears to be sobbing his heart out.
“Michael, what’s the trouble, old chap?” I draw closer so that I can see his face. “Sorry I’m a bit late, only I got held up with…”
For once, I can honestly claim to be dumbstruck. It’s such a disturbing image that for one terrible moment it feels as though I’ve stumbled into a rehearsal at the Royal Court. I’ve never seen someone in a wheelchair crying before. There’s no earthly reason why Michael’s tears should be any more disconcerting than the next man’s. So why do I find myself reaching solicitously for the box of Kleenex, why am I thinking that as symbols go, a weeping man in a wheelchair is a pretty fair representation of the whole of humanity? “What’s the matter, Michael? What are you so upset about? Come on, why don’t you tell me all about it?”
♦
Five minutes later, I’m none the wiser. Michael appears to be in a state of shock. I’m reminded of that Agatha Christie season in Frinton, when the old soak playing the inspector dried on me, and I was forced to improvise for what seemed like decades. “Your mother says goodnight, by the way.”
He looks so helpless, sitting there with that haunted expression and the last remains of an Elvis quiff, that I almost want to shake him by the hand, pat him on the back or some such. “Nice perf by the way. I’m sure we’ll make a verse speaker of you yet.” Up until just now, I had him down as just about the least vulnerable person I’ve ever met.
“It’s hard as rock, it looks just like my cock, CUCUMBER, CUCUMBER.”
“You’d think they’d be cold with no trousers on, wouldn’t you?” I’m not unaccustomed to talking to myself, but it’s still hard not to take this personally. “Oh, come on, Michael, it can’t be that bad.”
(It speaks! Thank the Lord for that.) “Anna and me have split up.”
To be honest, I’m surprised their little folie a deux has lasted this long. However, in the light of Simon Butter-worth’s comments when I told him that SOWINS had asked for a divorce, I won’t be so insensitive as to point this out. “Really, that is, er…how unfortunate. Still, these things happen to the best of us, you know. Tell me, how did she dump you? Not the old ‘can we still be friends’ routine? I always think the most appropriate riposte to that old chestnut is, “Yes, absolutely, so long as we can go on having casual sex together.” I mean, call me old-fashioned but – ”
“It was me that ended it.”
“What did you say?”
“I was the one who ended it.”
That’s what I thought he said. Even more amazingly, I have a strong suspicion that he’s actually telling the truth. “But why? I had the impression you were rather keen on the girl.”
“I was,” he whispers. “What a tosser, eh?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly.”
“Crips shouldn’t have girlfriends. We should sit at the back with the rest of the spazzers, and wet our knickers every time some C-list celebrity wants us in their publicity shots.”
“That’s show business for you, I suppose,” I say, trying to look on the bright side. “And anyway, why worry about that when you’ve just given a very presentable Hamlet?”
This doesn’t appear to console him. “Who am I trying to kid? People like me never get to play the Prince, we’re always the spacko little brother in the loony bin that Hugh Grant visits, every other weekend, to make him look more fuckable.”
“Sounds like a decent supporting role to me. I’d be lucky to get cast as the non-speaking psychiatrist who ogles his beautiful foreign girlfriend.”
“What’s all this about beautiful girlfriends? Not talking about me, are you, boys?”
As soon as I hear Nikki Hardbody’s voice, a reflex action compels me to hurl myself at Michael’s wheelchair. “What are you doing here?”
After recent events, she’s the last person I expected to see. “I came to say goodbye to you guys.”
Her camera doesn’t appear to be loaded. I drop my guard a little. “I thought we’d already said our fond farewells.”
When he’s handing out desirability, why does God always get it so wrong? “It’s Michael I really wanted to see. I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“That’s awfully decent of you,” I say, wishing that someone wo
uld invent a proper punctuation mark to denote extreme sarcasm. “Thank you for your kind consideration.”
Nikki wraps herself around Michael’s wheelchair like an importunate boa constrictor. “I’ll be down at Beachy Head for the next three weeks, shooting Teenage Suicides, but the launch party for Wheelchair of Fire is going to be amazing. Did I tell you Steven Hawking is really interested?”
“There isn’t going to be a Wheelchair of Fire,” says Michael.
“Sorry, Michael, I don’t think I heard you right. You’ll have to speak up a bit.”
“I said, there isn’t going to be a Wheelchair of Fire.”
Nikki plants a kiss on his quiff. “Just you let me worry about that, Mike. I know you think a documentary about a quadriplegic will be like watching paint dry, but trust me, Wheelchair is so, so much more than that.”
A grotesque image of mother and son cavorting on the dance floor sets me nodding ruefully.
“Especially if you’ve reconsidered using that little gadget I bought you,” says Nikki hopefully. “Ah, well, never mind, I’m sure you’ll be an inspiration all the same. And if the great British public aren’t up for a bit of inspiration, there’s always a heart-warming love story for them to get their teeth into. And if they’re complete fucking cynics, they’ll just watch it for the incredible supporting cast. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I got from your mother. Why, even chummo here,” (that’s me, I’ll warrant) “is a bit of a character in his own sad way.”
“You don’t understand,” says Michael. “There’s not going to be any Wheelchair of Fire because I don’t want any part of it.”
Nikki lets out a cautious giggle. “That’s what I like about you, Mike – you haven’t lost your sense of humour.”
Michael doesn’t look like he’s joking. “I mean it, Nikki. I won’t have you using me. And I won’t have you making a fool of my mum either. So why don’t you stuff your documentary up your cute little arse, and get the fuck out of my face?”
The Opposite Bastard Page 20