The Late Hector Kipling

by David Thewlis

  I push the door open a little bit more, slowly, like it could be a draught. I can see Gilbert and George in green and copper worsted staring at a brick. Paul Smith’s here, Kathy Burke, Dinos Chapman, David Baddiel’s over in one corner chatting to Stuart Pearson Wright. Suddenly I see Bianca. Bianca’s knocking back the wine, staring at Lenny. What the fuck’s Bianca doing here? I didn’t invite Bianca. I told her about it, of course, but I didn’t fucking invite her. And why’s she knocking back the wine in front of Lenny? And why’s she nodding slightly? I’m sure she’s nodding slightly. I need to piss. I need to crap. I need to vomit again. Tomato soup and dry puckered olives.

  The huge iron door opens and in walks Jay Jopling with Sam Taylor Wood. Then it’s mental Delaney. He holds the door open and shouts something down the stairs. He must be shouting down to Lenny. Jay and Sam head over to Aunty Pat, greeting Myers on the way. Sam says something about the yellow suit and Myers stands back, holding out his arms like a Restoration fop. I look back to the door. Delaney’s still holding it open.

  There’s a mirror on the back of this cupboard and I keep catching a glimpse of myself. I look a fool.

  Lenny doesn’t know I’ve painted him. Lenny’s not expecting to be confronted by his own head. When Kirk saw it he was beset by an attack of gawping. Five minutes he spent in front of it, jaw loose, eyes in shock.

  There’s a little knock on the cupboard door.

  ‘Hector,’ whispers Myers, ‘come out of there.’

  ‘How can I?’ I whisper back. ‘I’m in a cupboard.’

  ‘Exactly, Hector. Come out of the fucking cupboard. Everyone’s asking where you are. I can’t tell them you’re in the cupboard.’

  Delaney gives up on holding open the gallery door and wanders off to get a drink.

  ‘Tell them I’m sick.’

  ‘Hector, they all know that you’re sick. They’re all aware of that. It’s no excuse not to come out here and talk to them.’

  ‘Create a diversion,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ says Myers.

  ‘Create a diversion and I’ll come out.’

  ‘What do you mean, create a diversion? This is the opening of your show, not some fucking war movie.’

  ‘Well, it feels like a war movie, Joe.’

  ‘Hector, come out!’ snaps Myers. ‘I’m talking to a fucking cupboard. People are starting to look!’

  ‘Joe, you’re wearing a yellow suit, you look like a fucking budgie, that’s why people are looking.’

  The big factory door eases open and Lenny walks in. He’s wearing his specs, a turquoise tracksuit, Chinese slippers and a yarmulke (he’s not Jewish). He holds the door ajar for a few seconds and then a girl squeezes through, pushing her white-ringed fingers through her messy black hair. A tattoo of a crow on her shoulder. Black dress. Bottle-green eyes. Rosa Flood accepts a glass of red wine and downs it in one.

  I really need to get to the toilet. I think about pissing myself. I mean that I actually consider pissing myself as an option at this juncture. Like a scuba diver. I begin to imagine how it might feel. Warm at first, no doubt, and whilst it was still warm I could step out of the cupboard and lay myself out on the floor, gazing at the ceiling, feeling it get cold. Listening as they all start to smell it. Maybe I’ll hum something. Something soft. A snatch of Elgar. Just lying there in the middle of them all, sodden crotch, stinking of piss, humming a snatch of Elgar or Grieg or whistling – maybe I should whistle. Then you’d have your self-portrait, Joe. I could call it Piss Whistle.

  Lenny strolls over to Kirk who’s still transfixed by Bolton’s big dead head. They hug and Lenny introduces Rosa. Kirk bows and kisses her hand. Rosa pulls off a tough little curtsy. Stiletto boots, bloody lips.

  What the fuck am I doing in this cupboard?

  There’s no intimacy between Lenny and Rosa. I mean they’re not holding hands or tickling each other’s rumps, so for now I’m er . . . mollified, yeah, that’s the word. They stand well apart and at no time, since they walked in, have their bodies been within a foot of each other.

  Bianca’s moved over to Mum and she’s rummaging in her handbag. I’m convinced she’s gonna pull out a notepad, but it turns out it’s only her specs. She’s all in blue with her hair washed and dragged back from her brow, like an ageing ballerina. Her specs are bold and tinted, like Sophia Loren’s. What the fuck’s she doing here?

  It’s only a matter of time before Lenny sees Lenny. Kirk looks like he’s delaying the moment. Rosa touches Bolton’s mouth, lights a fag and shuffles off in the direction of the toilet. Kirk’s showing Lenny his veins.

  I’m looking in the mirror and I can barely see myself, but the little I do see is clenched and orange.

  Suddenly the door of my cupboard is swung open and the light floods in. Gilbert has his fist around the handle, and George is sipping a glass of champagne. ‘Is this part of the show?’ says George, raising an eyebrow.

  Afraid that they might think I’m encroaching on their whole living sculpture thing I blurt out, ‘No!’ I steady myself against the sides and hold onto my hat. ‘No, no, George,’ I stammer, ‘this is just me hiding in a cupboard. It’s not art – it’s my life.’

  Gilbert doesn’t look convinced and takes a step back, the better to appraise the composition of me – Hector Kipling – cowering there in my homburg and Crombie in this shoddy plywood cupboard. I’m balanced on a pile of old canoe receipts trying to keep my footing. The cupboard’s rocking. Suddenly, sensing the fatuity of my situation, I step out and close the door behind me.

  ‘So, Gilbert,’ I say, ‘so, George, how the hell are you both?’ and I tip my hat like a gent.

  ‘We’re capital,’ says George.

  ‘Va bene’, says Gilbert. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Now that you’re out of the closet,’ says George.

  I laugh. ‘Ha ha!’ I laugh a little bit more and blanch or blush; I’m not sure which. ‘What do you think?’ I say.

  ‘About what?’ says George, eyeing up the cupboard.

  ‘The show,’ says Gilbert, ‘I think he means the show.’

  ‘Oh, the show,’ says George.

  I nod.

  ‘It’s terrifying, Hector. Utterly terrifying. I’ve soiled my briefs.’

  Coming from George I take it as a compliment.

  Gilbert sniggers and drains his champagne. ‘Our glasses are empty!’ he says.

  ‘They possess a negative fullness,’ says George and turns his back in search of another. Gilbert follows close behind, and I’m left alone by the cupboard.

  I’m not too sure how many people witnessed all this. Jenny Saville, definitely. Gillian and Georgina, definitely (they’re whispering behind their hands). Jay, maybe, Sam, maybe. I’m pretty certain Bianca spotted it – she did a double-take worthy of Cary Grant – so there goes my next fifty quid. Lenny and Kirk, thankfully, didn’t spot it; they’re still in a huddle with their backs to me. And Rosa, thank Holy God in Heaven and all his saints, Rosa is still in the bog.

  ‘Were you in that cupboard just now?’ It’s Matthew Collings in a big hairy coat.

  ‘Yes, Matthew!’ I snap. ‘So what? It’s all part of it.’

  Matthew looks around and wrinkles up his nose. ‘I thought you were going to be showing a self-portrait.’

  ‘This is it, Matt,’ I say, nodding at the cupboard.

  ‘Right . . . right . . . so it’s a kind of er . . .’

  ‘It’s a kind of “short fat Northern bloke crouched in a cupboard bidding goodbye to his marble collection” sort of thing.’

  ‘Right,’ says Matthew and fiddles with his hair.

  ‘It’s a sort of “René? You know that you thought therefore you were? Well, I think therefore I might be as well, so could you order an extra pie?” sort of thing.’ And I push past him and head for Bianca.

  I see Lenny move his hands in a way that I take to be an impression of me. He still hasn’t seen his big shining head cos it’s hidden round the corner. And once I’ve finis
hed explaining that to him I’ll get round to tackling the issue of the red vomit on his white window settee. Where’s Bianca?

  ‘Great stuff, Hector,’ says David Baddiel.

  ‘Thanks, Dave,’ I say, push past, and move in.

  ‘Bianca!’

  Bianca turns and smiles. ‘Hector, sweetheart, this is all so wonderful!’ She makes a move either to kiss or hug me but I’m horrified and reel back.

  ‘Bianca, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve never seen your work,’ she says, fag in hand, ‘I thought it would be helpful to see your work.’

  ‘Helpful to whom?’

  ‘Helpful for both of us,’ and her face lights up as she clasps her hands together.

  ‘Well, it’s not really helpful to me right now. You could have come in the daytime or something, not to the fucking opening. Aren’t there rules about this sort of thing?’

  ‘Rules?’

  ‘Ethical codes, codes of ethics, whatever you call them.’

  ‘No, Hector. All rules must be personal – we’ve talked about this. What are you so afraid of?’

  ‘Bianca, Lenny’s here!’

  ‘I know, I saw him. He looks half dead.’

  ‘Not the painting, the bloke.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And Rosa, Rosa’s here.’

  ‘Rosa?’

  ‘Rosa Flood. The girl I told you about. The girl from the poetry thing.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Bianca, relishing the moment, ‘“Death’s door was open / And banging in the wind.”’

  ‘Exactly!’ I feel like bungling Bianca up into my arms and rustling her back to the cupboard for a private session.

  ‘Well, charming,’ she says, ‘now you can introduce me to all these people.’

  ‘But, Bianca, I don’t want to introduce you to all these people. I want to do the opposite of introduce you to all these people – I want you to leave. Now.’

  ‘That painting of your mother is adorable. She obviously loves you very much. And your father . . .’ She looks up into Dad’s baggy blue eyes and presses her fists to her bosom.

  ‘This is a walking fucking nightmare, Bianca!’

  I see Jay Jopling whisper something to Lenny and then leave.

  ‘This is worse than any bad dream I’ve ever told you about.’

  ‘Hector, Hector, relax,’ says Bianca, stroking my arm.

  ‘Relax? Bianca, you might as well have brought your fucking parrot!’

  ‘Gustav,’ she says, and smiles.

  ‘I’ll see you next Monday, now go home, I’ve got to talk to Lenny.’

  She looks slightly hurt and I can’t really cope with it. I’ve not been at this caper long enough to know who to talk to when you feel that you might have hurt your therapist. Maybe I need two therapists. The second one to talk to me about my relationship with the first. And so on.

  I go over to Lenny and Kirk, who look like they’re talking about their feet.

  ‘Lenny!’ I say. ‘Kirk!’

  ‘Hector!’ says Lenny.

  ‘Hector!’ says Kirk.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ says Lenny, but he’s smiling and doesn’t seem to expect a serious answer. Well, that’s a relief.

  ‘Sobering up?’ says Kirk.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, rubbing at my eyes, ‘a bit hungover.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Kirk.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. How are you, Kirk?’ Kirk shrugs. ‘Sorry about last night. Both of you: really, really sorry about last night.’

  The two of them exchange a glance and smile. Not nasty smiles; two gentle, forgiving smiles. I love Lenny. I love Kirk.

  ‘That’s all right, Hec,’ says Lenny, pulling my hat down so that my ears stick out. ‘Any news about your dad?’

  ‘Er . . . yeah . . . yeah,’ I say, ‘I er . . . spoke to him this afternoon.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’ beams Lenny. ‘So he can speak?’

  ‘Why, what’s the matter with your dad?’ says Kirk, scrunching up his veiny brow.

  ‘Oh, he’s been a bit off colour,’ I say and lift a glass of wine from a passing flunky.

  Lenny straightens up and adjusts his yarmulke. ‘You said last night that he was on his deathbed.’

  I bring my lips together to say whatever it is that I might possibly say in this moment, but my lips are having some trouble picking up a signal.

  ‘You told me,’ pipes up Kirk, ‘that it was Eleni’s mother who was on her deathbed.’

  Kirk looks at Lenny. Lenny looks at Kirk.

  ‘Eleni’s mother is on her deathbed!’ I snap.

  ‘But not your dad?’ says Lenny, watching my mouth.

  ‘Yes, my dad! My dad as well, probably, now can we not talk about all this?’

  ‘He’s probably told his mum that I’m on my deathbed,’ says Kirk.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Silence.

  I can see Bianca over by Eleni watching the three of us. As Lenny and Kirk turn back to reappraise God Bolton I make a two-handed gesture at her designed to imply ‘Why the fuck are you still here, I thought I told you to go?’ But she just smiles and makes a two-handed gesture of her own, designed to imply ‘So this is Eleni, isn’t she adorable?’

  ‘Where’s Rosa?’ says Lenny, and Kirk shrugs.

  ‘Rosa?’ I hear myself say. ‘Who’s Rosa?’

  ‘I told you about her,’ says Lenny, ‘Rosa Flood – the girl from the Bobo Cat. The American girl.’

  ‘Oh her,’ I say.

  ‘Oh her!’ says Lenny. ‘Like you can’t remember.’

  ‘Like your tongue wasn’t hanging out,’ says Kirk.

  ‘What?’ I say, feigning outrage.

  ‘Oh yeah, her,’ says Lenny, not letting it drop.

  ‘Well, hang on, hang on there, sonny, you’re the one who’s with her, you’re the one wearing her on your fucking arm.’

  ‘Fuck you talking about?’

  ‘Bit young for you, isn’t she, Lenny?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ says Lenny.

  ‘You know,’ I say.

  Lenny breaks out into a big grin. Sharp white teeth. ‘I’m not fucking her, Hector. Christ, she’s like twenty-one or something.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were, did I? Did I say you were?’

  ‘You implied it.’

  ‘Did not.’

  ‘Well, what’s she a bit young for?’

  ‘Er . . .’ I mutter, ‘. . . her age? I meant she was a bit young for her age.’

  ‘That doesn’t even make sense,’ says Lenny.

  ‘Who’s a bit young for her age? Who are you talking about?’ says someone else. Lenny didn’t say it, and Kirk didn’t say it. My skull is aglow. I turn around.

  ‘He was talking about you, Rosa,’ says Lenny, and I nearly throw my drink over him, but I don’t cos that wouldn’t really help the situation right now. She’s right at my side and she smells of jasmine and musk. Sky black hair and impossible eyes, sullen, crucified.

  ‘What were you saying about me?’ She puts her hand on her hip and sniffs.

  ‘I wasn’t saying anything about you,’ I stutter. ‘Er . . .’ and the circumstances of my whole life – and several past ones – gallop through my brain. ‘I meant that I thought you were amazing the other night.’

  She looks to Lenny for advice. Lenny just smiles and swigs at his bottle.

  ‘The other night at the poetry thing,’ I continue, like a kite out of control, ‘I thought your poems were . . .’ Silence. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says and bows her head. I might have defused the situation. Oh God, please let me have defused the situation. ‘That’s very sweet of you.’

  Sweet! She called me sweet. Or she said that something I said was very sweet. Whatever, it’s not a total disaster.

  I can still see Bianca. God, I think she’s drunk. She’s plucking at David Baddiel’s chin as though she’s got a problem with his beard.

  ‘Hector Kipling,’ says Lenny, ‘Rosa Flood.’
<
br />   I hold out my hand. Rosa steps back and puts her glass on the floor.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘Oh myyyyy Gaaahhhd! You’re Hector Kipling?’ she says and her lips fill up with teeth, and at one point a tongue. Whatever, she’s smiling. Laughing, even. ‘Oh my Gaahhd!’

  Things are looking up.

  ‘You painted all this?’

  I look around. ‘Yes,’ I mutter.

  She puts out her hand and I take it in mine. I’m not sure what to do. Since Kirk has already kissed her on the back of the hand I decide against it and look into the possibilities of kissing her somewhere else. But it’s no good, anywhere other than the back of her hand would be either over zealous or indecent. I seize the moment and kiss her on the back of the hand and bow, just like Kirk bowed.

  She laughs in my face. ‘Jesus, you guys are so fuckin’ English!’

  I pull away and straighten up. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ she says, ‘I’m totally fucking honoured. You are a total fucking genius.’

  I want this moment to last for ever. And when forever’s over and done with I’d like it to last for whatever they can come up with next that’s better than forever.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that,’ says Lenny.

  Cunt.

  ‘You are a god!’ says Rosa.

  Rosa Flood just called me a god! What a girl.

  ‘A god?’ splutters Kirk, spraying his beer.

  ‘Which one?’ says Lenny.

  ‘Horus,’ says Kirk, ‘the Egyptian bird god.’