‘Excuse me.’
It was a young girl, younger than him. Standing in a pose of narrow best behaviour.
‘Are you Calvin Vance?’
‘Yes,’ he said, grasping the distraction.
‘From The X-Factor?’
‘That’s me.’ His intense relief hid behind a practised tone. Lazy good-humour, killing off his cigarette beneath his shoe.
Two other nearby girls, he noticed, were trying to hide behind their hands, squirmingly embarrassed by their failed secrecy, secretly delighted by their failed embarrassment. His saviours. And one was very tidy.
‘I knew it!’ The first girl released a flash of teeth. ‘My friend didn’t believe me.’ She pointed at the pretty one, who immediately lowered her eyes to the ground. ‘Would you mind just telling her I was right?’
‘Bring her over,’ Calvin said, with a smiling ‘Sorry, just a minute’ to Susie before she could protest. He was growing accustomed to – though by no means tired of – this.
The friends edged forward. Shop-bought girls, taut and freshly packaged. Calvin’s favourite came in blonde, her small breasts harnessed in a sequin crop-top, her wide blue eyes delicately outlined, lips still wet with glaze.
‘Hi,’ he said to her. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Kelly-Marie.’
He shook her little hand and turned to the others.
‘I’m Briony,’ came next. Briony was American.
And, ‘Alissa,’ said the one who had approached him, when it was her turn.
‘Hi,’ Calvin said, taking a look at them in general, and at Kelly-Marie in particular. ‘So yeah, um, your friend’s right. I am Calvin Vance.’
‘Yesss!’ Alissa cheered. The others laughed.
‘I never said you weren’t,’ his favourite tried to justify herself. ‘I just thought you were maybe a bit taller than you seemed on TV, and you know how they always say people look shorter in real life, so I thought it couldn’t be you.’
Calvin noticed that his jaw was clenched tight closed.
‘Well it is me,’ he said. ‘Sorry if I’m too tall.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Kelly-Marie.
‘So what are you girls doing here?’
Susie did not look happy.
‘We’re …’ and ‘My …’ said two of them, in collision, before Briony took over. ‘My dad makes movies,’ she said. ‘We all study in London, so he brought us along.’
‘We don’t really know anyone,’ Kelly-Marie admitted, giggling, with a shrug.
‘But we got our picture taken with Elton John!’ Alissa interrupted in a hurry. They all wanted to speak at once.
‘Yeah, Elton’s pretty cool,’ Calvin said. ‘This is Susie. She designed the waitresses’ costumes.’
‘Hi.’ Susie waved.
‘Oh they’re beautiful,’ said Briony.
‘Thanks. Calvin and I were just on our way to talk to Hugo about them, actually.’
‘You know Hugo?!’ Alissa could not hide her excitement.
‘Not really. Calvin does.’
‘What’s he like?’ Briony took over.
‘Oh he’s great,’ said Calvin. ‘We only worked together for a while, but he was really cool. All that stuff they say about him in the papers being really grumpy and that, it’s a load of rubbish, but then you can’t believe what you read in the press, I remember they said me and Kate Thornton had a thing going on, even though she’s, like, more than ten years older than me and we weren’t even in the same country at the time!’
The girls laughed again.
‘So all that stuff about Hugo’s drinking and not going out and problems with Mellody and everything’s a load of paper talk. They’ll say anything they can to sell copies, believe me. Hugo’s got his head screwed on proper. And he’s a fun guy and all. We had to do this dance together …’
There was so much to say. A thrilling slope of words.
‘… And he was all laughing and joking about it, having a great time. And he didn’t mind or anything. I asked him about all the press and that, and he said he just ignored it …’
He felt sure it was what Hugo would have said.
‘… I think if you’re famous you’ve got to keep your feet on the ground, like. And listen to the people you can trust. Because it’s the people who know you best who you need to listen to, because they’re the ones who really know you. It’s like, when you’re in the bubble – it’s like being in a bubble being famous …’
A sudden crash distracted his listeners, the dropping of a nearby tray of drinks. Male voices sent up a shambolic cheer. But Calvin carried on. He understood things. He was sensitivity.
‘… and when you’re in the bubble, there’s loads of people giving you advice. Do this, do that, and everything. But I think you need to get to the point, OK, where you give your own advice to yourself, like Hugo does, and that takes practice because …’
An ugly man, older than himself, had stopped beside the group. Calvin watched him slide surreptitiously inwards.
‘… you know, it takes practice. You need a lot of people around you to get everything done. It’s like you’re a business …’
The man was looking back at him, listening.
‘… You are like a business. And all these people you work with have opinions, and they need to be hired so you can all make money, but, you know, there’s a whole world outside the bubble that you never even think about. And I think what people forget is, you know, that money can’t buy happiness.’
‘Yes it can,’ the ugly man said.
Michael whisked himself a glass and halved it with a gulp. The bubbles burned his nose, but he did not flinch.
Already, a more disordered ambiance had come to rule the room. Conversations now seemed coarser, their supporting gestures raggedly flamboyant. Dancing continued on a modest scale, more ironic than expressive, but no less expertly performed. And the occupants of one packed booth were even swaying through a sing-song.
‘Get outta my dreams,’ they sang together, ‘get into my car!’
Michael walked past the piano, looking around. The room had become younger too, and a little emptier, drained perhaps of the stabilising presence of the older guests. One group seemed scarcely more than teenagers. They probably were teenagers, in fact. (These days he was shamingly unsure.) Four girls, listening in silence to the views of a boy. A very beautiful boy, with dark eyes and muscular arms, wearing a vest of point-blank ridiculousness. To Michael, it looked as if someone had taken a yellow scarf of little more than normal width, ripped a hole in the middle, placed it over the young man’s head and then sewn the sides up to his armpits.
As he studied the group, he began to wonder. Would they do? He had been searching for a solitary figure, but there were fewer of those around now, and these young people – children, really – well, he was not frightened of talking to them.
There was a tremendous crash behind him. Then the dull collapsing gong of a metal sheet. Because everybody else looked round, Michael did not. Goldilocks, he presumed, had dropped her tray; and a yobboid cry confirmed it. He smiled a smile of indulgent good-humour, hoping one of the young people might notice.
But the boy pressed on. Michael dawdled closer. A young guy on his own like that with an audience of four attentive women: it seemed a rare configuration. Was he someone famous? A model? A Hollyoaks hunk? He would have to be. Michael was sure that four women had never listened simultaneously to him.
He edged nearer still, loitering on the fringe of things, gradually releasing all pretence of distance until the interest lay plain upon his face. No one challenged him, and soon he felt established. Only then did he pay attention.
The young man was speaking, in a passionate Yorkshire accent, about the pressures of fame. And he was an idiot.
‘… you to get everything done. Slike you’re a business. You are like a business …’
Michael sipped his champagne.
‘… An all these people you work with h
ave opinions, an they need to be hired so you can all make money, but, you know, there’s a whole world outside the bubble that you never even think about …’
The boy sniffed, and took out a packet of cigarettes.
‘… An I think what people forget is, you know, that money can’t buy happiness.’
‘Yes it can,’ Michael heard himself saying.
And then there was a moment.
Five noses swung in his direction, snapping the division between their universe and his. To delay, Michael raised his champagne for a sip. A cloud of quietness stewed around him.
It was time to say something else. He opened his mouth to find out what it would be.
‘I mean very little unhappiness, globally, can be fixed without money,’ he said.
That pious ‘globally’ he regretted. But the ball, he felt, had been more or less batted back.
‘Oh yeah,’ the boy pleasantly agreed. ‘Money is so important.’
Michael was outraged. Why was the boy agreeing with him? They did not agree!
‘But you just said it couldn’t buy happiness,’ he protested. Though he had to be careful. He could win any debating contest with this teenage peacock, so he must not be seen to start one.
‘No. Definitely. It can’t. You ask people with a lot of money. Snot that what makes them happy.’
‘No. Sure,’ Michael said, opening his palms in a display of gentle patience, ‘but it is very difficult to be happy without any money.’
‘Definitely.’
‘So you could say that money is a tool with which one’s chances of happiness – of freedom from poverty – are improved. Would any of us be able to feed and clothe ourselves without money to pay farmers and, er, seamstresses …’
(Seamstresses?)
‘… let alone do any of the more interesting things in life that make most people happy? Although that doesn’t mean that happiness is for sale, as such …’
He was panicking a little now. All the girls were looking at him – and one, in a strangely tousled little dress, was doing so with open hostility. None of them knew who he was, or what he was talking about. He did not know what he was talking about. He felt as if he were sinking, weighted, into limitless sea. Light fading. Pressure squeezing. Air gone. Panting off the seconds till his fatal inhalation.
‘… so you’re right, I suppose,’ he said. And resolutely stopped.
They looked at him in silence like he had stabbed a dog.
A tray of drinks arrived, and someone’s phone rang. Just a plain bring bring.
‘Fuck,’ the woman in the funny frock said, fumbling in her bag.
‘No, you’ve got a point,’ observed the boy at last over the rim of his new glass. ‘I mean there’s a lot of poor people in the world.’
‘Hello?’ The woman spoke impatiently, muffling her spare ear.
‘Absolutely,’ Michael agreed. ‘There are.’
‘Good to meet you, mate. Am Calvin.’
The boy’s eyes shone deep and black. In his jaw, the muscles flexed like working rope.
‘Michael.’ He was so proud of himself. ‘Hi.’ He had done it.
The elbow of the woman’s phone arm slumped irascibly on the platform of her other wrist.
‘And that needs doing now, does it?’ she said.
‘No, you’ve got a point. I mean there’s a lot of poor people in the world.’
It was true. There were. And Calvin thought that everyone should stop for a moment to remember them.
‘Absolutely,’ said the ugly man. ‘There are.’ And smiled.
Here at last was someone who could join him in intelligent discussion.
‘Good to meet you, mate,’ said Calvin. ‘I’m Calvin.’
‘Michael. Hi.’
And they shook hands. The man looked very pleased, but gave no sign of recognising him.
‘This is Kelly-Marie,’ Calvin continued. ‘And …’ Shit. What were the other two called?
‘Alissa,’ said Alissa, before anybody noticed his pause. Probably before anybody noticed.
‘Briony,’ said Briony.
And Susie was on the phone. Calvin had forgotten about her.
‘How do you know Hugo?’ Michael asked, kind of generally.
‘They worked together.’ Alissa stepped in.
‘Oh yes? Are you an actor?’
‘No,’ said Calvin. ‘Musician.’
He enjoyed this, being asked what he did. The man’s ignorance did not aggrieve him. Indeed it made him strong. As if Calvin was a Roman emperor – some young, popular Roman emperor – turning up his thumb.
‘Calvin, I’ve got to deal with something for a minute.’ Susie’s face was pink with self-control. ‘Some fat waitress has spilled drinks down her pinafore and can’t get into the replacement. We’ll catch up in a minute and go see Hugo, OK?’
‘Sure.’ Calvin nodded to her leaving back.
‘What sort of musician?’ Michael pressed.
‘Singer.’ Deadpan, just like that.
‘Oh yeah? Have you sung anything I know?’
‘Maybe.’ Sigh. ‘I’m Calvin Vance.’
A glance at Kelly-Marie.
Quickly, Michael tried to produce a noise and compose a facial expression that might, between them, suggest both that he recognised the young man’s name and that perhaps he didn’t.
‘I see,’ he said.
And Calvin Vance, whoever he was, looked happy to leave it at that. His busy eyes patrolled their orbits, fiercely interested, it seemed, and yet also perfectly detached, like the boy could actually be a little mad. Or might suddenly go mad at any moment.
If Calvin Vance went mad, Michael wondered, would that be gossip?
The girls’ faces shimmered glassily with unconcern.
‘How about you,’ he asked them, in the interests of fairness and continuance, ‘are you musicians too?’
‘We’re at college together,’ said one of them. God only knew which one.
‘My dad makes films,’ added an American other. ‘He’s here someplace.’
‘And how do you know Hugo?’ asked the first.
‘Ah, yes,’ Michael laughed. ‘I sort of don’t, really. I don’t at all, in fact. A friend just gave me her invitation, and …’
‘No way! You mean you blagged your way in here?’
Manifest upon the blonde girl’s face was her opinion that, if he had, this would be the best thing he could possibly have done.
‘I suppose so,’ Michael said. ‘In a way.’
‘Wow! And you don’t know anyone here?’
‘No, not really.’
‘So you came on your own? You didn’t bring any mates with you?’
‘No.’
‘No way! I couldn’t do that. We don’t know anyone here at all.’
Well I’m a pretty brave guy. Was that what Michael was supposed to think? The instinct twitched to deprecate himself, but the girl had made him reconsider. I’m a pretty brave guy? Perhaps he was. He had thought that no one but himself could be so cowardly as to fear this party. But the girl would not have come alone, knowing no one. And he had. He had talked to people, too, and he could go home proud, after noodles, to Google ‘Calvin Vance’.
‘Well …’ he murmured bashfully, sipping at his empty glass.
Calvin was lighting a cigarette, between thoughts, cross-eyed in guidance of the flame.
The girl had made Michael reconsider. He was almost emotional.
‘Look!’ The American gasped, and some of her suppressed excitement leaped into a little hop.
But Michael had already seen.
‘So you came on your own? You didn’t bring any mates with you?’
‘No.’
‘No way! I couldn’t do that. We don’t know anyone here at all.’
‘Well …’ Michael began, and left it at that.
Alissa and Briony were looking at the ugly guy too, transfixed by what? By his ordinariness? It made no sense, and was becoming inconvenient. Cal
vin was impatient to get back to business. To hook up again with Caspar. To escape Susie. To involve the girls. To phone around for other parties. To start to make a mess.
He lit a cigarette and thought about it.
‘Look!’
A startled hiss from Briony. She was staring, in a happy emergency, at something behind him. Calvin swivelled through his puff.
And there he was. Striding neatly towards them. Perfect posture, beautiful blue suit.
Hugo Marks. Alone.
And now everyone was looking at Calvin. Kelly-Marie was looking at Calvin. Brain cramp. A cold spasm. He was supposed to do something. Obviously, he was supposed to do something. So he pressed one foot forward on the floor. It felt nice, distant flesh squidging in his shoe. Then the other foot, on a course to intercept. And straight away he shouted, leaping from the instinct’s brink.
‘Hey Hugo!’ was what he shouted.
The face stopped and turned and looked at him.
‘Calvin!’
The face dived in for a hug.
There was a moment of confusion. And then a special batch of celebration burst in Calvin’s breast. He hugged Hugo hard. He was remembered! Publicly and joyfully remembered!
‘How are you doing?’ Hugo asked as their bodies disengaged. ‘It’s … been … ages.’ The words were elongated to describe the span of separating time. Their shared apartness recognised at last and healed.
‘Grand, mate,’ Calvin said, hot. And, ‘Yeah, totally … it’s all good.’ Stumbling over his own happiness like scatterings on his bedroom floor. Then finally, forgetfully, ‘Happy birthday!’
‘Thank you,’ said Hugo with a humble dip of the head.
‘Hugo, mate, I’ve just promised these young ladies that I’d introduce them to you.’ Had he? Calvin could not remember.
The Afterparty Page 4