The Afterparty

by Leo Benedictus

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I said tomorrow lunchtime: 13:13, just for fun.’

  ‘I thought you said he would go on for months?’

  ‘Yeah. But he sort of already has.’

  For a time, neither of them said anything.

  ‘What did you bet?’

  ‘Nothing really.’ Michael was embarrassed. ‘We just sort of bet each other.’

  ‘Right then,’ Hugo said. ‘Make it a tenner, and I’ll say he goes tomorrow night.’

  ‘OK.’ Michael was thrilled by the suggestion that their acquaintanceship would last at least another day. ‘What time shall I put you down for?’

  ‘9:17 p.m.’

  He noted this in his phone.

  When he looked up, the African family was back on the screen again, still swaying. Notre Père followed in the same brightly coloured letters. That handsome cigarette still burned.

  And when his passing comes, a correspondent called Sophia Cheung was saying, there will be grief here. And prayer.

  ‘Yup,’ Hugo told the screen. The moment seemed to rouse him into action. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Shall we open a good bottle?’

  Michael frowned. The whisky they were drinking seemed already pretty good.

  ‘Well …,’ he began.

  ‘Excellent!’ Hugo said. ‘Do you prefer Islay or Highland? I do have a very old Campbeltown, but it’s not that good.’

  Michael had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Islay is the one with, erm …,’ he said, hoping to pass off his total ignorance as partial.

  ‘That’s the peaty one, yes. Tastes like petrol.’

  ‘Yummy,’ Michael ventured, which went down well.

  ‘All right then. Islay. Glad you said that actually. I’ve just been sent this fancy new Bruichladdich.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Bruichladdich.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Hugo approached the drinks cabinet and opened up its lower cupboard. The bottle he pulled out, wrapped in a hessian bag, was one of many.

  ‘It’s still cask strength,’ he said, ‘so you do need a little water.’

  The commercials had begun. The Fonz was thumbing up a Citroën full of girls.

  Hugo passed a glass to Michael, who prepared an appreciative response, with details. But it was not needed. The scotch – with two ice cubes, which he thought would be forbidden – was quite extraordinary. Perhaps a minute after being swallowed, the first delicious sip still lingered in his mouth, doing different things. ‘Wow,’ was all that he eventually said.

  ‘Mmm,’ Hugo agreed. ‘That is good.’ Then, quite calmly, he put his glass down, took hold of what appeared to be a hefty marker pen, and pulled his shirtfront up until it left his trousers. ‘My insulin,’ he said mechanically, untwisting the back end of the device, ratcheting it outwards with a rapid clicking sound. He took the lid off next, pinched a roll of fat together from his belly, and stuck the needle unhesitatingly in. ‘I always need more when I’m drinking,’ he explained.

  Michael did not know what to say, so he nodded. He had heard that Hugo was diabetic, but forgotten. And there was something disquietingly intimate about the sight of it. Like trying not to watch a woman breastfeed.

  ‘So what do you think the new one should be called?’ Hugo asked, as he packed away the needle.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The new Pope.’

  ‘Ah.’ Michael remembered a joke he had made that afternoon. ‘Well, if this one was John-Paul the second …’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Yes I know that, thank you …’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Well, if this one was called John-Paul,’ Michael struggled on delightedly, ‘then the next one should be George-Ringo.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Hugo said. ‘The first.’

  CHERYL BARRYMORE DIES, AGED 56,’ said the trickling text. FORMER WIFE AND MANAGER OF MICHAEL BARRYMORE WAS SUFFERING FROM LUNG CANCER.

  This was followed by a clip of Prince Charles in skiing gear, a bandana tied rakishly around his neck. He was answering questions from the media.

  These bloody people, Charles was saying under his breath to one of his sons, the words subtitled for clarity. I can’t bear that man anyway. He’s so awful, he really is.

  Yes absolutely, Prince William said out loud. As long as I don’t lose the rings I’m all right. My one responsibility, I’m bound to do something wrong.

  ‘Poor bastards,’ Hugo murmured. ‘They’re all right, you know, the royals. No one gets it like they do, all their lives. I’m going to the wedding next week for some reason.’

  Michael nodded absently. He was enjoying the whisky with the funny name.

  There’s a lot of coverage this morning, William, of Kate, a male journalist was now saying. I don’t know how you feel about that, and how she’s bearing up under the scrutiny.

  I haven’t seen any of it, said William in response. I’m just gagging to get on the slopes, basically. Simple as that.

  ‘Evening guys!’ A brassy voice rang sudden from the stairs.

  Michael turned to see a small middle-aged woman entering the room. She had dark-brown hair, neatened around stoatish little features, and wore a sober cocktail dress that glinted intermittently with jewels. Quite without apology, she stepped in front of the television. There was a determined bustle in her movements, a tamed excess of energy.

  ‘Hi Renée,’ Hugo said.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ The woman was American. Her arms explained that she wanted him to leave the room with her.

  ‘Fire away!’ Hugo applied the mute control, but remained in his seat.

  She sighed, and finally said, ‘Mell’s back.’

  ‘Really?’ Hugo sounded surprised, and partly pleased.

  ‘Uh-huh. Anyway, she’s brought her friends, so I was wondering – I’m sorry to ask you this again – but could you have a word with her?’

  ‘What were you wondering I might say?’

  ‘Jesus, Hugo.’ The woman looked around herself dramatically. ‘We’ve got guests, OK? Although you may not have noticed. I just think it would be best if things went smoothly for a couple of hours. Do you think that would be a good idea, maybe?’

  Michael cringed, and wished himself invisible. He had not imagined that anyone could talk this way to Hugo, but the woman’s manner, the strong clear voice and the straightness of her stance, left him incapable of doubting that she had the right to.

  ‘Of course,’ Hugo said calmly. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ the woman answered. ‘She was in the kitchen when I left her.’

  ‘I’ll go up and see her in a minute.’

  Clearly this was meant to end the matter. But the woman had not finished.

  ‘Warshak rang,’ she said.

  ‘Oh good.’

  ‘He seemed happy, in case you were wondering. He was pretty drunk, but we fixed up a brunch in LA. He said he talked to you about it.’

  ‘Yeah, I think he said something.’

  ‘Lady in Red!’ sang a strained male voice somewhere upstairs.

  They all looked, pointlessly, at the ceiling.

  ‘Anyway,’ the woman continued, ‘I’m putting you on the plane on Sunday morning instead of Monday, so you can have dinner with him that night.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I need to meet with the lawyers on Monday, which means I’ll have to catch up with you the day after, and we’ll go see Independence together. They’re getting opening-night nerves so it would soothe them to see your face.’

  ‘OK.’

  The woman tried to relent. ‘It’s been a good party, Hugo,’ she said. ‘Be happy.’

  ‘Happy? Oh, all right. Shall I smile?’

  ‘I’ll leave that up to you, but I’m going to head off. I think me being here just antagonises things, so it’s better I get going. It’s been a long day anyhow. Hi.’ She turned to face Michael for the first time. ‘I’m Renée Santos, Hugo’s manager.’

&
nbsp; ‘Hi,’ Michael said. ‘Michael.’ He stood gingerly. There was a pleasing unsteadiness about his legs.

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ She shook his hand, and left without another word.

  ‘Look!’ Hugo shouted, pointing at the silent television ‘Now he’s “extraordinarily serene!”’

  They stepped from the bushes into a moonless garden. It sizzled invisibly with rain.

  ‘Fook me,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘Witness the wetness,’ said Pete.

  It had been a while since anyone had spoken, so everybody laughed.

  In the darkness, Mellody let go of Calvin’s hand.

  ‘Fuck!’ she cried, to cover up the moment. ‘This stupid weather put my cigarette out!’

  And it was true. There in front of her, where once the orange ember was, it wasn’t. Just a dead suck and tomorrow morning’s smell. She dropped the stub, giggling in her blindness. How much fun it was to creep home round the back like this! The moss-tinged, sticking wooden gate, so ill kept and penetrable that even paparazzi never dared imagine it was hers; the pathless walk at first beneath the rhododendrons then across the chewy lawn; the gradual diminishment of streetlight, the guesswork trudge towards her glowing windows, and in between, the dark, the groping zone, where nobody could prove a thing, where one might as well proceed with eyes closed, and where she sometimes did. Staggering, disgraced by lateness, it was her cherished forfeit. Especially performed in rain. She had sacrificed a shoe this way the week before, plugging it flush into the sodden soil before stepping right ahead, pantyhose on mud, too blasted and amused to stop or look. No doubt Mrs O’Sullivan would have found the thing by now, and returned it to her closet – cleaned, of course, and with an icy lack of comment. Hugo’s woman, Mrs O was. Never liked his new American.

  There was a yelp and a wet smack.

  ‘Fookin ell!’

  ‘You all right, Malc?’ Pete asked.

  Indistinct growls rose from blackness. It sounded like he had fallen actually quite hard.

  ‘Have you fallen over, Malcolm sweetie?’ Mellody asked.

  Through a grimace: ‘Yes I fookin have.’

  ‘Here, take my hand, just here.’ This was Calvin’s voice.

  ‘Cheers mate.’

  ‘I think maybe you’ve found the rockery,’ Mellody said.

  ‘That’s nice,’ Malcolm replied. ‘It needs a fookin railing.’

  Ahead of them, a warm wash of yellow light flooded through the windows of her hefty kitchen. People were visible inside, but not many. One was Renée, her outline blurred by rain, talking keenly to two men.

  ‘Now you all be good, OK?’ said Mellody, as they reached the back door.

  With a twist and a shove, she made to step inside, but only shouldered bluntly into the static upper pane. She tried again, working the mechanism as Pete and Malcolm sniggered.

  ‘Shut up!’ Mellody hissed, laughing now herself.

  She hooked her bag on to the handle, and searched inside it for a key. But already an approaching presence was darkening the glass, and now the door swung inwards, taking her bag with it.

  Renée stood before them, backed by the interested faces of half a dozen guests.

  On the stereo, Leon Redbone quietly played.

  ‘Hi Mell,’ Renée said, nearly friendly. ‘Sorry, I think the caterers must have locked it.’

  ‘Hi Renée,’ said Mellody. ‘Thanks.’

  Enjoying the silence, and the eyes upon her, she stepped into the room, removing her bag with regal dignity from its hook.

  ‘Hi,’ Calvin offered meekly, following her in.

  ‘A’right,’ Malcolm nodded in his turn.

  Pete said nothing, and shut the door behind them.

  They were all more wet and rosy than the party average. In the light, Mellody could also see that Malcolm’s pants were ripped around the knee, and that much of the left side of his body was skimmed with mud.

  ‘Fuck me, Malc!’ Pete cried when he noticed it too.

  ‘Malcolm lost his footing in the rockery,’ Mellody explained primly to Renée, and loud enough for everybody else to hear.

  There was some hesitant amusement.

  ‘Mmm,’ Renée said through a tight smile. ‘Well if you’d like a wash and some fresh pants, I’m sure we can help you out.’ Half of this was offer, half command.

  ‘Oh right,’ Malcolm said. ‘Ta.’

  ‘You’ll find a bathroom on the third floor.’ Renée pleasantly persisted. ‘Just follow the stairs all the way up, and stop before you get to the roof.’

  Malcolm wandered off where he was pointed.

  Tentatively, conversations began again, and Mellody felt free to glance around. On a table by the wall, spread across a thick white cloth, lay a display of bottles, glasses, sliced fruit, canapés and sprigs of mint. A large zinc tub sat at one end, filled with ice, wine and bottled German beers. Mellody stepped over and slipped her hand in. The slush was lovely and cold. She allowed her fingers to swim among the bobbing floes. It would have been nice to dunk her face. Instead she fished out a Bollinger, and popped away the cork. A gout of spume spilled half across the glasses and the cloth.

  ‘In future?’ Renée was standing quietly beside her. ‘Do you think you could give me or Theresa a heads-up about when you’ll be getting back? She can always bring a torch or an umbrella to meet you.’ The woman was clearly trying to be reasonable and polite. As if Mellody and she were going to have a future.

  ‘Yeah, no problem,’ Mellody said, pouring as dismissively as possible. To her disappointment, Renée accepted this and left.

  Champagne foam had filled the glasses almost wholly without fluid. Pete helped himself to one and slurped away the excess. Mellody poured in more, then filled the others, easing up each bubble column so it toppled off the brim and slid down, melting, through her fingers. She felt surprisingly sober, on balance, though her movements, she could see, were clumsy and approximate.

  Calvin quietly received his drink.

  ‘This party’s not the heartiest,’ said Pete.

  ‘It’s not meant to be.’ Mellody shrugged. ‘It’s a shmoozefest, basically.’

  ‘Ah.’ Pause. ‘So why are we here?’

  Pete was often like this. Grouchy and brattish. She ignored him.

  ‘What have you got going on at the moment then, Calvin?’ It was the first thing she could think of saying.

  ‘Oh.’ He looked a little startled. ‘Well, my new single’s coming out in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And what single is that?’

  ‘It’s dead exciting, actually.’ A little spark returned to those clear brown eyes. ‘We’re doing “Lady in Red”.’

  ‘You’re shitting me!’ Pete spluttered with delight. ‘What, Chris de Burgh?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  A messy laugh.

  ‘We totally re-interpreted it, though.’ Calvin offered this apologetically. ‘I wasn’t sure to begin with, either, you know. It’s not my kind of music normally. But with a light beat, and these awesome strings we’ve recorded …’

  This only made Pete laugh harder.

  Mellody had had enough.

  ‘What is “Lady in Red”?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s …’ Calvin began.

  ‘It’s the cheesiest fucking Eighties love ballad of the lot,’ Pete butted in, ‘by this posh Irish wanker.’

  ‘It was a massive hit,’ Calvin countered. ‘And a lot of people wanted the rights.’

  ‘And this is coming out in a couple of weeks?’ Mellody tried to show that she was interested.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So I’m going to hear it everywhere?’

  ‘Yeah, I hope so. Then I start touring in May.’

  Pete began to sing derisively.

  ‘Really? Where are you going?’

  ‘The Far East.’ There was little enthusiasm in Calvin’s voice.

  ‘Oh, wow! Well, you’ll have a great time!’ Mellody tried to inject some.

  ‘Is it n
ice out there, then?’

  His crumpled brow. His lovely naked arms. He looked so worried. She wanted to kiss him again.

  Instead she said, ‘Oh yeah, it’s fabulous. A little crazy – and like totally fucking another planet – but fabulous. I was in Shanghai and Guangzhou last fall, and I loved it.’

  ‘… LADY IN RE-E-E-E-E-E-D!’ Pete sang on, ignored.

  ‘Right,’ Calvin said. ‘I’m off to Seoul first.’

  ‘Oh, Seoul’s really great. You’ll love it.’

  A shaven-headed man appeared. He had been drawn over by Pete’s singing.

  ‘Let’s go get another bump,’ Mellody said quickly into Calvin’s ear, while she had the chance.

  When she looked at him like that it was as if the world slid away. They were just two people, understanding one another.

  ‘Oh, Seoul’s really great. You’ll love it.’

  And yes, perhaps he would. He made his face a mirror of her wishes, while the rest of him set out to think so.

  But then how could he love any city when Mellody would not be in it? Somewhere they could be alone: this was the only place he wanted. And she felt the same. He knew she did.

  ‘Let’s go get another bump,’ she whispered, proving it, flashing him one of those looks again, and walking off into the hall.

  Calvin followed with a rapid pulse, holding himself a few wise yards behind.

  Mellody glided past a huge front room where a short man and a tall woman were talking privately, their wine glasses resting on the surface of a large glass case that contained a model boat. Now her little arse reeled him upstairs, to where a door ajar showed glimpses of an Asian man playing snooker in a suit and waving hi as they walked on. Calvin could hear the other players’ quiet, grown-up sounds. He noticed photographs of Hugo, in frames that lit the walls with Harrison Ford … with David Beckham … with P. Diddy … with this bearded old guy who Calvin knew was a famous film director, but didn’t know which one. And now he was excitedly afraid, as Mellody made contact with the handle on an ancient panelled door. To be in Hugo’s house, with his wife, on his birthday … It spiked his ready body for the rut. Now she was reaching in to tug the light cord. Now looking quickly round. Now pulling him inside. A stack of Hugo’s laundered towels. Two vases full of Hugo’s birthday flowers. Calvin didn’t care. She put her arms around his waist. He leaned into her space. At last to reunite their angry, hungry mouths. She was so beautiful, so famous. How he wanted this. It was so good for him. He wanted it so much.