The Afterparty
Page 13
And then her phone began to ring.
‘Shit,’ Mellody laughed, and dropped to snuffle one last kiss into his chest.
She answered it.
‘Hi honey,’ she said.
Calvin tried not to hear the burr of Hugo’s voice.
‘We’re in the bathroom on the second floor.’
A longer talking noise.
‘Well come up here and tell me, OK?’
She put the phone back in her bag, and returned her gaze to Calvin.
‘Sorry baby,’ with another playful kiss. ‘That was Hugo. Don’t worry. It’s fine. He’s just going to come up for a minute, OK?’
Calvin nodded through a wave of dread. With his shoulders, he gave a mime of casualness.
This was not fine. It was very far from fine. Facing Hugo now, and acting natural, when he was zombie high and fiercely turned on … How could Mellody do this to him? And just stop everything like that? (But girls could, couldn’t they? People who could do this, that was exactly what girls were.) Sourly he unhooked the erection in his trouser leg as she checked herself in the mirror and slid back the bolt from the door. He would manage. Like walking out on stage, he would manage. He might even have some fun.
‘So Korea’s good then, is it?’ he said.
‘Yes Calvin,’ Mellody replied, pretend-impatient, tipping cocaine on to the tiled counter. ‘Korea is good. I mean, do you want to be a rock star or not?’
‘Oh yeah, I definitely do.’ He leant hard against the sink to hide his lurching fly. ‘I’ve just not done a big international tour before.’
‘Oh you’ll get used to it. And you’ll have people doing everything for you all the time. My one piece of advice…’ She looked around briefly.
Fucking gorgeous, in spite of everything. He just wanted to walk right up to her, roll those jeans down …
‘… My one piece of advice is to make use of your support team. If you need something, whatever it is, don’t be afraid to ask. Remember: you’re the talent. They’ve all got a job because of you, and your job is to look after yourself as well as you possibly can. You’ll perform better because of it, so the show will be better too, and they’ll all get more work. If you want a grape soda at three in the morning, remember there are guys whose job it is to go and find you one.’
Then Hugo walked into the room.
‘Oh. Hi,’ he said.
And was Calvin imagining it, or did his voice arch slightly with surprise?
Hugo pecked his wife on the lips, the lips his own had just left.
‘So you want a grape soda, do you Calvin?’ he asked next, cool and still.
‘… better because of it, so the show will be better too …’
Mellody’s voice – tense, urgent, painfully sincere – was clearly audible as Hugo mounted the stairs.
‘… and they’ll all get more work …’
He had heard this rousing little speech so many times before. Be selfish. Be the star. Be the cash machine, the publicity pump. Self-gratify and never stop. Let anyone who doesn’t like it try to do your fucking job.
‘… If you want a grape soda at three in the morning, remember there are guys whose job it is to go and find you one.’
‘Oh. Hi.’
Right in front of him, inches away: the face of Calvin Vance, paler now and wet with sweat, arranged in simpleton anxiety. The boy scratched his forehead, displaying a purple insignia smudged across the tendons on the back of his hand.
Hugo had thought. Well, he had assumed.
Calvin had left with her, of course. He had forgotten that.
But surely Pete?
‘We’re in the bathroom,’ she had said on the phone, assembling a large cast of accomplices in his mind.
But no. ‘We’re in the bathroom.’ Calvin and I are. We.
Even by her standards.
That jolt of dread again, not long lost.
Hugo gave his wife a kiss.
‘So you want a grape soda, do you Calvin?’ he said. It was meant to sound dry and chummy, an ice-breaker. It came out steely, challenging.
‘No.’ Calvin did a laugh. ‘Mellody was just telling me about the Far East. You know, Korea and that. I’m going there on tour, but I’ve never been before.’
‘You want a bump, Hugo?’
His wife, with a pile of powder, blithely grinding it into the tiles. Forbidden powder, by strict principles of rehab, though she showed no shame about it. And how typical of her – how absolutely Mell – to offer him a share. The defiant courtesy that said, Your move.
‘No thanks,’ was all Hugo could face right now.
Mell shrugged and carried on.
Perhaps she and Calvin were remnants from a larger group? Perhaps they had come up here with others who had bled away?
‘Yeah, so it’s my first big tour,’ Calvin said.
Just not Calvin. Please not Calvin.
‘Uh-huh.’
Heat raced through Hugo’s skin. Fear again. His stalking need, his problem. And nausea, stretching at his stomach with insistent little tugs. Mellody was talking, but he could not understand her. Something bad was going to happen.
‘So anyway. I meant to say.’
He butted the words, with effort, into the middle of her flow.
‘Oh yes.’ She was preparing a note. ‘So what was this message you came up here to give me?’
‘It’s not my message,’ he mouthed, between recovery breaths. ‘It’s Renée’s.’
Could he do this? Was he up to it?
‘OK,’ Mellody said, handing the tube to Calvin. ‘Don’t tell me: stop acting like a bitch, don’t spoil my party, be nice to everyone, comb your hair, stand up straight, and go downstairs and bake some cookies. Is that about it?’
Could she not see that he was falling apart?
‘Yes,’ Hugo said, trying a smile. ‘About.’ He guzzled air in tight half-breaths that never seemed to land. His brow was scrunching his eyes almost shut.
Calvin smiled back.
‘Well tell Renée to fucking relax – if that’s possible.’ Mell snorted with laughter. ‘Because we are not here to ruin her party. I just wanted to bring some friends back to my own fucking home.’
We, thought Hugo. We.
Then the door opened.
‘Here you are.’ It was Pete Sheen, a look of sheepish amusement on his face. ‘Whooah! Hope I’m not interrupting anything.’
‘You’re not,’ Mell snapped.
‘OK, OK. Keep cosy.’ A leering look at Hugo. ‘It’s just that I’m off, basically. Some guys are on their way to a thing at Olympic, and I said I’d tag along. You could all come if you like? You too, Hugo.’
Everybody shook their head, and Pete looked pleased.
‘The thing is, Mell,’ he continued, edging further into the room. ‘I can’t exactly take this with me. Or not most of it.’
Hugo noticed a carrier bag that Pete was holding close to his body, the handles twisted tightly into wrinkled strings.
‘Jesus.’ Mell’s shoulders fell, and her hair flicked sideways with impatience. ‘Just give it to Bonzo. He’ll look after it.’
‘Wooah! Access denied!’ Pete squawked. ‘No offence, but the guy’s hardly going to leave it alone, is he? And I can’t find Malcolm anywhere.’
‘OK, whatever,’ Mell sighed. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Somewhere safe, yeah?’
Here you are!
‘It’s going in a fucking closet, OK? If that’s not good enough, you can take it yourself.’
Here you are.
‘All right. You all be good. Happy birthday, Hugo.’
Here you are!
It was the first thing Pete had said. Like he didn’t know where Mellody and Calvin were. Like no one did.
With Hugo’s wife’s encouragement, the boy bent down to snort his share.
If Michael was not sober, then he was a funny kind of drunk. Because where the regretted weight of booze would usually be dragging at his thoughts at
this point on a Friday night, that scotch instead had blended in a comfortable pliancy, as though readying his brain for sport. He just felt better, he would have said, rather than intoxicated. More relevant to the world. And still utterly himself – perhaps more himself than ever. And confidence: good God, he had that going on. He felt its mass pulling him to others, and them to him, by force of human gravity. It had simply been no effort, on being left by Hugo, for him to amble upstairs to the kitchen, latch on to somebody he did not know (a giant in what appeared to be his early forties) and start a conversation. The act just flowed from him undesigned. And now he spoke with executive ease, marvelling at his skill. Machine-tooled bon mots and finely calibrated questions marched whole and sequential from his brilliant lips, each phrase glossy with the sheen of manufacture. He just did not feel tired at all. Even though – he looked at his watch – fuck, it was 2:31 a.m.!
‘Not that bad.’ It was the giant’s turn to speak. ‘The worst are the Italians.’
They were discussing Hugo’s fans, a subject on which the man clearly held himself an expert. Indeed it seemed to Michael that this clenched and beefy character took such a jealous interest in Hugo’s affairs that asserting it became a form of physical work, two triangles of shoulder muscle leaping up to buttress his neck on each important word, raising in the process, and then lowering, the collar of his giant shirt. Michael longed to find a way – an amiable way – to make it known precisely which of them had just spent an hour alone with Hugo, drinking whisky from a newly opened presentation sack.
‘Ah yes, the Latin temperament,’ he agreed knowingly.
‘Exactly,’ said the giant and his shirt.
Could it also be the cockney accent that made him seem so territorial? When the speech of London’s working classes entered Michael’s ears, it always did so with a burly swagger, as though cheerfully elbowing a prime position at the bar.
‘So what do they actually do?’ he asked, allowing himself to be ingenuous, for now.
‘They think it’s all a facking game is what it is, the Italians. They’ll camp outside his hotel, singing songs, chanting You-go! You-go! You-go! Sixteen years old most of them, like a facking school trip. I wish they would facking go.’
Surprising himself with this joke, the giant laughed.
A thought occurred to Michael: was he talking to an employee?
‘And if I go out and tell them to fack off, it don’t make no difference. They just walk round the block and come back. And if Hugo does it, they facking love it. Start cheering like mad and crowding round for autographs. Hugo won’t do promotion work in Italy no more. They all have to come over here to interview him now.’ He shook his head, momentarily subdued.
‘Are you Hugo’s bodyguard then?’ Michael asked.
‘Head of security. That’s right.’
‘I see. I’m Michael. Nice to meet you.’
‘Bonzo,’ the giant said, taking his hand and inflicting friendly pain.
Had this been the man who led him out of Cuzco to the car? Michael could not honestly remember. And was it done to talk to staff? He did not know. And, graciously, decided not to care. To him, all men were equal.
‘So does Hugo get a lot of aggro from fans?’ he asked, pleased with himself. Aggro was a bodyguard’s word.
‘Just a bit,’ Bonzo nodded, with a breathy little parody of awe. But then nothing further followed.
And in the pause, Michael noticed for the first time that the room they stood in had been abandoned by all but one last patch of guests. Visible instead, where the bodies had been, were three deep shelves that edged the room with an audience of copper-bottomed pans, arranged by increment like a Russian doll unpacked. Why anybody needed such a choice of pans, Michael could not think, though scorch marks attested to their use. He imagined Hugo in attendance at the hotplate, overhung by tongs, prodding them with wooden spoons.
The final group, three men, at last made up its mind. Collecting their belongings, they began to leave. Michael saw that one of them, again, was Mark Wahlberg.
‘See you Bonzo,’ one of the group said. ‘Say thanks to Hugo for us, will ya?’
‘Sure thing,’ Bonzo obediently answered. ‘I’ll let you out.’
As they passed, Wahlberg smiled goodbye. Then he was gone.
Michael was alone.
Quickly, in search of occupation, he walked towards a corner table, still well stocked with drinks, where three sorrowful blinis had quietly begun to curl. Despite a perfect absence of appetite, he put one in his mouth, and lost a minute to desireless chewing. A formidable Illy coffee machine watched him from the counter, its roof a foam of chubby upturned cups.
Perhaps now, finally, it was time to go. It had been a wonderful night. He did not want it to end, of course. But of course it would. Better not to spoil the memory by clinging desperately on.
I should be heading off now.
To say it to Hugo, and to leave. To take his final steps past paparazzi, and then address the night bus home.
I should be heading off now.
Bonzo shut the Wahlberg entourage outside. And here was Hugo, rounding the bottom of the stairs. He said something sharp in Bonzo’s ear, and with a look of mild protest, the big man left the house himself.
I should be heading off now.
This party was over. He should say it before Hugo reached him. Make it look like the decision had already been taken. Which it had.
I should be heading off now.
Michael swallowed the last of his blini and …
‘Hi,’ said Hugo. ‘Whisky, Mike?’ The words were heavy, effortful, dumped on the ground as if at the end of a long trip. He looked pale, and was he trembling?
I should be heading off now.
Michael could still have said it.
‘Certainly,’ he did say. ‘Good idea.’
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Out of Office Autoreply: Re:
Date: Saturday, 10 October 2009 03:22:20
I will be out of the office from Wednesday October 7 until Monday October 19. If your message is urgent, please contact my assistant Carly McBride at carly.mcbride@nortonmorrell.co.uk. Otherwise I will reply on my return.
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Publicity*****
Date: Monday, 19 October 2009 09:09:01
Dear William,
Very sorry to have missed your messages. I was away in Andalucia. I hope you’re feeling more chipper now? If not, it might console you to know that every writer I have ever worked with goes through the same thing now and again – even the ones who’ve sold millions! Perseverance is the tonic. Perseverance.
Just to let you know, I have a couple of urgent things to catch up on, but then I will begin submitting your novel. Have faith.
Val x
* * *
From:williammendez75@gmail.com
To:valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
Subject: Re: Publicity*****
Date: Monday, 19 October 2009 15:38:19
Thanks Val – yes, I was in a funny mood that day, but I am feeling much more positive about things now. I haven’t started on the synopsis yet, but I was thinking I could maybe write you a paragraph or two of sales copy, which would flesh things out without giving away the ending – like the blurbs that go on the back of a book. Would that be any use?
William
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Publicity*****
Date: Monday, 19 October 2009 16:02:59
We can but try. Just give me what you can spare and I’ll dip my toe into the market. Cape, Picador, Canongate, Bloomsbury and Viking, I think, would be a good list for now, while still holding some cards back. If you could get your blurb to me by Friday that
would be jolly helpful.
And we must finally meet! How are you fixed over the next week? Breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, elevenses, tiffin… I can do them all.
Vx
* * *
From: williammendez75@gmail.com
To: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
Subject: Is this allowed?
Date: Thursday, 22 October 2009 04:30:38
Publicity***** blurb
So I was putting together this synopsis, when the idea hit me: if this book gets published, why don’t I actually write the real blurb that goes on the back? Otherwise they tend to be so direly pious, about how the book is a ‘meditation’ or a ‘tour de force’ or some other sewage. Bleurgh! (Puts finger down throat.) If I don’t know the author, at least by reputation, then none of that is going to lure me to the till. Worse: they give away the plot half the time! Like my paperback copy of Waterland, a proper masterpiece which suffers terribly from the indiscretions of its jacket. And another thing…
No. Enough whingeing. That is my idea, and I’ve put this together. I’m not adamant about every word, but it would be nice to do something like it. Let me know what you think.
William
This book is different. You’ve really never read a book like this before.
It tells the story of an April night, when a nervous nerdy journalist takes his boss’s invitation to an A-list party and meets a reclusive film star, his junkie supermodel wife, and a wide-eyed young pop singer. Soon, his life and theirs become tangled in a web of drugs and decadence.
Yet not one of them sees the real crisis coming, the moment that will engulf them all in a scandal they can’t control …
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Re: Is this allowed?