The Afterparty
Page 16
And the gym.
Hugo was not yet in bed. The covers were still rectangularly tucked and turned. He would be downstairs, of course, drinking and watching TV. But surely Malcolm was not with him? More likely he had left. Or perhaps found Calvin on the roof?
She checked the spare bedrooms, and Mrs O’Sullivan’s utility area.
Deserted. Deserted. Deserted.
Then she tried the door to the second bathroom. It gave way. And a sweet, burnt, vinegary smell – the sweet, burnt vinegary smell – came wafting out to greet her. The light was off, the drapes drawn, but she knew Malcolm was inside. And a sloshing from the tub confirmed it.
Technically this was funny. Malcolm taking a bath. But, ‘Malcolm?’ Mellody said, seriously.
‘Mmmm …’ A long, relaxed acknowledgement.
‘You got any spare?’
The red tip of a smoke glowed yellower, lighting up the smiling contours of a face in steam.
‘S’on the side,’ he said. ‘Weird sticky stuff. S’all I could get. Good though.’
Pulling shut the door behind her, Mellody flicked on her cigarette lighter and advanced into the room. A sheet of foil, charred, lay on the counter behind Malcolm’s back. It flapped and tinkled in a gust of air. And there, nestling in cellophane, was what she was looking for: a glistening chunk. Black tar, like they had in LA. Plenty.
With her thumb and forefinger, she pinched a piece. It stuck like hard candy to her nail. With one end of the foil, she plucked it off, and sniffed her fingertip instinctively.
‘Could you hold this for me?’ she asked.
Malcolm reached out and took a corner of the sheet, tipping it very slightly down towards her. Holding her lighter underneath, Mellody watched the dot of matter as it sizzled and melted and began to drip along the slope, emitting as it went a teasing strand of smoke, which she sucked greedily through his discarded tube. A sour lash cracked the back of her palate, but she held on, resisting the urge to cough. The pain passed. Mellody waited … and then exhaled a large and satisfying cloud. The kind that genies came from.
That was the thing about Malcolm. They had a special understanding. Stuff most other people did not get.
‘Pete’s fooked off somewhere,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts.
‘He went to a party someplace,’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘Right.’
Malcolm was great. With just one word, he could say everything.
Gently, gently, Mellody eased herself through the blackness and into the armchair that she knew was waiting in the corner of the room.
It would be good to put Amassakoul back on. She could go and get it. There was a CD player in here, installed beside the tub.
But then staying here, not moving. That would be great too.
Her knees. Her knees felt … mmm. Warm.
The friendly ember floated towards her face.
She reached out and took it. The length of her straightened arm was exactly right.
Finally, things were looking up.
‘… what it’s like,’ Hugo said, and stopped, looking at him.
Michael realised that he had not been listening. Outside, the dawn was phasing up, dissolving their reflections in the window. Somehow his busy mind had lost itself entirely in the appearing scene. The long bright lawn, cold and vigorous with dew, waisted at the limit of his vision by two intruding beds of bush. The rockery on the right, gently heaping up its alpine bric-a-brac like muesli in a bowl. A handsomely maintained brick wall, ivy-smothered and spiked, where necessary, with deterrent fleurs-de-lys. How professionally beautiful it was.
‘Mmm,’ he said.
‘Anyway …’ Transparently aware of Michael’s inattention, Hugo raised his hands to call the subject closed, whatever it had been.
5:34, the muted television said. The room was thick and foetid.
Hugo stood, and deeply breathed. ‘Thank you so much. For everything,’ he said, arching out his back into a stretch.
It sounded like an ending. Michael did not want an ending. He wanted this thing to carry on and on. Fresh air? A change of scene? Might those pick them up again? They sounded in his head like wholesome, practical suggestions, the sort one heard from men of wisdom. The kind of men, on Sunday afternoons, who make their recumbent friends go walking. Yes, fresh air was what they needed. Fresh air and coffee maybe.
‘Could we go outside for some fresh air?’ he said. ‘A change of scene?’
‘Sure,’ Hugo smiled. ‘Good idea,’ and seemed to mean it.
Michael stepped over to the doors.
‘How do these open?’ he said when he got there.
‘Let’s go on the roof,’ was Hugo’s answer. ‘It’s lovely up there in the morning.’
Upstairs? Michael felt a flickering of fear. Wasn’t Mellody up there? Calvin? Maybe others? Sleeping or awake? He had not heard anybody leave, but then you wouldn’t, would you, in a massive place like this? Suddenly, he loved the safety of the basement. Hugo seemed ready, though. And what objection could there be? So they climbed the narrow stairs together.
‘Really Mike, I can’t tell you how much this means to me,’ Hugo said again as they drew level in the hall. ‘I mean, in my business I’m always surrounded by people, you know?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘But they just agree with everything I say, right? They laugh at all your jokes, tell you you’re brilliant whatever you do …’
‘Yeah,’ Michael puffed. ‘I bet.’
‘Mellody gets it too. Everybody does. It’s just totally impossible to live a normal life – with the paparazzi and the public and the travelling all the time. So you have to rely on other people to do things for you. I mean, I haven’t actually bought a tube of toothpaste in years!’
They hauled themselves on to the horizontal of the first-floor landing. It was darker here, and the doors were mostly closed. But furtively, Michael peered inside the open ones. At a disconcerting Diane Arbus grinner on the wall; at a model sailing boat, glass-cased and rakishly displayed on painted seas like something wild stuffed; at CDs scattered; at a thoughtful roll of toilet paper on the cistern’s lid; at a lonely pinball machine, infinitely ready, strobing idly to itself. Mellody and Calvin could be anywhere. Righteously now, he almost willed a confrontation.
‘Mmm,’ he said, a little late.
‘There’s just so many people out there on the make, you know?’ Hugo still strode ever upwards. ‘You can’t trust anyone. And – ha – do you know what they always say?’
Michael didn’t.
‘They warn you about how there are lots of people out there who are on the make, and that you can’t trust anyone!’
They both laughed.
‘Is it really that bad?’ Michael asked soothingly, scaffolding his friend’s complaints.
‘Yes. It really is that bad.’
They were mounting the final, steeper staircase now, up into a plate-glass chamber full of sky. Summiting first, Hugo swung open the door and held it for Michael, who stepped out on to the damp-stained bevelled boards, and panted with arrival. Ahead of him, slants of heatless sunshine stencilled his shadow long across the wood. At its apex, on the far edge of the roof, he was surprised to notice a pair of jeans, capped at the cuffs by two boldly coloured rubber soles, one orange, the other green. The wearer, one could only suppose, was leaning carefully over the side to vomit.
Then Michael saw cream fabric. And a smooth brown arm extended from it, seeking anchorage on the interior.
It was Calvin. TV boy.
He had had his fun with Mellody, and now this battered whelp had come up here to be discreetly sick. He had even brought a towel. It was such a delightful comment on the night, such delicious justice. A divine joke, above all, that Hugo must not miss. And what a blessing, Michael realised, that he had seen it first and now could introduce it as his own.
The footsteps stopped.
Mellody wondered whose they were.
She looked up at the ceili
ng – how cool it would be if she could see through it! – and whistled out a long, thin stream of weed fumes which spread into a ghostly stalactite above her head.
Arhythmic clattering. A masculine stomp. What could she deduce? Like those Apache trackers on TV when she was a kid. The guys who could listen to the ground and tell you when the wagons passed.
‘White men,’ she said into the darkness, in her Injun voice. ‘Headed up on roof.’
‘Mmm…’ the darkness grunted back.
Mellody slid further down into her seat and stretched her legs out straight, allowing them to balance on the boots’ hard heels. Somewhere in the movement, the joint came back to her attention. It was still in her hand, and just lit. She drew on it gently, pulling in the bright red pip another quarter-inch.
‘Pass the peace pipe when yer ready, Sitting Bull.’ The darkness splashed sarcastically.
A wheezing laugh began in Mellody’s chest, and she fought to control it, exhaling steadily, before coughing out the tailing chugs of smoke.
‘How?’ she spluttered, before disintegrating into giggles once again.
The darkness chuckled too.
Maybe it was Calvin on the stairs above? And he’d found a friend. Good old Calvin.
She would go up and see him in a minute.
After one more hit. Maybe put on Amassakoul.
‘Shhh …’
Mike’s latex face was gleeful in the sunlight. His lips puckered with suppressed amusement underneath a sealing finger. On secret toes, dark shirt tails half-untucked, he crept out into the air.
Great guy, thought Hugo, but not a pretty sight.
And then he saw what Mike was going to show him. Somebody was lying on a towel, right over the edge. A casualty whose nose had proven bigger than his stomach.
But it was Calvin.
Shit.
Not Calvin.
Hugo grasped about for options. He wanted to stop Mike where he stood, to turn him quietly around and send him back downstairs.
‘Mike.’
Voicelessly, he mouthed the word, carving it from breath, which disappeared in a flash of vapour when it met the day.
Mike had reached the railings. He bent down close to Calvin’s shoulder. Still the boy did not stir.
Hugo made a final study of the situation. Treetops, strangely near, swaying with a hefty elasticity. His neighbour’s roof, patched by newer slate. And on the wind, the arguments of weekend cars. None of these could help.
‘CALVIN!’ Mike said, loudly in the morning.
‘CALVIN!’
Disgrace! Up!
CLANG!
The clean, insolent note of a bell. Calvin could not tell if it was railings or his head that rang.
And he was tired.
His lovely phone slipped from his hand.
Jason?
Was he slipping, Jason?
It felt as if he was. Perhaps he ought to grab something so he would not, er …
Missed it. Somebody was playing with his feet.
All gone.
Shit.
This was so embarrassing. What about the tour? Rich would be in so much trouble …
Air roaring past his ears.
Shouldn’t he have landed by now?
Bollocks. He just knew that this would happen.
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject:
Date: Friday, 6 November 2009 18:08:55
Fantastic! Both the ‘crisis’, and the fact that we are finally going to meet! Don’t worry about marketing ideas for now, I think it’s more important not to confuse people at this stage. (Do write it all down though.) Will submit what I have to publishers on Monday.
In haste,
Vx
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: And they’re off!
Date: Monday, 9 November 2009 18:08:55
All out! Exhilarating feeling after all your hard work. Now we wait… try not to fret.
x
PS We won’t hear anything for at least a week whatever happens, so you can relax a bit for now.
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: Tuesday, 10 November 2009 11:04:41
Hi William – Just checking we’re still on for lunch tomorrow? Come to my office at one, and we’ll scuttle off to the Greek round the corner. I’m on 07700 900412 if you need me.
Vx
PS No news yet, obviously…
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject:
Date: Wednesday, 11 November 2009 15:08:22
Sorry to miss you today, William. We did say the 11th, didn’t we? I trust all is well? Let’s reschedule at your earliest. Persistence will prevail!
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject:
Date: Tuesday, 17 November 2009 11:14:37
Hi William
Viking have passed, I’m afraid. I don’t think they got very far into it. Just decided the style wasn’t for them. I will forward the email on if you would like to see. It’s important that you don’t make too much of this. There are always people who say no.
x
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Picador
Date: Wednesday, 25 November 2009 17:55:12
Hi William
Picador have said no. They liked the tone and the ingenious plotting but didn’t feel the subject matter felt quite fresh enough to make it work. It’s very disappointing obviously but it simply does not mean others will feel the same. No other responses so far.
I’m around tomorrow if you’d like to chat? My mobile’s 07700 900412.
VX
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: INTEREST FROM CAPE!!!
Date: Monday, 30 November 2009 12:17:43
Jane Jones at Cape is ‘interested’. She ‘adores’ the way you write, she says, and loves the story so far. But ‘in the current climate’ (blah, blah, blah…) she says she is ‘not sure’ if they can make you an offer on a partial. Long and short of it is: they want to meet you (as do I!) and find out a bit more about what you have in mind. It’s not an offer, but believe me, they would not do this if they were not very close.
So, what are your movements over the next week? It feels like a while since I heard from you. Please check in just so I know you’re OK.
All the best,
Val x
PS No word yet from others, but when I pass on news of a bite from Jane that might speed things up…
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject:
Date: Thursday, 3 December 2009 09:10:44
William dear, I hope you are well and haven’t had your computer stolen or something? No doubt you are very busy… I really do need to get your response to Cape asap.
In other news, Canongate have passed, I’m afraid. Loved the book, but no partials at all right now, they say.
Best,
Valerie x
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: STOP PRESS! BLOOMSBURY INTERESTED!
Date: Monday, 7 December 2009 17:08:31
This should get your attention: Matthew from Bloomsbury just phoned me out of the blue to say he thinks Publicity***** is ‘brilliantly roguish’ and all his colleagues found it ‘great fun’
, adding that he has ‘just about seen enough’ to back you and is ‘dying’ to see the rest. How much he’ll pay, I couldn’t say, but he does sound keen. And Bloomsbury and Cape are a great pair to have fighting over your book!
This means I really do need you to get back to me now, William. Matthew and Jane both want to meet you next week, and it will look very strange indeed if I don’t tell them something from you soon.
Vx
PS I did smile when Matthew also pointed out the parallel between Petes Doherty and Sheen, as well as – of course – between Calvin Vance and that poor boy Alfie Marsh. The moment Calvin went up on to the roof, he says he was thinking of Marsh and what happened to him. And so it proved. Naturally I explained your purpose (to invite parallels of all kinds with real celebrities) and he seemed to understand. You would have been proud of me.
* * *
From:williammendez75@gmail.com
To:valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
Subject: Re: STOP PRESS! BLOOMSBURY INTERESTED!
Date: Tuesday, 8 December 2009 23:48:58
Chapter 7 – 999
Hi Val – just got your emails. Wow! This is all very exciting! After years of working on this book, I am just so thrilled that someone might want to publish it! This really could be a dream come true for me, and I will always be incredibly grateful to you for your help. I don’t have my diary with me at the moment, but I’ll write back soon to work out the best way to meet up.
What you say about Alfie Marsh does intrigue me too. I really don’t think he was such a ‘poor boy’, actually. He is often portrayed that way now, like he was a kind of saint, but I think he knew what he was doing at that party – and was generally quite a careerist little shit, by all accounts. (Like I say, the media always take real people and repackage them to their audience’s taste.) Marsh didn’t deserve to fall off a roof, of course, but… well… I can think of others who’d deserve it less. Like Calvin in fact, who, yes, is partly based on Marsh, but I’ve made him a bit younger and more naive – almost a victim of celebrity culture, rather than one of its proponents. That’s the idea anyway.