The Afterparty

by Leo Benedictus

  ‘Yeah. You’re not kidding!’ Renée was saying.

  A pause, while the person on the other end replied.

  ‘Fine,’ she answered crossly. ‘No, no, no … Fine.’

  She hung up.

  ‘Trouble?’ Hugo said.

  ‘Some stupid royal equerry butler-in-waiting fuck.’ A burst of anger thundered out. ‘Morning, Mike.’

  Michael waved.

  ‘His Royal Highness,’ Renée recited, in simulated aristocrat, ‘considers that under the circumstances, it would be better if Mr and Mrs Marks did not attend the wedding on Saturday. Don’t waste any time, do they?’

  ‘Obviously not. Doesn’t matter, though, does it?’

  ‘No. No. Completely meaningless. Independence aren’t going to like it too much, that’s all.’

  Michael stood and read the headlines as they scrolled across the screens.

  BREAKING NEWS: MARKS STATEMENT ‘IMMINENT’ and VANCE POLICE ‘RULING NOTHING IN OR OUT’.

  ‘Anyway. The police have had their press conference,’ Renée said. ‘No surprises. Someone asked if any drugs had been found. They didn’t comment. Post-mortem’s tomorrow, though, so I think we should prepare ourselves.’

  ‘Sure.’ Hugo seemed strangely uninterested. ‘Mike and I were just talking. What do you think about him going home?’

  ‘I’ve got to go back some time,’ Michael chorused weakly, ‘so I might as well get on with it.’

  Theresa edged into the room, and had a quiet word with the man in chinos.

  ‘Totally agree,’ Renée said. ‘My only thought is that you should wait until we’ve got this statement out. Once they’ve had something from us, most of the media will go. Not everyone, but I do promise you’ll have an easier time in an hour or so. The caterers are coming to collect everything, in … Teri, when are the caterers coming?’

  ‘Two p.m.,’ Theresa replied without looking up. She was cross-legged on the sofa now, with the laptop on her knee.

  ‘Fine. So, if you leave when they leave, you’ll definitely get less attention.’

  Renée smiled and took a bite of a banana. She seemed almost to be enjoying herself.

  Michael made some calculations. Even if he was home at 2.30, that would still give him just two hours to write his piece. And to embrace such pressure, with so little time, and so little sleep … perhaps it was a sign that he should say no to Andrea. At least for now.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ Renée took a swig of coffee. ‘So anyway, I want you to have a look at the statement Hamish and I have prepared. Hugo, you’re OK with it, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you called Mellody?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hugo was leaning against the door jamb, watching the two TVs.

  ‘And?’

  ‘No answer.’

  ‘Could you try her again? We need to coordinate with her if we can.’

  ‘She is not going to coordinate, Renée.’ He sighed.

  ‘Humour me.’

  Fuck! Were they dwarfs, the people who built these tiny cottages? Seriously? She rubbed her head with anger, and stooped into the kitchen beneath its enemy beam. Stunted British goblin folk. Like being quaint was just their permanent excuse. Though they had tried to make it nice for her, the Sun men, with flowers and this week’s magazines (no papers) and a yapping little fire back there in the hearth. There were chocolates in the kitchen, too, and cakes and croissants laid out on the counter, with a spread of different coffees if she wanted one. If she didn’t, there was champagne in the fridge, plus beer, water, sushi, salads, pesto, strawberries, cheese and mango slices, stacked up in hasty plastic packages. There was even ice cream in the freezer. Fucking ice cream, when she was shivering with cold.

  Mellody searched the coffees for a black one, and tore off half a croissant as she scanned the dozen missed calls on her cell. Hugo and Renée and voicemail, and some random numbers. They could wait. Renée had also sent an SMS, which Mellody deleted on the inbox page, before opening another from her agent.

  glad ur ok hun, it said. tv is playing pretty big here, so I guess london sun not worst friends we cd have right now. am taking many calls too – theres a lot of people care about you back home remember! have told them ur being v strong. call again if you need me. love karl

  She smiled fondly, then walked back into the lounge. The fire had reached its showy yellow phase, sending up the kind of flames that scorch nearby objects instantly but never warm a room. She toured the walls, visiting each little window to jerk its drape shut, wafting up the cosy ghost of woodsmoke. Outside the last, she glimpsed the shaven stern of her driver’s head working through a bacon roll. On his nearside ear, a Bluetooth receiver was still clipped.

  She lay down on the couch. Scratched her elbow. Scratched her calf. Too annoyed to sleep. Scratched her elbow again.

  Beyond her feet there was a bookcase full of volumes – bought to fill it, by the ancient look of them. Old red boards with tissue pages, cloth-hinged at the spine. No one seriously expected her to read anything like that, of course. (No one ever did.)

  Now there was a nasty drumming on the table at her head. It was her phone again, vibrating acrid in her ears.

  Rebekah’s number.

  ‘Mell, hi.’ The voice was serious and loud.

  ‘Hi Rebekah.’

  ‘Is the cottage OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Fine.’

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry to bother you …’

  ‘Calvin is dead. I know.’

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t sure …’

  ‘My agent told me.’

  Her neck was stiff from sleeping in the wrong position in the car.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Rebekah said. ‘Twenty years old. It’s absolutely awful.’

  Twenty. Mellody had never thought to put a number on it. Twenty. Terrible.

  Yet she was past sad now. Past even guilt. Though people would do their best to make guilt for her out of blame.

  ‘Were you close?’ Rebekah asked.

  Calvin’s battles were concluded. Now she had her own.

  ‘No, not really. We only met last night.’

  ‘I see. Well look, I thought I ought to call, because – I don’t know what you’ve heard – but there really are a lot of rumours flying around.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Most of it is rubbish, of course. But I thought I should tell you, we’ve been approached with one particular story about you and Calvin.’

  Mellody scratched her leg.

  ‘They’re saying you were getting pretty close all night, that you were kissing at some party …’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  She made her eyes wide, as was her habit when indignant.

  Rebekah pushed on. ‘This person is saying that you and Calvin got together last night, that loads of people saw you kissing, and that later you performed a sex act on him in your car.’

  ‘What? Jesus! Who’s saying this?’

  ‘Well it’s come to us through a publicist, and …’

  ‘It’s Sean, isn’t it? It’s Sean from the band.’

  But she already knew.

  ‘It’s Pete, Mell.’

  She scratched her arm.

  ‘He’s claiming he dumped you, and you did it to get back at him.’

  ‘I bet he is! Ha!’

  She laughed, and the fire spat out a sympathetic pellet.

  ‘So look. I’m really sorry. But I thought you ought to know that this is out there. They have no idea that you’re staying with us, of course, or that I’ve told you any of this.’

  Mellody’s eyes stayed tightly focused on the orange ember as it seared itself a nest among the fibers.

  A beep informed her that another call was waiting. It was Hugo.

  ‘So what do you want to do?’ Rebekah’s voice was still at work.

  ‘What do you mean? No one’s going to print that garbage.’ But even as she said it, she knew this was a hollow hope.

  ‘Our lawyers
have checked it out, Mell. They say it’s OK. As long as something did go on between you and Calvin. And there are some shots of you going round …’

  ‘What shots?’

  Hugo’s beeps continued.

  ‘On the floor in some club. It looks sort of like you’re cuddling. And then again outside. It’s definitely you, Mell.’

  ‘But nothing happened in any fucking car!’

  A moment’s silence, then, ‘Would you sue?’

  ‘Print it! You’ll find out!’

  ‘No-oo!’ Rebekah gave the word two syllables, like a person actually insulted. ‘No, no, no! This is not about us running it, Mell. I’m just telling you it’s out there. You’d rather know than not know, right?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sorry. I forgot to say how incredibly fucking grateful I am.’ That was childish, and too much, but she did not care.

  The beeps had stopped.

  ‘Listen Mell. I totally understand that you’re not happy. And I feel completely rotten about doing this to you now, with everything you’re going through. If it could wait, I would leave you alone, believe me. But you have to understand that if I don’t buy this story, someone else will. Maybe you can live with that, in which case, fine. But if you can’t live with that, and if your lawyers can’t stop it, then I might be able to help.’ The voice paused here for breath. ‘We are not going to run Pete’s story, OK? But if you like, we could buy it as an exclusive, and then sit on it. The details will probably come out eventually, of course, but you’ll have time to get your version in first.’

  ‘It’s not my version!’ Mellody interrupted shrilly. ‘It’s what happened!’

  ‘OK. I understand that. But my opinion – and you may completely disagree with this – is that you need to act quickly so people hear you.’

  And now Mellody got it.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said.

  ‘It’s about what you want. As I say, I can buy this story and shut it down, but that will be expensive to do – like, six figures – so I would need something to show for all that money. Obviously, if you chose the Sun as the place to go public, that would be perfect. We’d give you the cover, copy-approval, everything. And you’d have the biggest possible readership for what you have to say.’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  Mellody was angry. It felt good to be wronged and to be angry.

  ‘Look, you don’t have to make a decision right this second. Talk to your people and get back to me. I’ve told the publicist I’m thinking about it, and I’ll string them along until I hear from you. Garth Spicer, one of our best writers, is just around the corner from where you are. So I’ll tell him to be ready in case you need him. I know this is a shitty situation for you, Mell. And I’m sorry. Seriously.’

  Again, that sympathetic voice. It touched her, damn it.

  ‘Are you OK, Mell?’

  ‘Whatever. Thanks Rebekah.’

  She hung up.

  She selected the Contacts menu.

  She spooled to K.

  Karl would be pleased.

  ‘Engaged,’ Hugo said. ‘But she’s still not answering.’

  Renée raised a hand in acknowledgement. The other held her own phone to her ear. Theresa was folded behind her computer. Hamish had given Mike his own machine and was watching him read. Hugo turned to the televisions, which had resumed their commentating on the dying Pope. A little man, hesitantly bearded, was giving his opinions to the BBC anchor. Even in silence, Hugo could read what they were. John-Paul II had defined an era, said the man’s wrists. He had touched the hearts of millions, his eyebrows concurred.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s still alive,’ Hugo said.

  ‘What?’ Mike glanced up.

  ‘The Pope.’

  ‘Still going, is he?’ Hamish cheerfully chipped in.

  Hugo liked Hamish. He was dry, urbane, officer class. He knew everything, and had a way of telling it to you that made all other opinions sound hopelessly naive. Mike didn’t stand a chance.

  ‘Yes, still going,’ Hugo said.

  The little man on TV, his time up, was dismissed and thanked.

  ‘That was Warshak,’ Renée said when she had finished. ‘I asked for his advice – which I do not need, but he sure likes giving. I think he thinks this whole thing is kind of funny, actually. Which is good. For every Matthew Broderick there’s a Robert Downey Junior, he said. And he’s right. We just have to tough this out and recover. And you’ve never been Mr Clean-Cut, Hugo, so I think our chances are probably better than 50-50. If Sinbad opens well it might all be forgotten.’ She looked up from dialling another number. ‘If it tanks, well, we’ve got something to blame besides your shitty acting.’ Renée did not frequently make jokes like this, so her smile hardened slightly when Hugo failed to laugh. ‘No word from Independence yet,’ she added quickly. ‘But if we can stabilise the situation before LA wakes up, we might just sell this as a blip.’

  ‘Good,’ Hugo said. It seemed like what she wanted him to say.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ Theresa cut in, swivelling the laptop on her knee to face him.

  It was the classic night-time pap shot. A startled tableau scooped from darkness, figures sheltered in a momentary cave of light. Mellody stared defiantly from the screen. Not sober. Malcolm and someone else behind him. Calvin by Mell’s side. How strange it was to see him living.

  ‘There’s lots more of this on the wires,’ Theresa added.

  ‘It’s good,’ Renée explained. ‘It makes this thing about her, not you. And you’ve been very lucky with the Pope too. Just pray he dies in time to fill the Sundays. That would be a fucking miracle.’

  On Sky, the first helicopter shots had appeared. Hugo had never seen his home aerially before. The varnished floor of the roof terrace and its sad diagonal towel stood out brashly in its slate community. At the front, the media encampment looked enormous, scalloping across the road like debris from a landslide.

  Now the BBC had come back to the story, too. Simon Cowell was being interviewed on a satellite link from New York. In the studio, his questioner sat before a wall of Calvin’s smile. Calvin Vance 1984–2005 was written underneath it.

  Hugo turned the volume up.

  … Absolutely,’ Cowell said, nodding. Calvin had the best energy. You know when you meet somebody and you’re very comfortable with them? That’s Calvin. I don’t know how he did it. You never saw him in a bad mood. Ever. Ever. You just got the feeling that this was a guy with the talent, and the attitude, to go a long, long way. I still can’t believe he’s gone.

  As Cowell spoke, the screen began to show recorded footage. A young black man in white and yellow uniform was creeping up the path to Hugo’s house beneath a flashgun monsoon. Encircled in his arms was a giant basket full of fruit.

  ‘Hey! Have you seen this?’ Hugo looked around.

  ‘They’ve been showing it all morning.’ Renée said, covering the mouthpiece as she stood on hold.

  Theresa was on screen now, opening the door and taking in the fruit.

  ‘So where’s this basket?’ Hugo asked.

  ‘In the kitchen.’ Theresa did not meet his glance.

  ‘I’m going to take a peek.’

  He drifted downstairs.

  At the front door, Bonzo was standing guard again. ‘Morning, boss,’ he said, and nothing else. It looked as if he’d had a ticking off.

  ‘All right, Bonzo.’

  Hugo didn’t dawdle.

  The kitchen was immaculate. A stack of hired crockery sat packed away in boxes, waiting for its next affair. And there behind it, in the middle of the table, was Elton’s basket, gigantically untelevised. Peaches and pears, rare-variety apples, black grapes in a reclining cone.

  Fruit’s good for a hangover, said the ballpoint scrawl. And you can keep the basket. Still on for lunch tomorrow? E

  Hugo plucked a pear from the stack and bit it, noting its perfection.

  Outside, he saw the vigil round his rockery went on. The young officer, the same o
ne, looked cold and bored now, scanning hopefully for intruders.

  Somewhere up above, a stationary helicopter knifed thumps out of the sky. Quite loud. Had it been there all along?

  Hugo idled into the sitting room. His Berber throw sat up in a crumpled peak on the floor. Stepping round it, he approached the curtains and tweaked one in a glint. Still more police had shut the road and were keeping everybody off the pavement with a line of tape. Satellite vans. The backs of journalists. Cameras mounted on pneumatic struts. They looked calmer and more ordered than on Sky’s recording, but also more entrenched. Hugo watched them while he finished his pear. Then he went back upstairs.

  ‘I think –’ he began, and stopped.

  Everyone was looking at him.

  No, they were looking at him now.

  Before that they had been looking at the nearside television.

  BREAKING NEWS, it said. It kept saying. Because periodically the letters reannounced themselves by falling from the foreground, as if out of his own eyes, and cratering the surface of the screen.

  ‘VANCE’S LAST MESSAGE’ REVEALED, was written next to this, beneath the same smiling picture of the boy.

  And there was talking too, now Hugo listened.

  … his voicemail when he got up this morning. It appears to be a recording of Vance’s last moments on the roof, and then the conversation of horrified partygoers after his mobile phone fell with him into the garden below. We can now exclusively bring you this recording, in full.

  Nobody said anything.

  Calvin’s photograph shrank into a sombre graphic. The icon of a mobile phone rose helpfully beside it.

  All right, Jase. It’s Cal. Words slushy, but fast, but clear. You’re not going to believe this, man. I’m on me own, up on Hugo Marks an (beep) Mellody’s roof at their party and there’s paparazzi and that everywhere. It’s (beep) mental. Hold on. Hold on. I’m gonna a take a picture. Hold on.

  Shuffling sounds. Loud. Birdsong. A long, long wait. Birdsong.

  Then: ‘Calvin!’ Mike’s voice. Shouted.

  A shortlived scratching sound.