‘No, thank you,’ she said primly. ‘I have a boyfriend in the next room.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He stood up. ‘But remember – I want some product and I want it now. I’m not planning on going back to being the world’s forgotten boy in a hurry. Thanks, I’ll let myself out.’ He twinkled. ‘I know my place.’
‘Sure. Have them,’ said Tobias Pope when she called him in Munich the next morning. ‘Good thinking, girl – very ecological, though I don’t usually approve of the waste not want not line. Waste not, taste not is more like it. Still, if it’s saving me money and trouble . . .’ He thought for a minute. ‘And why not take the darkie off my hands? He’s a fucking pest and well past his best. Isn’t there some sort of vogue in your quaint country for Negro crooners from the nineteen-sixties?’
She couldn’t help laughing. ‘Why, Mr Pope, you’ve been reading your NME!’
‘It’s my business to know things, madam. You’d be surprised at what I know.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, I know that you’re taking it down the throat from my son and heir as often as you can. I also know that said heir’s bimbo fiancee has eaten more pussy than she has hot dinners.’
‘Oh.’ She was shocked. ‘Well, doesn’t good news travel fast?’
‘It’s no skin off my nose. You’re all little insects to me. Just don’t do anything stupid, that’s all.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like fall in love and get married. I was married to a broad who did that. It ruins a woman.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Heard anything more from the Commie germ?’
‘No. I don’t really think the Jack Black Show is on Joe Moorsom’s agenda, Mr Pope. He’s a very busy man.’
‘He’ll be busy dodging car-bombs if he uses this as an excuse to get back on my case.’ He paused. ‘I liked seeing you in New York.’
She was silent.
‘I mean it,’ he insisted. ‘I know I laughed at your starry-eyed view of the skyline but the old neighbourhood has been known to affect the most intelligent of young moderns in that way. Anyway, I enjoyed it – it was the cerebral equivalent of having the soles of one’s feet tickled by geisha. Good for the digestion.’
‘Thanks a fucking bunch.’
He laughed. ‘Anything you want from here? What a dump, like your delightful Birmingham with serious money. And their eating habits! They put pig in everything, even the finger-bowls, and as far as wine’s concerned they bottle their own piss. The women probably have less idea of how to undress than anywhere else in the world, including Canada. Still, my secretaries tell me the shops are quite nice. Can I bring you anything?’
She couldn’t resist it. ‘Only yourself,’ she husked, straight-faced. He was still laughing when she put the phone down, and she found she was smiling.
She automatically felt well-disposed towards anyone who could make her smile these days, anyone who could make her forget for a moment the name of her new constant companion: Fear.
Fear was with her all the time, since tea at Brown’s Hotel. After her initial burst of adrenalined insouciance, it had turned up early the next morning and stayed close to her ever since – shadowing her with all the silky skill of the new signing to Napoli. She woke up with a start at dawn, and the dawn chorus she heard was Fear, lying between herself and Matthew, happily humming the Lilliburlero – Fear was a stickler for tradition. Looking into the rear-view mirror of her morning cab, she saw Fear driving behind her – Fear drove a Jaguar, of course, and his bumper sticker read ‘MY OTHER CAR IS A HEARSE’. And inside the Best building, absorbed in her morning paper, she sensed Fear from the corner of her eye as he got into the lift with a cheeky PING! Yet when she got out at her floor, the elevator was empty. Fear moved fast.
In her office, the serious Fear began. What had once been an altar to action, decision and dynamism had become a high-tech waiting-room: every phone call could be a diarist asking her if she would deny or confirm The Rumours, every messenger might be bearing proofs of the piece sent by Ingrid to taunt her, every strange man with a camera might be there to shoot her as opposed to taking orders from her. So when Kathy tapped on the door and came in carrying a large brown paper parcel, she was not her usual contender for the Perfect New Woman Boss title.
‘Sue, this—’
‘Kathy, what’s that around your neck?’
Kathy’s hand darted to the incriminating garland of small blue bruises.
‘Is it some sort of state-of-the-art necklace from Lesley Craze? Or did someone jog your arm in the tube while you were trying to put on your eyeshadow?’
Kathy flushed. ‘Sue, you know my boyfriend’s in the Israeli army. He drives a tank. It’s awful, we never get to see each other from one month to the next. And he’s on leave—’
‘And on heat, judging from the state of your neck. Really, Kathy – you’re how old?’
‘I’m twenty-five.’
‘Well, take a tip from one who’s been there – love bites don’t look good on anyone over fifteen. They especially don’t look good on a senior secretary and personal assistant who’s angling to get an NUJ card sometime next year. Do you get my drift, Kathy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Now for God’s sake wear a high neck until your condition heals, or you can get a skin graft, or something. Or at least ask him to take his teeth out before he attacks you. You look as though you’re auditioning for a white-collar remake of Dracula.’
‘Right, Miss Street.’ Kathy’s soft West Country voice was cold and dull. ‘Sorry, Miss Street.’ She put the parcel on Susan’s desk. ‘This just came by messenger.’
The door slammed, and Susan’s sigh was almost as loud. She was behaving like a man, in the worst possible way – taking it out on her secretary, indeed! How low could you go? She’d be being rude to waiters next; real suburban middle-management slob stuff. And what a nerve she had, complaining about a few kosher love bites given in all good faith by a member of the Israeli Armed Forces – no wonder Kathy wore them like medals. And here she was, sitting with a brand on her head. And all because the lady loves ambition . . .
Wearily she reached for the parcel, automatically checking the SCANNED stamp in the corner. It wouldn’t do to let herself get blown up just before the Commentator spread came out, would it? And spoil it for everyone . . .
A game of Monopoly lay on her desk, with a note on House of Commons paper. She picked it up.
SUSAN, LOOKS LIKE I’M BACK IN THE GAME AFTER ALL. I DON’T KNOW WHICH PIECE YOU WANT, BUT I’LL BET ON THE (UNDER) DOG EVERY TIME. REGARDS, JOE.
There was a noise from the corner of the room – a whispering. She didn’t look up, but she knew straight away what had happened. Fear had found a friend.
‘Beigebeat?’ Gary Pride looked suspiciously at Candida Malaise across the table for four at the Dorchester. ‘Whass that when it’s at ’ome?’
Candida played with her treacle pudding, pouting. A summer in South Africa had not darkened or diminished her Poohsticks appeal. ‘Washy, why don’t you explain?’ She giggled. ‘I’m so stupid.’
‘Don’t call me Washy, girl.’ Washington Brown sat back in his chair and looked around the grill room with stupefied satisfaction, as well he might considering that he had just finished a bottle of 1959 Margaux which Gary Pride had been forced to spring three hundred pounds for. He could smell success coming back down that lonesome trail, and he was well pleased by the aroma of it – even more so than with that of the steak and kidney pudding he had just demolished, complete with a side-dish of Branston pickle. ‘Right . . . Beigebeat is the sound you get when black and white unite.’ He closed his eyes. ‘It’s the cacophony of confidence underscored with a backbeat of suffering. It’s agony and ecstasy. Chalk and cheese. Day and night. Put them together – and what you got yourself is Beigebeat.’ He opened his eyes and smiled triumphantly at Candida.
On cue, she bounced in her chair. ‘Washy, that’s practic
ally poetry!’
‘I’d be fucking poetic on a bottle of that plonk,’ muttered Gary to Susan.
‘Isn’t he great, Susie?’ Candida squeezed Washington’s gnarled hand. ‘You’re so lucky to have heard all his great stuff the first time around. Me, because I’m so silly and young, I had to search it all out! But it was worth it!’ She gleamed at him. He glinted back. ‘Isn’t he ace?’
‘Ace.’ Susan looked at Washington suspiciously.
His eyes met hers with only a hint of mockery. ‘Hey.’ He spread his hands, pantomiming his innocence. ‘If your boyfriend wants to take me off ice, I got no quarrel with him. I’m just sick of sitting on my black ass by some bad swimming pool, is all, doing nothing but getting bedsores and chilblains from all that ice and idleness. And Candy feels the same. He wants to cut us loose, we can’t be bothered to badmouth him? Whatchoo say, sweet Sue?’
‘Can we really go, Susie?’
‘You most certainly can.’
‘And will you handle us, Gary? Like you did with Rupee?’
‘It would be a pleasure,’ said Gary graciously, but his eyes were hard. Hearing Gary try to talk when his mind was in this mode was like watching a pocket calculator trying to chew gum. His brain had been flicking through the index of pop trends over recent years, and had put one and one together and come up with the answer – megabucks. The biggest white acts were all trying to sound black and the biggest black acts were all trying to sound white. Duets were back. And of course, all the pop world loves a lover. Sensing a new twist, he looked at them slyly. ‘You two having it away, then?’
Candida giggled. ‘Gary! You’ll always be an oik!’
‘Hey, man.’ Washington held up a shaky though still impressive finger. ‘Speak like that again and I may just have to take that space-phone of yours and stick it where that sun don’t shine. That’s a lady you’re talking about; one very special lady.’
‘Sorry, mate. No hard feelings. Let me get you some fine port.’ Gary clicked his fingers urbanely at a waiter and lowered his voice to Susan as Washington and Candida smooched over their dessert menus. ‘Hear that? Special lady, my foot. When a spade calls a white chick a special lady, he’s poking her. Law of nature. What d’you think? The new Sonny and Cher?’
‘Which one’s which?’
‘Very funny. I got a name already – Coffee and Cream. What do you think?’
‘How about Bubble and Squeak? Her temperament and his voice, by the time he’s been through the wine list.’
‘God, you’re right. Got to start looking after my investment.’ To the waiter who had materialized, he gave his order for Washington’s drink. ‘The gentleman would like warm water with a little honey.’
‘Hey – I thought you said port.’
Gary patted his own throat reverentially. ‘Your larynx, Mr Brown. Think of it as a temple. You wouldn’t throw shit on the walls, would you?’
‘What . . . well, I guess not.’
The light of mutiny died in Washington Brown’s eyes, and he turned to smile at Candida. He was under new management and over the moon, no longer an angry man. One less bullet in the gun that Irving and Lejeune were holding to her head. Susan finished her white port with a slightly lighter mind.
‘You’re late,’ said David Weiss from her Kioto chair with his feet on her Turbeville-Smith desk.
She closed the door and leaned against it. ‘I know.’
‘You’re late and you’re drunk.’
‘Perk of the job. Like getting free drugs if you’re a doctor.’ She took off her raincoat. ‘Can I sit down? I have work to do.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He got up. ‘I just thought I’d warn you. I’ve seen the proofs of the Commentator story.’
‘What? Where?’
‘Your friend Miss Irving was kind enough to show them to me last night after a party at the Polish Club.’
‘She had the proofs with her?’
‘No. They were at her flat.’
‘You went back to her flat with her?’
‘Yes.’
She lunged at him, her nails out, aiming for his face.
He caught her wrist. ‘Now you calm down at once or I’ll slap you.’
‘You stupid, evil, ugly prick, how COULD you?’ she screamed.
‘Would I be right in assuming that you believe I had carnal knowledge of Miss Irving?’
‘You certainly fucking would, boy.’ She glared at him. ‘Why else would you go back to her place?’
‘I told you. To see the proofs.’ He let go of her. She rubbed her wrists resentfully. He sat back down, in the visiting chair this time. ‘Susan, I would not consider sleeping with Miss Irving, or indeed any Englishwoman again, now knowing the depths of malice and duplicity they can habitually sink to. It’s not your fault; you’re a nation of spies, it’s in the blood. I went home with Miss Irving – who, I think, was similarly under the impression that I was going to sleep with her – purely to see what she had on you in black and white.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Lying bastard. ‘Well – what has she got?’
‘The goods. There’s a blow by blowjob account of an orgy from this Brazilian hooker. There was a guy in Sun City who saw you with my father, but he’s withdrawn his statement. But they do have a killer photograph of the tattoo—’ He leaned across the desk and brushed her fringe aside, staring at her forehead in disbelief and shaking his head. ‘Christ, what a thing to do to yourself, Susan. Yeah, the photograph; you’re getting out of a cab, and your bangs are blown to one side, and it’s there in black and white, like a Best banner headline: SOLD. Long lens, hidden camera – whatever they used, they can take that to the bank.’
She groaned.
‘Then there’s a testimony from some dyke bartender in New York.’ He looked away. ‘That dive you filled me in on, I guess. All in all, one number it doesn’t add up to is an editorship within a corporation who’re currently engaged in proving what upright, uptight citizens they are. And of course, they’ve got Lejeune.’
‘Him!’
‘Come on – we thought he was newsworthy enough to put on the front page. He was playing the market cleverly with that weird mind of his. He’s their ace in the hole; people believe him. I’ll tell you, Susan, it’s a salutary reminder just how far hacks have sunk in the public’s esteem that they now have more respect for and faith in witch-doctors than journalists. A hooker and a dyke’s testimonies, one or both of whom are highly likely junkies into the bargain – they’re not worth the tape they’re recorded on. But with him – he found those bodies, Susan. The police go to him, now. They call him Mr Lejeune.’
‘I see.’ She looked at him, wanted to run her tongue over his hair, his hands, his shiny black Church’s shoes. ‘When will they run it, do you know?’
‘In three weeks’ time.’
She looked him in the eyes. ‘If you were me, what would you do?’
He stood up. ‘I’d leave London. Pronto, Tonto. And I wouldn’t bother to come back. You’re finished in this town.’ And with that, he closed the door on her dreams.
She went out into the street, and she walked until she was clear of the ghost town. Then she walked into an ordinary pub and sat with ordinary people and drank ordinary vodka. She had forgotten that it was possible to get drunk so cheaply – a double for the price of a glass of water in the bars and restaurants she had become used to. She thought of her parents. Their cheap drink, their cheap food, their cheap labour. Everything was cheap about the people she had come from, except their souls.
She drank until she was dizzy, got up and walked out. A man followed her; white, middle-aged, badly dressed. He put out his hand. She drew back and offered him her three-thousand-dollar Prada handbag. She felt beat.
He looked at her, shocked and appalled, and put up his hand. ‘Taxi!’ Slouched inside it, she saw him gazing at the vehicle in drunken, chivalrous dismay. She had forgotten what kindness looked like, and upon seeing it had recoiled, as though from an alien.
&n
bsp; She got home, fell into bed. At four in the morning she was massively sick into the Practical Styling wastepaper basket beside the bed. Afterwards she lay there, tears running into her ears. She cried and asked theatrically, ‘Why was I born, God?’ Only she was so drunk she said ‘Dog’. ‘Oh Dog, how could you do this to me?’
Matthew woke up fractiously. ‘We’re not getting one, I told you. They moult. And Muggins here would have to clean up after it. Go back to sleep. You stink of drink.’
With Matthew on her case and tears on her pillow, she fell asleep. Her last thoughts before blackness were: all that ambition, all that work – all for nothing.
Then it was dawn and the phone was ringing. ‘Dog?’ she said stupidly into it.
‘What? Stop babbling, girl. It’s me. It’s Zero.’
‘Zero? Oh, it’s so late.’
‘Late it’s not, girl. It’s early. It’s the dawn of the first day of your ninth life, bach. Constantine Lejeune’s been shot, by a demented disciple, at a rally in Leeds last night. Susan, he’s dead.’
SIXTEEN
‘Mark Kemp’s a clever bloke, and the Commentator’s skint – that combination always makes for wise editing, in my experience.’ Bryan O’Brien lifted Susan off her feet and sat her on his desk. She blinked at him, surprised, and he smiled. ‘Clever girl, having him offed!’
‘Bryan! How can you say that?’
He winked. ‘Your secret’s safe with us, darling. Isn’t it, Dave?’
David Weiss nodded reluctantly.
‘Yes, from what I hear they’re pulling the whole series now. Without their corpse-finder gimmick all they’ve got to take to the bank, and the libel lawyers, are the tall stories and grudge matches of assorted lowlife – a bit flimsy and downmarket, especially for the Comm. Face it, these girls will say anything for the price of an ounce.’
‘Girls like Miss Soixante-Neuf, you mean?’ put in David Weiss sarcastically.
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