by Jaq Hazell
It would just be my luck if Flood were to turn up on my last night. But fuck it; I’m not going to let anyone get to me, not now, no way. Mind you, I had to bite my lip a few times especially when a demanding table of four middle-aged grouches insisted on tea. “We only offer coffee after the meal,” I said, relaying company policy, but then I let them know what a big favour I was about to do them. “Seeing as it’s my last night, I could make tea just this once if you don’t tell anyone.” I went to the kitchen to find the staff bargain basement teabags.
Jason was unimpressed. “Teabags – fucking plebs, tell them to fuck off.”
“Tonight, maybe I will.”
Ten minutes later Jason found me scooping a ball of vanilla ice cream to place next to his plated cheesecake. “I served that with raspberry coulis,” he said.
“I know, sorry – more fussy customers.”
“I need to get out of this industry. Shit hours, shit pay and no fucking respect.”
I could sympathise. Jason took pride in his work – each dish he sent out was a minor work of art but the punters always thought they knew better.
“That’s the trouble when you’re dealing with taste, it’s too personal,” I said.
“It’s personal, all right.” Jason gripped a knife like he was Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
As it was my last night everyone stayed late for a drink. I had hoped they would. However, I wasn’t so keen when the focus shifted to me. “We’re going to miss you, Mia,” Donna said.
“We all chipped in to get you a little something.” Mags handed me a pink gift bag, and I felt myself go red, worried that I’d hate whatever they’d bought me but it was great: a set of good-quality sable hair brushes with wooden handles.
“I hope your degree show works out for you,” Donna said.
“You need to find yourself a nice young man,” Mags said, and I cringed, thinking of the time she tried to pair me off with her nerdy son.
Vivienne gulped at a large G&T. “If you ever need to come back, you’ll be more than welcome,” she said.
“I want a kiss before you go,” Warren said.
I ignored that, and said I’d pop back in occasionally. “I’d like to check to see if there’s any news.” They all knew what I meant and we fell silent.
“I’ll drop you back,” Jason said, and I glanced round to see whether anyone twigged there might be more to it, but no one seemed to notice. Jenny’s killer was out there and it made perfect sense to get a lift if a lift was going. Even so, I knew I’d gone red.
On the way home, I silently counted white vans. Three.
“It’s just up here, isn’t it?” Jason said, as he drove past the graveyard.
“Yeah, second on the left.”
My street was quiet, no women or punters about. Jason stopped outside my house. “You’ll still be available for seances, I take it?”
“No, but I am around if you need to talk. You’ve got my number.” I considered inviting him in but thought better of it. “I’d better go.”
“Yeah,” he said too quickly.
I leant over and kissed his cheek. “See ya,” I said, and got out and shut the door.
Jason held up his hand in a static wave.
Inside, I could hear my housemates in the living room at the back. I didn’t say hello; instead I ran up the three flights of stairs to my room and rushed to the window to see Jason but he’d already gone.
Girl-with-braids was there though, leaning against the wall across the road, talking into her mobile. Shit, my light’s on. I turned it off, then peeked through the curtains once more. What amount of bad luck do you need to end up out there walking the streets?
A white van – oh my God.
It slowed in front of her.
It pulled away.
I tried to catch the number plate but couldn’t.
It’s okay. She’s still there.
She put her mobile away and started to walk in the same direction as the van.
Don’t say she’s going to meet him somewhere? Fuck.
I checked my watch: 12.06. I wrote it down at the back of my sketchbook. It was all I could do, that and sketch the empty street.
Thirty-one
Dusk, a city street, a crowd, three or four deep – the people are mostly young, and fashionable, and are gathered outside a gallery. It’s Visionary in Shoreditch. I can see the letters etched across the glass doors. There’s a red rope and a few feet of red carpet ready to welcome invited guests, and to the left a skulk of photographers watching, waiting, expectant and aware that the right shot of the right person could feed their families for a month and perhaps even keep them in champagne.
The doors open. A statuesque brunette in a complicated sculpted seal-grey dress with triangular epaulettes stands by the rope. It’s Amanda Darling, Marcus Hedley’s assistant. She waves at a blonde couple who push forward, all big smiles for Amanda as they pass over their invites and proceed towards the door and into the gallery.
Others filter through and the photographers snap away just in case one of these guests turns out to be someone happening that they have failed to recognise.
A car arrives. The paps are alert, their lenses jostling for the most advantageous angle. Martine McCutcheon emerges, the ex-soap star, and cameras click for a moment then stop. More cars pull up. There are two recent Big Brother contestants, followed by an X-Factor finalist, some famous models: Cara, Poppy and Suki, and then Tracey Emin.
“How ya doing?” she says to a young female fan, and signs her autograph.
“Tracey, Tracey, over here,” a pap shouts.
Tracey turns and smiles. She’s in a black shirtdress; open low at the neck to reveal a long gold chain hung with a couple of rings. The photographers click constantly as she waves and walks into the gallery.
The Chapman Brothers saunter in looking unimpressed, and there are a few suited city types who are pleased to see that there’s a crowd prepared to stand and wait simply to watch them enter an event. A young woman in a short, skin-tight dress with a couple of girlfriends grins for the cameras, followed by various other beautiful young people brandishing invites.
The focus shifts. There’s a buzz in the air and people push forward.
Another car draws up, the door opens, one boot with a six-inch heel emerges, then another, followed by the rest of her. Pax appears, the sphinx-like pop chanteuse and girl of the moment.
The paparazzi go into overdrive.
“Pax, Pax, over here.”
“Pax, you look fabulous.”
“We love you, Pax.”
Pax looks above the crowd as she walks the short red carpet to the door. Her gamine, pin-thin, pop-star physique barely fills a pair of black trousers with see-through patches on her arse, and a black cowl-neck sleeveless top.
“Pax, give us a smile.”
Pax pouts back at the photographer, her lips Sixties-style beige. Her long, blonde hair is backcombed and a pair of outsize, outré shades shields her eyes.
The camera follows her in. No one photographs the cameraman, even though it must be Flood that is filming and this is most likely his show.
“Pax, such a pleasure to meet you, thanks so much for coming. I’m Amanda, I spoke to your assistant.” Amanda Darling is gushing. “I must introduce you to Marcus Hedley. He’s London’s top art dealer.”
Pax’s face is inscrutable thanks to her sunglasses. Amanda takes Pax to Marcus anyway, and then quickly turns back towards the camera.
“Jack, for God’s sake, where have you been?” she says. “I’ve been on tenterhooks.” She smiles. “What a turnout, there are some serious buyers in tonight. You must meet them. I’m going to force you.”
Marcus Hedley, his shock of white hair shorn and shaped into a micro-quiff, says, “Jack, can we lose the camera?” Flood continues to film. Marcus looks over his heavy framed glasses. “See that lad over there?” He points at a bearded young man with long hair, holding a camcorder. “That’s Skye – just gra
duated from the National Film and Television School – he’s filming tonight.”
The camera cuts to what must be Skye’s camera as Flood is now in shot. He looks better than usual. His dark hair has been cut though it’s still longish, over his ears and tousled, and he’s dressed in a smart dark jacket, over a shirt and jeans. He looks lean, tall and confident. He wants to be there.
“Skye, this is Jack Flood,” Marcus says. “Jack’s the one you need to follow this evening. Record everything. That’s the way he likes it.”
Flood frowns. “You’re missing the point – my filming is my filming. It’s not for anyone else to fill in the gaps.”
But Marcus isn’t listening. He’s spotted Nicholas Drake. “Nicholas, how the devil are you?”
Drake’s face is marginally plumper, his wrinkles somehow ironed out. “Is it similar to the Nottingham show?” he asks.
“There’s a natural progression,” Marcus says. “It’s all very exciting. Check out the title piece She Had Her Whole Life Ahead of Her – right up your street.”
“I’ll let you know.” Drake nods and moves towards the work.
Marcus turns back to Jack. “See the woman with the long, honey-coloured hair talking to the man with the beard. That’s Claire Seawood of Art Today: let me introduce you.”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“She’ll like that. She’ll see it as a statement in itself.” Marcus moves towards the art critic, but Flood doesn’t follow. He’s watching Pax.
Tracey Emin gives Flood a nudge. “You look like you need a drink.” She nods towards a tray of drinks that’s circulating. “There’s my friend, excuse me.”
Flood remains where he is, his back against the window, watching the young pop star Pax, as Skye films from behind. Pax is talking animatedly with her friends and yet she is aware of everything around her. She turns and lowers her sunglasses for a moment. She breaks away from her group and takes a step towards Flood.
“You’re the artist, yeah? That guy over there – is he allowed to film?”
“He’s bothering you?”
“The paparazzi outside I can accept, but not in here. It’s a private party.”
“I’ll have a word.”
She nods. “Yeah, do.”
Flood approaches the camera. “Game over,” he says to Skye.
The camera wobbles. “What do you mean?” Skye says.
“You’re not wanted here.”
The camerawork is shaky as Skye protests. “Marcus Hedley – he’s employed me to film all night.”
“It’s my show. I’m taking back editorial control.”
Interior, Flood’s studio: watercolour sketches of nudes are pinned to the wall. Pax walks around in high leather boots. She takes off her sunglasses.
“Who are they?” she asks.
“Nobodies.”
“Really, why bother?”
“Why bother indeed?” Flood sits down in the calico-covered chair, while Pax opts for the retro leather sofa.
“I like this,” she says. “It’s vintage?”
“Knackered.”
“Stylishly old – like you.”
“I’m not that old.”
“I like older men.”
“I’m not old.”
“Everyone over twenty-five is old.”
“Your mid-life crisis will hit early.”
Pax examines her nails. “I’ll be okay. It’s the ones who have no fun while they’re young that have problems.”
“Have you not heard of the quarter-life crisis?”
She shrugs and her expression hardens. “You said you had some stuff.”
Flood gets up and goes towards the kitchen. There’s a rap at the door. “Who the hell is that?” He checks the intercom but there’s no one there. He opens the door. There’s a man of about fifty in jeans and a smart navy pullover.
“James Stewart, flat four.” The man is well spoken. “Someone asked me to take this in for you earlier.”
“Thanks,” Flood says, and shuts the door.
“A parcel, I love parcels, bring it over,” Pax says.
The package is small – a jiffy bag that has been filled, folded and taped up to make it secure.
“It’ll be art materials. I’ll open it later.”
“You can’t do that. I can’t like anyone who can ignore a parcel, it’s not right.”
Flood rips the brown padded packaging until a rattling canister falls onto the wooden floor and rolls towards Pax. She picks it up, and Flood stares open-mouthed as if he wants to say something but can’t.
She looks bemused as she reads the canister’s label: ‘Horniman’s herbal Viagra – make penile dysfunction a thing of the past – maintenance of full erection guaranteed.’ Pax bites her lip, stifling a laugh. “You really are old.”
Flood snatches it off her and throws it in a metal wastepaper basket.
The next day’s tabloids were full of pictures of Pax with Flood. They made the front page of The Daily Mail. Pax was the main focus; her blank sunglasses-clad expression staring directly out, while Flood was pictured following behind, below the headline: ‘Pax and the “Rubbish” Artist’. The copy went on to explain how conceptual artist Flood incorporates the ‘rubbish’ and detritus that his supposed ex-lovers have left behind into his conceptual art.
The Sun’s Bizarre column meanwhile ran with ‘Pax and Art Lover’, along with an exclusive shot of Pax and Flood as they arrived at his warehouse studio.
Developments continued almost daily. Pax and Flood’s accelerated relationship moved like an affair on speed (which it may well have been) from various London-based promotional events such as the launch of The Puff Pandas’ new album, the opening of a new restaurant called Kyoto Kyoto and Stephen Fry’s signing for his latest autobiography. They were even snapped sitting in the front row at the show for B for Beelzebub’s spring/summer collection. Flood had become tabloid gold; his image combined with Pax was on fire. Add to that the newspaper-fuelled rumours of shared drug abuse; Flood and Pax as a media pairing were explosive. They sold newspapers.
I presumed it was the cataclysmic potential of their car-crash relationship that did it. The public were fascinated and so the starry couple became impossible to avoid: even though I didn’t buy a daily newspaper, Slug did.
Every day, it was The Sun, The Mirror or The Star, but mainly The Sun. Always he left it on the living-room floor once he’d skimmed the features and commented on the pictures. And so I couldn’t help but know that the week before Flood had been in New York with Pax while she promoted her new single and now he was happily sunning his vile, druggy white body on Sardinia’s exclusive Costa Smeralda – thanks to Pax and her friendship with pop mogul Nat Withers who had offered them unlimited access to his private yacht. This was said to be a thank you after her latest song went straight into the Billboard charts at number one.
I’d like to say that all the tabloid photos of Flood at this or that banal function didn’t bother me. I’d like to say my only reaction to the sight of his wasted junkie body incongruously draped across the bow of a yacht was to laugh. But such hedonistic displays of carefree freeloading were especially hard to take as the pressure of college work increased and my bank balance dipped even further into overdraft.
Time was running out. The end of degree show was looming and seeing Flood in the sun, getting away with it, made me mad. And it made me madder still that he was hanging out with someone so good-looking, famous and constantly hailed as a style icon. And that’s not to mention how strange it was to suddenly know pretty much what he was doing at all times. Although there was no longer the worry of bumping into him because he was living well and truly in Pax-land – London, New York, LA, Sardinia, certainly never Nottingham – he was still unavoidably present, thanks to his new celebrity lifestyle.
Still, I assumed he’d have to check in at Flood HQ at some point so there was still the opportunity to get even.
Thirty-two
Bouquets ma
rked the spot. It wasn’t the exact spot, that was across the river on the far side where the foliage was dense, rendering it almost inaccessible.
The bouquets, their flowers turned brown and withered, marked where the policeman had stood guard on the edge of the police-tape boundary, now long gone. The flowers in cellophane had been left as close to the spot where Jenny was found – as close as friends, relatives, loved ones and onlookers were allowed. I resented the fact I hadn’t been able to get closer. I wanted to claw the mud and pick through the reeds to find the clues I was convinced the police had missed.
I glanced around, as I knelt down and took a handful of damp petals and placed them between pages of my sketchbook.
I had arrived by bus, got off near the war memorial and walked. I could see the shrine as I approached. I was drawn to this place. I kept coming back day after day ever since the idea had come to me. I had spent almost the entire week sitting there on the concrete steps staring into the water.
It was another hot day. I tied my cardigan round my waist and walked in a diagonal across the playing field, well away from the shouting men playing football.
As the grass turned to tarmac at the road that ran along the river, a young man in Lycra shorts cycled past. He had the whole kit, the helmet and fluorescent socks that denoted a serious cyclist – what a thing to be serious about.
That Nick Cave/Kylie song was in my head: Where The Wild Roses Grow, about a man who takes a beautiful young woman to the river where he kisses her before hitting her over the head with a rock. Is that what happened?
I sat on the top step above where the concrete zigzagged down to meet the river’s gentle lapping. The water flowed as always, glittering in the sunshine, despite what had occurred.