by Stella Duffy
“Tapas is daring?”
“It is when every other café round here is Portuguese.”
Saz, who’d had her mouth set on a small sweet custard tart and maybe a glass of chilled wine since they’d crossed Brixton Road, put aside her Lisbon fantasies and went in ahead of Carrie. An hour later and after several small plates of chorizo, spicy mushrooms and public-friendly garlic-free squid had disappeared from their table, Carrie was just about to order a second bottle of wine when Saz reminded her they weren’t there for a girls’ night out, but for work. Carrie took the cash from Saz’s wallet to pay the excessively attractive waitress, leaving a large tip more for the young woman’s long curly hair than for the service which had been efficient if uninterested. But pretty. Very pretty.
Saz refused to walk any further. Although she’d been softened up by the food and alcohol, and despite not having managed to get in a run that day, she didn’t really see traipsing from one bar to another as the perfect form of exercise. They caught a bus to Brixton tube, jumping down into the street as an overflow of fast-moving and loud bodies spilled out from the Academy. Not loud enough, though, to drown out the familiar cries of the Jesus preacher, town crier of late-night doom, ensconced in his regular perch opposite the entrance to the tube. Carrie insisted on one more drink before they went to the bar, so they stopped at the Ritzy and drank another couple of glasses of wine and Saz enviously watched the people leaving the movies, rubbing their eyes against the bright bar lights – and heading home. Carrie met a couple of people she knew and Saz looked around, thinking how when she and Molly first got together they used to go to the movies all the time. Until life took over and they had no spare time any more. Spare time she knew she had given up willingly and wanted to do so even more now that the baby was on its way – but, all the same, lost time it didn’t do to think about too closely.
She listened in on Carrie’s conversation for a while and then rummaged in Carrie’s bag and held out her wallet, “Can I take this?” Carrie turned from admiring her friend Beth’s new tattoo and looked at Saz. “Of course. I thought you’d never ask. Might I enquire why?”
“Yeah. I’m starting to get maudlin and as we’ve got a while to go yet, I thought I’d do something about it, rather than pissing you off even more. If that’s OK with you?”
Carrie waved her in the direction of the girls’ toilets, “Help yourself. That’s what it’s there for.”
“Only because I’m tired and we’ve got a long night ahead.”
Carrie smirked, “Naturally. Why ever else?”
Saz went into the toilets, found an empty cubicle and was grateful that the Ritzy had seen fit to renovate so nicely and install such smooth cistern covers. Carrie still owed her last month’s rent so Saz didn’t feel too greedy helping herself. And as she sniffed up the second long line, she reminded herself not to enjoy the evening too much, it wouldn’t do to get to like going out. She couldn’t quite see Molly happily sanctioning late-night working parties once the baby arrived.
Ten minutes later Carrie led Saz down a maze of short back streets, round a few dark corners and up to the front door. They walked the length of the queue, ignoring the disdainful stares of those who’d been waiting for half an hour or more, past the vast bouncer who kissed Carrie on both cheeks, and then through the glittering silver doors into the warm dark.
EIGHTEEN
Teeth numb, tongue buzzing, sharp sting at the back of her throat – with four lines of cumulative coke and most of a bottle of wine inside her, Saz was surprisingly unfazed by the raucous heat that slammed her face as Carrie took her hand and led her though the mess of bodies to the bar. The music was loud, noisy enough for the few people who were dancing not to feel stupid, but not so bad that the shouted conversations all around were completely pointless. Carrie bought two strong sea breezes and shepherded Saz to a safe corner, three tables on a slightly raised dais giving a good view of the room.
It was a basic layout, corner doors, the traditionally small windows now replaced with huge single glass panes facing directly on to the street, clearly delineating the new pub ethos – this place was not about getting away from it all for a quiet half, it was about getting into it all, any of it. And ideally having the whole world know you were there at the same time. Where once there had been a central bar, serving two or three different sections of the room in rotation, the new bar had been pushed back and stretched into a stainless steel barricade right along the far wall, leaving a central space for tables and chairs, some of them pushed together to make more room for the dancers. There were two long wooden tables with a few large groups around them, the other smaller tables were occupied with couples and the would-be couples who hoped this might be their lucky night.
Once she’d drawn her eyes from the clientele, Saz’s attention was gripped by the image-overload of cartoons and features being screened directly onto silver painted walls. The colour wasn’t ideal for picture clarity, but with the pounding techno forebeat the aim was hardly to give undivided attention to the silent celluloid. They were mobile art, sometimes obscured by the clump of dancers moving as one, occasionally keyed into perfect relief when the image seemed made for a literally silver screen. Bette Davis slinking down the stairs in All About Eve was the perfect black and white bitch foil, jostling for space with a washed out Captain Scarlet: ’50s glamour and ’60s aqua swimming on the unevenly plastered walls. Elsewhere Saz glimpsed Judy Garland deep sleeping in a field of poppies, Top Cat grimacing behind Officer Dibble’s back, while on the back wall Steamboat Willie waited to grow shorter and fatter into his more famous baby-mouse body.
Beneath the fake pictures were the real fantasy images. There were some suits, obviously locals who’d come in on their way home from work and never quite managed to find the ruby slippers at the bottom of their pint glass. There were a few very over-made-up little ones. Easily too young to be buying the alco-pops they were drinking by the bucketful, but scraping past the guys on the door with a lurid mix of eyeliner and exposed flesh. There were a few groups of loud laughing blokes, a wide selection of couples, drinking and kissing but not engaging in conversation with each other – physically close rather than emotionally connected.
Carrie pointed out a couple of young women to Saz, “Over there, straight as fuck, acting dyke flirt for the boys at the bar.”
Saz followed Carrie’s index finger to the women, one attractive, one very pretty, neither yet old enough to have made it to beautiful, dancing in a way that could have earned them a more than adequate living in the Soho basements still to be pinked-up. They didn’t look any sexuality in particular and Saz thought they were being a bit damn kissy for straight girls. “How can you tell?”
“Every time the blonde touches her friend, she looks over at that tall thin bloke by the bar. She’s showing off for him. Wouldn’t be surprised if her mate didn’t fancy her, though. She’s just that bit more interested in the act than she is in the lads.”
Saz watched as the tall blonde stroked her smaller friend’s arm and shoulder with a slow hand and then looked up from beneath her fringe to the grinning guy at the bar. He couldn’t take his bloodshot eyes off the blonde and the little brunette appeared sadly unaware of the meaningful looks taking place over her head. Saz whispered “Shame” and Carrie burst out laughing, “Yep, she’s shit out of luck tonight. Poor thing.”
Saz recognized the tone of Carrie’s voice and looked back from the doomed girlie to Carrie. Sure enough, her ex had a gleeful leer on her face. Saz reminded herself that, despite the mandatory coke and alcohol rations, they were actually supposed to be working and she had better keep a tight rein on Carrie’s lusts. While the sight of straight women acting dyke pissed her off immensely, Saz didn’t think the pretty little brunette deserved anything quite as dangerous as Carrie in payment for her deception. Saz managed to divert Carrie’s attention to the five blokes dancing apart from the main party of moving limbs. They were blisssmiling and waving themselves in front of the fat speakers,
each one pretty much dancing to his own rhythm, and each rhythm nothing like that of the music. Which, given that it had now mutated into an insistent four-four drone, would have seemed almost impossible if Saz hadn’t been there to see it herself. It was happening though and, in their gently spaced-out way, the five men were providing their own syncopated anti-rhythm. And they were certainly happy.
After an hour of viewing and two more sea breezes each, Carrie figured Luke should have made it through the back door for his nightly shift as chief executive and she led Saz upstairs to the other rooms. They went past a bouncer, surprisingly small compared to those at the front door, but with a range of facial scars that indicated his nastiness more than made up for any lack of stature. He opened the door for them, shepherding Carrie through first with a low bow and a big smile. He saved his malevolent glare for Saz.
“Cheery chap. Doesn’t like your friends?”
“Victor – short for Victory – doesn’t like my girlfriends. Wants me all to himself.”
“Carrie, you haven’t?”
“No. But it pays to let him think he’s on a promise.”
Saz shook her head and forced down the big sister lecture she felt rising at the back of her throat. It wasn’t the fucking a bloke she objected to, or even the idea of fucking for a purpose. Neither of those activities were especially unusual for Carrie, nor had they once been for Saz, though her sexual activity had long been limited to a one-woman arena. Primarily. She just thought it wasn’t especially nice behaviour to encourage someone who had no hope whatsoever.
They went up one flight of steps and Carrie poked her head round a scarlet door, a wave of fierce laughter turning Saz’s head.
“What’s that?”
“Comedy club.”
“At this time of night?”
“Extremely late night stand-up. Very groovy. Sharon’s on the door, she’ll let us in.”
“I don’t think …”
“She says Luke’s watching too, so we can corner him at the interval.”
Saz snarled, stand-up comedy was about her least favourite form of entertainment, but at least she would be closer to this Luke whom Carrie was promising so much from. She shrugged and followed Carrie past the woman on the door, taking a seat at the back of the room with an ungracious, “Yeah, fuck, whatever.”
Twenty minutes later the tall, red-headed comedian bounded off the small stage that had been struggling to contain her energy and Saz found herself grinning painfully, cheek muscles hurting from trying not to laugh out loud and win a sniggering “I told you so” from Carrie – who wasn’t fooled. “I said she was good, didn’t I?”
Saz refused to give in, “No. You said it would be good. If you’d told me this woman was actually funny I might have been more eager. Possibly.”
Carrie sneered, “Admit it Saz, you liked her.”
Saz stood up, “Yeah, but that’s not why we’re here, is it? It’s nearly three in the morning, for fuck’s sake. Are we ever going to talk to this Luke Godwin or what?”
The build up of post-set chat that accompanied the rush to the bar chose just that moment to fall into an unpredictable lull and Saz’s tone, perfectly defensible in a room crowded with boisterous, semi-pissed punters, stretched sharp above their heads, loud words falling into a sudden quiet moment.
Luke Godwin, seated twenty feet away at the side of the stage, in earnest conversation with a couple of young women, looked up from the two of them, directly at Saz. “And who the fuck’s asking?”
NINETEEN
After the hasty apologies, Luke’s hard stare softened a little. Having blown a kiss to each of the pretty little things still holding out pointless hopes for him, he took Carrie and Saz upstairs to the third bar. This was still a public room, but it was even harder to get into than the rest of the building – unofficially reserved for those who were rated markedly cooler than merely chilled. The two women guarding the door had strict instructions regarding the dress code and sobriety of those they allowed to enter. More than that, though, they were required to use their discretion in the trickier matter of style. Nothing quite so simple as admission only for the young or the beautiful. Here entry was reserved for the purely interesting.
The small bar had several old armchairs, two uncomfortable modern sofas and a few low tables loaded down with a strangely eclectic selection of magazines. Saz looked in vain for evidence of irony on the face of the pretty boy reading aloud to his girlfriend from the Woman’s Realm problem page. In fact there were remarkably few raised eyebrows in the entire room, despite the fact that most of the furniture consisted of twelve huge cushions, lighting was provided by waist-high candles and the background music was a loop of Petula Clark singing “Don’t Sleep In The Subway”. When Luke handed them a walnut whip each from a tray on the bar Saz figured that even if he didn’t have anything to offer, her night wouldn’t have been wasted after all. All that excess and cheap chocolate too.
Luke sampled and rejected four different wines before settling on a bottle of Chenin Blanc. He directed Saz and Carrie to a very low, overstuffed sofa, brought glasses from the bar and, once he’d poured a glass for each of them, placed himself on a straight-backed chair at a right angle to the sofa, sitting a good foot above either of them. Saz was perfectly happy to accord him all the respect due to the venue owner, but she didn’t see why he found it necessary to rub in their status discrepancy quite so clearly.
Having made the introductions, finished her wine and explained that Saz knew Marc – which drew a raised eyebrow and a “no comment” from Luke – Carrie wandered off downstairs in search of the little brunette and left Saz and Luke to talk – which had seemed great as a concept when Carrie introduced them, but didn’t seem to work in practice once Saz explained what she was after. “Right, well – I’ll get straight to the point. I’m trying to help a friend locate his birth parents and I have reason to believe that the solicitor who helped your family adopt you might have helped his family adopt him.”
“Richard Leyton was my father’s solicitor. He’s dead.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve tried to talk to his daughter but didn’t get much help there actually.”
“Well, Georgina can’t give out confidential information to just anyone, can she?”
“You know her?”
Luke smiled, “Business.”
“Right. And I do appreciate she’s in a difficult position if she helps my client. It’s just that, because she wasn’t able to help me, I’m having to go about this indirectly. And I found a letter from Leyton suggesting that another client might want to contact your adoptive father when your parents were thinking of adopting you.”
“Who was that letter to?”
Saz shook her head, “I’m sorry, I don’t really think I can say. My client is sort of well known and I’d rather …”
“You’d rather I gave you personal information about me and my parents, but you don’t intend to trade in kind, is that it? Doesn’t seem very fair really, does it?”
Sadly, while Luke may have been willing to tell his life story to Carrie with half a gram of coke inside him, he wasn’t quite as willing to do so semi-sober. Saz had been expecting someone much more willing to talk. Perhaps he had a potential Marc waiting at home; whatever the reason, it was clear that Luke didn’t fancy wasting his warm and charming side on Saz.
She tried placatory tactics, “I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have come to you about this while you were at work. I realize this is a very personal issue for you.”
“No, it’s not, everyone knows I’m adopted. It’s one of my party pieces. The big discovery at fourteen. Poor boy, family heartbreak. It’s always worked fantastically well for the sympathy fuck.”
“Oh, right. So then you must understand how my client felt when he discovered he was adopted?”
“Yeah, I suppose so, but it’s not really my problem, is it?” Luke took another sip of his wine, sat back in his chair and smiled at Saz, “I mean, you’re saying
Richard Leyton asked your client’s father to talk to my father. Or not. It’s not really that much of a link, is it? Why don’t you go direct to my father?”
“I could. I probably will. I just thought …”
“I’d be a more convenient start? Easier to talk to? Poor little wounded soldier wanting to confess all, eager to help a fellow searcher caught in the parent trap?”
“Um – yes, no … I don’t know really.” Saz didn’t know what to say, clearly something she’d said or done had upset Luke, but she couldn’t imagine what it was. He said he didn’t mind talking about being adopted and yet he was being no help at all, “I just thought from what Carrie told me, you might want to help someone else who’s found themselves in your position.”
“Not a bad thought, but wrong. I don’t mind people knowing I’m adopted, but I don’t particularly want to talk about all the legal and technical details. Not with a complete stranger and not in the middle of the night anyway. So, if you’ll excuse me?”
Saz wasn’t being asked to excuse Luke, she was being asked to leave. And the combination of his attitude and her tiredness pissed her off just enough to make her a little more adamant.
“OK, fine. I fucked up coming here tonight. But this is my job. I’m sorry I pissed you off, but could I talk to you again? Tomorrow maybe?”
Luke finished his glass of wine, “I’ll be in the garden bar. It’s where I am every afternoon as long as the sun is shining. You’re welcome to come along if you want. And I’ll chat if I feel like it. OK?” Saz didn’t have much choice, his grudging offer was better than nothing. She got up to leave and Luke took her hand as she passed him, “Oh, and come to think of it, I don’t actually think you ought to call my father, adoptive father. He’s slightly less fond than I am of complete strangers poking around in his private life. Particularly where it touches on the sorry story of how his barren first love led to the adoption of the prodigal poof.”