I pour out more champagne, raise my glass to the statue in the niche, the naked Grecian boy. “Cheers!” I say. “Nice to have you here.”
He’s staring at my bush, one hip pushed towards me, mouth half-open, pouting. I touch a finger to his prick, shiver suddenly. I feel strange, hot, even though I’ve taken half my clothes off. I undo the fiddly buttons on my blouse. The boy’s watching me, excited. I drape it round his shoulders, unhook my bra. It’s a relief to take if off. I go up closer, press my naked tits against his cool white marble chest, feel my heart beating into his. I wish he had a real heart, real flesh arms to cuddle me. He seems to move, in fact, as the coloured lights keep flashing on his limbs, joining our two bodies. My nipples have gone stiff. I’m almost frightened. Can marble turn you on, or is it the champagne?
I take the bottle with me to the sofa-bed, lie back on the pillows, touch my breasts. Jon was always rather rough with them. He hated the word “foreplay”, was so keen to shoot his bolt, he hadn’t that much patience for the slow-and-gentle bit. I stroke them sort of gingerly, then grope my hand down lower. I feel dry and out of practice, a genuine virgin-bride. I lick my finger first this time, try a dab of spit, but my mouth seems dry as well. I tip up the champagne, let a trickle run between my legs. It’s stinging cold and shocks. I stifle a yell, then touch the rim of the bottle against my … my … I hate the word cunt. It sounds so brazen. But vagina is embarrassing and “front passage” is pure hospital. Jan calls hers her starter-motor, and Jon christened mine Abigail, which I suppose is as good a name as any.
Abigail is moistening, though not from the champagne which has mostly trickled off and soaked the bed spread. I keep jabbing with the bottle neck. It’s cold and very hard. I have to stop myself from crying out – I daren’t risk waking Norah, shocking her. She hasn’t got an Abigail, was probably born without one, and even if she did have, those endless pills would have atrophied it by now. I’m beginning to understand about the pills. They’re given for the staff’s sake, not the patients’. Things like sex or anger, or even love and happiness are all potentially dangerous, may result in noise or extra work. Best to lop them off, damp them down. I can see their point. I’m scared myself, feeling almost violent down below. A finger isn’t long enough, or strong enough, and the bottle is too full. I shut my eyes. I can see all the pictures in the other room – Bacchus squashing grapes between his body and a nymph’s; Apollo taking Cyrene from behind. I suppose they’re meant to rouse the bridegrooms, give them new ideas, but if you haven’t got a bridegroom …
I’m hot and restless still, can feel Apollo’s nails digging into my shoulder as he slams against my bum; that tiny smirking Cupid biting both my nipples. I put the bottle down, fumble for the cork. It’s time I gagged myself, shut up shop, before I go too far. The cork fits perfectly. I try it both ways up. Upside-down is nicer, the metal bit cold and hard and edgy against Abigail. It doesn’t shut her up, though, only makes her greedier. I’d better be careful or the cork might disappear. Imagine ringing for a doctor and having to explain you’ve lost a cork inside you.
The bottle’s safer, really, though still too full to manoeuvre very well. I daren’t drink a whole magnum, and half of it is Norah’s anyway. I drift back to the table, unstack the fruit bowl, pile peaches, lychees, mangoes on a tray (the pineapple’s so perfect, it looks sculpted), then tip out the champagne into the bowl. I return to the sofa with the empty bottle.
It’s much easier with it empty. I can move more, relax more, let both of us go wild. I pause for breath a moment, stroke its cool glass back. It’s beautiful, that bottle, hard and smooth and heavy in my hands. I wish it had a voice, though. I try to make it speak, tell me it loves me and I’m great. I often do that when I’m all alone, imagine people – two or even more – all saying I’m sensational. It’s safer really, just pretending. You can’t disappoint them then, or risk a baby. I close my eyes. It’s Jon’s voice I imagine, but it comes out like my father’s, deeper and more smoky.
“Sweetheart, you’re sensational.”
“I’m not, Dad.”
I put the bottle down. The game is getting serious. I’m not sure I want feelings, not at all. My top bit’s close to tears, yet my bottom bit’s still slavering. I’m also starving hungry. It’s hours since we last ate and drinking always makes me ravenous. I go and fetch some fruit, refill my goblet from the bowl. I’ll have a little picnic on the goatskin rug. I sit cross-legged among nectarines and mangoes, fur tickling my bare bottom; gulp some more champagne. I’m no longer quite a hundred per cent stone-cold clear-eyed sober. The bubbly’s probably stronger over here, vitamin-enriched or fortified with hormones. And those flashing lights don’t help, make me feel more pie-eyed than I am. I scoff three peaches, bite into a fourth. They’re so huge and juicy, I’m almost full already. I giggle suddenly, uncross my legs, press the bitten piece of peach against Abigail. It feels cool and silky. Smashing. I move it round, so the downy velvet skin is touching her, tease it gently up and down her open mouth. She drools, begs for more. I try a lychee next. They’re so small, they go right in, first scratchy and unskinned, then slimy peeled. (I’m glad they brought the fruit knives.)
I even try the pineapple, uncut. That’s wild, really rough and prickly, almost hurts, especially the leaf bit on the top. “Leaves!” shrieks Abigail. “More like bloody loofahs.” She prefers the lychees. I peel a second one. It’s moist and sort of squelchy like Abigail herself. Why don’t they put lychees in the sex books? Or whole fruit salads? The grapes are good as well, especially cut in half. Bacchus should be here. It was his squashy purple ones which gave me the idea. Why not have a party, invite all the gods (not the goddesses) – Bacchus and Apollo, Mercury and Mars? At least we’ve got the strobe lights and the space. I dip a strawberry in champagne, slurp if down, stagger up to fill my glass again. I remove a rose from the arrangement on the table, stick it in my hair, admire myself in the antique gilded mirror. Yeah, Dad’s right. I look sensational – breasts dappled pink and turquoise, silver nipples standing up.
We need more guests, though, more lovers to admire me; maybe all the other people from all three thousand rooms. This is Vegas, so they’re probably all in action at this moment – three thousand couples screwing, or maybe more than couples, maybe orgies. I lie back on the sofa (the floor’s too hard), close my eyes so I can see them all more clearly, join in with my finger – swarthy gangsters pawing long-legged show girls; reckless drunken bridegrooms splitting hymens; heaving bodies diluting hot jacuzzis with cold sperm. I’m giggling, can’t stop giggling. Don’t know why. Odd to giggle when you wank. (Jon used to call it “wank”, but I’m not sure if it’s the same word when a woman does it.) Oh God! Oh Jon! – it’s wonderful. Hold on a sec, I …
Oh, Christ! Again. Fantastic. The sofa’s really shuddering, its legs whining on the marble; the entire hotel swaying and vibrating, twenty thousand bed-springs gasping out in time with me. How could I be lonely with all those people, all joining in, all wanting me? I’m still not even tired yet, so why not more hotels? Cindy told us there are sixty thousand hotel rooms in Las Vegas, including all the small motels and annexes. Okay – let’s have them all. And why stop at Vegas or even at Nevada, when there are all the other states, a population of – what did Norah’s guide book say – two hundred something million? And how about the other thousand millions on the globe? I’m so hot, so gaping open, I’ve room for every one of them.
I’m panting, out of breath, as my finger takes the world with it – Indians, Chinese, Eskimos with fur-trimmed pricks. I’m slipping off the sofa. Oh, God! That fur’s incredible. I’m coming. So’s my Eskimo. Mutual orgasm. Not just me and him, but all the million millions coming with me, coming with one shudder, one cry which frightens God; makes Him wonder why He made sex in the first place. Such a stupid thing.
I rest my finger. Strange how quiet it is for a party of that size. Not a sound, except the frantic silent pounding of my heart. They must have all gone home. Had th
eir come and left me. That’s typical of men – they shoot their bolt, then bugger off, fall asleep, lose interest. I suppose I must have shocked them. I’ve never been so wild before, so demented sort of greedy. It must be those damned pills – coming off them. They’ve been acting like a sort of chastity belt, keeping everything locked in, but now Abigail’s unplugged she’s gone berserk; determined to make up for all those doped and muzzled months.
I snatch the rose out of my hair, ram her with the hard and thorny stalk end. That’ll teach her. I jab and jab until I’m actually in tears. The feelings are too terrible. Not just the thorns – they’re nothing – but the misery and fury and the awful lonely greediness, and not knowing who I am and what I want, and disappointing people, and my father and my father and …
“Dad …” I whisper.
“Sweetheart?”
His arms are round me, strong and careful arms, fingers stained from a life and death of Rothmans. He’s found a handkerchief. He always had clean hankies, big white coping ones. “All right now, pet?”
I nod, wipe my nose, try and hide my face. I look awful with red eyes.
He helps me up. “Shall we go and find a café, have a meal together? Share a curry?”
“Go away!” I shout. “You’re dead, you’re dead. You can’t eat curry. And you haven’t got real arms. You’re just like all the rest of them – paint and marble. Nothing.”
I blunder back to the bedroom. I’ve got to talk to someone, someone real. At least the lights are kinder there, two quiet bedside lamps casting soft blue shadows on the white.
“Norah!” I beg. “Norah, please wake up.”
She doesn’t, only murmurs. She’s lying on her side, no longer sprawled diagonally, but curled up in one bulge of the heart. I creep round to the other side, slip between the chilly satin sheets. I stretch my arms right out – still can’t touch her – turn on to my back. There’s my second self, my other half, upside-down in the mirror on the ceiling, face blotchy-red, hair lank.
“Fright,” I mutter to myself. “Stupid greedy slag.” My bridegroom mumbles something. “What?” I say, edging a bit closer. It’s difficult to hear her when she’s got her back towards me, like a barrier.
“I didn’t, Sister,” she whimpers in her sleep. “Didn’t steal the clouds.”
Chapter Eight
“Stop!” I yell. “Go away. Get off. Get bloody off.” His truncheon is as big as a champagne bottle, his eyes are green glass goblets, his smile is a bow-tie.
“Get off!” I struggle up. Thank God they’ve sounded the alarm. I can hear it shrieking very loud and close. Someone ought to come now. I grope my hand out, unstick my gummy eye-lids. I’m holding not a truncheon, but a telephone.
“What? Yes, that’s right. Hallo. I’m sorry, I was dreaming. Who?”
The deep male voice repeats its name and title. Virgil Seymour Hackett. The Welcoming Committee and Assistant Vice President of Guest Relations. Phew! Can all that be one man? He sounds like more than one as he pours out words in torrents. Isn’t it just great we won the prize? How thrilled the Gold Rush is to have us stay, and how he himself just can’t wait to meet us both.
I hope he’ll wait at least until I’m dressed. I tug the blankets up, conceal my naked body. I’ve got a nasty feeling he can see it anyway. American phones probably have those tele-screens inserted. I start tarting up a bit, combing my hair with the fingers of my free hand, smiling as I talk, in case he’s watching.
“Yes, that arrived; yes, lovely. No, it’s okay about the room. I told the girl actually, phoned down last night and … You’ll move us? Well, it doesn’t matter, really. We’re quite happy in … Oh, I see, you’ve got a lot of genuine honeymooners. Lucky them. Yes, thank you. Yes, you said. Yes, of course I’m thrilled I won.”
He must have won his prize for hype. He’s said “congratulations” six times and “welcome” seven, and I’ve lost count of all the “great”s. Now he’s back to moving rooms again. We’re not to repack our suitcases, not to lift a finger. The maids will do it all.
I flop back on the pillows. I’m not feeling all that marvellous. “Look,” I say. “I haven’t unpacked them yet, to tell the truth. And anyway, we’ve only got one case. My friend’s was lost en route.”
Yeah, he knows. That’s been taken care of. That’s partly why he phoned. The clothes are on their way.
“Clothes?”
He starts explaining. The Gold Rush has its own exclusive fashion store, so if any guest needs anything from ski-wear to bikinis, the hotel can provide it.
“That’s very decent of you, but my friend doesn’t ski or swim. And I’m pretty sure she’d rather wear her own gear. She’s not really into fashion. Hold on a sec, I’ll ask her.” I hump over in the bed. “Norah, would you like … ? Norah?”
She’s not there. What I took for Toomey is a pile of pillows, a humped-up bulge of blanket. I’m lying all alone in that huge deserted heart. I fight a surge of panic as I think back to last night – Norah’s moans, her sweaty ashen face. Supposing she’s pegged out? No. Even in my drunken state, I’d have heard the doctor come.
I slam down the receiver, sprint into the dining room, still naked. Halfeaten soggy peaches, the ripe smell of fruit and booze. No Norah. I try the bathroom next. The door is locked. Thank God. She’s merely washing. Baths are scarce at Beechgrove, so she’s probably making up for twenty tubless years.
“Norah?”
Not a sound. Fear knifes my gut again. I saw a movie once where a girl drowned in a bath. She’d been taking pills, slipped back, slid sideways and immersed her face. I dished Norah out her pills. Too many.
“Norah, let me in this minute.”
The door handle is moving, just twitching very feebly, but at least it is a sign of life. “Are you all right?” I shout.
I can hear her muffled answer – can’t make out the words, but the fact it’s words at all means her head and voice-box must be safely above water. I’m probably worrying far too much. I’ve never had a sister or a brother and the responsibility’s beginning to get me down.
I drag back to the bed, change my mind halfway. Now I’m up, I’ll stay up. We’re meant to be at some Welcome Champagne Brunch, though the word champagne has already lost the glamour it had two days ago. Still, if it’s free, we’d better drink it. I rifle through my case. What does one wear to a Las Vegas champagne brunch? I settle for a pair of dungarees and a sort of low-cut sparkly blouse on the grounds they can’t both be wrong. It’s gravy-stained Crimplene for poor Norah, unless they hurry with those clothes. I’m quite impressed, in fact. Virgil Whatsit Hackett said he’d contacted our airline twice already and would keep phoning through the day, but not to worry – anything still lost could be instantly replaced. I wish they’d kit me out as well as Norah. My dungarees have faded and there’s a Players No. burn on the pocket, though perhaps that’s quite appropriate.
“Norah, don’t get dressed. They’re sending up some clothes for you.” I hate shouting through locked doors. “Norah, can you hear me? And can you get a move on? I need a pee myself.”
She shuffles out, wearing her brown shoes and just the petticoat. Her face is pale, sort of greyish-pale like porridge made with water.
“Gosh, are you all right, love?”
She nods, then shakes her head. I slip past her to the bathroom. It stinks – a really bad smell, disguised with strong cologne. I pee as quickly as I can, return to her.
“Norah, have you been sick, or something?”
“No.”
“Are you okay? You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Honest?”
“Yes.”
“Ready for your brunch, then?”
She looks confused.
“Breakfast,” I explain. “Plus lunch. Both at once.”
She shakes her head – twice – as if once for breakfast, once for lunch.
“Look, you’ve got to eat, Norah.” She’s had nothing since that itsy bit of chicken on the plane
. God, I wouldn’t be a nurse. The strain.
There’s a sudden knocking on the door. I’ve no worry left for muggers, so I open it quite brazenly, without even looking through the spy-hole. It’s a Cindy double with the clothes. If I were feeling less hung over, I might have been excited. They’re expensive clothes in those highly-strung materials which tend to sulk and tremble if you so much as rinse them through, let alone dump them in a launderette. The problem is they’re totally wrong for Norah. I don’t mean the size – they’ve got that right, remarkably right, considering that they only saw her as a slumped shape on a sofa. Even the colours are fairly reasonable – no scarlets or magentas. But a tracksuit and a cocktail dress, a pair of cream linen jeans with a leather belt and overstitching, a lace negligée and nightie set in pink, six pairs of camiknickers …
I suppose the tracksuit is the safest, but even that’s got gold stripes down each leg and “GR” emblazoned on the chest. The dress is quite impossible, at least for Sunday brunch – backless with bead appliqué-work. I leave it on the sofa, grab the tracksuit. Norah has disappeared again, re-emerges from the bathroom looking worse. It’s not porridge I’m reminded of, but ashes.
“Look, love, why don’t you lie down and I’ll have brunch on my own. I can always bring you up a snack.”
“No, please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”
“Okay, keep your hair on. I just thought if you weren’t well … By the way, we – er – wear tracksuits here for brunch.”
She lets me help her on with it. It’s quite a struggle. I don’t think she’s worn trousers in her life and these are tightly ribbed around the wrists and ankles and don’t have any zips. I’d lend her a skirt or something from my own case, but I’m a different shape completely and wear my things pretty short and tight. She looks awful, sort of comic, and yet completely hang-dog miserable, standing very stiffly as if the tracksuit were a straitjacket, but with her head drooping down.
“Ready, then?”
Sin City Page 9