by Tim Lott
So shiny, so new, she thinks.
She stares at Colin with eyes that glitter with reflected light from the pyrotechnics. The sounds of firecrackers popping and missiles launching continues to punctuate the deepening night.
It’s going to be a wonderful new time, Vronky, says Frankie, leaning over and whispering in her ear.
I know, says Vronky. So much good is going to happen.
White spotlights pester the night sky while the fireworks continue to multiply, an impasto of coloured light along the Thames.
Can I try? says Roxy to Colin, swaying slightly on her feet.
How much have you drunk?
Cosmopolitan, Negroni, two Moscow Mules . . . fuck knows.
How are you feeling?
I’m feeling that I want your phone.
Colin hands it to her and she stares at it with a lover’s gaze.
Will you take a picture of me?
He takes the camera phone out of her hands and tells her to pose. She pouts, and bends to reveal her cleavage. Colin clicks and shows her the result. She whoops.
Can we take one of us together?
Now Colin holds the camera at arm’s length, while he and Roxy gurn for the lens.
Showers of fire are falling from the heavens, launched from a line of barges and a solid, steady roar rises from below. Screeches and unintelligible calls of elation float in the air, like fireworks drawn in sound instead of light. Whistles sound continuously as if part of one long exhalation of breath.
Frankie thinks he can see in the far distance Tower Bridge where the whole performance seems to have started. He imagines the drawbridge raised in salute. Foghorns and car horns join in the glorious cacophony. Explosions in the sky remind him of war zones he has glimpsed on news broadcasts, but there is no atmosphere of threat, only unconstrained joy ringing out, for human survival, for simply being here. For remaining alive, as a species, against all odds.
Before the chimes have even finished marking out the end of the old millennium, the sky is more light than dark, more colour than white. There is beauty everywhere, imposed like a spectroscopic screen over the grey spread of the city. Starbursts fizzle and sizzle. The colours glitter on the River Thames and bounce off the spray of new, bright glass buildings that sprout along the riverside. Big Ben is enveloped in an eerie green fog.
The fireworks build in intensity until it seems they can build no further, then just become louder, and brighter, and wilder, and more beautiful. The barely visible moon blankly invigilates this display of exuberant human imagination, which has been so often cramped, dark and malevolent during the preceding centuries. All the individual pops of firecrackers merge into a single burst of sound, a continuous crackling. Crests of smoke proceed down the Thames, penetrated by aureoles of chemical lightning. The screams of girls sound to Frankie, in his imagination, like a thousand women climaxing.
He takes his phone to check if there are any messages. There is just one.
Happy Milennium, mate. Auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Beer sometime?
The text is signed ‘Tony D.’
Frankie stares at it for a moment then deletes it.
They look molecular, thinks Colin, staring at the cresting fireworks. Like what lies at the centre of everything. Atoms. Molecules. Matter in motion.
I love you, Fraser, says Nodge.
It’s a giant sky fuck, says Fraser.
Now the night is painted with smoke and drenched in the odour of cordite and gunpowder. The group on the roof of the club are no different from the dots below, screaming and whooping and wowing. The biggest fireball of all explodes, apparently right above their heads, white and silver. Frankie and Veronica and Colin and Fraser and Roxy and Nodge all gasp as one.
Not exactly a river of fire though, was it? says Nodge, as the fireworks finish and the flare begins to fade.
* * *
The Embankment Club closes at 2 a.m. Colin, Roxy, Veronica and Frankie are disgorged, tumbling and stumbling out into the street. Nodge and Fraser, with drunken kisses and goodnights, have headed off together to the night club Heaven, a few hundred yards away under Charing Cross Station.
The crowds are still vast, and at one point sweep the group apart, leaving Colin and Roxy abruptly separated from Veronica and Frankie. They cannot reclaim them – the push of the crowd is too wild. Colin and Roxy break away into a small, dark empty alley.
Where do you live? asks Colin.
Finchley, says Roxy, looking behind her, trying to relocate Veronica and Frankie.
Shall we share a cab? says Colin. His mouth, she notices, is wet and loose. I’m in Shepherd’s Bush.
We’re not going to find a cab. I’ll get the tube. It’s been, um, nice . . .
Just then Roxy notices a taxi with a light on and runs towards it waving. But another couple – a big shovel-faced man and a tall stringy woman – notice her gesture and chase her, trying to snag the cab for themselves. Colin follows, pushing through the crowd.
The cab, miraculously, pulls over. But the big man pushes Roxy to one side and jumps in.
Hey! says Roxy That’s mine!
His partner, the stringy woman, is still making her way through the crowd, some twenty feet behind, staggering on a pair of heels even higher than Roxy’s. Roxy sees Colin appears beside the heeled woman, then overtake her. As he does, the woman seems to disappear from sight. A few seconds later Colin joins Roxy on the kerbside.
This monkey stole the cab, yells Roxy over the noise of the crowd.
Colin nods, then gets into the back of the cab with the big man who looks solid and unrepentant. Colin whispers something in his ear. The man, at first bridling, looks over Colin’s shoulder, then mysteriously gets out. Colin beckons Roxy to follow.
Come on.
With some trepidation, Roxy climbs in.
What did you say to him?
His wife or whatever she was fell over and hurt herself.
Roxy throws a glance over her shoulder and catches sight of the big man cradling the woman against his shoulder. There is blood on her forehead.
Running in high heels can be dangerous.
Roxy stares at Colin, puzzled. She turns again and sees the woman through the window, pointing towards the cab. The big man is looking up and beginning to rise from his crouching position. Then Roxy notices Veronica, flanked by Frankie. She is waving to Roxy furiously. Roxy waves back. This is her chance to make her escape.
Go go go, says Colin to the cab driver, urgently, who on cue pulls away just in time, as the big man has risen from his crouching position and is sprinting towards the kerb. Only the press of people stops him making it to the cab in time. He is shouting something, but Roxy cannot hear him. Then the cab pulls away and out of sight of Veronica and Frankie.
Where to? says the cabbie in leaden cockney tones.
Shepherd’s Bush, then . . .
Colin looks across at Roxy.
Finchley.
I’m not going to Finchley, says the cabbie, firmly. I’ll do the Bush and that’s your lot.
* * *
Nodge stands by himself leaning against the wall of Heaven. The music is thudding, violent, relentless. The night comes at him in a series of flashes. Balloons that were released from the ceiling at midnight are scattered on the floor like carnival landmines, popping repeatedly as someone or other steps on one. A man with a flashing ‘2000’ bow tie. Another man dressed in silver lamé with silver feathers in his hair. A lot of bleached crops. One man with green hair and painted thick red lips and three sets of heavily painted eyebrows, a red polo neck with red spandex, with two nipple ring piercings through the spandex and a thick gold necklace. He has no shoes and toenails painted green. A glamorous black woman with piled-up hair in a pure white dress, smoking a fat cigar. Nodge feels plain and boring.
Fraser has disappeared into a dark area at the back with someone he apparently once had a fling with and now wants to repeat the experience. Nodge, who has only bee
n on the scene for a few months, has to assume that this is normal. But he doesn’t like it. It seems impolite and it hurts his feelings. He thinks he needs to get over this sensibility. His wish, since he came out, is simply to fit in.
No one is making eye contact with him. Neither does he want them to. He feels foolish, out of place, as if the fact that he has only just come out after thirty years of living a lie is tattooed across his forehead. He wants to cuddle up in bed with Fraser, who, he knows, can be tender, despite the acidity of his tongue.
He never imagined himself with a boyfriend not much younger than his dad, but Fraser had picked him out at a Labour Party branch meeting and taken him for a drink after the endless, torturous and possibly pointless debates had finished.
Six weeks after that meeting, Fraser had taken him back to his flat in Hammersmith, and seduced him with wine and E. Nodge had been excited, flattered and – he had to confess – the sex had been high voltage, spellbinding. Fraser had been exactly what he had been looking for, someone to show him the ropes. He was beginning to learn that coming to terms with your sexual orientation wasn’t as straightforward as simply changing the gender of the person you slept with.
They got on well too, well enough, anyway, although Fraser was well to the left of the Party, which Nodge was nowadays semi-detached from. Labour’s power in government had become entrenched and inevitable, and this had the effect of lessening Nodge’s commitment, which remained at a level just high enough to turn up to every other meeting, if that, although he rarely spoke at them.
He shifts from foot to foot and checks his watch. He is tired and wants to go home. He’d expected and hoped that he would spend the night with Fraser, in the ornate hand-wrought Brazilian iron bed at his stripped-bare minimalist converted warehouse space, but he is losing patience. He has no interest in spending what’s left of the night in a meat rack.
Finally Fraser emerges from the back of the club, flushed and looking self-satisfied. He smiles at Nodge and nods. Nodge tries not to feel jealous – this, he assumes, is just the way things are – but taps his watch face with his finger. Fraser responds by starting to dance, lazily, pairing himself with any satellite body which comes within his orbit. Fraser moves easily, his muscular body pumping in perfect time with the music. Nodge cannot dance or at any rate, cannot dance well. He suspects that this is going to be even more of a disadvantage on the gay scene than it had been when he had convinced himself that he was straight. It is, he decides, going to be a long night.
Half the men have no shirts on, with shaven chests and shaven heads, something that Nodge couldn’t contemplate for himself. The music is like buzz saws and hammers, hard house and techno. Nodge tries to synchronize his body with the rhythm but feels awkward, self-conscious.
After a few minutes, Fraser ambles up, catlike, and tells him straight out, over the racket, that he dances like a heifer. Nodge knows it’s true, but is hurt all the same. The lighting is bright and monochrome, casting too many shadows.
Bullet heads, Fred Perrys, Doc Martens. Nodge the newbie is both overweight and hairy, something between an otter and a bear and a chub (Nodge is still struggling to master the argot). Fraser, though, was close to having a perfect hardbody – he was ripped but not particularly bulked up. That body fills him with intense desire.
What Fraser sees in Nodge, Nodge isn’t sure, except that Nodge is safe and naïve and loyal – and young, by Fraser’s standards. But there is a gulf between them. Nodge doesn’t want to suck some anonymous punter off in the toilets. He wants to be with Fraser.
He is tempted to walk out of the club alone, but resists, out of fear as much as determination.
* * *
Frankie and Veronica arrive home close to 3 a.m. They are drunk, exultant, aroused.
Did you see what Colin did to that woman? says Veronica, kicking off her shoes.
What woman?
When they were trying to get a cab. He tripped her up. She really went flying.
I’m sure it was an accident.
I’m not. Colin isn’t always as meek as he looks.
Now they both strip off their clothes, scattering them behind them, like a trail of breadcrumbs marking their path into the woods, waiting to be blown by the draught from under the bedroom door.
Veronica reaches out to Frankie and kisses him. The kiss lasts for longer than Frankie can remember a kiss lasting before.
When they pull apart, breathless, Frankie reaches in his pocket and produces a small package. He holds it out in front of him.
Something for you. A millennium present.
Frankie! You only just gave me a Christmas present.
This is something else.
She pulls the paper off the gift, leaving it to drop on the floor. Inside is a matchbox.
Bryant &May’s! You shouldn’t have.
Look inside.
She pulls open the box. Inside there is a key, an ordinary Yale, which, she can see even in the dark, is a strangely deep yellow rather than the normal brass or nickel silver.
What’s this?
Do you remember the first flat I took you to see? When we met for the first time.
You told me not to buy it.
This is the key. To that flat.
Veronica looks confused.
It looks brand new.
It is brand new.
But why would you . . . ?
It’s made of gold. Because my life turned to gold the day I met you.
Veronica stares at the key in astonishment. She feels herself suddenly helpless, overflowing.
You’re so soppy.
She turns and kisses Frankie again.
Thank you, is all she can manage. Thank you, Frankie. This makes me very happy.
That’s all I want to do, Vronky.
I know. I know you do.
Frankie is drunkenly ecstatic. Bringing Veronica joy fills him with a sense of potency. Staggering slightly now, he almost falls, steadies himself on the mantelpiece. A white embossed card with a clamshell border is balanced there. Grazed by Frankie’s elbow, it falls to the floor.
He picks it up and reads it unsteadily even though he knows what it says.
You are invited to lunch
at
Cordelia and Michael’s
on the occasion of the new Millennium.
1pm, January 1 2000
RSVP
Naked now, apart from her underwear, Veronica stumbles over to Frankie and stands next to him.
I don’t know if I’m going to be able to face this shit, says Frankie. And why did they even send an invite? There’s only us and Floss going.
They thought they were going to have a big event then changed their mind. Didn’t want to waste the printing bill.
Her arm snakes past his hip and cradles his groin.
Where is it? I can’t find my li’l friend.
He drops his hand and covers hers.
The prospect of social crucifixion is having a paralysing effect.
I can fix that.
Veronica slowly removes her hand, dragging her fingernails across his sternum.
Where are the condoms?
Where they always are.
She turns and goes to the bathroom and searches in the cabinet. When she returns, Frankie has finished undressing and is lying on his back in bed, the covers off, his eyes almost closed. He has very visibly recovered his erection.
She staggers slightly as she makes her way towards him. She removes her bra and pants and collapses on top of him.
No condoms, slurs Veronica.
Sure?
Frankie extricates himself from the dead weight of Veronica and makes his way into the bathroom. She can hear him clattering past the Benylin, the aspirin, the embarrassment of the Lanacane. He returns and starts searching through his man bag.
As you say. No condoms.
Hold on. Some in my bag, I think.
Why carry them around? On the off chance?
On the off chan
ce you will get adventurous and get nasty with me in the woods or halfway up a mountain.
I’m not a trees and mountain guy. I’m a fully sprung mattress guy.
Veronica gets out of bed and rummages in her bag but finds nothing.
Must have fallen out in the bathroom when I was helping out Roxy.
We can just fool around, says Frankie
I liked Roxy. She made me laugh. No bullshit.
Common as muck.
Listen to you. You can talk.
Veronica falls across him woozily and, almost immediately, instead of the usual five to six minutes of foreplay, he pushes her over on her back and tries to mount her.
We should stop, Veronica says.
We should, says Frankie. Absolutely.
They look at one another. Veronica parts her legs slightly.
I’m yours, Frankie, says Veronica. Always.
But . . . says Frankie
I should be safe this time of the month.
Then they cannot be stopped, although Frankie pulls out at the last moment, leaving a wide oval damp mark on the 200 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. It is the year 2000, christened now, with a million potential new human beings, wasted.
Minutes later they are both asleep, holding one another loosely, face to face, each faintly smiling.
* * *
The cab driver drops Colin and Roxy outside Colin’s flat. Colin pays him, does not tip.
Happy New Year, says the cabbie, sourly.
Yeh, says Colin. And you.
Then, turning to Roxy: Come on up to the flat. I can call a minicab from there.
Why don’t you use your mobile phone from here?
Out of charge. Taking all those photos. Anyway, the number is upstairs.
They take a lift up to the top floor and emerge into a clinical white hallway. There are two identical doors on the landing and Colin unlocks the one to the left. The smell of fresh pine washes through Roxy’s nostrils. She blinks as her eyes adjust to the harsh overhead lighting. No lightshade.
Very new in here.
Only moved in a month ago, says Colin. Do you like it?
Bit on the Spartan side, isn’t it?
To Roxy’s surprise, Colin immediately goes to the landline and to his address book. He phones three numbers one after the other. Roxy meanwhile, removes her coat and flops onto the grey, geometric, utilitarian sofa, apparently brand new, but already stained on the left armrest with what look likes coffee, tea, or curry sauce.