by Andy Jones
!
Like a screamer.
!
Fuck!
Fucking hell!
Fucking hell squared!
She left nearly five hours ago, and the small snatches of sleep I’ve had since have been fretful, haunted and, if anything, more tiring than no sleep at all. I roll onto my side as a preparatory manoeuvre for disembarking the bed, swing my legs off the side, and recoil as my foot touches something cold and yielding. Lying on the carpet, like a pair of obese worms, are two dry, hair-stuck condoms knotted full with last night’s semen. My stomach rides up my throat and I fall back onto the bed with a hand clamped over my mouth.
It’s forty-one days to the anniversary of the day I lost my virginity, and I’m one notch closer to taking a thousand pounds off my terminally ill best friend. There is a bite mark on my shoulder and my testicles ache like they’ve been sat on.
I’d imagined a more frivolous affair with Kaz. Jokes about close-ups, reveals . . . And action! At some time after three thirty in the morning, she called a cab, showered and dressed. She said it had been ‘fun’ and told me she loved her boyfriend, saying the latter in a tone that defied contradiction and implied – contrary to the evidence of the past several hours – this was information that should go without saying. We hugged stiffly on my doorstep, and only a handshake would have been more perfunctory.
On the way out of the flat to the make-up tests, I bump into Douglas on the doorstep.
‘Morning, Doug,’ I say sheepishly.
‘You’re going then,’ he says, pointing at the ‘FOR SALE’ sign that’s been nailed to the gatepost.
‘I don’t know. I just . . . I don’t know. You off out?’
‘Bridge.’
‘Is Eileen going?’
‘Expect so. I was going to put this through your letter box.’ Doug hands me a fat brown envelope. ‘But as you’re here.’
‘What is it?’ I ask, taking the small package.
‘Starflower,’ says Doug. ‘Supposed to be good for hangovers. So Mary used to say, anyway.’
‘Right, thanks. Listen,’ I say, indicating where I keep my watch, ‘I should be off.’
‘Is it making you happy, Thomas? All this running around.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not particularly.’
Doug nods. ‘A didnae think so, lad.’ He holds my eyes, waiting for an answer, or at least an acknowledgement that I’ve heard and understood him.
I nod and put the envelope of herbs into my bag.
‘Starflower’s all well and guid,’ says Doug. ‘But I’ve always sworn by bacon and eggs. Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast.’
Chapter Seventeen
The make-up tests are in the same place that we did the casting, and I’m the last person to arrive – tired, hungover and reeking of apathy. Ben, Holly and Verity are gathered around a table, laughing at something in Verity’s sketchbook. Also present is our make-up artist, Laura, and the creative – and although I checked before he got here, I still can’t recall his name.
‘Shut up!’ says another person, obscured from view at the back of this huddle. ‘I do not look at all like that.’
‘Beg to differ,’ says Ben.
Kaz stands up from the table. ‘Tom,’ she says, as if I were the last person she was expecting to walk through the door. ‘Blimey, talk about the living dead. Late night, babes?’
Verity twists her face into a lopsided smile and mimes zombie hands. Today she is wearing a sleeveless cotton dress, red with white polka dots and evocative of the ’50s or ’60s. Her hair is tied in a tight wide bun on the top of her head. Vintage, you might call it, but I could be wrong. I remember her joking that ‘Verity is the spice of life’, but I’m beginning to think it may be more of a personal mantra than an offhand quip.
‘Er . . . a few . . . you know, drinks,’ I say, wishing there was a rail nearby I could grab on to.
‘Verity’s done me as a vampire, look,’ says Kaz, walking towards me and opening her arms for a hug. ‘I don’t look like a vampire, do I?’
With her back to the room, Kaz scowls at me: Not a word.
‘Vampire?’ I manage.
‘Blimey,’ says Kaz, ‘looks like someone needs mucho coffee. Tell you what, I’ll pop to Starbucks. Anyone else?’
Everyone shouts their orders to Kaz. She looks like she slept nine hours on a feather mattress, woke early, swam twenty lengths and had a high-protein low-fat breakfast.
Kaz kisses me on the cheek on the way out. ‘Say anything to anyone,’ she whispers in my ear, ‘and I’ll fucking murder you.’
By mid-afternoon my hangover has eased back from all-consuming physical assault, just enough to make room for self-pity, self-loathing and head-fizzing fatigue. I sit at the back of the room, as Laura realises Verity’s designs while Ben and the creative pass comment. Although the only comment the creative makes are fawning compliments aimed at Verity. I wonder if she considers him a frog worth investigating. And what business it is of mine anyway.
Over breakfast, Doug talked about the weekend’s various sporting fixtures. He didn’t want me to ask about Eileen, and neither did I want to talk about the sorry mess of my own affairs. Nothing was said to this effect, but it was clearly communicated nevertheless. True to his promise, Doug paid for my breakfast, and before we went our separate ways, he squeezed me tight around the bicep and told me I’d be all right. ‘Get some rest,’ he said, holding my eyes with his. As on the doorstep an hour earlier, the gesture said: Understand? And I nodded silently back that I did.
If I was hesitant on Tuesday, I am resolute today that I can’t be anything more than a professional acquaintance of our funny, cool, very attractive, slightly bonkers production designer. If I am anything at all, it’s a toad, and nothing good comes from kissing a toad.
Kaz went back to the agency after we’d completed the first test on Ruth the vampire, and I’m pretty sure the only reason she came at all was to threaten me with murder. She could have saved herself a trip and delivered this information when we hugged like mannequins on my doorstep twelve hours ago, but maybe she thought it would ruin the moment.
After Kaz left we moved on to Frankenstein’s Albert and, guided by Verity’s artwork, Laura made him over as a blue monster with spiked green hair. She used strips of tape to hold his eyes shocked-wide open, and it occurred to me that I’d never before seen a version of the iconic monster that looked as if he really had conducted one million volts through his temples. Instead of the traditional scar, Verity had specified a zipper running across Albert’s forehead, and the effect was every bit as funny as it was disturbing.
The sun is out today, so Holly went to Pret and everyone ate their lunch on the rooftop balcony. I was experiencing a late-onset relapse, so I shuffled off to the chemists for Alka-Seltzer and a bottle of water. Besides, I didn’t feel like particularly good company, and three hours later, I still don’t.
While the vampire and monster tests progressed quickly, the zombies – as they are wont to do – are dragging. George and Alice will play brother and sister in the commercials, so are having their make-up tests together. Ben and I observe at a discreet distance as Laura alternates between the children, layering on blue foundation, pink eyeliner and dark shadow. At eleven, George is two years older than Alice, a big deal at that age and something he points out at every opportunity. An awkward boy, he sits stiffly in his chair, interrogating Laura, questioning every choice, and undermining Alice by tutting derisively at any expression of her excitement until he has all but snuffed it out. It doesn’t bode well for the shoot. Verity, however, has been patient and playful, indulging George, distracting Alice and doing everything she can to keep the energy alive. But after an hour with the little bugger, I sense she too is losing her spark.
‘Perhaps we should have flesh hanging off,’ says George. ‘After all, the zombies would be decomposing in all likelihood. You could use bacon.’
Verity laughs. ‘I’d rather have it on a sandwich,’
she says.
My mind flashes to the breakfast I ate with Doug this morning: the slightly undercooked eggs, the greasy sausages, the fatty bacon. And – like so much else in my life – I’m not sure it was an entirely sensible idea. I take a deep breath and my stomach desists in its revolt. The regret and self-reproach, however, are as troublesome as they’ve been all day long.
‘Do you know what decomposing means?’ he asks Alice.
Alice shakes her head.
Verity says, ‘I don’t think we need to get into that n—’
‘It’s when dead people’s skin rots off their bones,’ George says. ‘Isn’t it?’
And another deep breath.
Alice looks appalled, and stares at Verity as if beseeching her to deny this dreadful notion.
‘Okay, zombies,’ says Verity, ‘you are just about done. Shall we put some more blue on their lips?’ she asks the room in general.
‘Good idea,’ says the creative. ‘Great idea.’
‘Pout your lips like you’re about to whistle,’ says Laura the make-up artist.
‘I can whistle,’ says Alice, and she does just that – jamming two fingers into either side of her mouth and whistling so loud it sets my hangover back by about three hours.
‘Whatever,’ says George.
‘Wow,’ says Verity.
‘We’ve got a dog,’ says Alice. ‘He’s a labradood—’
‘A dog on the news bit a little girl,’ says George. ‘And they had to kill it.’
‘That’s sad,’ says Verity.
‘Once they taste blood, you have to kill them,’ says George.
‘I bit my brother once,’ says Alice. ‘He drew glasses and a beard on my best dolly, so I bit him on the finger and blood came out.’
Ben laughs out loud. ‘Blimey,’ he says. ‘Bitten by a zombie! You’re not going to bite any of us, are you?’
Alice shakes her head emphatically.
‘You sure?’ I say. ‘We can’t have you turning the cameraman into a zombie, can we?’
Alice giggles at this.
‘How do you stop zombies?’ says Ben.
‘You have to destroy the brain,’ says George.
‘Right,’ says Verity, ‘I’ll have to bring my big scissors.’ And she snips her fingers at Alice’s, making her shriek and duck away.
‘I won’t bite anyone,’ says Alice. ‘I promise.’
‘And how about you, George?’ says Verity, ruffling his hair.
George looks at her as if to say, Do you really expect me to dignify that with a response? So Verity shrugs and ruffles his hair again.
Our final make-up session is Elijah the werewolf, and Elijah is so taken with his new look – monobrow, snaggle-fangs, hairy ears – that he asks if he can wear it home to frighten his sister. It’s a nice end to a long day, and there’s an air of positivity in the room as Ben lays out Polaroids of our little horrors.
‘Good day,’ he says. ‘Really good.’
‘Amazing,’ says the creative. ‘Top job, Vee.’
Vee?
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘They look great. Particularly Zipperhead.’ Verity laughs, and I resist an impulse to poke my tongue at the agency twerp. ‘I’m not sure about George, though.’
‘Looks okay to me,’ says Ben, squaring off the photo.
‘Not the make-up. The make-up’s great,’ I say, smiling at Verity. ‘I’m not sure about the kid.’
Ben nods. ‘Doesn’t exactly ooze charisma, does he?’
‘Not exactly, no. What do you think?’ I ask Verity.
‘Well, it’s not really my call, is it?’
‘You’re part of the team now,’ says Ben. ‘Like it or not.’
Verity picks up George’s Polaroid. ‘I feel quite sorry for him,’ she says.
‘Me too,’ says the twerp.
‘I mean,’ continues Verity, ‘something’s a bit . . . well, off, isn’t it?’
We all nod.
‘But,’ she adds, ‘he can do that rolling-his-eyes-back-in-his-head thing.’
‘True,’ I say. ‘Which does go well with Alice’s eye-crossing thing.’
‘And,’ says Verity, ‘I’m pretty sure zombies hunt in packs. I mean, you never get just the one, do you?’
‘True again,’ I say. ‘All right then. We’ll give him a go. If he ruins everything we blame Ben.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ says Ben. ‘Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I am parched. Goose?’
‘It’s a pub,’ I say in response to Verity’s baffled expression.
‘Can we tempt you to a drink, Verity?’ Ben asks.
‘Yeah,’ says Verity. ‘Why not?’
‘Nice one,’ says the idiot.
Ben turns to me, rubbing his hands together. ‘Ready, Tom?’
I have the gut-knotting sensation of being ambushed. If we go to the Goose, we’ll inevitably be joined by Rob and Marlon and Holly. Add Christina the flirty barmaid. Add alcohol. Add me. It would be a rotten idea even if I weren’t hungover and exhausted.
It’s been a long and shitty week, and all I want to do is go home. My sofa, takeaway curry and bed, a quiet weekend and a lot of sleep.
‘I’d love to,’ I say, ‘but . . . I’ll pass.’
The fool from the agency smiles a little at this and I nearly change my mind. But only nearly. ‘I’ll see you all next week,’ I say, shaking hands with Ben and the moron.
Verity pretends to go for the shake, then kisses me on the cheek, and this time it’s not at all uncomfortable.
‘Sorry to be a bore,’ I say. ‘Another time.’
Verity smiles. ‘Definitely.’
Definitely.
I’m eating a microwave spaghetti Bolognese for one in front of Rocky when I receive a text from Bea:
Dad is such a dick!
I message back asking what he’s done, but Bea’s response – Just being a dick – does little to clarify the situation.
Twenty minutes later I get a message from Dad:
Are you still coming home for Mum’s anniversary?
I tell him of course I am, and Dad replies: Good. We need to talk about your sister. I’m tempted to ask what’s going on, but I’ve had enough drama for one week without getting between Dad and Bianca.
On screen a fearful Rocky Balboa kneels in front of the sink in his dressing room and prays that God will help him through the ordeal to come.
Mum’s anniversary is in two weeks’ time and, impertinent atheist that I am, I offer up a little prayer that whatever’s going on between Dad and Bea, it will have blown over in the next fourteen days.
Chapter Eighteen
Sadie and I are sitting at a table for two in the window of a north London pub, a short walk from where I abandoned the car three days ago. My snowboard is propped against the wall behind Sadie, but so far neither of us has mentioned it. It’s just looming in the background like a mute witness. I called Sadie yesterday, and following predictably uncordial preliminaries she agreed to meet me for Sunday lunch. I don’t know if a bottle of pink Zinfandel and a bowl of olives constitute ‘lunch’, but that’s what we’re having.
‘I looked it up on the Internet,’ says Sadie.
‘Oh really?’ I say, raising my eyebrows as if this is a great idea but one that had not occurred to me.
‘Yes, really,’ says Sadie. She might smile, but she is rolling an olive around her mouth so it’s difficult to tell. ‘Guess.’
I blow air out, thinking. ‘It was what, eighteen grand new?’
Sadie gives nothing away. All I told her yesterday was that I was sick of the car share and custody needed to be resolved ‘one way or the other’. Sadie agreed and here we are.
‘And I imagine it will have depreciated by’ – I roll out my bottom lip, shrug – ‘three . . . four grand? God, I dunno, five maybe?’
‘Two.’ Showing me said amount of fingers for clarity.
‘Only two? Blimey.’
‘Good olives,’ says Sadie, nudging the bowl toward
s me.
‘Two grand,’ I say, shaking my head and jabbing a cocktail stick into a black olive. ‘Who’d have thought?’
‘Try a green one,’ says Sadie. ‘You can tell the difference, can’t you?’ she says, her tone somewhere between playful and confrontational.
In the interest of harmony, I play along, spear a green olive and present it as proof of competency.
‘I mean,’ says Sadie, ‘I’m not green, am I?’ She plucks the olive from my cocktail stick and holds it beside her head for comparison. ‘I don’t look green, do I, Tom?’
I make a show of deliberation, before nodding and conceding the point: No, you don’t look green.
Sadie places the olive between her teeth and bites it in two. ‘Sixteen grand, the car’s worth. And I hope you’re a better producer than you are an actor.’
I open my bag, remove a black zip-up wallet containing the Mini’s documents and place it on the table between us.
Sadie looks at it and laughs. ‘I didn’t say I was going to buy it, Tom. This was your idea, remember?’
I slide the documents towards Sadie. ‘Just fill in your details and it’s yours. I’ve already signed.’
‘I haven’t got . . . eight grand just lying around, Tom.’
‘Who mentioned eight grand?’
‘Half of sixteen is eight grand, okay? And who said I even want the Mini?’
I empty my glass, refill it, top up Sadie’s. ‘Well, do you?’
‘What? Do I what, Tom?’
‘Want the car, Sadie.’
Sadie regards her wine, stabs one, two, three olives, and glares at me while she chews.
‘Don’t you?’ she asks.
‘Don’t I what?’
‘Oh, fuck off, smart-arse,’ she says, only slightly infuriated. ‘Christ, can you imagine what this must be like with a kid?’
‘I’d rather not,’ I say.
Sadie traces the grain of our table with the tip of a cocktail stick. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not really.’
Sadie contemplates this, takes a drink. ‘What about that girl? The one . . .’ She gestures at us, the table, the bowl of olives, this whole thing, I suppose. ‘The one you got off with.’