by Edward Docx
This was William’s unusual route through parties that bored him: to tell as many different people as possible as many different lies as he could conceive. As far as I can tell, his guiding principles are philosophical (or even artistic) rather than social: a sort of live-performance sabotage act. In particular, he enjoys baiting men who have shaved their heads. The reasons for this were once explained to me: because we are no longer called upon to wrestle lions, a man’s physical strength is not of immediate consequence, but his social standing – in particular his charm – so William believes – is still somehow obscurely connected to his locks. Thus, having lost their hair, the bald battalions of modern Britain are consequently denied (or are denying themselves) the correlative subtleties of charisma and wit. Instead, they take up those weapons in the male armoury more befitting of their glabrous state: candour, bluntness, directness, scepticism. They adopt for themselves the role of social demystifiers. In this way – according to William – they aim to make a virtue of both their bald heads and their bald conversation, regarding themselves as a fifth army of emotional soothsayers, truth-tellers, honest-Joes. And it is this propensity to consider themselves in some way more honest than their fellows that William finds most specifically irritating, and which therefore attracts him when he is in the mood for subversion.
As the beers were matily handed out, Mike (or was it Dave?) answered William’s question at last: ‘I write for a magazine.’
William lifted his bottle a fraction in a gesture of understated cheers. ‘And you guys?’
‘Television,’ they said.
William’s face suffused with excitement. ‘Oh right – the media!’
I could wait no longer. I turned casually to Phil and quietly but at immeasurable personal cost, asked him, ‘so what did Madeleine say?’
‘About what?’
‘About coming down here tonight.’
Cool and semi-detached, he prised the top off his bottle. ‘Oh right. She said she might come down later. She’s visiting her sister or something but she reckoned she would be free after that.’
‘Nice one.’ I swallowed. ‘How long have you known her?’
‘Not that long actually – I met her at a party at the Polish Club. Something to do with them trying to hurry up EU membership or something. She’d written this piece on why Krakow is the new Prague. So they’d sent her an invite too. I picked her out. Chatted her up. You know the routine.’
I nodded dismally.
By midnight, after an excruciating hour upstairs with the society magazine crowd, the Praetorian Guard of Notting Hill’s tedium, I was desperate. I realized that I could no longer live without him. Anxiety was now billowing through my soul like smoke from a disaster site. I needed strong leadership. I found myself clambering down through the house, desperately seeking Phil. Oh how I wanted to be with him again. When was she coming, wise Philip? Had she already arrived? Should I stay? What should I say? Show me how you do it, Phil. Oh, show me how you do it. I want to be a regular guy too. Let’s be buddies. Me. You. Pals.
The party had broken out of the cage of its earlier self-restraint at last, and although it was not yet roaming wild, bottles were being broken and glasses smashed on polished wooden floors. The money boys had arrived and with them came serious cocaine and the cocaine hags. The political stairs were beginning to get slippery with sycophancy. The cue balls were becoming more and more aggressively ordinary. And someone said that in the basement there were DJs. But I hastened through, oblivious, Jasper the Meek in search of Philip the Great.
I reached the sitting room: a long knocked-through space, running from front to back of the house with the usual arched divide describing where the intervening wall had once been. A little quieter, it was three-quarters full of people: some sitting on the floor, gathered around ashtrays (much as I imagine primitive societies once gathered around fires), others standing in huddles or seated with cigarette papers at the dining table or perched on the arms of chairs in a half-circle that centred on the dried flowers in the unused grate.
Any sign of Phil? My eyes came to rest on a tall woman in the far corner, standing by the window at the back of the room. I recognized her vaguely – a fashion writer for one of the papers, one of William’s friends. She was wearing glasses. She was talking to a short man, who was also wearing glasses. He in turn was in the process of giving Phil a CD. And Phil was ripping open a black Velcro shoulder bag and taking out a small case in which were contained … his glasses.
Suddenly, I realised the horror: everyone in the room was wearing glasses. My God. What was happening? The whole of young London must abruptly have gone blind. (It must have been all the wanking.) Poor bastards. And just imagine the panic when they realized they had all been struck down together, like so many myxomatosic bats. As one, they must have made their way down to the eye boutiques to get themselves tested. Oh, the tragedy of it all. Led by the arm back into the quasi-clinical light of the marble and emerald consultancy room, minding how they went because everything was definitely a little bit hazy now that they had come to see their visual deficiency more clearly, they must have all gone through the same shocked and saddened procedure, trying on the various gauges and shapes by Giorgio or Giovanni or Giancarlo, until (still as one) they must have realized (with aching hearts) that the only way out of their terrible plight was to look as much as possible … like Buddy Holly. An anxious week of Brailling back and forth from the office while waiting for the fitting of lens to frame, then pow!– cool but formidably intellectual.
‘Oh, hi again, Phil,’ I said.
‘Hello Jasper mate, how you doing?’ He was reading the CD cover with forensic care. ‘Catherine – Jasper; Jasper – Alex.’
Ignoring my arrival, Alex spoke, ‘it’s right at the bottom of the credit list – PF: that’s gotta be your man. Come on, you gigged with him, right?’
‘Not too bad,’ I said, feebly, in answer to Phil.
‘You’re right, Alex, it says PF.’ Phil grinned. ‘Check this out.’ He handed the CD to Catherine.
I spoke up. ‘Hey, er, Phil … I’m just about to go because … I’m catching a flight early tomorrow. Did Madeleine show up yet? I was just gonna say hi before I left. Thank her for the other night.’
He looked at me – a suggestion of amusement causing his brow to knit. ‘She hasn’t messaged me back, so I dunno.’ His glasses weren’t the usual Buddy’s like Alex and Catherine’s; instead they made him look more like an architect in a car advertisement.
I was at a loss. Chilean Merlot was melting through my veins, dissolving my innards. I feared my heart might drop into my pelvis like a grand piano crashing through weakened floors in a fire. ‘What’s the CD?’
Phil was digging in his pocket for a mobile phone. ‘Oh … it’s just some tunes that a mate of ours slung together.’
I hate the word tunes.
Alex broke in: ‘Come on, Phil. It’s fucking number four in the charts. It’s the bollocks, mate. The new Moby.’ He turned to me. ‘And Phil here is a contributing name.’
‘You should be on royalties, Phil.’ Catherine smiled and handed back the CD.
‘I wish.’ Phil rubbed his chin ruefully.
Catherine turned to Alex and asked something about gyms.
Phil put the CD away in his one-strap rucksack.
And finally, at long last, the vile-faced truth troll tore through the remaining skein of my own pitiful self-delusions. I had no option but to face it: Phil was actually a perfectly nice bloke. Phil was OK. Phil was all right. I may not wear glasses that I don’t need or have a goatee, but nonetheless – I was the loser, not Phil. Madeleine was right to love him. How could I ever have thought otherwise? Of course she was. Somewhere, way back, I had miscalculated life’s most fundamental equation, and my whole life since had been fatally unbalanced. The rest of the world had known this about me all along. But somehow it had taken Phil to make me see it for myself. I was a loser – a lifelong loser, busy devouring existen
ce with pointless critique. All that was left now was to watch and imitate and cover up the best I could.
‘Nice phone,’ I more or less wept, ‘where did you get it?’
‘Yeah, it’s cool.’ Phil thumbed through the screens. ‘Definitely no messages.’ He looked up. ‘You all right, mate?’
I nodded.
‘How d’you get on with Rachel the other night?’
‘I fucked her until her nose bled.’
Phil’s eyes widened with concern.
My voice was nothing more than a whisper of a croak. ‘And you?’
‘Good.’ He smiled. He couldn’t help himself. ‘I stayed over.’
William was smoking a cigarette alone on the front lawn. ‘What are you doing, Jasper – coming out of the basement windows. Have you upset some poor young man?’
I looked around nervously. ‘I am going home. Will; I feel awful. I’ve got everything wrong in my whole life.’
‘Really? In that case, I think home is a good idea. But please try and sleep. I have –’
‘You didn’t see her, did you? She hasn’t come in? I didn’t want to run into her; I had to break out. I thought she … Phil said she might be coming.’
‘No, I didn’t notice her arriving. But then I have no idea what she looks like.’ William blew a smoke ring. ‘You really had better go to bed, Jasper, apart from anything else you are arseholed.’
‘You would have known her if you saw her.’
‘I wasn’t looking at the door. Anyway, I don’t think she’ll come. As I was saying, I have spoken with Philip – don’t worry, I was the soul of discretion – and nothing is as bad as you feared.’ He stopped me interrupting. ‘They barely know one another. Only met thrice. He’s slept at her flat but I don’t think Dr Jiggovitz has put in an appearance yet. I can’t be sure … but the emotional swagger isn’t there.’ He smiled. ‘So I believe we are still very much in the contest. I have invited Philip on our little picnic by the way’ – again William held up his hand to stop me saying anything – ‘and tomorrow you must invite her.’
I was too tired and drunk to go any further down the various cul-de-sacs of his folly with him. ‘Are you coming home? What are you doing?’
‘No. I am just having a breather. Then I am going back into that party to inflict suffering and enjoy myself.’
‘Phil is a nice bloke,’ I said. ‘And don’t you forget it.’
I staggered off to find myself a taxi.
17. The Good Morrow
I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we lov’d?
Lying on his back, somewhere to my left, Don spoke for everyone: ‘Will, I have to say that that was probably the best picnic that I have ever eaten – or am ever likely to eat – in my whole life.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Worth flying back to London for. I think it even beats your nineteenth birthday extravaganza.’
‘Mmm – that goes double,’ said Cal, Don’s wife. ‘We can go home happy now.’
‘It was really nice. Will,’ added Sam, Nathalie’s sister.
‘Yeah. Cheers, Will.’ Phil spoke as he reached for the newspaper.
I was about to add my own thanks but William put an end to the chorus of gratitude. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, ‘it was a pleasure. Not every day a fellow gets the chance to eat outdoors for three hours on the trot in England without rain stopping play. I’m just glad the weather held and that you were all free at such short notice. There’s nothing worse than staging an impromptu picnic only to discover that you will be dining alone. In the rain.’ Now he too lay flat, resting his head on Nathalie’s lap. ‘And there is one more thing to come. What time is it anyone?’
Phil answered. ‘Just gone five-thirty.’
‘And still so bloody hot. This heat is ridiculous. Well, I think a period of recumbent reflection is very much required all round. And then we must have my birthday champagne.’
He reached for a pillow, which he placed beneath the small of his back.
Nathalie was stroking his hair. ‘How come I didn’t get invited to your nineteenth?’
‘For the simple reason that I hadn’t met you when I was nineteen,’ William replied.
‘Yes you had.’
‘Had I?’
‘Yes.’
Of the people gathered, only Don and I knew that William’s birthday was actually in September. I eased into the conversation: ‘There were no women at William’s nineteenth. William was still trying to be gay in those days so as not to let his family down. Isn’t that right. Will? It was before you came out and admitted you were straight, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think so. An awkward time in my life.’
‘Well I for one am very glad that you have turned out to be such a star,’ murmured Sam on the threshold of sleep.
A dog panted past, racing down the hill in search of something lost.
‘What happens if we all pass out and someone comes and steals the cool boxes?’ asked Cal.
‘We’ll have to appoint a guard.’ Will raised his head a fraction. ‘Nathalie?’
‘No chance.’
Madeleine spoke up. ‘I feel wide awake. I’ll watch the hampers.’
‘Thank you, Madeleine,’ said William. ‘That is very kind of you.’
I lay back, listening to the breeze shuffle through the trees. The general mood of gratitude and contentment was more than apposite: William had conducted us through the picnic afternoon like a beneficent Kapellmeister. Had I not been concentrating on other things, I too would have been rendered senseless by the fineness of the food. But for me the tricky part of the afternoon’s operation had yet to begin and I had no intention of going to sleep in the meantime.
It was Saturday, June 15th, seven days after the party in Notting Hill, and we were already approaching the longest day of the year. Earlier, William had given Madeleine and me a lift, arriving with Nathalie and Sam in some ridiculous old Jaguar that his father had just bought. His strict instructions had been that he would pick us up together at my flat at twelve twenty-seven. These orders I had duly passed on to Madeleine. Phil, meanwhile, had been playing football all morning so I had volunteered to meet up with him (again, William’s idea) at Hampstead Tube. Don and Cal had come under their own steam and were waiting with the others in the north car park when we caught up with them.
Madeleine and I had spoken the Sunday after the party. And no, you are very wrong, I did not call her: she called me.
I was very much more together: inconsolably depressed, of course, but steeled and set for one last visit to life’s threadbare roulette table.
She, on the other hand, was almost gushing: ‘Hello Jasper – it’s me, Madeleine. Listen, I am so so so sorry about the concert. Oh God. It was a complete fuck-up. A friend of mine broke her arm jumping on to a bus on Oxford Street and I had to get her to Casualty and we were there until nine o’clock. I am so sorry. I tried to ring you but there was no answer and I don’t have a mobile number for you. By the time I could have got down to Shepherd’s Bush, it would have been too late. I really can’t apologize enough. I called yesterday too but you must have been out. How long were you waiting?’
‘Oh, I gave you until nine and then I guessed something had happened. So I went out with Will instead. It’s no problem. In fact, I was going to call you today to see if everything was OK.’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Well, it’s my fault for not having a mobile phone.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t wait too long. How embarrassing.’
Of course, as we now lay, so many inflexible yards apart on Hampstead Heath, I was conscious once again of the fact that I had no idea whether or not she was bullshitting. On balance, I thought not; there was not enough conviction in her voice when she made the actual excuse; most liars lie too hard, whereas the truth tends to speak for itself.
So I reasoned, as the clouds inched across the sky, sometimes merging, sometimes breaking apart, like young countries borne upon the
currents of continental drift. Though nobody felt like sitting up to verify that it was still there, London lay spread beneath us, sprawling, mauling, falling away in all directions: the cobalt dome of the west, the river, the Eye, the neverending slough of the south and the towering east, glinting with avarice in the summer light.
Forty-five minutes passed before William raised himself from Nathalie’s lap and started to go through his hampers. I sat up. Sam was fast asleep. Don and Cal were dozing. Phil was lying on his side, still reading the paper and drinking one of the bottles of beer he had bought. Nathalie was on her back, wearing her sunglasses. Madeleine had moved. I looked around for her. She was sitting a little way off, beyond the trees, so as to remain in the full ambit of the still-burning sun. She was leaning forward, smoking and reading a magazine. Her hair looked much lighter in the glare.
‘Where’s the little cool box?’ William asked softly, speaking as much to himself as anyone else. He checked the baskets one after the other and then opened up both the big hampers again and rummaged through them.
‘What does it look like?’ said Cal, now roused.
‘It’s blue. Quite small.’ William cast his gaze around over all the bags and hampers and packages.
‘Help yourselves to beers, by the way,’ said Phil, still leaning on his elbow, addressing me in particular but meaning everybody.
‘No, I’m all right, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll save myself for William’s encore.’
‘I can’t see it,’ said Cal.
‘It’s not here.’ William frowned. ‘Unless it’s under one of the blankets or something.’
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Madeleine as she came back towards us.