“This is bad,” frowned Billy, remaining admirably calm as we limped into the petrol station. “Are either of you guys members of the AA?”
Of course the answer was no.
I’ve relived the contents of the following ten minutes countless times in my head, praying for them to turn out differently; like watching a disaster film when someone’s already spoiled the ending for you. But I’m always forced to endure the same grim details: Billy going inside the garage to be told there’s no mechanic around at this hour to look at his dying car; Billy phoning his dad to discover the AA policy doesn’t cover any other members of the family; Billy looking vainly inside his bonnet; Billy looking vainly inside his wallet. And Alan, oblivious to any of this, still pilling his nuts off, delightedly chatting and flirting with a pair of bubbly female Spike Islanders whose blue Fiat Uno had just pulled into the forecourt, their stereo pounding out the sound of Jesus Jones as they filled up the little car for their journey back to London. In truth, I too was still very much all over the place with the effects of the drug, and I can’t deny that the thought of a joyful ride home with these two sweet-smelling indie chicks was quite breathtakingly attractive, but I knew full well: this would be wrong.
“Come on, man,” Alan was blethering. “They’re giving us a lift!”
“We can’t!” I spluttered. “We can’t leave Billy here!”
Alan shrugged nonchalantly.
“It’s not your problem, man.”
It’s not your problem. Of course. It’s never your problem. I’d been proper friends with Alan for about six months now, and was familiar with his over developed sense of self-preservation—but this was pushing it even beyond his usual standards.
Billy was agog at the gathering atrocity.
“You can’t just fuck off!” he yelped. I was standing in the centre of the forecourt, equidistant to the two vehicles. The girl driver had paid for her fuel and was skipping back to the car. Alan was already inside, leaning out of the window.
“Clive, stop being a knob! Come on!”
I looked helplessly over at Billy, who looked like he was going to cry.
“Billy I …”
“Well, at least give me some fucking petrol money, then.”
I pulled my wallet from my pocket and tried to focus on the contents. There was nothing. It had all been spent on useless drugs. The girls’ car beeped its horn.
“Sorry, Billy,” I muttered, and ran off.
Ouch.
As you know, this wasn’t the last time I saw Billy, but that final glimpse of him from the Fiat’s back windscreen—tired, alone, penniless, accompanied only by a useless hunk of orange metal, stranded two hundred miles from home at two in the morning—has always lingered with me, like a massive glob of chewing gum on my shoe of conscience. To this day, I have no idea how he got home. When I next spied him in school the following week I was too guilt-ridden to go anywhere near him. Alan, of course, reverted to his standard behaviour of denying Billy’s existence. Yes, I allowed it all to happen. Yes, I went along with it, didn’t protest. But what can I say, your honour? It was all about the girls and the music. You know how it is.
Girls and music.
Having relived that sorry escapade on this pleasant Sunday morning as the bus trundles along towards Soho, I’m finding myself quite gut-wrenchingly nervous. I keep telling myself it’s only Billy Flushing I’m going to meet—Billy “Quasi” Flushing, who once managed to trip over his own arm in the school computer room—but it doesn’t help. It occurs to me that Billy’s the second famous person I’ve had drinks with in less than a month, and for some stupid reason this thought makes me feel a bit unusual. As I’m a bit early, I slip into Bar Italia to steady myself with a quick coffee.
I sit there in my silly smart trousers and silly shirt and even sillier jacket, and reflect that perhaps it’s not the fame that’s making me nervous. Perhaps I’m just subconsciously preparing for the paltry little achievements of my life to be hurled into Billy’s bottomless swimming pool of global success; even more so than with Lance Webster.
But what nonsense. It’s Billy fucking Flushing. The dweeb I ditched. I neck my coffee, march across the road to the unmarked door and buzz the intercom.
“Forsyth’s.”
“Oh, hi, I’ve an appointment with … Billy Flushing.”
“Certainly, sir,” replies the female voice. “Come upstairs.”
This is one of those private members’ clubs that are so private you don’t even know you’re in a club. You just feel like you’re in some very rich person’s house. I trot up the carpeted steps and emerge into a dark, slickly furnished sitting room, with some more stairs ascending to my right. An extremely pretty girl (dressed, to my bemusement, in a cropped T-shirt and jeans) leaps up from behind her laptop and shakes my hand.
“You must be Clive,” she beams.
“Er, yes.”
“Have a seat. Billy will be with you in just a moment.”
I sink deeply into one of the black velvet sofas while the girl summons a colleague on a tiny CB radio.
“Leona, please tell Billy his brunch has arrived.”
She gives me a melting smile and settles back behind her computer. “Smart casual,” my arse. I feel like sprinting to Oxford Street and buying some proper clothes.
“Oh my God!” says a voice suddenly. I turn to where the sound comes from, and there he is, Billy Flushing himself, coming down the stairs. “Who the hell is that?” he laughs, bounding over to me and grabbing my hand before I’ve even had time to raise myself from the incredible sinking sofa. Our handshake morphs awkwardly into a strange sort of hug as I stand up; not that Billy looks remotely awkward himself.
“Clive Beresford, Clive bloody Beresford.”
“Billy Flushing,” I respond, trying to sound as natural as I can. I want the world to pause for a minute so I can study his appearance properly, but Billy has never been the sort of guy that does pauses. Now with his mantle of authority, he does them even less.
“What the fuck do you look like, you lunatic? You look like you’re going to a boat race! Come on up,” he commands, turning back where he came from.
“Your PA said it was ‘smart casual,’” I protest. He glances round and shakes his head.
“Oh God, sorry. Emily is so bloody by-the-book with people. I need to have a word …”
There’s a distinctly transatlantic edge to his voice, I notice—you can hear it in the way he says his Ls. “Emily” is “Eh-mul-y.”—“Bloody” is “Bul-uddy.” Plus there’s a little roll on the Rs. I follow him upstairs and we come into a plush bar, where another stunning girl is opening wine.
“Kate, can we have some drinks on the roof? Bloody Marys? Clive, you wanna Mary?”
“Er, yeah …”
“Two Marys, and menus.”
Kate nods and grabs two tall glasses.
I only get a proper look at Billy once we’re on the roof terrace (a disappointing view, but the sun is shining; a man and a woman are already out here, drinking coffee). His face is certainly the face of Billy Flushing, not a lot has changed; but his skin looks healthy and taut, his big, chunky glasses look incredibly pricey, his black hair is scruffy but perfect and there’s no trace of the clumsiness or bad posture which engulfed him as a youth. He’s wearing rich, dark green combats and a perfectly fitting white T-shirt, a chunky silver bracelet and trainers that look like they’ve been biked over to the club just a few minutes ago. Although he probably wouldn’t be recognised if he walked across Leicester Square on a Saturday night, everyone he passed would know he was someone; it’s that kind of look. He’s also trim, muscular, and generally exudes health and vitality. The bastard. We settle ourselves at a table near the ledge and get started.
“So, Clive Beresford,” he smiles. “Clive Beresford. The highs—and indeed the lows—of the last sixteen years, if you please.”
You don’t require full details of the autobiography I embark on, but it’s important yo
u should know that I manage to tell the truth. Though I also refrain from mentioning Lance Webster. At first. Towards the last five or six years of my dull story, when less and less of any conceivable merit took place, his face noticeably drops.
“So … who are you writing for now?” he asks.
“I’m … not. Myself, really.”
“You’re not? Clive, come on! What’s your job, then?”
“I’m temping. For a bank.”
“For a bank? Oh, Clive, no! We gotta sort that out, for a start. Have you got a girl?”
“Nah, split up eight months ago.”
“Well, I can’t help you with that one, my friend.”
“So, what about you?” I enquire, to which Billy grins and launches into his own rundown. Predictably it’s a lot more interesting than mine: aside from the success story you already know (which he continues to be appreciably modest about), the following facts emerge:
He moved permanently to New York a year ago, but still has a house in Rickmansworth and a flat round the corner from the club (“I’d invite you for brunch there, but I’ve forgotten where all the supermarkets are”).
He moved permanently to heterosexuality (as he describes it) two years ago, when he met his current girlfriend, Clara, but has essentially been bisexual since leaving school.
He runs a fledgling indie label in London called Civilian Flush, one of the reasons he’s over here this week.
Chatting to Billy produces a predictable blend of pleasure and misery. Obviously it’s great to see him doing so well and, encouragingly, he keeps saying stuff like, “I can put you in touch with the right guys, easy. You’re a good writer, man! I could get you writing in New York within a week. I assume you still fucking hate comics, else I would have you working for me!” But throughout most of the conversation an enormous, vulgar-pink neon sign is flashing at me from behind Billy’s head, complete with accompanying music, asking the obvious question: WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I BEEN DOING WITH MY LIFE?
After a while, naturally, Billy asks me about one of my current “writing” projects, so I take the plunge and tell him about the recent Webster escapades. I tell him everything—or, at least, the first part: seeing Webster in the street, following him, working at the vet’s and then putting that stupid letter through his door. Billy is almost on the floor with laughter.
“Noo!” he hoots. “Clive, you fucking nutter, man! You weirdo! That’s actually quite dark! I like that! And you’ve no idea what you wrote in the letter?”
I shake my head, glugging my drink.
“All I know is it had my email address in it.”
“How d’you know that?”
But of course, I can’t tell him. Not without telling him all of the next bit: bumping into Webster in the pub, not being able to say it’s me ’cos he sent the roadies round; calling myself Alan ’cos it’s the only name that pops into my head; having to pretend I don’t know who he is; looking at each other’s writing; him finally realising who I am and running off, blah blah. By the end of this saga Billy almost needs an ambulance he’s laughing so much, and the other people on the terrace have turned to look, perhaps thinking we’re engaged in a tickling contest.
“Oh, my God, Clive! You freak! This is too much! What have you turned into, man?”
“I know.” I sigh, chuckling sadly. “It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s desperate, that’s what it is, mate. We need to sort you out! Cheryl, two more here,” he instructs a passing waitress. “So, anyway—are you saying he’s emailed you since then?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d it say?”
“It was weird. It said he didn’t like being lied to, and he’d spent lots of time and money escaping from what he used to be …”
“So he was in therapy, basically.”
“Was he?”
“I dunno, I’m guessing.” Billy shrugs.
“Right. Then it said something about the past being dug up, and now he wants me to help him bury it, and to ‘be ready.’”
“Oooooh!” screams Billy, his campest utterance yet. “Wow! This is great! Why don’t things like this happen to me? That sounds spooooky!”
“Yeah. But there were no further instructions.”
“Aw, come on. Sounds like he wants you to get back in touch with him.”
“No.”
“He must do, man! It’s obvious! Why would this guy, after all that’s happened, give you his own fucking email address?”
“Dunno.”
The next round of drinks arrives. Billy busies himself with the straw, and I get a brief flash of what he used to be like with a milk shake.
“Hmmm,” he ponders. “Lance Webster. Did they ever find out what happened to that crazy bitch?”
“Gloria?”
“Yeah! The one he was shagging.”
“They were never shagging,” I state firmly, to a stern look from Billy.
“Oh, Clive. Wake up, man! Everyone knows that! Even I know that, and I was never into the bloody band!”
“Well, I don’t believe they were.”
“You’d defend their honour to the death, wouldn’t you?” he sniggers. “Christ, Thieving Magpies, eh? I remember you guys … you and that cock Potter, in your little indie uniforms. Sorry, dude, but you guys were so sad. I mean, you probably thought I was a total loser at school, but you were like fucking football supporters with that band …”
“Yeah, I s’pose,” I grumble. “I was never into football, so they were like my surrogate football team.”
“So, are you gonna reply to him?”
“I dunno yet. There was something else he wrote, a weird bit about thanking me for all I’d done.”
“For looking at his writing?”
“No,” I frown. “This was written to Clive, not the other guy.”
“But you are the other guy.”
“Yeah, but this was … different. I can’t quite describe it, but it was blatantly written to Clive, and not ‘Alan.’”
“And did you ever do anything for him?”
“Well … not really. Apart from writing a load of stuff in my fanzine, back when he was freaking out, and some letters in Melody Maker and so on. Y’know, supporting him. Telling everyone to leave him alone. Nothing he’d have known about, though.”
Billy giggles and shakes his head.
“Clive, I don’t mean to belittle you, man … but I do feel kind of sorry for you. Christ, I mean … you’re such a nice bloke, you always were, but you do end up sticking your neck out for people who probably don’t deserve it. Isn’t it time you put yourself first?”
“Well, I kind of am, really.”
“How so?”
So I spin him my usual yarn about Webster being forgotten, and how vindication for him would be equal vindication for me. I try Billy with my theory that all those druggie northern bands continue to bask in reverence while all the southern “booze” bands—particularly my beloved Magpies—are quietly swept under the carpet, and how I want to redress the balance. Billy waves all this away.
“What can I say? Sorry, Clive. Thieving Magpies were boring. Everyone knows that. Lance Webster’s one of the most boring men to sell a million records.”
“He’s not!” I argue hopelessly. “He’s got mystery. Who else had such a public fall from grace that’s never been explained?”
“Where’s the mystery in that? He was just pissed off his career was going down the pan.”
“But that’s the point,” I insist. “It wasn’t. Not yet.”
“Well, I dunno. He always seemed pretty dull to me.”
“He wasn’t dull in interviews,” I point out.
“Who remembers interviews? It’s all words. People only remember actions—visual stuff.”
“I don’t agree.”
“Yeah, well … no offence, Clive, but you’re not the sort of person that counts. Yes, you love Lance Webster’s witticisms, Carter’s puns, but God, how far down the food chain d’you think tha
t shit goes? Do you know why I don’t get too involved in movie adaptations of my stuff? Because I can’t bear how much they have to cut out. So I just leave ’em to it. At the end of the day, audiences don’t wanna think. People like songs for the choruses and catchphrases. They like films for a cracking good story with some laughs, a few bangs and crashes and a bonking scene. They like interviews for quick sound bites, and rudeness. Not intelligence.”
“What about Morrissey?”
“Morrissey was in The Smiths,” he shrugs, indicating no further explanation is necessary.
Something about Billy’s directness is both appalling and refreshing. I expect I’ll come away from this experience feeling rather like I did the few times I’ve ever been to a gym: that I enjoyed little of it, but it was precisely what I needed.
“You hate Liam and Noel for being mouthy, arrogant assholes,” he continues, “but they’re loved by a billion people for precisely the same reason. Yes, Ian Brown says fucking homophobic stuff in interviews and gets away with it, gets arrested for plane rage, and people still love him. But what do you want? Everyone loves a bad guy. I know it’s not fair. You know it’s not fair. But fuck it, that’s life.”
He takes a fortifying swig of his Bloody Mary.
“But don’t think you’re the only one. I fucking love heaps of stuff-music, comics, films—which doesn’t get anywhere near the sort of recognition it deserves, even from the ‘alternative mainstream.’ But I ain’t crying. You talk as though you’re the only person who still likes Thieving Magpies, or any of those bands. That’s bullshit! I’ll give you two scenarios, right? One: an alternative radio station, tomorrow lunchtime, plays ‘Wonderwall.’ Or ‘I Wanna Be Adored.’ Or, I dunno, that fucking Verve song. What happens? Nothing. Scenario two: the same station plays ‘Look Who’s Laughing.’ Or ‘Sheriff Fat-man.’ Or ‘The Size of a Cow.’ What happens? Twenty, thirty people phone up and say, ‘Oh, that song’s so amazing, haven’t heard it in years, reminds me of going to the fucking student bar’ or whatever. They’re loved, man. Rather than just part of the fucking wallpaper. And in the States? Let me tell you. If Thieving Magpies re-formed tomorrow—God forbid, but let’s just say—where would they play? Madison Square Garden.”
Tim Thornton Page 28