She watched the crisps ad, the 20-second-soup, the de-luxe-aspirin.
‘Be quiet Matt. It’s one of Daddy’s.’
The phone cut into the sexy cigar 75 seconds and she snatched up the receiver.
‘Yes?’ She wasn’t quite as nonchalant. ‘Jane! You are a funny lady. I don’t see you or hear from you for months and then you ring twice in one day. Just seen two of Ken’s. Hold on!’
She put the receiver on the couch and Jane carried on talking. She went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water and went back to the phone. She listened to Jane and looked at her gold nails. Eventually, ‘I haven’t seen the refrigerator man, Jane, not for ages, not since I got mine. I’ll try and find his number for you,’ she said tolerantly. It would take more than Jane to inflame her nerves.
*
Christine ate a family-size can of soup that Ken had put to music, but not quite the way they did on the ad. She ate savagely from the saucepan, wiping it dry with huge crusts of forbidden bread.
Eleven o’clock, and it seemed obvious to her that, as he hadn’t invited her to meet the dog-food people and celebrate, he’d bring them back for a drink. It would be too humiliating to be found dressed up, waiting to go out. She saw Matthew’s bar of milk chocolate on the high shelf and, in spite of ‘best intentions’ and ‘think slim,’ ate one square. It comforted her. She allowed herself two more and then left the self-abusing haven of the kitchen and changed into a white lace nightdress. She let her hair down, took off her pearl chandelier ear-rings and tried to look relaxed. 11.25. She finished the chocolate bar and phoned Ken’s assistant.
Frances was a polite intelligent girl of 27 who lived alone and liked cats. She was rather plain, wore no make-up, had taken a first in English at Cambridge and didn’t seem part of the ad world at all. Ken liked her because she was clear-thinking and bright. Christine liked her because she was no competition.
Christine apologised for waking her and asked where Ken was. Frances didn’t know. Her voice was calm and classless.
Christine looked at her nails and saw that the gold was chipping. Her legs, she realised morbidly, were filling up again with small hairs. 11.30. She was full of imperfections.
‘I don’t think he’s crashed the car,’ said Frances, quite humorously. ‘However drunk he is, he always sobers up when he’s put in front of the wheel.’
‘Well, I’d have liked at least the chance of getting drunk with him.’
‘Do something till he gets in. Can’t you read?’
Frances realised with horror that in Christine’s case the more literal meaning might well apply. ‘Or look at magazines,’ she added quickly.
‘He always gives me books but I start them and don’t seem to finish them. He gave me Portrait of an Artist by James Joyce but I can’t really get into it. I don’t understand it. What’s it really about?’
‘It’s about how an artist has to escape his own history and culture in order to achieve the state of exile which is the fundamental condition of art itself.’
‘Oh, you are clever Frances. I must go. I must do my nails before he gets in.’
She stood naked in front of the dead television set and massaged her body with a warm perfumed oil. It seemed to soothe her. She did fifty floor exercises — ten more than usual to punish the white bread and chocolate. She put on some gold Hollywood-style pyjamas, bright and stiff as tin foil, and climbed on to her scarlet platform-shoes that looked not unlike two skyscrapers in a sunset. She’d just decided to step down again, take off the tin foil and wear nothing except a black leather choker, when keys shook outside and he came in.
He was sober. Looking at him made her forget all the uneasiness of the evening. She wanted to touch him. She was dying to touch him.
He flung himself on to the steel-framed black-leather chair and stretched his legs. Was he in a bad mood or a good mood? She hovered by the television set and might as well have been dressed in a hospital operating-gown for all the notice he took of her.
‘Where’s the dog?’ he asked.
‘In our room, asleep.’
‘Has he been out?’
‘I took him at 6.30. How did it go?’
He shrugged.
‘You haven’t got it?’ Her voice trembled.
‘Yes, I’ve got it. I’m just tired. What have you been doing?’
‘I read Portrait of an Artist. I like the way it deals with art and exile.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t you mean it’s really a form of religious epiphany?’
She wobbled uneasily on her skyscrapers and looked at the floor, her face burning, eyes sullen, like a schoolgirl who has been caught cheating. She bit her nails and the new scarlet lacquer shivered and cracked.
‘Who’s been educating you?’
‘Only you.’ She added timidly, ‘It seemed very vivid about being a boy and growing up in Dublin.’
He smiled suddenly and held out his hand. She rushed across and took it, took him, held him. She was where she wanted to be and he, as on the floor he rolled with her, thought that some real composing would be the only salve for his dejection but he was too tired.
4
His mother lived in a thirty-roomed house at the top of Highgate, with one servant, a gardener and a dwindling collection of Picassos. She was bent over, her nose almost brushing the carpet, with the weight of a hundred imaginary ailments. Her only actual one — lunacy — she didn’t pay attention to at all. She entertained important people, hid money in flower pots and was reputed to give guests dog biscuits for tea. Ken’s gentle father had been dead three years. She’d killed him. She’d used several methods — none of them illegal.
‘How’s the synthetic jungle?’ Her voice was like gravel. She tried to kiss him but he’d learned to avoid that long ago. ‘We had an interesting evening. A gallery-owner from New York talked about Ernst. You’d have enjoyed it. The Rothschilds were here. You should have brought, what’s her name, your assistant, Frances.’
He by-passed the tea table with its Georgian tea service and unique sugar bowl. A few cafeteria custard tarts were arranged in a silver dish and looked as though they should be taken out of the sun before they became actually dangerous. There was a pink-and-brown jam roll — he’d seen it before. He almost admired the way she got away with it.
He phoned Christine. The number was engaged.
‘I’m off to Buck House Friday,’ his mother said. ‘I don’t know what to wear.’
As she always wore the same clothes, a long black brocade dress slit to the thigh, the slit possibly not intentional, laddered black stockings reaching just above her knees and a rancid yellow fur like a dead tom cat, he didn’t give the matter any thought. He tried Christine again.
‘Perhaps I should get Hardy to do me something. Or I could wear the grey silk.’
‘Don’t,’ he advised. ‘And please don’t wear that black brocade. It looks like two curtains sewn together — badly.’
She looked up at him, her black eyes burning with what he always took to be madness. She laughed suddenly, showing teeth no dentist could cure.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m writing the background music for an all-purpose, ninety-percent-gristle dog-food.’
‘Give me a cigarette.’
He snapped his lighter under her nose and snapped back into position, out of her reach.
‘Laura’s back from L.A. She’s finished the film. She looks glorious. She’d like to see you.’
He went back to the phone and dialled Christine. Her voice was breathless and he thought she must be in the middle of her pelvis control swing. ‘Shall we go to the White Tower and celebrate?’ she said immediately.
‘I can’t tonight. I’m going out.’
‘Where?’ she asked desperately, and then corrected herself and in a softer tone added, ‘Where to?’
He sighed. ‘I’m taking the dog-food pair to dinner.’
‘But you went to dinner with them last night.’
&n
bsp; ‘No,’ he said curtly and looked at his watch. Because her phone had been engaged he’d overstayed the visiting time. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll see you.’
‘But you didn’t come in till twelve. What d’you mean, no dinner? Are they on a fast?’
‘I left before dinner, Christine.’ Pause. ‘I just walked about. I needed to think about it.’ Hurt, shocked intake of breath.
Behind him his mother chuckled, a rich jolly sound. Not all her humour was in a minor key. He’d forgotten to keep her in sight and turned quickly. She was rubbing her butcher’s arms.
‘I can’t get out of it, Christine. And I’ll have to take them to a little place afterwards. So I may be late.’
She didn’t reply and he sighed again. He was embarrassed by Christine — by her stupidity, the way she walked — and he hated himself for being so. Her expansive flesh did not make up for her narrow mind.
His mother swooped — powerful, dangerous. He thought she was going to grab the phone, so he jumped back; but she was only reaching for a cake.
‘I wish you wouldn’t conduct your domestic squabbles with that woman in my house.’ She used that imperious dinner-table voice which made even the most socially-assured tremble. He stared back, pink with fury.
‘Why do you have to go on somewhere?’ Christine asked.
‘Because dinner will be short.’ He tried to speak gently. ‘They’re both on diets, strict diets.’ He looked at his watch. He was out of the safe period and well into danger time. ‘I saw Jane, the gym mistress, in the street this morning, and she told me about a magician at one of the West End clubs. She said he’s rather spooky. He sounds all right. The dog-food pair look as though they like entertainment.’
As he hadn’t invited her, she supposed correctly that he didn’t want her, but she couldn’t stop herself saying, almost childishly, ‘Shall I come?’
‘Oh love.’ He sighed noisily. ‘It’s business.’
And so began the era of, ‘It’s business.’
‘See you next week, mother.’
‘Doctor Williams just came by. He brought a specialist to look at my kidneys. My gall bladder’s causing the trouble. It’s playing havoc with my whole body. I told him so.’
‘I’ll go now, Mother. Then you can straighten up.’ He’d never believed in the boomerang.
5
He sat between Bunty and Joel and looked absently at the lively breasts and tired eyes of the show girls. Bunty was wearing a black lace gown and her smile was saucy. He loved her bright cheeks, and the way they dimpled. She smelt, but not of perfume. It was a private smell, reminding him of fresh-cut grass and country mornings.
‘And how’s Clap curing Snap?’ she asked. ‘Joel likes you. Yes, he does,’ she protested, as though he’d denied it. He hadn’t. He was used to people liking him.
The MC came on and Joel relaxed in the quilted chair, his stomach swelling freely like a balloon.
‘Hate dogs. Hate them!’ he said to Ken. ‘Can’t stand their doggy breath. I’m going to invent a gun to put them down anywhere, anytime. It’ll be shaped like a pointer’s head and it barks as it fires.’ His powder and rouge stood out in the pulsing light. He was wearing more make-up than his wife, Ken realised. ‘Detestable, fawning creatures. Read about a guy giving his dog the kiss of life. Can you imagine? Mouth to mouth with a dog.’
‘I like dogs,’ said Ken. ‘But I don’t think I’d go quite as far as that.’
‘Where’s your wife?’ asked Joel.
‘She’s busy.’
‘Joel says you’ve got a positive chin. You’ll go a long way. He likes that.’
‘And now for your exclusive entertainment we have the proud pleasure to present the greatest magician in the world — Danchenko.’
Ken recrossed his legs. His hair was standing up, boyishly.
‘Snap will put you on the map,’ Joel told him.
Doves flew about and chiffon scarves multiplied in a boring way. Ken thought guiltily of Christine. He’d love to show her off if only she’d shut up.
Joel watched the magician. ‘You could learn something from his eye make-up,’ he told Bunty.
‘So could you, darling,’ she replied.
The three-ball juggling act reminded Ken of a pawnbroker and he shivered a little, for in spite of his bank balance — his mother’s bank balance — the fear of being broke was always lurking at the back of every triumph. ‘Has the agency agreed the contract?’ he asked Joel.
‘Sure,’ said Joel, and looking at the magician, ‘I wonder how he keeps so slim. It’s almost magical.’
‘Why don’t you hire him for your calorie-free cornflakes?’ said Bunty.
Joel’s braying laughter surprised the silent, concentrating audience, and people looked round at him, rudely.
Roll of drums. ‘And now Danchenko will identify any object you choose.’
The MC stretched up and was about to blindfold him with the first of three thick scarves, when the magician turned sharply, his eyes glittering, in the direction of Joel’s table. Had the American’s inappropriate laughter offended him? The audience stared. Joel, thinking his business acumen was about to be publicly recognised, waved a cheery hand.
Then the magician saw Ken.
For a moment he seemed to stagger on his tall box, his black clothes flapping piteously. ‘O.K. Dan?’ the MC was heard to murmur. The magician still stared, his face pale. Then he looked as though he wanted to run away.
An impromptu roll of drums seemed to pull him together. A man at the next table leaned towards Ken. ‘Are you the law or something?’
‘No, this boy’s doing our new dog-food jingle and the magician’s giving us a build up,’ said Joel. ‘He’ll start barking next.’
Bunty was amused and her laugh tinkled like bells.
Ken leaned towards her. ‘I like the way you laugh.’
‘It’s called Snap,’ said Joel loudly.
‘Not once, not twice, but three times for Danchenko!’ The magician was blindfolded. His long clothes quivered as though his legs were shaking.
The MC swished one way, then another, through the tables.
He picked up a glass. ‘What have I here, Danchenko?’
‘A glass.’
‘And now?’
‘Another glass.’ His voice was unsteady.
The MC moved towards Ken’s table and the magician raised a hand as though to guard his face. The MC picked up a lump of ice. ‘And now?’
‘You are touching a bald head.’
‘No!’ shouted the audience.
‘It was bald once,’ replied the magician.
Slow hand clap. The MC dropped the ice in the bucket and took the evening bag Bunty held out.
‘A soft suede bag with a jewelled clasp.’
‘Right’ Joel shouted. ‘Isn’t he terrific? Isn’t that marvellous?’ and he clapped loudly.
‘Ken, give him something of yours — quick!’ said Bunty.
He shook his key ring at the MC.
‘You’ve got access to a lot of places,’ said Bunty. ‘They can’t all be to your front door.’
‘Studio, my car —’
The MC took the keys and held them high. The magician tried to speak. Then there was silence.
‘He doesn’t know,’ said Joel. ‘I’ll give you a clue. What d’you get at twenty-one?’
Laughter.
‘Blades,’ said the magician, his voice resigned.
‘Wrong!’ shouted the audience.
‘No, he’s right,’ said Ken softly. ‘My silver pen knife’s on there.’
‘They’re of different sizes. One’s curved, another’s long and pointed.’
The magician carried on, each word resigned, without question. ‘Then there’s the one that gives joy. It cuts deep to release the spirit. Next.’
The MC gave the keys back and moved to the next able. ‘What am I holding?’
‘A glass.’
An embarrassed silence. He was holding a napkin.
>
The magician wrenched off the scarves and looked straight at Ken. ‘I can’t — I can’t go on. I’m sorry.’
He got off the box as the MC rushed on to the stage and they almost collided. ‘I regret deeply that the great master is a little unwell. He will do a small performance of juggling.’ The MC gave him the hoops.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Ken told Joel. ‘He was supposed to be good.’
‘Joel was only a stage in my life,’ Bunty said in his ear. Ken decided she’d got her tenses muddled up.
Hoops spun in the air for some time. Then one dropped with a spiteful clatter and rolled off into the audience.
‘I love it when it goes wrong,’ said Joel, laughing loudly. ‘It’s much more fun.’
Ken got up. ‘Come on. This is too awful. Let’s get a drink somewhere.’ His long legs moved swiftly and Joel had to wobble fast to keep up with him.
‘First time he’s been like this,’ said a man by the exit.
*
He woke up suddenly in the grey dawn. Like love affairs, his hangovers were never familiar. His heart throbbed. Everything felt sickly and shaking, and behind this horror was something else. The noise outside seemed louder than it should — heavy wooden wheels and horses’ hooves and shouting. He opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was. He couldn’t remember anything, he couldn’t anticipate anything. There was one thought in his mind — he must get out of London.
He felt dull, strangely satiated and disgusted. And he felt frightened.
Then on his arm he saw something — it was on his chest as well — a dark awful stain. He sat up and started rubbing it violently, but when he took his hand away it was still there. ‘I’m covered in it, for Godsake. It’s all over me.’ His head was so full of horror he shut his eyes and covered his ears. Then he heard a voice.
‘You’re still drunk.’
By Flower and Dean Street Page 9