by Anne Billson
'I have,' he said, lighting up. 'I just feel like one.' He took a couple of puffs, grimaced and stubbed it out so heavily there was not even the possibility of my being able to straighten it out and slide it back into the packet. 'There,' he said. 'I just gave up again.'
I thought I deserved a pat on the back, at least, for having trekked all the way to Docklands on his behalf. 'There's Dino's address,' I reminded him.
'Dino,' said Duncan. 'Yeah, maybe we should talk to Dino.'
'Have you met him?'
'I've run into him once or twice. He's a wanker.'
'You can see that from his work.'
'A runt. His real name is Phineas Dean.'
'I thought he was Italian-American.'
'He wishes.' Duncan examined the sugar bowl and stewed silently about something. By the time he spoke again, he'd made up his mind he wanted to go straight round to London Bridge Road and give Dino the third degree. When I said I had work to do, he tried to get me to postpone it and tag along as moral support. He didn't have to try very hard. He called for the bill and began to sort through the change in his pocket.
'Hang on a minute,' I said. 'At least let me finish my coffee. There's no rush.'
'Yes there is. There is now. Lulu had a summons.'
'Oh Lordy, not again.' I thought he was referring to Lulu's habit of stuffing parking tickets into her glove compartment and forgetting about them. She had been sent a clutch of summonses for non-payment, but she forgot about them as well. Stern men had been sent round to deal with her, but she always won them over with entreaties and promises and much fluttering of her eyelashes, and they always patted her on the head and went away satisfied. She never did pay up.
But Duncan wasn't talking about that sort of summons. It turned out that someone from Bellini had contacted her agent that morning. There was a lot of flu around; the model they'd booked had gone down with it and they needed a replacement at less than a day's notice. They'd come across Lulu's card and she was exactly what they were after: blonde hair, blue eyes, 34C-22-34, 5'10", 110lb. Face like a Botticelli bimbo and bosoms like a tit-man's dream. Jack had once described her like that. To her face. And she had taken it as a compliment.
'She won't listen to me,' Duncan said. 'She's got it into her head this is her big break.'
'Isn't she a bit old?' I asked, and I wasn't trying to be catty. By modelling standards, Lulu was well past her sell-by date.
'That's what I said, and she just got mad. I said I didn't want her to go, and she got even stroppier, said I was trying to tie her to the cooker. I said I was game if she was, but she didn't think that was very funny.' Duncan tipped a small amount of sugar on to the table-top and, apparently without thinking, arranged it into a small, neat line. 'Only the other day, she was wanting to start a bloody family. Now she's wanting a bloody career again. How can I tell her that it might be dangerous?'
'Duncan, it's a magazine, for Christ's sake. How could it be dangerous? I've been there: the security was tighter than a duck's ass, and - you know how these things work - she'll be the centre of attention. There'll be make-up people, and hairdressers, and stylists and fashion directors and photographers and assistants, and PRs and lots and lots of hangers-on. Anyway, Lulu can look after herself. She's a big girl.' And in all the right places, I wanted to add but didn't. It was odd taking her side against Duncan, but I thought he was being excessively cautious. He had never been that worried about me.
'You don't know her,' he said. 'She's far too trusting.'
I wanted to say, Oh no she's not, she's a calculating bitch. Instead, I asked, 'You sure you're not jealous they've asked Lulu and not you?' Judging by Duncan's reaction, I'd hit the nail on the head. He huffed and puffed and declared he only had Lulu's best interests at heart.
'Oh, let her do it if she wants;' I said, draining my coffee cup and getting a mouthful of bitter sludge. 'The worst thing that can happen is Dino will take her clothes off and hand-tint her. Then you'll be able to act like a real man and punch his face in.'
We went down to London Bridge Road in Duncan's car, which was small and black and flash-looking. Dino's studio turned out to be only a few blocks away from Patricia Rice's flat, in a row of old office buildings which had been knocked through into one big hangar and tarted up with green paint. We stepped through the door into an open reception area. I'd had enough of receptionists to last me a lifetime, but at least this one looked human. She was lolling behind a chunky metal desk, twirling a fibre-tip pen between her fingers and looking incredibly un-busy. The direct route to the desk was blocked by a large, empty cardboard box which was standing in the middle of the floor; we walked around it.
I went straight to the point. 'Where's Dino?'
She shrugged. 'How should I know?'
'Because you're the receptionist.'
'I'm the manager,' she said sniffily. 'I manage this place.'
I'd made a faux-pas and she hated my guts already. Duncan was forced to take over. 'He's an old friend,' he said. 'We went to the same school.'
This was news to me. I wondered if he was improvising. Meanwhile, the receptionist who said she was a manager was looking at him with goo-goo eyes. 'I know you, don't I. You're Duncan Fender.'
Duncan nodded, pretending to be embarrassed but in fact enormously flattered. She got to her feet and held out her hand. 'I really like your work.' As he clasped it she suddenly leant over and kissed him full on the mouth. He winced and pulled back in some alarm, though not too far, because she was the kind of girl men like Duncan always find attractive: a wild mane of hair, a dress which fitted like cling-film, and enormous squishy please-hit-me lips.
'Absolutely thrilled to meet you,' she said. 'I've always been a fan of yours, ever since I first started in this business. I'm Francine, by the way.' She delivered an appreciative resume of Duncan's career, called him a genius more often than was good for him, and popped one or two technical questions about F-stops and fill-in flash. She described some photographs she had recently had published in a music paper. It was obvious she had taken on this administrative job in the hope of meeting people and making contacts. She was the kind of girl who would go far; I sincerely hoped it would be somewhere like the Outer Hebrides.
But she and Duncan were getting on like a house on fire; he was radiating charm like a chat-show host. She offered to make tea, rounded up three or four dirty mugs, and disappeared. Duncan turned to me and winked, even though he should have known better.
I scowled. 'Were you really at school with Dino?'
'Mmm, he was one or two years below me.'
'Why didn't you say?
He shrugged. 'It didn't seem important. I don't think we ever spoke. Oh, except one time when a couple of us beat the crap out of him.'
'You did what?'
'He was a disgusting little toad, even then.'
'You beat him up?' I couldn't believe what I'd heard.
He shrugged again. It was no big deal. 'He insulted my mother.'
He fell silent as Francine came back and picked up where she'd left off with the flirtatious chit-chat. I was still stunned. I'd always imagined Duncan as a sensitive and artistic little boy, a loner who preferred library books to the rugby field. Never in my wildest dreams had I seen him as a violent and obnoxious bully.
When the tea had brewed, Francine poured some for Duncan and offered him biscuits as well. As an afterthought, she poured a cup for me but forgot to hand it over, so I had to go round to her side of the desk to get it. She stood up to allow me past her chair, and a blast of garlic caught me full in the face. No wonder Duncan had recoiled from her kiss.
From my new vantage point, I was able to read the scribbled notes on her memo-pad. She had doodled a baroque framework of leaves and flowers around a small clearing in which the name Dino had been scored and scored again in fat black letters. I could also see a partly opened drawer containing a number of large brown envelopes. The name Dino was visible there as well. I sipped at my tea and decided to stay put. For an
instant, my eyes met Duncan's; it was almost as good as sex. He bit into a custard cream. 'And how is Dino? What's he up to?'
Francine lost some of her self-composure. She looked genuinely upset. 'He's gone,' she said in a small voice. Duncan asked what she meant.
'I mean he took off. Doesn't work here any more.'
'This is a recent thing, right?' I said, in case Duncan was thinking I'd made a mistake with the address.
Francine took a deep breath. 'I came in one morning last week and found him trying to burn the place down.'
'You're kidding.'
'It's true. He put all his negs in a pile and set fire to them. It could have been a major disaster if I hadn't come in. Look, you can see the burn marks.' She went over to the cardboard box and pushed it to one side to uncover an expanse of scorched carpet.
'Crikey,' said Duncan. 'The whole place could have gone up.' He glanced at me and I nodded. He examined the scorch marks closely, all the time keeping up an inane patter and contriving to stand so Francine was forced to turn her back on me - just for a second, but it was enough.
'He was in a frightful state,' she was saying. 'Hadn't shaved or changed his clothes for days. God, he was smelly.'
I thought that was rich coming from someone with her garlicky breath. Mission accomplished, envelope tucked safely beneath my jacket, I moved away from the desk with my best butter-wouldn't-melt expression.
'Did you call the police?' Duncan was asking.
'Didn't seem worth it,' said Francine. 'He was only trying to burn his own property.'
'What happened then?'
'I put the fire out.'
'No, I mean what happened to Dino?'
'He called me a stupid cow and stomped off.'
'Do you know where?'
She shook her head.
'Well, where does he usually hang out? Where would I be most likely to bump into him?'
She frowned. 'Gnashers, I suppose. And there's some place in Covent Garden, I can't remember the name. Oh, and he took me to the Foxhole a couple of times.'
'The Foxhole?' queried Duncan.
'I know it,' I said. 'Over the river.' I'd had quite enough of Francine, so I grabbed Duncan by the elbow and steered him towards the door. 'Just the place for a quick drink,' I said.
I looked back over my shoulder and was delighted to see that Francine was glowering. She'd got the message. Duncan belonged to me.
Chapter 6
We were driving north over Blackfriars Bridge when Duncan remembered the envelope and asked what was inside. I peeked in and saw negatives.
'No contact sheets?'
I checked. 'Just negs.'
Duncan whistled the first few bars of the theme from The Third Man. 'So he didn't burn them all.'
'Francine was lying.'
'Of course she was. She's in with Violet. So's Dino. They're all in it together.'
'She can't be in with Violet,' I said. 'Didn't you smell her breath? The girl reeked of garlic.'
Duncan mulled over this. 'I'm still not letting Lu go off on her own tomorrow.'
I told him he was overreacting. One photographer may have been behaving strangely, but we had no proof that working for Bellini was going to turn Lulu into a pyromaniac as well. I tried to put things into perspective. 'This is a magazine we're talking about. A fashion magazine, all about clothes and make-up. Not some sinister East European agency which jabs poisoned ferrules into people because they refuse to wear the autumn colours.'
Duncan said, 'Do be serious.' I hated it when people told me to be serious, especially when I was being serious.
'I feel responsible for her,' Duncan went on. 'I know she gets on your nerves - and she gets on mine too sometimes - but she's a genuinely nice person, Dora. There is not an ounce of maliciousness in her, and these days that's remarkable. She's not as dumb as she looks, either, even if she hasn't got round to reading Proust. Neither have I, come to think of it. We can't all be intellectuals like you.'
He said 'intellectuals' the way one might say 'fascists' or 'serial killers'. I protested I wasn't an intellectual, I just happened to have read a few French authors, but he was getting into his stride now. 'I owe her so much. She saved my life, and I mean that literally. I don't think you've any idea what shape I was in.'
I was fuming. This was his selective memory at work again. He hadn't noticed all the things I'd done for him. And I'd done a lot - a hell of a lot more than Lulu. 'It seems to me,' I said, choosing my words carefully, 'that you're less worried about Lulu's welfare than about the possibility of her running into one of your old flames, and maybe learning rather more about your sordid past than you would care to have her know.'
That hit him where it hurt. By the time he'd found somewhere to park in one of the narrow streets around the Savoy we were both sulking. I flounced out of the car, intending to catch the tube home. I was annoyed when Duncan tagged along behind me. I walked faster, but couldn't shake him off.
We got almost as far as the railway arches, where the Have Nots huddled in their newspapers and cardboard boxes. I stopped and wheeled round to face Duncan and asked where he thought he was going.
'I thought we were going in there,' he said, pointing to the top of a staircase visible through a nearby doorway. I recognized it as the entrance to the Foxhole. 'You look as though you need a drink,' he said, adding, 'I could do with one too.' I reminded him he'd given up drinking a long time ago. He said maybe it was time he started again, and gave me a peculiar little smile which crinkled the corners of his eyes. When I saw that smile, I almost forgave him everything.
The Foxhole was a murky cellar with walls moist enough to support several species of fungi. It was already getting crowded, and we had to do some nifty manoeuvring to grab the last vacant table. As I'd expected, it took only one glass to knock Duncan back against the ropes. Perhaps I should have put a stop to it, but I was still so annoyed at the 'intellectual' gibe that I encouraged him to have another. And another. Besides, it was good to have him to myself for once, without Lulu or Alicia around to be disapproving.
After three glasses he started singing selections from South Pacific. In all the time I'd known him, Rodgers and Hammerstein had never struck me as his kind of entertainment, but you live and learn. The people on the next table joined in on Bali-Hai. Duncan got chatty with them, and we learned that the man with the bow-tie and red-framed spectacles was Dexter, who was in advertising, and that his girlfriend with the Rita Hayworth hair - she wished - was Josette, a publishing PR, and that their companion with the stammer and the name I didn't catch was an accountant.
They were impressed when they found out Duncan was a famous photographer. No one took much notice of me, which was the way I liked it. I was content to sit back and wait for Duncan to lose interest in them. It was only a matter of time and it happened even sooner than I was expecting. He started singing again, only to break off midway through Some Enchanted Evening and lurch to his feet, announcing he had to go and make a phone call. He began to weave his way through the tables, banging into one or two of them and slopping people's drinks. Then he turned round and wove back again, fumbling through his pockets, and asked if I had any change.
I found some ten pences in my bag, instructed Dexter and Josette and their friend to save our table, and trotted after Duncan to the payphone. It wasn't a very exciting telephone call. I should have realized he'd been going to check on Lulu. I could hear him arguing with her in a basic yes/no mode. After a few minutes of this, I was itching to get back to my drink, even if it meant having to make polite conversation with Dexter and Josette.
'You just can't,' Duncan kept saying. 'Because I don't want you to.' By the time he'd inserted the last of my ten pences, his shoulders were sagging and his voice was trailing off into a hoarse whisper. He'd argued himself to a standstill. Then he heard something which made him hand the receiver out to me. 'Lu wants a word,' he said.
'Hello?'
Lulu sounded anxious. 'Dora? Is that you?
Where are you? What's the matter with him?'
'He's all right,' I said, trying not to slur my words. 'He just heard some bad news about an old schoolfriend.'
Lulu wanted to know who it was, but I deliberately kept it vague. 'But drinking's bad for his liver,' she wailed. 'For God's sake don't let him drive.'
'Of course I won't.'
Then, unexpectedly, she said, 'Thank Christ you're there. Thank Christ it's you and not Jack or Charlie. Those guys just egg each other on.' I was surprised, even a little touched in my tipsyish state.
'He's pissed off because I'm working tomorrow,' she said. 'I don't know what's got into him, he never tried to stop me working before.'
In a conversational tone, I asked, 'You mean you're going to take that Multiglom job?'
'I'd be mad to turn it down.'
'That's the spirit. Don't let him push you around.'
'He can be incredibly bossy sometimes,' she said, slipping into a confidential tone. 'I don't think he realizes.'
'We girls have got to stick together,' I said.
'I wonder if...' she began, but changed her mind. 'Give him my love, won't you? Tell him I love him.'
'Oh yes,' I assured her. She said something else, but I didn't catch it because I was already returning the receiver to its cradle.
Duncan was slumped against the wall, staring at his shoes. I said to him, 'You need another drink.'
He looked up sharply, as though only just remembering where he was. 'What did she say?'
'She said you needed another drink.' It was time to move on. I frogmarched him up the stairs and over the Strand to another bar, mildly amused by the notion of Dexter and Josette being left to defend our empty table against all comers. This new place was even more crowded than the Foxhole, but by now we were beyond caring. We squeezed aggressively on to a red-plush banquette and commandeered half of someone else's table.
After a couple of beers Duncan started babbling, and I encouraged him. He told me how much he valued our friendship. He observed the colour of my eyes, and informed me what I already knew - that there was a speck of hazel in one of the irises. He became sentimental and said what an extraordinary person I was, what a wonderful singer, and asked how on earth I had managed to learn so many languages. He waxed lyrical about my tiny, tiny feet, and, at this point, I experienced an uncomfortable sensation of deja-vu and realized he had long since stopped talking about me. I started to feel very depressed and switched from white wine to Scotch and soda.