Suckers

by Anne Billson

'It's not like that at all...'

  'Like what? Like this, you mean?' I had scarcely touched my egg and bacon, which were swimming in even greater quantities of grease than usual. I picked up the plate and upended it over his lap. The bacon dropped immediately. For a few tantalizing seconds the egg clung on by vacuum suction, then slowly peeled off under its own weight. Duncan opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and shut it again. He was wearing his resigned look. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking it was that time of the month again. Jesus Christ, it always seemed to be that time of the month.

  There was a large dark stain around his groin. Grease dripped glutinously on to the floor. 'See you later, scumbag,' I said, and stalked off.

  The name of Multiglom figured prominently in the day's newspapers, but only in the business pages, not a breath of scandal. Later, while I was flicking through the arts section of The Times, I found myself face to face with Lulu, the last person I'd ever expected to see in a quality broadsheet. It was a full-page black and white photo; she had that carefully-made-up-to-look-like-no-make-up look, and there was a roguish glint in her eye that had never been there before; I wondered whether it had been airbrushed in. She looked good, almost not like Lulu at all.

  The picture was accompanied by a message in tiny, tiny print - a public plea to shareholders, urging them not to block some takeover or other and outlining why they should be voting so-and-so on to the board of directors. It listed all the advantages a newer, more powerful Multiglom could bring to the economy in general, and to shareholders' pockets in particular. It even outlined the ways in which the corporation's waste products were environmentally sound, neither polluting the rivers into which they were poured, nor threatening the ozone layer and admitting harmful ultraviolet rays, I couldn't see Lulu's relevance; she was simply a means of catching the attention of jaded eyes as they scanned pages of dry, bimbo-free print in a fruitless search for titbits. I searched, and searched, and I found pictures of Lulu in some of the other papers too. She was definitely flavour of the month.

  It took me a long time to get ready for Ruth's party. Determined not to dress in the black I knew everyone else would be wearing, I opted for a red dress and then spent the next hour trying to hide as much red as I could beneath a big black belt, big black scarf, big black leather jacket, and lots and lots of crucifixes. I set out early with my pockets full of garlic and headed for the tube station, pushing past the beggars who clustered around the entrance, waving their grubby babies and clamouring for fifty pence pieces. The escalators were still out of order. It was business as usual.

  Lulu was in the underground. She was hovering over the tracks on a big black and white Kuroi poster, and someone had already braved the electric rail to give her red teeth and horns and a speech-bubble which read, 'I like porking'. I had plenty of time to stare at her. Over the tinny loudspeakers there was a garbled announcement informing us that trains were running late 'due to delays'. There had been signal failures at Mile End, and a suicide on the track at Barking. I knew how the suicide had felt.

  When the train finally rolled up, there was a prolonged session of sardines-on-wheels, with lots of stopping in the tunnels. I changed lines at Tottenham Court Road and made it as far as Camden Town, where the train suddenly developed faulty doors and was taken out of active service. Northbound passengers shook their fists and yelled, but it was no good. I gave up and made the rest of the journey by cab.

  Despite the delays, I arrived even earlier than I'd intended, but at least I arrived. Ruth opened the door of her Georgian terrace house, squealed 'Dora!', and insisted on performing that complicated kissing manoeuvre in which you miss the other person's lips but bang each other's noses and end up with their lipstick smeared down your cheek.

  It would have been pointless and cruel to describe Ruth as dumpy, but she was one of the few people in the world who made me feel long-legged. Perhaps this was why I still tolerated her company. These days, her hair was an incredibly artificial colour which reminded me of baked conkers. She was dressed - yes - in black. No doubt it was a pricey little number, like the rest of the items in her wardrobe, but I was pleased to see it still couldn't prevent her legs from looking like yams.

  'Dora, Dora, Dora!' she gushed as I wiped her lipstick from my face. 'Haven't seen you for ages. How have you been?'

  'Not so good, I said. I started to tell her all about the shellfish allergy I had developed after a dodgy bowl of bouillabaisse, but her attention began to wander and she didn't seem terribly interested in how I had been, after all. We had a little tug o' war over my jacket - I wanted to keep it on because I was loath to reveal too much red - and then I gave her my bottle of champagne and she thanked me and put it in one of the kitchen cupboards, and I knew that would be the last I'd see of it all evening if I didn't watch out. Ruth had hired a professional butler to serve cheap wine, but I ignored him, and when no one was looking retrieved my bottle from the cupboard and hid it under my jacket.

  I wandered through into the main reception area. Ruth rematerialized at my side. 'So how are you?' she asked, as I eyed up the four people who had arrived even earlier than me. I guessed she didn't much want to hear about my shellfish allergy again. Instead, I said, 'Fine thanks. How are you? I looked at her properly for the first time and did a double-take. 'You're looking... terrific. Good Lord, Ruth, you look really... different.'

  Ruth did indeed look different. She'd had a nose job. I tried to remember her previous nose, but it hadn't been terribly memorable. I hadn't even realized she had been self-conscious about it. I floundered. Was one supposed to pretend that nothing had happened, or offer congratulations, or enquire about the cost, or the pain, or what? I ended up asking, 'Hey, where did you get the nose?' which wasn't what I had intended at all. Ruth stared fixedly over my shoulder and pretended she hadn't heard.

  'Oh well,' I said, changing the subject. 'How's the art world?'

  This time, she responded with enthusiasm, describing a recent trip to New York in brain-numbing detail and dropping a lot of names which meant less than nothing to me. Then she started babbling on about a brilliant young Australian performance artist who sewed his own eyelids shut and dangled for hours, stark naked, from meathooks. I was saved from having to hear more by Charlie, who wandered up looking anxious.

  'Anyone seen Clive?'

  'Hasn't arrived,' said Ruth.

  'He was bringing the tapes.'

  'Doesn't matter,' said Ruth. 'We can play some of ours.'

  'No, we can't,' said Charlie. 'Hi, Dora. How are you?'

  'Dreadful,' I said.

  'Anyway, we don't need music,' said Ruth. 'Not just yet. No one wants to dance.' She and Charlie went on discussing party arrangements, so I wandered away. I didn't know any of the other guests; there were a half-dozen of them now, all gathered in a knot, all dressed in black and looking pale and rather uninteresting. One of them was saying, '...I saw him at Gnashers...' and another was saying, '...I'm so fed up with Gnashers...' and a third was saying, '...what's wrong with Gnashers anyway...?'

  Gnasher chat bored me rigid, so I perched on the sofa and smoked a cigarette, dropping the ash into a potted palm since there weren't any ashtrays. Half a dozen more people arrived. My heart sank as Charlie noticed I was on my own and came barrelling over to talk. Charlie was a film critic who wrote reviews for provincial listings magazines and specialist publications with minuscule circulations. I didn't like talking to him about cinema, because he always prattled on about French films in which the characters sat around in rooms and talked, or Russian films in which the characters went into Forbidden Zones and wandered around for a bit before coming out again. Charlie based most of his opinions on the writing in Cahiers du Cinema or, when he was in a particularly jocular mood, The New Yorker. He strongly disapproved of movies in which horrible American teenagers went on panty-raids and got carved up by maniacs in hockey masks.

  He opened with his favourite gambit. 'Seen any good movies lately?' I
shook my head. 'Neither have I,' he whined. 'Nobody's making them any more. All these bloody sequels and remakes. Where's the originality? What about artistic vision? All we get are big budgets and special effects. The only good films these days are being made by the small independents. Small is beautiful, I always say.'

  'In that case,' I yawned, 'you should be all right.' He chuckled and patted me on the head. 'I knew I could rely on you to put the case for the drive-in mentality.' Before I could stir myself sufficiently to respond, he added, 'Seen Duncan and Lulu lately?'

  'Sort of,' I said.

  'I hear Lulu's struck lucky.'

  'I saw her in the tube just now. On a poster.'

  'Yeah,' said Charlie. 'I saw that too.' He leaned towards me in a conspiratorial manner. 'Is it true about her and Duncan?'

  I had the feeling he rather fancied his chances with Lulu. As if. 'Is what true?' I asked.

  'They split up?'

  'How should I know? Why don't you ask her? Isn't she supposed to be honouring us with her presence tonight?'

  Charlie shrugged, and just then someone thought it amusing to sneak up behind me and clamp their hands over my eyes. I jabbed my elbow back and felt it connect with something soft; there was a grunt and the hands unclamped themselves. I turned round, half-expecting to see Andreas Grauman, but it was only Jack, thank God. He was clutching his abdomen.

  'Jesus, that hurt,' he said. He was exaggerating, of course.

  'How was I supposed to know? You could have been a mugger, or a rapist.'

  'Oh, he's both,' said Charlie, 'aren't you, Jack my boy?'

  'Where's Alicia?' I demanded.

  'At home,' Jack said, still rubbing his ribs.

  I looked across the room and immediately spotted Roxy, talking to Ruth. 'Oh I see,' I said.

  Jack followed my gaze. 'We take it in turns,' he protested. 'I stayed in with Abigail a couple of days ago.'

  'I'll bet you did,' I said. 'Someone has to babysit while Alicia shops for groceries.'

  'Well, excuse me. You're in a friendly mood today.'

  'Sorry,' I said, holding out my bottle as a peace-offering. 'Have some champagne.'

  Jack went in search of a glass. 'You're being a bit hard on him, aren't you?' asked Charlie. 'He's a good father.'

  'But a rotten, lousy husband,' I said. 'Poor old Alicia.'

  'Oh, I don't know,' said Charlie. 'Alicia's not doing anything she doesn't want to do.'

  The line sounded familiar from somewhere. I was still trying to remember where, when Ruth came over to tell Charlie that Clive had arrived with the tapes.

  Chapter 4

  I sat to one side of the room, smoking and drinking and occasionally chatting to passing acquaintances, but mostly keeping my eyes peeled so I would spot Duncan or Lulu as soon as either of them arrived. Every so often, someone would interpret my solitude as an invitation and buttonhole me with an in-depth monologue on modern architecture or the state of the nation. I'd escape by saying I had to refill my glass or go and powder my nose, but as often as not, as soon as I'd settled down on my own again, I would be cornered by someone else, and my eyes would be glazing over and I would be thinking about a movie I'd seen or about someone I used to know or about Docklands and Multiglom. Ah yes, Multiglom. I could hear someone droning on about it now. The name hauled me back on to full alert.

  'Say that again,' I said. The person who had been doing the talking was a thick-set youth with a Yorkshire accent and big stubble like Desperate Dan. He yelled into my ear. 'I said, funny about this Multiglom business, isn't it?' He had to yell, because Charlie was playing Clive's trendy samba tapes at maximum volume.

  I yelled back, 'What Multiglom business?'

  'I said, they're taking over the world.'

  My blood froze. 'Multiglom?'

  The Yorkshireman allowed himself a patronizing smile. 'No, no.' I heaved a sigh of relief. For a horrible moment there, my paranoia had sprouted wings and been cleared for take-off.

  'I'm talking about this Euro-consortium - Dragosh Inc.,' he said.

  'Really?' My attention was on the wane again.

  'Buying all those publishing companies, and the breweries, and the high-street stores.'

  'Breweries? High-street stores?'

  'Who hasn't been reading her FT, then?' he smirked. 'High-street stores. Pharmatech, Berkamart, et cetera, et cetera.'

  'Wait a sec,' I said. 'I think there was something on the telly last night. Bagwash, was it? Dragosh?' The name rang a couple of distant chimes, but they faded into nothingness before I could match them up. 'Isn't there a law against it? Monopolies and mergers?'

  'Loopholes. Did you know they've put in a bid for the country's third largest cinema chain? We heard that at the office today. It probably won't be in the papers for another week, but we sometimes get advance information on these things.'

  'A chain of cinemas? That's really throwing money down the toilet. They'll never make any profit on that.'

  He shrugged. 'They've never made a loss yet.'

  'Who? Dragosh?'

  'No, Multiglom,' said the Yorkshireman, fast losing patience.

  'I thought you said it wasn't Multiglom.'

  He sighed and rolled his eyeballs. 'Multiglom is just the media arm,' he explained as though he was talking to a five-year-old. 'Multiglom is a part of Dragosh. The nerve centre.'

  'But I thought you said...'

  I was ready to grill him further, but he mumbled something about having to get a refill and swiftly moved off in the direction of the butler. It was the first time I had ever been abandoned by a party bore, and I didn't much care for the feeling. I was wondering whether to tag along with him anyway when I saw Duncan. He was standing, or rather leaning, with one arm draped across the padded shoulders of an all too familiar figure - Francine. I went up and said hello, I could see he'd been working really hard all afternoon.

  'Hi, Dora,' he said. 'Dora, this is Francine.'

  'I know who it is,' I said. Francine smiled sweetly at me. I smiled sweetly back. 'Where's Lulu?' I asked him.

  'Who's Lulu?' asked Francine. As soon as she opened her mouth I was hit by a blast; she'd been at the garlic again. It was overkill. I'd stopped scoffing the stuff after Duncan had complained, and now I kept it ready peeled in my pocket. But I didn't see him whingeing about Francine's breath the way he'd whinged about mine, and that really pissed me off.

  'I don't know,' said Duncan, who appeared to be having some difficulty understanding what people were saying to him. He removed his arm from Francine's shoulders and regarded her gravely. 'Do you know where Lulu is?' he asked. Francine shook her head.

  'Are you sure she's coming?' I asked.

  'S'what Ruthie said.' He peered around exaggeratedly. 'Where is Weinstein anyway? Can you see her?'

  'Weinstein?' asked Francine, igniting like a Roman Candle. 'Weinstein Galleries? Maybe I should introduce myself.'

  Duncan swayed gently, to and fro. Red wine slopped dangerously near the rim of his glass. 'Where's Lulu?' he repeated.

  'Should I know Lulu?' asked Francine. 'Is she famous?'

  'She is now,' I said. 'Francine, honey, why don't you... run along and talk to Ruth. There she is over there, the one with the perfect nose and podgy calves.'

  'No, no,' said Duncan, putting his arm back around Francine's shoulders. 'I think Francine should stay with me. Francine is telling me all about Dino and his latest scheme. It's very interesting, isn't it Francine?'

  Francine touched his lips with her finger and made a noise like a soda syphon. 'He's had a bit too much to drink,' she explained, as though I were deaf, dumb, and blind. I was about to ask about Dino and his 'scheme' when I noticed that Duncan, in light-hearted mood, was trying to slide his hand down the front of her little black dress. Her resistance was less than token. I couldn't stand to watch any more. He just wasn't worth the effort. I'd left my cigarettes on a table across the room and went back to reclaim them; no one owned up to smoking any more, so the packet was exac
tly where I'd left it. I was just lighting up, looking forward to a spot of peaceful isolation, when Ruth bore down on me with that stiff-legged trot which meant business. Her expression was not at all appropriate to a party occasion; it was grim.

  'I've been meaning to talk to you,' she said.

  'Again?' I said.

  'No,' said Ruth, 'I mean properly. You never let me talk to you properly, Dora. You always change the subject, or turn it into a joke. Now I have something important to say, and I want you to shut up and listen.'

  'Sure,' I said, not sure at all. I was thinking she was going to tick me off about the cigarettes.

  'Not here,' she said, looking around apprehensively. 'Upstairs.' I followed as she headed back through the crowd towards the staircase. One or two people were dancing, but a bit too energetically, as if to prove they had no inhibitions. Someone cannoned into me and I nearly lost my balance. There was a lot of high-pitched laughter and hysterical shrieking. I hadn't realized everyone had been getting quite so intoxicated. Ruth's parties were usually rather sedate.

  She led me up to a spare room where the bed was half-buried beneath a mound of coats, and perched on the window-ledge while I flopped on to someone's fake fur and finished my cigarette. 'Give us one,' Ruth begged. I held out the packet, but grudgingly. This was typical; Ruth said she was a non-smoker, but she was always cadging from other people. She took a couple of shallow but showy puffs and asked, 'What's going on?'

  'How should I know? It's your party.'

  'Don't tell me you haven't noticed. Something's happening.'

  'Like what?' I laughed, but she didn't laugh back - she puffed on her cigarette and looked anxious. This wasn't like Ruth at all.

  She chose her words carefully. 'Everyone is sort of... highly strung,' she said. 'It's like the week before Christmas, when everyone's desperate to have a good time, and the harder they try, the worse it gets.' She kept fiddling with her fringe, brushing it forward and then back from her face. There were surprisingly deep lines etched into her forehead. 'You know what my grandad says? He says it reminds him of the Weimar Republic.'