by Adam Carter
“Look at all the people out there who don’t do anything,” she pressed. “These celebrities who are celebrities for no reason. I’m not talking about the comedians or the actors or the singers or directors or whatever. I mean the people who are famous for being famous but not actually doing anything.”
“Prince Charles, you mean?”
“You know the type of people I mean. The reality TV stars, for one thing. Famous because they were put in a house together for a month or whatever. Or the people who are famous just because of their parents.”
“Or the bimbos who are famous just for showing their cleavage.”
He could all but hear Louise nod. “Exactly. I’ve nothing against models, because that’s their job, but some people just stretch it too far.”
Corsac could really have done with that cup of tea around about then. “What’s your point, Lou?”
“My point is that these people are famous without having actually done anything. You have. You’ve worked all your life; you were a household name for a time. Just because no one thinks about you any more, it doesn’t mean you’ve been forgotten. The public just needs to be reminded that you’re still alive, that’s all.”
“Please don’t tell me you want me to go onto I’m a Celebrity, Kill me now or whatever those things are called.”
“Perish the thought, although they are made up mostly of people who just aren’t famous any more. Former members of Take That who aren’t Robbie Williams and other people the general public can vaguely remember the name of but can’t quite picture the face.”
“Thanks for that.”
“I’m serious, Dad, and I’m not going to sugar-coat it just to spare your feelings. The fact is that you need a kick-start and maybe something like that would be the thing to do it.”
“I could really do without that sort of thing, though.”
“You’d move on.”
“But I’d always be remembered for it.”
“So, what? You’d prefer to be remembered as the comedian you were rather than make money now and be remembered as ‘that comedian who went into the jungle on that television show’?”
“Yes,” Corsac replied without thinking, then did think about it but still had not changed his mind by the end of his rumination. “I have integrity, Lou. There are just things I won’t do for fame.”
“You’re happy sitting at home just watching them?”
Corsac did not reply.
“I thought not,” Lou muttered. “Look, Dad, I’m not trying to upset you, I just feel there’s more life in you yet. You could make a great comeback, but I really don’t think Harold’s the man to do it.”
“Did you have someone in mind who could be the man?”
“I was actually thinking more of a woman.”
“Lou, you’re an office administrator, you’re hardly qualified.”
“Duh, I was thinking of Sam?”
“Oh.”
“Come on, Dad, she could do it.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe about it, she’s your man for the job.”
Samantha Corsac was twenty-seven years of age, and as such two years Louise’s elder. They may have been sisters, but Samantha and Louise could not have been more different. Samantha had always been more overt, more outgoing, more extravagant. Louise, in short, was not a risk-taker. She was someone who would be perfectly content with a nine-to-five job for the rest of her working life, then be pensioned off until she died. Someone whose life had meant nothing to anyone save herself and her immediate family. Samantha, however, was the type of person who would walk into a party at nine o’clock and by half past would have made everyone think she had thrown it herself. Everyone knew Samantha – she was difficult to miss – while Louise was someone who would sink into a shadow, if such was even possible.
And it also happened that Samantha worked as a manager for upcoming pop groups. It was not exactly the same as being an agent for an ageing comedian, but Corsac could certainly see what his daughter was suggesting.
“Sam has her own life, Lou. I can’t expect to be able to just stroll into it and get hand-outs from her.”
“Why not? You are her father.”
“The working world doesn’t work that way, Lou.”
“Uh, you never heard of nepotism?”
“Sam’s not even in my line of work, unless you’re suggesting I start my own pop career?”
“Hey, if Shatner can shift albums off the shelf, there’s no reason why you can’t.”
“I think the Shat is slightly more famous than I ever was, Lou.”
He could hear the wince in Louise’s voice as she said, “Since when did you start referring to him as the Shat?”
“Look, I’ll give Sam a call, but I can’t see what good it’s going to do.”
“It might not do any, but at least calling her is a start. When’s the last time you two spoke anyway?”
“Uhm, Christmas I think.”
“Dad, it’s February.”
“It’s been a busy year, for both of us.”
“Sam doesn’t ring me either, but I always ring her. It’s called making time for your family, Dad.”
“Sam has her own life, I can accept that.”
“She’s still your daughter.”
Louise always phoned home on Sundays, usually alternating between her phoning and her parents phoning, so as to save on each of their phone bills; but Samantha seldom called any of them. True, she had a hectic lifestyle, but that was no excuse for not having spoken to her in two months. Samantha was not married and had no children – she always said she had no time for the former and no desire for the latter – and lived with a man named Derek, whose surname neither Louise nor her father had ever caught. Apparently Samantha knew his surname. Apparently. Derek was in the same business, or so Samantha had said one time, although whether that meant he was a record producer or a singer they simply didn’t know.
“I’ll call her,” Corsac promised. “Now can we please change the subject?”
Louise knew better than to push her father too far, and believed she had won her argument anyway. As such she decided to allow him his somewhat small wish and asked, “So, how’s Mum doing these days? Art gallery still giving her lip?”
“They’re not taking much of her stuff, if that’s what you mean. There was a time when they were taking everything she wasn’t selling through private channels.” Corsac sighed. “But I suppose tastes change with the times.”
“The best painters are never recognised until after they’re dead.”
“Yeah, and they usually die paupers.”
“I’m not helping, am I?”
“At least you’re talking to me.”
“Well, I’d best not hold the phone up any more,” Louise said, for she had done what she needed to do and knew her father was waiting on a call from Harold Crotcher. “You need anything, you give me a call, ‘kay?”
“‘Kay.”
“Bye, Dad. Love you.”
The phone died at that moment and Corsac replaced the receiver. He settled back in his chair. What Louise had said was true. He should be speaking with Samantha about his predicament, even if he was only after advice. She was his daughter after all and should have some time to spend in talking with him. He was resolved to contacting her, although he would do it tomorrow. There was no sense in rushing things; after all, Crotcher might call in the meantime and he wouldn’t need to go running to his daughter for help in landing him a job.
He stared at the telephone some more, although it steadfastly refused to ring. He knew it was just being stubborn. It would sound soon enough, he was sure.
He continued his relentless vigil. It was far better than watching the chat shows.
CHAPTER FIVE
Starke had not mentioned the incident with the bear: he had thought it probably best were he not to have. Instead he had passed the evening in a strangely delirious state, while Liz’s mother chatted about things which grew more
boring as she moved onto the next item, all the while with a continuous stream of Friends playing on the TV, indicating that she had dug out her box set once again. Starke had never been particularly into Friends, perhaps because it always reminded him of being seated in front of Liz’s mother’s telly, although he wondered how anyone could become so obsessed with it. Liking it was fine, liking it he could deal with, and even owning all ten series in one long black box was cool with him. But watching the damn programme day-in, day-out, and quoting from it as she spoke ... that was where Starke drew the line. She even brought out her Friends quiz book at one time in the evening, although Starke played his hand quite well and managed to convince her that he had not seen enough of them to be any good at it. It had been a handy response, actually, because then she had insisted he watch some of them, which gave him an excuse to have his attention facing the television screen rather than the woman whose name he still could not definitively recall. He had been so certain earlier that it was Anne, although he was slowly drifting back to Anna as the evening progressed.
His tardiness had been only mentioned in passing, and Starke was almost upset about that, because it may well have caused an argument which would have saved him from the Friends marathon; but it was not to be.
They had just got to The One Where The Credits Don’t Come Soon Enough when the evening finally wound down and Starke was allowed to go home. Liz didn’t go with him of course, for with her mother there Starke knew he would likely get another lecture before he was able to drag her daughter away with him. He therefore did the least valorous thing and ran for the hills without her.
He arrived back at his flat at around midnight and decided he wasn’t yet tired enough to sleep. He would have switched on the television, but for fear that he might be confronted once more with the dreary images of Courtney Cox and Matt LeBlanc, and instead turned on the radio. He got for his troubles an immediate blast of the Fur Elise but needed something with some human voices to it so threw on his Corrs CD instead. He could write to music well enough, but he could not write poetry if there were people singing in his ears. Music alone was fine, but no songs. And that night he did not want to write anything. The best way of stopping himself was to block out his ability to do so.
He listened through Would You Be Happier?, decided he would, So Young, decided he wasn’t, Runaway, decided he hadn’t (although wouldn’t mind), and it wasn’t until he had made it through Breathless that the stupid CD started singing about the radio again and he considered turning the Fur Elise back on, only that he knew it would have finished by now.
He thought about the television again and decided just so long as he avoided Channel Four, he should stand a good chance at not getting Friends.
He started thinking about that bear he hadn’t met at the shop earlier and wondered whether he would be able to claim on the insurance should a bear ever really come crashing through his door. If it happened in his flat he could likely forget about the insurance company: he would not be able to explain it to the landlord. Thinking about the shop, he figured it might well be better were he to move into the rooms above it. It would certainly save him some money, although he didn’t really fancy living above a shop. Uncle Pete had owned it all of course and used the upper levels as storage area for books no one wanted and bills he personally didn’t want. If Starke intended to live up there he would have to do some drastic cleaning, although that was not necessarily a bad thing. Uncle Pete was not coming back, of that he was almost certain, and as such if he could tidy up a bit he might well be happier.
The CD had moved on by this time, although he paid little mind to it and sat down at his desk. He was not going to write anything, he promised himself, then found himself scratching away at a piece of paper with a pen before he knew he was even doing it.
There once were gods of Greece
Who were worshipped by the state,
The gods of war and peace,
The gods of love and hate.
The people loved them all,
They prayed to them each day,
And they were held in thrall
By their might which therein lay.
Libation was the key
To a healthy sacrifice,
It was for the gods to see
That the people knew their place.
With meat thrown to the fire,
With wine upon the floor,
The Greeks knew who ruled higher
Than the paltry state they saw.
With Bacchus satisfied
The people drank the rest,
For with no gods defied
The celebration was the best.
Libation. Why he had even written about libation was unknown to him, until he saw one of his notes upon the side of the paper he had left there the other day (or was it the other year?). He remembered now that he had gone onto the Internet and one of the dictionary sites had made it their word of the day, so he had intended to make a poem out of it. Well, he had done it now, but why had he done it? What possible use could a poem about libation serve anyone? And why had he written it in such a jolly way? Starke did not write jolly, that was just one of the things about him. He did not like to write jolly, did not really even know how to write jolly, and certainly didn’t want to.
Still, jolly it was and it was worth not throwing straight into the bin. He considered sacrificing it to the gods by throwing it into the fireplace, but it wasn’t as though he had a natural hearth and he didn’t see much point in doing so.
And then he went to sleep.
When he awoke the following day, Starke had an annoying tune stuck in his head, and as he made himself a cup of tea he began to think about the shop. It was open today, or at least would be once he tended to it, and he wondered how much business he wouldn’t do today. He had always thought that antique bookshops appealed to people, although now that he had chanced to run one he had come to the decision that if he wasn’t set up in Charing Cross Road or about Greenwich market, there was little chance he would make much from it. He made enough to get by, and that was the main thing, although he did like to eat every day if he could. It was what he always told people when they asked him how the book business was doing, and while he smiled at the thought, it was not exactly the truth. The business was fine, he should have had no complaints. The only problem was that he did have complaints. He was no psychiatrist, although clearly there was something wrong there. He supposed he was not dissimilar from every other person in the country, though, for it made one traditionally English if one managed to complain about every little thing.
The kettle whistled, although it did little to blot out the tune rummaging through his mind. His tea was dreadful, which meant the milk was off again, which was hardly surprising since he remembered now that it had been off the previous morning; the day’s congealing had done little to improve its constitution. He attempted to present the British stiff upper lip and continue to drink it regardless, although gave up after only two more sips and poured it down the sink. Jumping into the shower, he found himself humming slightly and a few moments later realised what the tune was as he began to put words to it.
“I’ll be there for yoooooooou.” He thought about reaching for the radio to try to block the tune rolling with laughter within his brain, although obviously it had chosen this moment to reveal its nature because it knew he would be able to do nothing about it until he was out of the shower. The radio went on just as soon as he stepped out, and thankfully there was a song playing which drowned out the tune in his mind. He knew it would resurface the instant he relaxed, however, and determined that he would not allow it the chance. Leaving the radio playing, Starke moved to the television and turned it on. There was some early-morning game show playing, which was probably just a random repeat of one shown twenty years earlier. He noticed he was still dripping wet and naked and went off to get dried. He was not embarrassed to be undressed in front of the television of course, for he was not that far gone in the mind, al
though he knew that there were people out there who did feel such a way. There were also people who truly believed that Emmerdale depicted an honest image of life in rural England. He did not know which was worse, although decided it was not something he really should have been wasting too much time considering.
He watched the game show and wondered why, since he had never really been a game show type of man. He was the sort of person to sit in front of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and complain that it was nothing like Blockbusters used to be back in the days, and promptly get all the questions wrong regardless. It was only as the advert break came on that he realised he had sat through almost all the first half. It was not a programme he had ever seen before, and did not involve questions so much as numbers. Starke had always been good with numbers, or so he had decided now that he had got most of the answers right this morning, and briefly considered applying for a position on the show. He had instant second thoughts, decided he would not be seen dead on a game show, and turned off the TV.
He began to wonder how he would be able to prevent himself being on a game show when he was dead, for being dead he would not have a hand in the decision. Not that they would prop a corpse up and broadcast it anyway, but the point was worth considering nevertheless.
He wondered why he had to think such strange thoughts and whether it meant there was anything wrong with him. Incidents with bears aside, he reasoned he could figure out something wrong with him should he ever have a medical book handy, but thankfully he had never thought to acquire one.
There came a knock upon the door and he knew it was Liz. She didn’t use the doorbell, for some reason she never used the doorbell, and as such she was now standing outside the door of his flat (their flat), waiting for him to let her in. Waiting for him to let her in and moan at him for leaving her the night before. Starke suddenly (and not for the first time) wished he had a back door, although the fact was he did not. He had attempted to get out of the rear window one time, although that had ended in the disaster of finding himself stuck for an hour, until Liz pulled him back in. Those were the times she remembered she had a key and actually thought to bring it with her. Which was a rare occurrence in and of itself.