Читать книгу Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years: two novels by Frédéric Beigbeder - Frédéric Beigbeder, Frank Wynne - Страница 10

‘What would you have done if you hadn’t been

a writer?’

‘I would have listened to music.’

Samuel Beckett to André Bernold

Now, everything is fine. Marc Marronnier has hiccups, he is drooling on his polka-dot tie. Joss Dumoulin is spinning the intro to ‘Whole Lotta Love’ by Led Zeppelin. Things are taking a turn.

Over the table floats the scent of underarms. Dinner, according to plan, is getting out of hand. Champagne showers, hats made of ice buckets, bronchial-pneumonia optional. People are dancing on tables. This year, nymphomania will be communal. Torsos shall be bare, lips parted, tongues pointed, faces wet.

Trussed-up girls drink Wild Turkey. Frigid boys gaze at their reflections in frosted glass. The Hardissons are auctioning their baby; Helmut Berger is nodding his head, Tounette de la Palmira stinks of excrement; Guillaume Castel has fallen in love. No one has opened a vein yet.

The liqueurs have barely been touched and already the waiters are moving the tables to clear the dance floor. Joss will soon take the stage in earnest. Marc decides to interrupt him at work.

‘You know *hic* you know the difference between a *hic* between a girl from the sixteenth *hic* and an Arab kid from Sarcelles?’

‘Listen, I haven’t got time right now,’ Joss sighs, crouched over his decks, trying to choose records.

‘Well, it’s easy, *hic* the girl from the sixteenth *hic* has real diamonds and fake orgasms … and the Arab boy *hic* has the opposite.’

‘Very funny, Marronnier. Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to you right now, okay?’

An acceptably pretty girl leaning against the door of the DJ booth suddenly interrupts:

‘Marronnier? Did he say Marronnier? You’re not THE Marc Marronnier?’

‘In person *hic*! To whom do I have the honour?’

‘My name wouldn’t mean anything to you.’

Joss pushes them out of the booth. They barely notice, landing on twin stools in a corner of the bar. The girl is not pretty. She continues:

‘I’ve read all your articles! You’re my idol!’

And all of a sudden, funnily, Marc finds her noticeably less ugly. She is wearing the tight suit of a working woman, maybe something in PR. She has an angular, rather masculine face, looks as though it were drawn by Jean-Jacques Sempé. Her legs are still delicate, despite years of horse-riding and the Bagatelle Polo Club.

‘Really?’ says Marc (still fishing for compliments). ‘You like that drivel?’

‘I love it! You’re a scream!’

‘Where have you seen my stuff?’

‘Um … all over the place.’

‘Well, which article is your favourite, then?’

‘Well … all of them.’

It is clear that the girl has never read a word that Marc has written, but what does it matter? She’s cured his hiccups, so that’s something.

‘Mademoiselle, may I offer you a glass of lemonade?’

‘Oh, no,’ she’s annoyed now, ‘I’ll get you a drink. I’m in PR, I can claim it back on expenses.’

Marc was right. He is unquestionably in the presence of a fine example of what ethnologists will later refer to as the ‘eighties woman’: contemporary, insufferable, wearing suede loafers. He can hardly believe such a thing exists, still less that he has managed to get close to such a specimen.

Before brutalising her on the bar, he is keen to verify one last detail.

‘Why do you work in PR?’

‘Oh, it’s my first job. But so far it’s been really positive.’

‘Yes, but why choose PR?’

‘Mostly because I’m a people person. You get to meet people in PR.’

‘Why?’

‘Well … It’s a rapidly expanding sector of the communications industry. When other sectors are moribund, you have to know how to reorient your skills to a sector with potential for growth. There are whole areas of the economy that are basically dead.’

Phew. Marc breathes a sigh of relief. His theorem remains well founded, even if this latest guinea-pig took some time getting there. He must factor this into his calculations: the third ‘why?’ evokes in PR personnel a latency of time before producing necropositive results.

He slips his arm around the girl’s waist. She lets him. He strokes her back (she’s wearing a bra with three hooks, a good omen). He slowly brings his face closer to hers … when suddenly all the lights go out. She turns her head.

‘What’s going on?’ she asks, getting up and leading him onto the dance floor.

A clamour swells from the guests crowded round the foot of the DJ booth. Joss Dumoulin’s face pierces the darkness, lit by a beam of orange light. He looks like a Halloween pumpkin (in a double-breasted dinner jacket).