Читать книгу Vulgar Things - Lee Rourke - Страница 11

I walk into Soho. I need a drink and something to eat. I take a seat in Spuntino’s on Rupert Street and order a bottle of red wine and some truffled egg toast. Two portions for myself. I immediately feel calmer, but it doesn’t last all that long. Two men sit down beside me and ruin my thoughts. They are loud. Media types. They work in the film industry and want everyone to know. I can’t hear myself think, so I just sip my wine and listen to them instead, staring down at my food.

‘When are they shooting?’

‘June.’

‘Where?’

‘Dunno. Somewhere near Kingsland Road. They’ve found some old buildings.’

‘Who’s shooting?’

‘Stevens.’

‘From United Agents?’

‘Yes. He’s shooting that before he heads out to LA for the location meetings on Rob’s project.’

‘Really.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Never really liked his stuff …’

‘Really?’

‘He holds back. Tries to fuck the lens. In fucking love with the lens. Spends too much time finding the right shot and then when he’s found it he spends too much time wanking all over it. He should just fucking shoot … He’s not an artist, say, like Dom is; now Dom’s a true artist, he finds the right shot without thinking, bam, bam, bam …’

‘Bish bash bosh …’

‘Ha, yeah, right … but seriously, he doesn’t fuck about. His art just happens; do you know what I mean?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And then there’s all the fucking gak …’

‘Yeah, that.’

‘He puts too much up his nose, thinks it’s the fucking eighties … He can’t see for gak sometimes … I saw him last week. He was with some office temp from his production company, giving it the large with her; she’s all wide-eyed around him like he’s some fucking god. He’s got his fat married hands all over her skinny arse. Fucking sad to witness … He bought me drinks, though, so what can you say? I don’t care if it was just to impress the slag, I’ll fucking drink them. I spent the afternoon in the French with him, before he fucked off to the Groucho with her. He told me about the shoot, he told everyone about it … Everyone in Soho knows how much his fucking budget is …’

‘Really.’

‘Just go and fucking shoot, that’s what I say, stop fucking talking about it and go and fucking shoot the fucker.’

‘Yeah.’

The two men continue in this manner for the rest of their meal, fiddling with their phones all the while. I listen to every word and finish my food. It’s a cyclical, looped conversation: a spiral of ‘shoots’, ‘budgets’, ‘gak’ and ‘locations’. It’s pointless and completely fascinating. Just as they are leaving, I look up at the taller of the two, intent on gaining eye contact.

‘What’s the name of the film?’

He looks at me quizzically when I ask him this, and then looks at his colleague as if to say: ‘Why don’t these people just leave us the fuck alone?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The film you were just talking about … What’s it called?’

‘It’s an ad, not a film … for Nike.’

I don’t know why I ask him this. I feel compelled to ask. I’m not remotely interested in what it is they do for a living. I just feel they need to know I’ve been listening. I’d tuned into their frequency by accident. I can re-tune, should I wish, to something far more interesting. They walk out of the door, heading up through the alleyway that leads to Old Compton Street, both still embroiled in the same conversation. I watch them until they vanish out of view. I even lean forward on my stool to see if I can catch a final glimpse, but it’s no good, they’ve gone. I finish the rest of my wine, settle the bill, and walk out onto the street.

I head in the same direction: out through the alleyway, past the clip joints and porn shops, and out onto Old Compton Street. I am buzzing, distinctly aware of each and every person sweeping around me, each sight and sound on the busy Soho streets. I’m not really sure where I’m going, or why. It doesn’t matter. I bathe in the dislocation from my usual routine, allowing the nowness of my predicament to cover me. I trust it completely. So I follow it without thought or question.