Читать книгу Staying Alive - Matt Beaumont - Страница 13

thursday 20 november / 9.21 p.m.

I pick up the tray of drinks from the bar and fight my way across the room to Brett, Vince and Kenny. Kenny is Production Geezer. The man without whom the glittering mirror ball we fondly call advertising would come crashing to the dance floor. He’s the man responsible for seeing to it that Brett and Vince’s lovingly crafted adverts make it into print. Always just in the nick of time. And usually, to his immense credit, the right way up.

As I sit down it only takes a moment to figure that the conversation hasn’t moved on from ten minutes ago. The question: How would you spend a Lotto win? It was sparked by my fumbling for a twenty to cover the round and pulling this week’s hopeless punt from my pocket.

‘You’re mad, Vin,’ Kenny pronounces. ‘Why would you risk blowing it when you’ve just won at fourteen million to one?’

‘Egg-fucking-zactly, you tubby twonk,’ Vince says. ‘If I’ve just won at fourteen mill, I’m gonna fancy my chances at twos, ain’t I?’

Vince’s Lottery Dream: ‘ Hit the casino and put the fucking lot on red.’ Which, naturally, struck me as deeply insane, though I didn’t say so. Partly because, as is often the way with Vince, his logic has a perverted appeal. But, no, I mustn’t get sucked into this way of thinking. It’s profoundly insane.

‘You’re mad,’ Kenny repeats. ‘You’ve got your millions. Why piss it away?’

‘I wouldn’t be pissing it away,’ Vince says. ‘You’re forgetting the secret.’

I must have missed this when I was buying the round.

‘You gonna tell us what this secret is, then?’ Kenny asks.

‘The secret is I couldn’t fucking lose.’

‘Yeah, but what is it?’

‘If I told you it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?’ Vince says.

‘More like there ain’t no secret,’ Kenny mutters, draining his glass. ‘Here, stick another one in there, Murray.’

Hey, wow, you noticed I’m here.

Brett says, ‘Give him a break, Kenny…’

What, you’re buying this round?

‘…He hasn’t said how he’d spend his win yet. Tell us, Murray. Then you can get the beers in.’

‘Er…I don’t really know,’ I say, because…Well, I really don’t know. I don’t have a dream, unless you count getting Megan back (not sure a lottery win would do it) or being promoted to Account Director (Detergent Brands). Endless lists on the backs of envelopes have more or less proved that I’m devoid of credible ambition.

‘There must be something,’ Brett prods. ‘Just make it up.’

He’s right, there must be something. Even Vince, who usually never projects beyond the next ten minutes, has an ambition.

I’m not talking about putting it all on red, which as far as I could tell, came out of nowhere. I’m referring to the Official Vince Douglas Dream. Vince is like every creative. None of them wants to be doing ads forever. Nearly every copywriter I know is working on his Novel (though they’re so conditioned to thinking in thirty-second chunks that they rarely make it past page two). Similarly, every art director wants to Direct—prefer-ably Cate Blanchett and Halle Berry in a twenty-first century Thelma and Louise, but, frankly, they’d take Police Academy 12 if it came down to it.

Vince is the exception. He longs to break out of ads, but he has no wish to become the next Ridley Scott. His dream involves cunning, bravado and a miniature submarine. Ironically, it was inspired by a film—an action flick about a sunken nuclear sub. The crew spent a couple of hours running out of oxygen while outside Kurt Russell or Chuck Norris or whoever attempted rescue in a little yellow submersible. I can’t give you much more detail than that because I didn’t see it. I’d sooner have typhus-dipped slivers of bamboo shoved under my fingernails than sit through one minute of a film about my personal idea of hell. Vince saw it seven times though, munching his popcorn and thinking, What if you put the docking mechanism on the top of the rescue sub instead of the bottom and went up instead of down? In short, this is the plan: buy sub, sail up and down Med on lookout for millionaires’ yachts, dive beneath them, dock, make hole, climb in, clear the loaded sods out of boat and home, cruise off into deep blue yonder.

Sounds slightly more insane than putting it all on red, but…

I cannot stress enough how deadly serious he is about this. He has spoken to submarine makers and even drawn up a business plan—which he only just stopped short of taking to the small-business advisor at NatWest. He even nags Brett to begin every one of their TV scripts with Open on miniature submarine in the hope that he’ll get to shoot it and do some real live research. Bizarrely, their Cats Undersea script for Pura Kitty Litter came within a whisker’s breadth of making it onto the telly. As far as I can tell—though I have to say I’m no expert in the field—his plan is more or less flawless. Every time someone proposes a but, Vince has an immediate and convincing answer.

There is one problem, actually. Everyone that Vince has ever shared a beer with knows about it. If Trevor McDonald ever announces, ‘And now let’s go to our reporter in Monaco for more on that daring underwater robbery…’ a couple of thousand people will scratch their heads and try to remember the name of the drunk who was sounding off in the pub about magnetised docking tubes.

‘I’m sorry, Brett. I pass,’ I say finally. ‘Don’t know how I’d spend it.’

‘What’re you asking him for?’ Vince sneers. ‘You know what he’d do. Buy a Volvo, a cottage in the Cotswolds and invest the rest in the fucking Nationwide.’

Well, I’d have said the Woolwich, but it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

‘Leave him be. There must be something you wanna do, Murray,’ Brett says.

‘I’ve always fancied the idea of pony trekking in the Andes,’ I say nervously.

‘That is fucking cool,’ Vince splutters—to my amazement because to the best of my recollection I have never had an idea that I would consider cool, let alone Vince.

‘Is it?’ I ask, wincing as I wait for the rug to be whipped from beneath me.

“Course it is. Buy your conk candy at source. Cut out the middleman—’

That isn’t what I had in mind, as it happens.

‘—Here, you fancy joining me in the gents for a toot?’

I’m stunned. Is he offering me a line? Of cocaine? Because I don’t believe he’s suggesting we repair to the toilets for an impromptu trumpet recital. Either would be unprecedented, actually. Vince only has me around to pick up the tab. I’m not here to join in—with drug-taking or lavatory jam sessions.

‘Er…no thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’m…um…detoxing.’

He looks at me as if I’m mad.

Well, I’m hardly going to tell him that few things are more terrifying to me than the prospect of snorting white powder of indeterminate origin up my nostril. A very, very, very occasional joint is the furthest I’ve ever dared travel down the road to junkie hell. And my answer wasn’t a lie. I am detoxing. Since my visit to Saint Matthew’s my body has been, while not exactly a temple, a lot more spick and span than usual. I haven’t had a single burger and right now I’m drinking Sprite—though there is no reason for Brett, Vince and Kenny to suspect that it isn’t a Vamp;T. The new regime isn’t because I think I’m actually ill, as in ill ill, really it isn’t. But these things—lumps and what have you—serve as a warning, don’t they? Shape up or ship out, so to speak.

And, well, I’m shaping up.

Vince arches a brow and says, ‘You don’t even burn the candle at one end, do you, matey?’ Then he turns to his partner. ‘What about you, B Boy?’

‘I’ll pass,’ Brett replies. ‘I’m sick of waking up with the three a.m. nosebleeds.’

‘Kenny?’

‘Drugs is for mugs,’ Kenny replies, draining his eighth pint of mind-altering lager. ‘Reckon I’ll be off.’

‘Whatever,’ Vince says as he staggers off in the general direction of the gents. I watch him go, envying his complete inability to live beyond the moment. As Kenny hauls himself to his feet and takes his leave, Brett asks, ‘You OK?’

Well, I’ve got a lump in my trousers that may or may not be cancer and I’m on the eve of visiting the hospital to get the verdict, but, that apart, I’m absolutely dandy.

‘I’m absolutely dandy. Why do you ask?’

‘You’ve seemed a bit spooked lately. And you asked for that last lot of script changes like you couldn’t give a toss. I kind of missed your usual cheery Hey, guys, the client’s made a tiny suggestion that’ll improve the core idea immensely bollocks.’

‘That was because I couldn’t give a toss…I’d just had my assessment.’

‘Not good?’

‘Haye reckons my career might be helped by a visit to the Job Centre.’

‘He’s firing you?’

‘No, but I guess my name’s pencilled in for the next efficiency-focused downsizement.’

‘Take it as a compliment. The man’s dull as fuck. I’ve had livelier conversations with the automated menu on the Odeon booking line.’ He gives me a hearty slap on the back—I think I’ve just risen in his estimation. ‘Know what you need?’

‘What’s that?’

‘A fuck,’ says Vince, back from the bog and full of the joys of Colombia.

This—their uncanny ability to complete each other’s thoughts—is what marks them out as a team.

‘I was going to suggest a new girlfriend, but it amounts to the same thing,’ Brett says.

‘You wanna grab your secretary,’ Vince goes on. ‘She’s gagging for it.’ He gestures in the direction of Jakki, who’s on a Breezer binge with her mates from the office. I like Jakki, even if she has given her name its pop-star spelling. But I don’t fancy her any more than she fancies me.

‘I couldn’t,’ I say.

‘Gimme one good reason,’ says Vince.

Well, she works ten feet away from me which would make things awkward the morning after, she’s a bit on the plump side, she likes Enrique Iglesias, which isn’t the end of the world but it could form a potentially insurmountable stumbling block six or seven months into a relationship, and she loves sardines which, though they’re a rich source of omega acids, have an unfortunate habit of repeating…Oh, and her first name isn’t Megan and her second isn’t Dyer.

‘I dunno…I just don’t think it’s a good idea to get involved with girls you work with,’ I say.

‘What’s the fucking point of having birds at work if you ain’t gonna get involved with ’em?’ Vince says.

‘Murray’s a one-woman man, Vin,’ Brett says. ‘Even when the one-woman done gawn left him fucking weeks ago. He deserves our sympathy.’

‘Deserves a slap on the arse more like. Spineless twonk. Fucking suit.’ Having whacked the nail painfully on the head, Vince stands up and heads for Jakki’s crowd.

Like a fly heading for shit.

I don’t mean that at all. Vince is a bit fly-like—certainly when it comes to attention span and personal hygiene—but the girls are not shit. They’re extremely nice, if slightly the worse for wear. I’m just not feeling too grand at the moment—entirely because of my dire assessment (reiterated so succinctly only moments ago by Vince) and nothing to do with the…you know…lump. I’m sure that if I were drunk I wouldn’t feel like dragging everyone down with me. Perhaps I should trade in the Sprite for a grown-up drink.

‘Bevy?’ asks Brett, reading my mind.

‘I’m all right, thanks,’ I reply, changing it.

‘Vin isn’t the cunt he makes out, you know.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘He’s got his sensitive side. Did you know he’s a dad?’

‘You’re kidding,’ I say, watching him work Jakki and her friends like they’re King’s Cross hookers.

‘Yeah, he got this flaky PA at Miller Shanks pregnant. Bit of a shock at the time. Vin’s never been too choosy, but she’s the type who’d look at Prince William and think he’s a common little twat. How she ended up in a locked toilet with the V-Bomb is one of the great unsolved mysteries. Mind you, she’s the most staggeringly stupid person I’ve ever met. She thought Doctor Pepper was a Hungarian tit surgeon on Harley Street…You think I’m kidding? I read the letter she typed trying to book a consultation.’

‘Vince, a dad,’ I say, still unable to wrap my brain round the concept.

‘He couldn’t believe it either,’ Brett says. ‘He was in denial until the baby came out. No need for DNA—she was his Mini Me. She’s three now.’

‘What’s she called?’

‘If Vin had had his way, she’d be Diddymu.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Name of a nag. Came in for him at forty-to-one on the day she was born. Mum obviously wasn’t having that. They couldn’t agree and rowed about it for two months. In the end they compromised. Went for two names. Mum chose Scarlet.’

‘What about Vince?’

‘Bubbles.’

‘That’s the name of—’

‘Yeah, Jacko’s chimp. I told him he was mad; he was writing out a permit for adult therapy right there on her birth certificate. I mean, if they had to have two names the least they could’ve done was make one of them Kate.’

‘Does he have custody?’

‘Fuck, no—he makes Fagin look like a model carer. But he’s very hands-on. Takes her to toddler ballet every Saturday and brings her to all-night edits at Moving Pics.’

Bang on cue, Vince reappears with Jakki. His hand is on—what else?—her bum and I’m trying—struggling, frankly—to picture him cosseting a tiny bundle of humanity; his pride and joy.

‘Here, Jakks, do something with your soppy boss, will you?’ he says, shoving her in my direction. She lands in my lap, where she stays, giggling. She smells icky-sweet—Dune mingling with the Bacardi marketing department’s notion of passion fruit, which at least masks the sardine sandwich she had for lunch. I pull her upright and she slides off onto the bench seat beside me.

‘Leave him alone, Vince, he’s lovely,’ she slurs, putting an arm around my shoulder. He takes her advice and leaves me alone, heading back to her mates. Jakki looks me in the eye and says, ‘You OK? You’ve been very…distant lately.’

‘Have I?’

‘Yeah…I notice stuff, you know. I’m like a radio. I pick things up.’

‘I’m fine, Jakki. Just a bit under the weather…You know, tired.’

‘You wanna pull yourself together,’ she snaps suddenly, pulling her arm from my shoulder. ‘You don’t know how bloody lucky you are.’

What did I say?

She starts to cry.

What did I say, for heaven’s sake?

‘My uncle’s got cancer,’ she says through drunken sobs.

‘I’m sorry, Jakki,’ I say, though she’ll never know how truly sorry I am.

‘He had this lump on his forearm for ages. He used to joke about it—said it was his extra muscle—but it’s cancer. They cut his arm off at the elbow last week. He’s having chemo now. They reckon he’ll be OK, but you’re never OK after that, are you?’

No, I don’t suppose you are.

‘It’s like a knife hanging over you—’

OK, I get the picture.

‘—a ticking time bomb—’

Shut up, for God’s sake.

‘—a death sentence. It’s so sad.’

Sad? It’s tragic, girl. You do not want to know how much that little nugget of family news is churning me up inside.

‘I’m sorry about your uncle, Jakki, really sorry, but…’

But what? She looks at me for a morsel of comfort.

‘…But I’ve got to go.’

I stand up, grab my jacket and leave the bar.

10.01 p.m.

Outside the icy air whacks me in the face. I suck it in, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. My legs are shaking and I have that sharp, presick taste in the back of my throat. I try to swallow but my mouth is too dry. I can’t shift my mind off tumescent, throbbing tumours.

I need to get home. Now.

I see a taxi—a rare sight in Docklands at this time of day. A rare sight at any time of day. Docklands is placed next to Papua New Guinea in the cabdriver’s atlas. I stick my arm out. Barely slowing, the taxi swings through a dizzying U-turn and pulls up in front of me. The driver’s window slides down and a cheery voice calls out, ‘Where to, chief?’

‘South Woo—’

The rest of the word comes out as a stream of vomit that pebble-dashes the Rimmel poster on the cab door—it looks as if Kate Moss has suddenly quit extolling longer, lusher lashes in favour of drawing attention to the horror of eating disorders.

‘Drunken fucker,’ the cabby shouts as he accelerates away.

I wish—I truly, truly wish.