Читать книгу #Zero - Neil McCormick - Страница 13

We rode the people carrier all of a hundred metres to the back of the Enlightenment, pulling into the rear, where I was escorted through kitchens and corridors, all the time talking to some DJ on a West Coast radio show. ‘What’s the weather like in New York?’ he wanted to know. They always ask about the fucking weather, like it makes any fucking difference to me as I am transported by luxury vehicles from one air-conditioned room to another, from Timbuktu to Reykjavik.

‘It’s hot,’ I said, gazing at people in shorts and shirtsleeves. ‘It’s hot everywhere. That’s why they call it global warming. Here is the weather forecast for the next hundred years: hot and getting hotter.’

‘It’s snowing in LA,’ he said, cheerfully.

‘I bet it’s hot snow,’ I said.

I liked that image, I could use it for something. I thought I ought to write it down but the phone was plucked from my hand and I was led into another overlit ballroom to applause from massed ranks of journalists, seated on row after row of fold-up chairs, leaning forward, notebooks in hand, ready, willing and eager to record my every inanity. And there was going to be some inanity spouted this afternoon. I sat behind a raised table bristling with microphones, smiled graciously and prepared to answer the most stupid questions I would hear all day.

International press conferences really are the bottom of the barrel of global communications, a room packed with stringers from every second-rate media outlet in every corner of the globe, intent on reducing the burning issues of the hour to its parochial essence so they can go back to their editors with at least one line of provincially relevant copy. And so it began.

‘Hi, I am Sumiko from Asahi Shimbun. You have many fans in Japan who share your concern for the future of young people on the planet Earth. What is special relevance in your song “Never Young” for people of Japan?’

Yeah, how about stop dressing your hookers up as schoolgirls, that would be a start. There is no pornography in the world more disturbing than Japanese porn, and I should know, I’ve whacked off to enough of it. And while we’re at it, how about you leave the whales alone? What have whales ever done to you? In fact, we’ve got to talk about this whole sushi business. Haven’t you heard the seas are going to be fished out by the middle of the century? What are you going to eat then? Cucumber rolls?

I didn’t say that, of course. I said, ‘I love Japan, Sumiko. Tokyo is one of my favourite cities in the world. It feels like the future is already here, and when I’m gazing up at that awesome skyline I think maybe, just maybe, there is hope for us all.’

‘Hello, Zero. Jouko from Helsingin Sanomat. Is there a special reason why you chose Finland to launch the European leg of your tour?’

Yeah, because it’s the middle of fucking nowhere, the weather is shit, the transport links are terrible, the media won’t be busting a gut to get there and it’s nice to get a show under the belt before we hit a major capital. That’s the truth. But what I said was: ‘Hi, Jouko. Finland is a very special place. I once played a midsummer festival there with The Zero Sums, which was weird, all these kids trashed out of their minds on that local moonshine, stumbling about under the midnight sun, it was like a post-apocalypse teenage zombie party, which seemed absolutely right for this record. And I always find Finnish audiences to be very appreciative. They really give you a great reception.’ I didn’t add the obvious point that they should fucking appreciate it because no other major star ever goes and plays there, it’s such a fucking dump. Next question.

‘Bonjour, Zero, Thierry Grizard, Agence France-Presse. You play the Stade De France, two dates, your biggest shows in mainland Europe – do you have a special relationship with the French people?’

I don’t know, Thierry, I’ve fucked a couple of French hotties in my time but the waiters are kind of rude, non? Wrong answer. ‘Paris is one of the great cities, it’s one of the only places I ever visited outside Ireland before … well, before all this, did you know that? I went on a school trip, spent a day on a coach and a ferry, to see some exhibition about the European Union, which was kind of boring to be honest, but we took in all the sites: Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Sacré-Coeur, the hookers on Montmartre.’ This got a laugh, which is a dangerous thing, because it only encourages me. ‘A couple of us bunked off and spent an afternoon trying to find the grave of Jim Morrison but we just got lost and had to be brought back to the hotel by the gendarmes. My teachers were not amused, I can tell you. I took a beating for France, that day.’

That was Eileen and me, what a day that was – we made love in a park under the shadow of a national monument, ate crêpes and drank café au lait down by the river, then ran off without paying, laughing like lunatics, which is how come the gendarmes got involved. I hadn’t thought about that in a very long time, and the way it opened up before me now I felt like I could just fall into the past, go tumbling back to a bridge across the Seine, where I couldn’t quite believe I was standing in the sunshine with the prettiest girl from Kilrock, and I loved her and she loved me, and I was happy, I was happy, I was really fucking happy. I blinked hard, snapping back to the present and all those expectant faces. ‘Vive la France!’ I shouted, stupidly.

‘Hi, Zero, Kay Darling from the Sun …’ announced a startling figure beneath an enormous mane of black hair. She was dressed like she was auditioning for the role of high priestess at a black mass, with the kind of plunging décolletage you could hurl yourself into from an Olympic high diving board and survive the fall.

‘Hello, Darling, what’s your question?’ I knew Kay well, Darling by name but not by nature, poison princess of British gossip, the so-called ‘celebrities’ friend’, she would dazzle you with cleavage while stabbing her six-inch stiletto heels through your heart.

‘Given that your fiancée has opted to Carry On Up the Amazon with Troy Anthony rather than joining you in New York for Weekend Zero, I was wondering what advice you would give to any of my readers who may have already gone to the expense of purchasing wedding gifts? Should they hold on to their receipts?’

You had to watch out for the Brits at these things, they prided themselves on the art of provocation. ‘You can tell your readers Penelope has all the cutlery she needs, thank you, Kay. So why not claim a refund and send the money to the MedellÍn orphan’s appeal?’

‘So are we to take it wedding plans are on hold?’ she persisted.

‘One question each, Kay, you know the rules,’ interrupted Flavia. ‘There are a lot of territories to get through.’

‘We haven’t set a date but when we do, you’ll be the last to know,’ I snapped. ‘Why does anyone still think this is an interesting story? Famous actress on location with famous actor. Love scenes thought to be involved.’ There was a smattering of laughter and applause. Oh, don’t encourage me. ‘I knew what I was getting in for when I got together with Penelope. I’ve got the director’s cut of Suicide Blonde.’ More laughter. ‘You should see the pre-nup her lawyers handed me. She reserves the right to send a body double on honeymoon.’ I was lapping it up now. ‘If we ever split, she gets to keep the five houses, I get the tent up the Amazon with Troy.’

I should have known better than to goad a hack.

‘So I take it you haven’t seen the evening edition of the New York Post?’ smirked Kay Darling. ‘I believe they’re running a series of shots of Penelope and Troy in what used to be known as compromising positions.’

Fuck that bitch. I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of seeing me flinch. ‘Compromising Positions? Isn’t that the name of Troy’s new movie? You should see if they’ve got a part for you. I think it ends with a ritual sacrifice of the truth. You’d be perfect for it.’

Someone else had the microphone now. ‘Hi, it’s Sven from Sweden. Last year you had the biggest selling album in Sweden, your Stockholm show has sold out in under ten minutes – what do you think is the source of your special connection with the Swedish people?’

Thank fuck for Sven from Sweden. ‘I love Sweden,’ I said with feeling. ‘Abba, The Cardigans, I grew up on Swedish pop music …’ Blah de fucking blah. I just wanted to get out of there, but I had another thirty territories of foreign cock to suck.

Afterwards, I posed and grinned like a model on MDMA for a photocall in front of logos of our tour sponsors, then I was led out front, pressing flesh with a screaming crowd before hurling myself into the back of the limo, where I slumped across a leather couch to be transported to rehearsals in Queens, mirror shades pulled down over tired eyes. I gave Kilo the cutthroat signal. Minions and media could ride coach, I needed a moment alone. Well, when I say alone, there was Kilo, Beasley, Flavia, Eugenie and Cornelius, which is about as alone as I ever got. Oh and Tiny Tony and the driver up front.

Beasley and Flavia dived straight into forensic analysis of the press conference, but I wasn’t listening. Too many stray thoughts and images were chasing each other around my head, knotting together in ever more complex permutations, circles and loops of memory and projection, Eileen fucking Troy fucking Penelope stabbing Kay Darling with cheap cutlery while fucking orphans cried for their mothers, Jesus fucking Christ, I was tired, I was tired, I was so fucking tired, I needed drugs, I needed sleep, New York framed in the limo window, endless faces, cars, buildings, everything passing by in an unfocused blur, deli, record shop, news vendor … ‘Stop the car!’ I yelped. ‘Stop the fucking car! Just stop. Stop right fucking now!’

The driver did as he was told, traffic behind beeping, everybody in the limo staring at me like I might be having a heart attack, Beasley demanding, ‘What’s the matter?’ as I threw open the door and made a beeline for a news stand.

‘The Post, gimme a Post,’ I demanded. A sad-eyed vendor handed over a newspaper then started yelling for his dollar fifty as I turned away, leafing through the pages. The orphans had bumped me off the front page again, a post-earthquake shot of carnage and desolation, but that’s not what I was looking for. There it was. Page five. A strip of grainy photos of my bride-to-be, naked from the waist up, kneeling in front of what looked a hell of a lot like Troy Anthony’s world-famous ass, and even with the wonders of pixilation there was no question where she was putting her beautiful mouth, dear God. Alongside it was a photo of Yours Truly stepping out of a helicopter giving a victory salute to the New York skyline. The headline was ‘LOVE MINUS ZERO As Popstar Boyfriend Takes Manhattan; Penelope Seeks Comfort With Troy’.

‘You’re him. You’re him, aintcha? You’re him.’ Some gangly, corn row black youth overwhelmed by outsize sports clothes was pointing at me. ‘Shit, dude, I know you’re him.’ Tiny Tony hit the sidewalk running and tried to get between us while the guy snarled, ‘Don’t put your hands on me, motherfucker, I know my rights.’ Smartphones were clicking, drivers were cheering. ‘Way to go, Zero!’ shouted a red-faced bruiser leaning out the passenger window of a battered delivery van. ‘You give Penny a shot for me!’ My own people poured onto the street. A scraggy homeless loon, all bug eyes and beard paced around, shouting, ‘Can I get some attention here? Can I get some attention?’ A birdlike oriental woman in a canary-yellow tracksuit demanded an autograph. ‘For my daughter,’ she kept saying, ‘For my daughter,’ and when I didn’t respond she started yelling, ‘What’s wrong with my daughter, you son of a bitch?’ Tiny Tony wrestled her away. In the people carrier access-all-fucking-areas Queen Bitch was licking her lipstick like the cat who got the cream. The news vendor was still yelling for his dough until Kilo slapped a ten-dollar bill in his hand. It felt like something was spitting in my face. Hot snow, maybe. I looked up but the sky was blue and clear, the blinding white orb of the sun peeking between skyscrapers, light bouncing off windows, my face was wet again, I was crying for the second time today. What the fuck was wrong with me? Tiny Tony led me back to the limo, the door shut behind us, and we started moving.

Nobody said anything for a while. The newspaper lay on the floor, with my beloved in her adulterous nakedness for all to see. People would be poring over those very pictures right now, all over New York and the rest of the world too, downloading them, uploading them, turning them into funny little animated gifs to share with their friends on Spamchat and Snarkr. By Monday, they’d be selling them on T-shirts outside my gig. ‘Open the bottle of vodka,’ I instructed Kilo.

‘Is that wise?’ said Beasley, gravely.

‘No, it’s not fucking wise,’ I snapped back. ‘We’re way beyond wisdom here. I need a drink.’ Kilo was hesitating. ‘I would like a drink of vodka from my drinks cabinet, please,’ I announced, firmly. Beasley gave a subtle nod and Kilo unscrewed the lid of a bottle of Absolut Citron, took a glass from the cabinet and poured me a shot.

I knocked it back swiftly, tasting the bitterness in my mouth, feeling the hot burn in my chest. ‘You can chop me a line of coke, now,’ I said. There were sharp intakes of breath. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ I groaned. ‘It’s rock and roll, not the fucking priesthood.’

When Beasley gave another nod, Kilo took out his stash and started chopping white powder on the polished walnut of the limo sideboard. I accepted a rolled-up bill, bent down and inhaled deeply. Then I slumped back, heart crashing against my ribcage. ‘Go on,’ I waved expansively. ‘Help yourselves.’

For a moment nobody moved, then Cornelius shuffled up, bent over and snorted a line. Kilo looked at Beasley warily, then followed suit. Eugenie too was watching her boss. He rolled his eyes and she got down on her knees and snorted. Then Beasley, with a shrug of his shoulders, heaved his fat behind off his seat and, with surprising grace, leaned over the table and hoovered. Flavia’s lips were pursed, her expression inscrutable. For all her gothic styling, there was a taut rigidity to Flavia, something vicarious about the way she operated in the entertainment industry. She was like designated driver at a rave, determined to keep her wits while all about her were losing theirs. But she shook her head, muttered, ‘Oh, fuck it!’ in that prim English voice, and dived in.

Then somehow we were all laughing, hooting at our ridiculousness, Beasley’s body vibrating with compressed mirth, Eugenie giggling girlishly, Cornelius sniggering merrily, Kilo softly yukking, Flavia uttering involuntary high squeals that embarrassed her so much it made everyone laugh even more. I slid to the floor, close to hysteria. I knew I had to clamp it down as I sucked in deep breaths, slowly regaining control. Calm, calm, calm. I let out a long, steady sigh, and picked up the Post. There were tears in my eyes but I couldn’t tell if they were from crying or laughing, I didn’t know if I was happy or sad, and anyway I had my shades on, so it didn’t matter, no one could see me, not really, not the real me, if there even was such a thing, if I hadn’t stopped being myself years ago, and slowly metamorphosed into this other Zero, this creature of awards shows and gossip rags, absolute Zero, Nothing to the nth degree.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Flavia.

‘There might be some film stills of Penelope and Troy embracing, you said. Embracing is what you do when you meet your auntie, you don’t grab Auntie’s tits and take her up the arse. Shit. She looks like she’s embracing his cock.’

‘I didn’t think anyone would publish them,’ Flavia replied. ‘And if you value my opinion, Zero, I stick by what I said, I think they are fake, inasmuch as I suspect they are scenes from the film surreptitiously shot by one of the crew. It is pure mischief and the Post should know better.’

Cornelius had picked up the paper and was examining the evidence. ‘I don’t know. They look like they’ve been shot with a long lens in low light, which wouldn’t suggest a film set.’ Beasley glowered at him. ‘Just trying to help,’ drawled Cornelius, scooping up some stray coke to rub on his lips before retreating to the front of the limo.

‘Get Irwin Locke on the line,’ Beasley commanded and Eugenie was immediately speed-dialling the Hollywood studio boss. ‘Who is Penelope’s agent? Marisa Powers. Let’s patch her in. And get hold of Norris Sheehan, I want to examine legal options.’ Within minutes he was locked into a conference call with producers, agents and lawyers, stroking egos, concocting strategies and issuing understated threats, oblivious to everyone around him. There was nothing like a crisis to get him going. Then again, this was nothing like a crisis for Beasley. He was already calculating column inches. He had never liked the idea of his golden boy being led down the aisle. For all the charm he could muster, he treated Penelope more like a rival than a new member of the entourage. Now my affair of the heart was crashing and burning in spectacular fashion, a whole new blaze to keep the publicity inferno roaring, and he would have me all to himself again. Fuck. When he reached over and patted my knee, murmuring, ‘It’s going to be fine, you’ll see,’ I realised he always thought it would end like this. For all I know, he fucking planted the pictures. He’d done worse before.

We crossed Queensboro Bridge and pulled into the parking lot of Mightybeat warehouse rehearsal studio complex. ‘I’m not getting out,’ I announced, to general apoplexy.

Inside one of these vast hangars, a revolving circular stage was set up like a giant target zero, with full lighting rig, an enormous LED screen curtain that raised and fell throughout the production displaying a dazzling array of 3-D digital imagery, various off-lying platforms where dancers would strut their stuff, and in the centre of it all a Perspex bubble, inside which I would descend from the ceiling at the speed of a bungee jump for the intro, and in which, at the climax of the show, I would float into the air and apparently disappear in a black hole supernova of lasers, dry ice and assorted pyrotechnics. It was, as Beasley frequently reminded me, one of the most expensive musical productions ever to be staged, only made possible by our friendly sponsors at Budweiser, Apple, Mastercard and, incongruously, Max-Mart, a budget store chain trying to raise their global profile (Can’t pay the groceries this week? Make up the money you blew on a big night out with savings on generic household products). The production had been installed in Queens for a month, we were about to launch this spectacular in two days, and I still hadn’t managed to get through a full dress rehearsal. Carlton became so frustrated with my absences he hired a stand-in to work with the band, an American Idol reject from Seattle called Jan Duran who had achieved fifteen minutes of fame doing an impersonation of me on prime-time TV almost perfect down to every detail, apart from the minor problem that she was an overweight lesbian African American.

‘Jan can do the rehearsal,’ I whined, as Beasley subjected me to his most lethal glower.

‘And should she do the show at Madison Square Gardens on Monday as well, or do you think people might notice?’ my manager replied in his quietest, most commanding voice. He was doing the hypnotic thing with the finger again but I wasn’t falling for his tricks. I complained that I was tired, overemotional, my voice was sore from talking all day and I needed a short break to gather my strength for this evening’s awards show, all of which was true, and none of which was really the issue.

I had developed a growing dread of rehearsal. I had a recurring dream that I was onstage and couldn’t remember the lyrics of any of my songs (which had never happened, and anyway, Carlton had installed hidden autocues to scroll through lyrics for my understudy). And another dream where I was halfway through my big opening number when I realised I was naked from the waist down (which my audience would probably enjoy). I affected nonchalance but I was secretly as perplexed as everyone in my team. I had never experienced stage fright in my life. I took to performance like I was born under the glare of the spotlight. Singing onstage I could sail free, liberated from the incessant barrage of my own thoughts, released into the beat until I was part of the music, a human conductor for soundwaves, not really there at all. Nothing came close, not even drugs, not even sex, not even a double-header orgy on crack cocaine and ecstasy with Penelope and a thousand-dollar-an-hour Vegas hooker, which had happened, and if the tabloids ever got hold of that we could kiss the sponsors goodbye.

The thing is, I had never really toured live without The Zero Sums. My solo career had all been TV and Internet slots, awards shows and one-off promo specials, where everything was focused on the event. This arena tour of the States was like starting all over, and it didn’t really matter how many stage crew it took, how many virtuoso musicians we employed, how many special effects we dreamed up, I felt like I was going out there naked, with nowhere to hide if anything went wrong. I mean, I had a great band, but they were hired hands, they weren’t really a band at all, no one cared about them and they didn’t care about each other, it was all me, me, me. The way I had wanted it all along. But the closer it came, the more terrifying it seemed.

Carlton was trotted out to plead that the band needed me. I argued that I knew the songs inside out (true); that I had gone through the whole set on many occasions (sort of true, just not in one go, in the right order); that I was at my best when improvising (debatable, but winging it certainly added an edge); and that anyway, we still had another couple of days’ rehearsal, which I solemnly promised to attend. Donut turned up, declined to get into the air-conditioned limo, just stood in the hot car park and shook his head in disgust, muttering that I shouldn’t expect him to bring me grapes in hospital when they were surgically removing firecrackers from my arsehole.

Flavia confessed that she had arranged for select members of the press to walk through during rehearsal, at which Beasley rolled his eyes and said, ‘Screw the press, they’re not exactly doing us any favours. They can see it on Monday night like everybody else.’

So that was settled. The convoy turned around and headed back to the hotel.