Читать книгу The Complete Man and Boy Trilogy: Man and Boy, Man and Wife, Men From the Boys - Tony Parsons - Страница 36

‘Did you make love to the make-up girl?’ I asked Eamon.

He looked at me in his dressing-room mirror and I caught a flash of something passing across his face. Fear maybe. Or anger. Then it was gone.

‘What’s that?’ he said.

‘You heard me the first time.’

The show was taking off. Ratings were good and the offers of lager commercials were starting to come in. But to me he was still a scared kid from Kilcarney with wax in his ears.

‘Yes or no, Eamon? Did you make love to the makeup girl?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because she’s crying. We can’t even get her to put some slap on the guests because she’s sobbing all over her powder puff. It’s gone all soggy.’

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘I know she left the studio with you last week.’

He twisted on his little swivel chair, turning to face me with his head framed by the mirror’s border of bare electric lights. He didn’t look so scared any more, despite a shining trickle of sweat snaking through the thick layer of powder on his forehead.

‘You’re asking me if I made love to the make-up girl?’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I don’t care about your morals, Eamon. You can bugger the lighting director during the commercial break if you want to. I don’t care what you do when we’re off air. Just as long as it doesn’t interfere with the running of the show. And a weepy make-up girl who can’t do her job interferes with the running of the show.’

‘You’ve been a big help to me, Harry,’ he said quietly. Sometimes his voice was so low that you had to concentrate just to hear what he was saying. It gave him a certain power. ‘From the moment we met, everything you’ve said to me has made sense. “Remember – you’re only ever talking to one person,” you said. “If you have a good time then they will have a good time.” This stuff might not mean much to you but it’s helped me to get through it. It’s helped me to make it work. I couldn’t have done it without you and I’m grateful. That’s why I’m not angry that you’re asking me this question, a question that – perhaps you’ll agree? – would be a bit rude coming from my mother or my priest.’

‘Did you make love to the make-up girl, Eamon?’

‘No, Harry. I did not make love to the make-up girl.’

‘Is that the truth?’

‘That’s the truth. I did not make love to the makeup girl.’

‘Okay. That’s all I wanted to know.’

‘I fucked the make-up girl.’

‘There’s a difference, is there?’

‘A big difference. It wasn’t the start of a meaningful relationship, Harry. It was the culmination of something quite meaningless – that’s what I liked about it. And Carmen – that’s the make-up girl’s name, Harry, she’s called Carmen – might be a bit upset right now that there’s not going to be a repeat performance, but I strongly suspect that’s what she liked about it too. The very fact that it was a bit raw, a bit rough and for one night only. Sometimes a woman wants you to make love to her. Sometimes she just wants to get fucked. They are just the same as us, Harry. That’s the big secret. They’re just the same.’

‘Why didn’t anyone tell me before now? My life would have been so much simpler.’

‘I’m getting a lot of offers at the moment, Harry. And not all of them are beer commercials. Carmen’s a lovely girl. I’ll treat her with respect. I’ll be friendly to her. But she wanted exactly what I wanted and she got it. She can’t expect anything more from me. And when she gets a grip of herself, she’ll understand that.’

‘You’re not the first young guy who got laid because his ugly mug is on television once a week, Eamon. Just don’t bring your personal dramas into this studio, okay?’

‘Okay, Harry,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m sorry that this has been a disruptive influence, I really am. And I understand that you’re my executive producer and telling me this stuff is why you’re here. But I’m a man, okay?’

‘Yeah? Really? You sound more like some old blues song. I’m a man. Spelt m-a-n. Christ, you’re so fucking butch. You’ll be advertising aftershave next.’

‘I’m a man, Harry. And the reason I’m here is to plant my seed in as many places as I possibly can. That’s why we’re here. That’s what men do.’

‘Bollocks,’ I said. ‘That’s what boys do.’

But later, as I watched him leave the studio with the show’s cutest researcher, I thought – why not?

Why shouldn’t he plant his seed in as many places as possible? What would he be saving it for? And what was so great about the solitary little flowerpot that I was cultivating?

Suddenly there were all these rules.

I could stay at Cyd’s small, top-floor flat, but I had to be gone by the time Peggy got up. Cyd was happy to have me there when Peggy went to bed, and happy about me sleeping with her on the old brass bed under a framed poster of Gone with the Wind. But I had to be out of there before morning came.

Actually, there were not lots of rules. There was just that one rule. But it felt like a lot of rules.

‘Maybe later it will be different,’ Cyd said. ‘If we decide – you know – we want to take it further. If we want to make a proper commitment.’

As soon as I stopped looking into her wide-set brown eyes and she had turned out the light, I didn’t feel like making a proper commitment. To tell you the truth, what I really felt like was something a bit less complicated.

I wanted to be able to sleep in my girl’s arms without being woken up and told it was time to go home. I wanted the kind of relationship where you didn’t have to remember the rules. Most of all, I wanted things to be the way they were before everything got all smashed.

I was still dreaming when I felt Cyd’s mouth on mine.

‘Baby,’ she whispered. ‘Sorry. But it’s time.’

It was still dark outside, but I could hear pigeons hopping around on the roof directly above our heads, a sure sign that it was time to put on my pants and piss off before the sun came up.

‘Got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ I sighed, rolling away from her and getting out of bed.

‘I wish you could stay, Harry. I really do.’

‘So how long is it since you split up with Peggy’s dad? Three years? More? And how many men have you introduced her to?’

‘You’re the first,’ she said quietly, and I wondered if that was true.

‘I just don’t understand what harm it does if she sees me eating a bowl of Cornflakes. Jesus – the kid sees me all week long.’

‘We’ve been through all this,’ Cyd said in the darkness. ‘It’s confusing for her if you’re here in the morning. Please try to understand. She’s five – you’re not.’

‘She likes me. And I like her. We’ve always got on fine.’

‘That’s all the more reason for going now. I don’t want you to be an uncle to Peggy, okay? I want you to be more than that or less than that. But you’re not going to be an uncle. She deserves better. So do you.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Absolutely fine.’

‘You should love me for being like this,’ she said, more angry than hurt. ‘You should understand that I’m just trying to protect her and do what’s best for her. You’ve got a kid yourself. You know what it’s like. If anyone should understand, then you should understand.’

She was right.

I should have loved her.

For the first time in my life I could sort of understand why men of my age go out with younger women.

I never really got it before. Women in their thirties, their bodies are still springy and you can talk to them. They are still young, but they have seen something of life – probably quite a few of the same views that you have seen.

Why would any man trade that kind of equal partnership for someone with a pierced navel whose idea of a hot date is some awful nightclub and half a tab of something pretending to be Ecstasy?

If you can go out with someone who has read the same books as you, who has watched the same television programmes as you, who has loved the same music as you, then why would you want someone whose idea of a soul singer is the guy in Jamiroquai?

But now I got it. Now I could understand the attraction.

Men of my age like younger women because the younger woman has fewer reasons to be bitter.

The younger woman is less likely to have had her heart bashed around by broken homes, divorce lawyers and the sight of children who are missing a parent. The younger woman doesn’t have all those disappointments that women – and men, too, don’t forget the men – in their thirties drag around with them like so much excess luggage.

It was cruel but true. The younger woman is far less likely to have had her life fucked up by some man.

Men in their thirties and forties don’t go out with a younger woman for her bouncy body and her pierced tongue. That’s just propaganda.

They go out with her so that they can be the one who fucks up her life.

Heidi was a nanny from Munich.

Well, not exactly Munich – more Augsburg. And not exactly a nanny.

A nanny is a professional child minder who has made a career out of caring for small boys and girls. Heidi was a nineteen-year-old who was away from her parents for the very first time. She was just one economy flight on Lufthansa away from a bedroom full of stuffed toys and having her mum do her washing. She knew as much about child care as I knew about theoretical physics. Heidi was more of an au pair.

The plan was that Heidi was going to cook, clean and cover for me with Pat on the days I was working on the show. For this she would receive bed, board and pocket money while she studied English.

Pat was swaying on the sofa, listening to Sally’s tape, when I took Heidi through to meet him.

‘This is Heidi, Pat. She’s going to stay here and help us around the house.’

Pat stared blankly at the big blonde German girl, his mouth lolling open, lost in the music.

‘A lively and active boy,’ Heidi smiled.

Trying to show willing, she asked me what I would like for dinner. I told her that I would grab something in the green room at the station, but she should fix something for her and Pat. She shuffled about in the kitchen until she found a big can of tomato soup.

‘Is okay?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ I said.

Trying to let her get on with it, I sat at the kitchen table jotting down notes on next week’s shooting script.

Pat wandered in to watch her, leaving the music still blasting from the living room, and I sent him back to turn it off. When he came back he started pulling at my sleeve.

‘Guess what?’ he said.

‘Let Daddy work, darling.’

‘But guess what Heidi’s doing?’

‘And let Heidi do her work, too.’

Elaborately sighing, he sat down at the kitchen table and idly fiddled with a couple of his little plastic men.

Heidi was clanking about by the stove, but I didn’t look up at her until I heard the bubbles of boiling water. That was strange. Why was she boiling water to heat up a can of tomato soup?

‘Heidi?’

‘Is soon ready.’

She had placed the unopened can of soup in a saucepan of water and brought it to boiling point. She gave me a hesitant smile just before the can exploded, flinging steaming red gruel all over the ceiling, the walls and us.

Wiping the tomato soup from my eyes, I saw the livid red slime slide down Heidi’s face, her eyes staring through the oozing muck, mute with shock and wonder. She looked like Sissy Spacek in the prom night scene in Carrie.

Then she burst into tears.

‘Guess what?’ Pat said, blue eyes blinking in a crimson face mask. ‘She can’t cook either.’

So Heidi found a nice family in Crouch End.

And I gave Sally a call.