Ambition (24 page)

‘A vodka martini, please. And a glass of milk.’

Joanna was a pretty girl, a lot like Beatrice Dalle everywhere but her upper lip, where she bore a distinct resemblance to Charlie Chaplin. She pouted reflexively. ‘Vodkatini, milk.
Right.’ She filled the glasses expertly and before Susan could move or protest, picked them up and flung them, milk first, at her bare breasts.

At this signal the crowd moved as one. She was pushed down on to her back; someone sat on her face, though whether for kicks or to obscure her view of the participants she couldn’t decide.
She couldn’t see or speak or hear; her senses were all in her body as mouths sucked at her breasts, different mouths taking turns and being wrenched urgently away to be replaced by other,
rougher mouths. Talk about fast food. When it seemed the whole bar had had their
hors d’oeuvres
, they went for the main attraction, taking her with their hands and mouths till she
lost count. Then she was ridden by half a dozen women wearing the longest, hardest dildoes imaginable; two seemed filed to a point, and one spurted something warm and thick into her.

She also lost count of the times she came. When one of the women on the other end of the dildoes tried to withdraw, Susan cried out and gripped her by the hips, pulling her back in. The whole
bar cheered as one, triumphantly yet good-naturedly, their applause ringing in her ears as she blacked out.

When she came to she was being hoisted up into the air by her wrists and ankles. Her dark hair fell over her face as she hung in a suspended swallow dive, her nipples the lowest point of
her.

She opened her eyes and looked at the new girl on the floor, the girl who had been hanging from the ceiling when she came in. The insatiable dominatrixes were swarming over her like flies on a
Danish pastry. Susan looked at the straight blonde hair, the ski tan, the slight cast in one eye and the sweet, insecure, ecstatic smile in the split-second before the beautiful, cruel-looking
Chinese girl who had been sitting on her face took her position once more, bringing new meaning to the phrase ‘I’ll sit this one out’.

And she knew, in that split-second, that she was looking at the double life of Michèle Levin.

Not only had Rupert Grey been ready for the world, but a good part of its population aged between twelve and twenty had been ready and waiting for him. With the decline of the
first wave of gender benders, a whole generation of troubled young things in love with their best friends had been left up the creek without an icon. Rupert Grey was the answer to both their
prayers and the glaring space on their bedroom walls. His voice, though small, was sweet and true – and his video did him no harm at all. Rupert lying in bed, naked to the waist and covered
with a black silk sheet, smoking Sobranies sultrily. Rupert in his shower, swallowing and spitting out shower spray in achingly slow motion. Rupert eating a banana for breakfast and mooching around
an expensively spartan waterfront loft (‘Can’t keep away from the docks, can he?’ sniggered Zero when she saw it) miming ‘Too Young’.

He went to number one in Britain, Greece and Germany and top ten in France, Italy and Israel. He flew around Europe miming on TV shows, bought a lot of new clothes in South Molton Street, drank
pink champagne until he was sick of it and refused all interviews, on Gary Pride’s advice.

‘The Garbo approach,’ said Gary Pride confidingly to Susan as they sat in the Groucho, having met by accident, she waiting for Zero and he for one of the long line of record
producers he was engaged in auditioning for Rupert’s next record. Since Rupert’s success Gary’s attitude to her had changed considerably, and he greeted her like an old friend
every time they ran into each other. Just
how
old he didn’t seem to have remembered, for which she was fervently grateful.

‘More like Rin Tin Tin,’ she laughed.

He laughed too, slyly, looking around mischievously. ‘Steady, gel. Don’t bite the bender that feeds me. I like your frock. Don’t let Rupee see it, he’ll want
one.’

‘Thanks.’ She was wearing a tight, short-skirted pillarbox-red suit by Myrene de Prémonville. ‘I liked your
Face
interview.’

He nodded, pleased. ‘Yeah, it’s best if I handle the verbals. Rupe’s a cute kid, bless him, but the man upstairs was taking a tea-break when they put the reckoning gear
in.’ The vow of silence he had thrust upon Rupert fitted in nicely with Gary Pride’s plans to be
the
Mediavelli of the Nineties, a big-time manipulator who aimed to be both
more famous and more enduring than his stars.

‘What’s the next record, then? Another cover? “My Boy Lollipop”, “Bend It”, “Where The Boys Are”?’

Gary’s face darkened. ‘He wants to do his own stuff.’

‘Oh, no.’ Susan was genuinely disappointed. This moment was the one every manager, record company and genuine pop fan alike dreaded; the first stirrings of creativity in their young
charges like some malign tumour coming to fruition.

‘Happens to all of them,’ Gary said sagely. ‘Though this one’s going to have a fucking fight on his hands with me, I can tell you. He’ll be back on the game before
you can say AIDS if he plays up. Look, there’s your mate.’ He looked critically at Zero, who was peering short-sightedly into the club, absent-mindedly twisting her tail around her
finger. He liked bleached blondes in tight dresses. ‘She’s a smart tart. What a waste of talent. What’s that bit of old rope she’s got stuck on her bum?’

‘It’s her tail,’ said Susan defensively.

He looked at her and laughed, holding his hands up in front of him.

‘OK, OK, I’m sorry. I only asked. When’s the wedding?’

‘Zere! Over here!’

Zero saw them, and pretended she had been peering around merely in the interests of networking. She stopped at three sofas on the way to whisper in the ears of various sharp-suited women and
complete the illusion. Finally she got to their table. ‘Hello, bach. Hello, Mr Prince. How’s it hanging?’

‘Going up with a bullet every time I look at you, Zero.’

‘Yeah, but what goes up must come down, isn’t that so? And in your case I’ve heard it’s fast forward.’

He laughed. ‘You got great legs, gel. Legs are a girl’s best friend, aren’t they? But even best friends have to part some time.’

Zero looked at Susan. ‘Did you bring this in on the heel of your shoe?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m going. I see my dinner. KEITH!’ Gary Pride stood up and waved at an anonymous face whose way with a control panel had made him a household sound.
‘Be right over! Bye, girls. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

‘What, think?’

He laughed and left.

Zero stood looking after him. ‘I don’t know how you can stand to be seen with that. He’s got tackiest rep in this town.’

‘You shouldn’t be late, then. What’s wrong?’

‘Oh, nothing. He dropped Donna when Rupert Grey took off, and she pissed off back to Paris. I was having a bit of a thing with her. I think I could have liked her, you know?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Forget it.’ She looked at Susan and smirked. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. Don’t open your mouth too wide.’

‘Why not?’

‘Someone might stick a letter in it!’ Zero cracked up.

‘Very funny.’

‘Don’t fight it, bach – there is no life after black. It’s a rag hag’s con trick to keep you buying junk of many colours that you don’t need. She who is tired
of the little black dress is tired of life.’ She looked around impatiently. ‘Speaking of which, I feel like getting drunk. Shall we make a night of it?’

‘I’m seeing David at ten. Sorry.’

‘S’OK. Androna! Thirteen martinis, please. Ta.’ She looked at Susan boldly, daring her to say something. She didn’t. ‘So what was New York like?’

‘Very tall.’

‘And what did he make you do?’

‘Something you’d approve of.’

Zero sat up straight. ‘Dykes?’

‘A whole lot of them. Anonymously. In a bar.’ She leaned closer. ‘I hung from the ceiling.’

‘Good God, girl.’ Zero stared at her.

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

‘My lips are sealed. You’ll have to feed me my martinis by drip.’

‘And that’s not all.
She
was there.’

‘Who?’

‘
Her.
His girlfriend. Michèle.’

‘You sure?’

‘Either that or she’s got a dyke double.’

‘Inside every faithful girlfriend there’s a raging dyke dying to get out. The quiet ones are the worst, too. That’s what I always say.’

‘Frequently.’

‘Well – game, set and match, isn’t it, bach? And you from Nowhere-on-Sea and all.’

‘It would seem so. I’m going to tell him tonight. Postcoitally. And I’ve got proof. She’s got a birthmark. How would I know about that if I was bluffing?’

‘Well, congratulations. That’s fantastic.’ Zero drained one of her glasses. ‘And the rest of your problems?’

‘I’m waiting for Irving and Lejeune to make their next move and while I’m not exactly looking forward to it like a child to Christmas morning I feel better about it now
they’ve shown me their hand. I’m seeing Moorsom tomorrow and presenting him with my
fait accompli.
And there are only two tasks to go. Things are looking better.’

‘Well.’ Zero raised her third glass. ‘Here’s to you, bach. And may all your troubles be curable by penicillin.’

‘You did
what
?’ hissed David Weiss, springing naked from the bed.

‘I saw Michèle. This weekend.’

‘In New York?’

‘No, in Sainsbury’s. Of
course
in New York.’

‘What were
you
doing in New York?’

‘I was taking a break. Getting away from it all.’

‘You were
snooping
, you mean.’

‘I certainly wasn’t,’ she said primly. ‘It was complete accident, coincidence, or whatever you want to call it, that I ran into her.’

‘Where?’

‘In a bar.’

He laughed. ‘You’re lying. Michele hates bars. She doesn’t drink.’

‘I never said she was drinking. I never said it was a drinking bar.’

‘What do you mean?’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What other sort of bar is there? What sort of bar was this?’

‘It was a dyke bar,’ she said, looking straight into his eyes.

He picked up the TV and threw it at her. She jumped off the bed and it missed. He caught her by the throat and slapped her face twice. ‘You EVIL cunt!’ he shouted.

She was too exhilarated by her power to be frightened. ‘I saw her! I’m telling you, it’s
true! I saw her birthmark
!’

He let go of her and pushed her away, moving backwards. He was looking at her as if
she
had attacked
him
, as if she was armed and dangerous. He knew that there had been a
switch, and that she had the power now. He looked like a victim. ‘What birthmark? You’re lying.’

‘Shall I describe it to you, David?’ Naked and beaten, she felt as though she was wearing six-inch heels and had just had a long all-body massage. She felt great. It was called being
in control, and it wasn’t at all overrated. ‘On the left thigh, very dark, in the shape of a pineapple. About – this big.’ She held up a thumb and forefinger a little way
apart.

He fell back on to the sofa and, with a loud groan, put his head in his hand. ‘Get me a drink. Scotch. QUICK!’

She poured a triple J&B at the bar, feeling like a nurse; it struck her that she was so used to doing nothing for men that even fixing a drink for one made her feel self-sacrificing. She
took it to him and laid a hand solicitously on his glossy black hair. Now she had him, she was going to be extra nice to him. She was going to be nicer to him than any woman had been to any man in
the history of the world. And it would mean more because she was doing it completely of her own free will. ‘Here’s your drink,’ she said softly.

He groped for the glass. ‘What’s the name of this place? Who runs it? I’ll kill the bastard.’

Patricide, how handy. But much too news worthy. ‘I don’t know its name, it was very discreet. The club equivalent of the LBD. Somewhere on the Upper West Side, but I couldn’t
begin to remember where. I don’t know New York well.’

‘Who took you there?’

‘A friend.’

‘A dyke?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then she must know the place.’ He grabbed the phone and thrust it at her. ‘Call her now.’

‘I can’t ask her to reveal this just so you can go round and burn the place down, David. That’s not ethical. I thought you had ethics.’

He laughed nastily. ‘I feel like I’m the only sucker in the world with ethics. I’m pretty fucking sick of carrying them when every other bastard in the world is traveling
light.’

That he considered himself to be weighed down with principles while so copiously and enthusiastically betraying his fiancée with her struck Susan as rather self-deluding,
self-dramatizing, self-regarding and totally American – an innocence that bordered on psychopathy – but she let it pass. ‘David,’ she said gently. ‘Your argument is
not with some poor dyke running a bar and trying to turn an honest buck’ – a novel description of Tobias Pope if ever there was one – ‘but with your fiancee. Who was not
dragged in off the street by the Dyke Patrol, but who went there of her own free will and in a similar manner undressed and hung from the ceiling naked as the day she was born, for all the world
like an Allen Jones chandelier.’

He threw his Scotch at her, glass and all. She dodged ‘I’m losing my mind here, and you’re making funnies! Get me another one.’ He grabbed the phone again.
‘I’m gonna call her.’ He fumbled at the dial and waited.

‘Michèle?’

Pause.

‘Yeah, it’s me. Listen. I know this sounds weird. But it’s best if I come right out and say it, Someone’ – he looked daggers at Susan – ‘told me they
saw you in New York this weekend. In a dyke bar. Naked. Hanging from the ceiling.’

Pause.

‘Yeah, I know how crazy I sound. But this person described your birthmark.’

There was a very long pause. Susan walked over to the bar, poured herself a shot of J&B, drank it, lit one of David’s Camels, put it out and used the toilet. When she came out, the
pause was still pregnant.