Exposure (54 page)

He kicked the heel of his shoe indignantly against the step. He was not going to stand around reliving bad sensations—what was the point? It was a habit to be consigned to the past, because this evening was going to be unlike any other in his life. He felt passionately that he had never truly done justice to himself before and that now was the time to begin. No matter how much he had felt condemned to genial mediocrity by Sophie or his dad, or by the teachers at school, he had always been conscious of a huge emotional and imaginative potential inside himself. In a sense, he had always been waiting to be discovered. He was sure that other people didn't feel like that; that people wouldn't
feel
unique, if they weren't.

Arianne was unique—and he had told her he loved her and expected it to be enough! How could that ordinary phrase have satisfied a girl like her? She had gone off in search of more because she deserved more—more drama, more glamour, greater depths of expression. She deserved Technicolor, not the restrained palette of upper-middle-class English emotion he had offered her.

The irony was, if she had understood what he felt, who he really was, beneath these misrepresentations, she would never have left him! He had everything she needed. He knew he did.

Now he must show her how passionate he really was. Not words: action. She would be convinced by his determination—because it was really the only language she respected. She had played games with him when they had sex— 'Why don't you just
do what you want,
Luke? It doesn't matter what
I
want all the time, just please your
self—even if it hurts me,
' - and he had not understood that she was being serious. The point hadn't got through until now. He had always thought you were meant to be careful with girls and to keep checking you were doing it right, asking them if it felt nice, because all the men's magazines told you how easy it was to get it catastrophically wrong. And girls wanted it just as much as men—he had learnt that very quickly at university: you only had to sit with a group of them and a bottle of vodka to discover that. And, of course, girls could fake it, too, which was terrifying—and he had always found it impossible not to worry that they were.

It was no wonder Arianne had got bored. It was as if he had not had any idea how to be a man! Until he was in possession of the gun, he had guiltily wished, every so often, that her injury after the crash had been far more serious than a few broken bones in her foot. If she had broken a leg and an arm, say, she might have stood still long enough for him to learn how to be a man.

But these were undignified thoughts. He had gone through this self-pitying stage and had come out certain that he had needed to lose her. He had been tested and now he was worthy of her. He would win her back simply by showing her the strength of his love.

He finished the joint, feeling almost painfully elated, and stubbed it out on the sole of his shoe. His heart pounded and he felt a little dizzy. Rosalind was watching him from the door to the hallway and she came into the kitchen. 'Oh, you look so
handsome,
darling,' she said. 'Honestly, why d'you have to go and ruin it all with those smelly cigarettes?'

He turned and smiled and her son's beauty hit her straight on. 'Oh, Luke, you really do look wonderful. I see the beard's gone. I can't say I'm sorry, darling.'

'Shaved,' he explained. He had suspected when he saw her standing there that he might find interaction quite difficult—he told himself he was simply too 'psyched up'—and he knew now that he must get away from the kitchen.

Rosalind put a glass in the sink. 'Did you eat the bits and bobs I left you? The chicken salad?'

'Yes, thanks.'

'Good. Where are you off to, darling?'

'Birthday party,' he said.

'Oh, how
lovely.
Whose? Do I know them?'

'It's Arianne's, actually.'

Her voice dropped with concern. 'Oh. You've been in touch, then?'

He walked over to the bin and put the empty bottle into it, concealing the untouched chicken salad he had scraped into it earlier. 'Yup. Been in touch,' he said.

Rosalind watched him tucking in his shirt. 'Where's the party?'

'It's this new bar. Place called Lapis-Lazuli.'

'What an unusual name. It's rather lovely.'

'D'you think so? I hate it. I think it's really vulgar,' he said, with a tense smile.

'Oh. Do you?' She laughed at the vehemence of his reaction. 'Well, I'm sure the name won't matter when you're in there. You'll all be dancing and listening to awful music on top volume, no doubt.'

'Exactly, Mum,' he said, kissing her cheek.

As Luke ran upstairs—he'd told her he had to get his wallet—Rosalind wondered if she ought to call her husband. Alistair had left a message on the answerphone (having carefully chosen a time at which she would be out), saying little other than that he was all right.

What on earth was her husband
doing
? she wondered. She supposed he probably was 'all right' and it was certainly doing her no harm to be without him for a bit: he was a heavy presence in the house and she did not want to cook for him. For his own part, Alistair must be glad to have his mother's old house to escape to. So be it, she thought.

The trouble was that she was genuinely worried about Luke and she felt it was time to address their son's eccentric night-time habits, his lack of interest in his work. Was he ever going to go back to his flat? These things had to be discussed at some point.

But must it be right away? She had no desire at all to hear Alistair's stupid voice. All that fear and guilt—it was revolting; she had detected a note of self-indulgence in it, and recoiled. Also, more essentially, she did not want to be 'the wife' just now. In fact, when she thought about it, she didn't particularly feel like being 'the mother' either.

No, it was a lovely evening and she wanted a drink and—for goodness' sake, she had worried about Luke for twenty-eight years and he would still be around for her to worry about tomorrow.

"Bye, then, Mum,' called Luke from the hall. She leant back on one foot to catch sight of him. He appeared to be wearing a jacket, which seemed crazy on such a mild evening, but she let it go. Let him wear a jumper in the sunshine and short sleeves in the snow, let him swim right after lunch and fill the machine with a mixture of darks and whites. This would be her temporary attitude—he was on his own this evening. Anyway, he sounded bright enough, she told herself. For God's sake, he was going to a
party—
he was probably in danger of
having fun.
She switched on the radio for the gardening programme,

"Bye, darling. Have a lovely party,' she sang out, but Luke had already closed the front door.

 

Lapis-Lazuli was near the Portobello Road, just under a flyover covered with ragged posters. JamieTurnbull and Liam Bradley had chosen a venue in the last remaining 'authentic' patch of the area, not far from the market-place. It would soon become expensive and fashionable like the rest of Notting Hill—and the flats overlooking the littered road would all be standardized with parquet floors and wet rooms, but for now there were still dealers on the corners, still kids on skateboards, still the sharp, savoury smell of marijuana drifting out at the bus stops.

It was a warm evening, but Luke kept his jacket on, his fingers holding the barrel of the gun in the right-hand pocket. He felt strangely cold and was not sorry to be forced to wear the extra layer to conceal the gun. He decided to walk to Lapis-Lazuli as he was already in danger of arriving too early. In fact, it would be necessary to waste time dawdling in a large circle before he could reasonably think of arriving.

First he went up Holland Park Avenue, along Notting Hill, and then he took a right, down Kensington Church Street. At the bottom he walked slowly up and down the high street, gazing into the bright shop windows. There were shoes and blazers, bras and knickers, vases, cushions, négligées, salad bowls, bath oils, scents and hats. There were silk wraps and bikinis, earrings and trainers, CDs and stereos and surfboards and books.

After half an hour or so, as the last shops closed, he made his way back in the direction of Portobello.

When he arrived, there were around thirty people waiting outside the entrance to the bar. Luke had assumed it would mostly be women who complied with the 'All that glitters...' theme, but the queue was so decked out with costumes it was almost too bright to look at. Men wore sequinned Stetsons, pale gold shirts, diamond cufflinks, gold leather trousers; girls wore sparkly high heels, gold satin dresses, glittering bracelets, metallic hot-pants. One girl had sprayed-gold skin. Everyone had a golden brown tan. Thankfully, there were just enough people in smart-casual to mean that Luke did not look painfully out of place, but he was, none the less, on the precarious boundary between 'too cool' to dress up and 'too boring' to make an effort.

While the queue moved slowly up the carpet, the golden invitations batted out light in aggressive backhands at the passers-by. By the entrance stood an enormous bouncer and beside him a girl in gold jeans who chewed gum frantically and flipped pages of names on a clipboard. Luke surveyed the crowd. These were people who would not ordinarily dream of queuing for a club. They were VIP guest-list people, they were 'So-where's-our-complimentary-champagne?' people: women who never made eye contact, men who had perfected the nod of authority so the entry rope was up before they had even stepped out of the cab.

But all of them waited in line. It was obviously considered to be a very special occasion.

Ahead, Luke recognized a couple from the society pages in magazines. He knew that the girl was a model, one of the thin, ugly kind who always turn out to have billionaire fathers. Her boyfriend had gold dreadlocks, and Luke wondered if he had ever seen anyone so coked up.

The couple didn't speak to each other, except when they wanted to find or light cigarettes. As they waited, they stared at the road. Luke pulled his jacket round him, feeling sick with excitement and horror at the thought of what was concealed inside it: a little pocketful of darkness in the glare.

Gradually, the couple reached the head of the queue and, quite suddenly, they came to life. The man made a face at the doorgirl. Then he turned to his girlfriend and put on a voice—whining, camp, with an American accent: 'Oh,
man,
we have to, like, say our
names
for the
guest list
? This is
so
fucking
weird.
What's Jamie
doing,
the silly boy?'

His girlfriend searched for something in her bag. He sighed, pushed back his gold dreadlocks and, in what was probably his natural voice, he said, 'OK, so this is
Lay-dee Ann-er-bel Tun-der
and you probably have me down as
Si-mon An-der-son?
'

'Yeah, of course,' the doorgirl said, sounding embarrassed. 'I know who you both are.'

He grabbed Lady Annabel's arm.
'Honey!
We're
faymouth
!

The doorgirl smiled at him apologetically, 'It's just the system we use.' Then she looked down. 'Um, Slick, this is
so
cheesy, but I just wanted to, like, take this opportunity to tell you that I
loved
your last album. What you did with the Brazilian peasant guy's voice was
so
—'

Lady Annabel interrupted, 'My tits are freezing off?'

Slick moved aside for her. 'You liked that? Did you really? You really did?'Then he followed Lady Annabel, lamenting in the voice again, 'Hey! She thayth she loveth what I did with my
mew
thik, and you don't even
cayer.
She was a nice girl. Nice kitty. Bring Slicky another.'

They disappeared inside and the doorgirl put her hand on her chest and closed her eyes for a second. Then she looked at Luke, blushing, and said, 'Fuck, I can't believe I was just
this
fucking far from
Slick!

'Yeah,' said Luke, vaguely. He had realized a few months ago that there were musicians you had only heard of if you were under twenty-seven.

'Oh, my God,
breathe,
Tanya,' the doorgirl told herself. Then she began to chew her gum again and, composure regained, raised her eyebrows at Luke. 'Name?'

Caroline had told him to say his name was Mike Cecil. The girl searched the list of Cs three times.

'Sorry, you're not down,' she said dully.

'What? But I have this invitation. They sent it to my newspaper. To the
Telegraph,
I mean. For
me!

'Oh, what, you're
press?
'

'Yeah. Press.'

'You didn't need to
queue,
then. Press can just go straight in. Yeah, you're on the
press list.
Mike Cecil.' She spoke to him as though he was insane, as though he had broken the natural order of things.

Luke slapped his forehead. 'Busy day,' he said.

The girl gave a thumbs-up to the bouncer. The cord was raised and he went in.

And, quite suddenly, he had the sensation of pushing off from a rock through cool, blue water, a cascade of ripples and fizzing bubbles by his ears. It was impossible to relate the interior of the bar to the hot, dusty stream of traffic on the road outside, to the filthy pavement or the gum-chewing passers-by. There were no windows in the room and consequently there was no time of day, no weather. It might have been early evening in New York or three a.m. in Saigon. The electric lighting was gentle and flattering, the music seemed to come from all directions at once, but also, by virtue of some clever device, to run off in streams around quiet areas where there were deep velvet seats and low tables. Access to this room seemed as privileged as a glimpse of the deep sea, or as an image of a distant planet.

The main room was not enormous, but the ceiling was incred ibly high and there was a mezzanine gallery around it with matt glass in place of a railing, so it appeared that people were standing on the edge of a drop right into the centre of the floor. The ceiling itself was covered with a vast, apparently single mirror, and the crowd beneath daubed it with a gaudy, living fresco. The bar—as if to avoid design cliché—was unadorned black granite. Beside it, the DJ stand was elevated and glowing and behind the glass a girl in a pink Gap T-shirt was mixing house tunes, oblivious to the crowd.