Ten Stories About Smoking (19 page)

‘I miss you too,’ I said.

That night Tom and Maria slept together. They left Emma and me on the balcony, drinking wine and making small talk. We almost kissed. It was harder not to than you can imagine.
She had just broken up with her husband, a telemarketer from Oldham, and the emotion of it was still raw. There were no tears as she told me about it, about the dull predictability of a dull
relationship. I told her about you, about how the one thing you never were was dull.

‘It must be hard for you, though,’ Emma said. ‘Putting up with all that.’

‘With what?’

‘You know. The tantrums and that. The constant attention. It’d wear me out. It were bad enough with Gary and his moods. But give him a beer and a blowie and he were fine. Well. At
least I thought he was. The way you talk about Cara, she sounds . . . you know. Difficult.’

I picked up the cigarettes and weighed them in my hand.

‘She means everything to me,’ I said. ‘I honestly can’t bear the thought of being without her.’

‘That’s the way I used to feel about cigarettes,’ Emma said, laughing. ‘Now I can’t stand the sight of them.’

She talked some more about Gary and we finished the wine. When she went to bed, I lay on the living-room sofa with an aching erection. I was trying to think of you.

You did not pick me up from the airport. London was rain-lashed and metal grey. Tom and I took the Tube across the city, the carriage a mix of those excited to be in the capital
and those dismayed at their return. We both fell asleep quickly and were lucky not to miss our stop. There was sand in my socks and the smell of suntan lotion on my skin.

‘Thanks for a great time,’ I said as we said goodbye at King’s Cross.

‘Keep in touch,’ Tom said. ‘Don’t leave it months like last time. I could be married by then.’

I slammed the door of his taxi and walked to the bus stop. I waited for a while and when the bus came I suddenly felt nauseous. I rode it out until Essex Road and then had to get off. The pubs
had just opened and I headed into the Duke of Marlborough. It was dark, the lights not yet lit, the only illumination the green wash from a television screen showing the racing. I ordered red wine
and sat down on a sofa and pulled out one of the books I had intended to read on the beach. Then you rang. You called me to ask how I was getting on. You sounded excited. I was about to say that
there had been a delay and I’d be home in an hour or so, but then I heard your voice properly, its tender spell. I finished my drink and hurried out into the filthy city rain.

You were wearing a short skirt and a T-shirt when I got back. You kissed me passionately and we talked for a little while before you pulled me into the bedroom. I wanted to last
longer, but I’d forgotten the softness of your skin, the way your body felt when against mine. Afterwards we shared a cigarette, your cheek on my chest and I looked around at the mess you had
left. There were plates and pizza boxes on the floor, empty bottles of wine and full ashtrays. Later I would tidy them away, I thought, after I’d put the washing on and had a shower. You
kissed my nipple and then sneezed. You ran your fingers through my chest hair and pulled at it slightly, as though checking it was still attached.

‘Things are going to be so much better,’ you said. ‘I can feel it.’

She finished the last of the cigarette and then yawned.

‘I finished that project, by the way,’ you said. ‘The one I told you about. I gave it to Johnny on Wednesday and he just can’t stop going on about it. Says it’s the
best thing he’s seen in years. I mean, he was raving about it. You know what he’s usually like, right? All tight-lipped and dour? He’s practically coming in his pants watching
it.’

‘That’s great. Wonderful news. What kind of thing is it?’

‘Film. Well, it’s sort of a montage . . . It’s hard to explain, but I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever done, Ben. That’s what Johnny says anyway. The best
thing I’ve ever done.’

‘What’s it about?’ I said, looking again to the dirty floor.

‘Sex and death,’ you said and laughed. ‘What else?’

You refused to say any more about it. Apparently Johnny thought that the power of the piece came from its surprise, and you didn’t want to spoil it for me.

‘But the papers are interested,’ you said. ‘Johnny even thinks we might get some television.’

‘Honey, Johnny’s full of shit most of the time.’

‘Everyone’s full of shit,’ you said. ‘Surely you know that by now?’

We’d been to Johnny’s gallery several times before, but there was something different about it when we arrived: there was expectation. You were being profiled for
Frieze
and this meant something to all of them. You made it: they all made it. James, Johnny, Jimmy, Davey, Mickey, Jane and Iola. There was music playing in the background, something
discordant on a cello. We drank bottles of Beck’s and glasses of wine, and watched as the space filled up. They looked at each face, conferred with each other about its relative importance. I
watched them all, so many people; more than I had ever seen at any of these things before.

James, Johnny, Jimmy, Davey, Mickey, Jane, Iola and I were outside. We were smoking cigarettes and I was listening to them talk about how you were effectively rewriting what was expected of
modern female artists. A couple – a pair of vastly more successful artists who were now working with rock bands on their promotional videos – came over to join us. I was introduced and
they shot me a familiar smile, one that acknowledged a non-combatant.

Then you were there. You were dressed in a black halter top and a short black skirt. Your nails were polished and your lipstick red.

‘Today is made for the vamp,’ you’d said as you were dressing, ‘the ingénue must stay at home.’

I handed you a drink. You did not look unsettled, rather you looked complete.

‘Aren’t you nervous?’ I said as we walked inside, through the crowd and up to the dais.

‘A little, but the journalist? She loved it. She’s saying it’s a defining work.’

I looked around at the collecting group and thought that they all looked the same, all dressed in black and charcoal grey. I got another drink and waited as Johnny introduced you.

Johnny finished his gushing praise and you took your place behind the microphone. They were applauding you without having seen the film. Then the clapping stopped and you began
to speak. This is what you said:

This is what we all saw projected onto the back wall of the gallery. What you made. Your art work:
Artistic and Naturalistic Representations of Sex and Death in its Concurrent States.

At first the screen is black. Then the audio track begins.
Oh yes! Oh fuck! Oh yes!
There is a man. He is naked. He is in a room with pale wooden floors. A blonde woman is on her knees.
She is sucking his penis. Behind them there are two women sitting on a sofa. They are naked. They are kissing. One has dark hair, the other has blonde hair. The woman with blonde hair is otherwise
hairless. The man is watching the two women. The two women stop kissing. Then the dark-haired woman begins to lick the hairless woman’s vagina. The man keeps watching. The woman on her knees
continues to suck his penis.

The screen goes blank for a moment. Then there is footage of a news report. It is the middle of a bulletin. The presenter is in a studio and he is American. He has white teeth and an orange cast
to his skin. He says:
. . . shooting in Malibu late Wednesday night. It is the fifth such gang-related incident to have occurred in the last week. Here’s Shola Singh with more.
The
scene shifts to the streets of Malibu. Shola Singh has hair that resembles a crash helmet. She looks intently at the camera and says:
Homicide detectives were called to the residence at 3.17
a.m. this morning . . .
The sound then lowers and is replaced by pornographic moaning.

The screen cleaves in two. On the left-hand side, the three women are now taking it in turns to suck the man’s penis. On the right-hand side the report into the shooting continues.

[left]
He puts his penis in the blonde woman’s mouth.

[right]
There is a picture of the victim. His name is Diego Riera, 23. He was shot 16 times. A detective appeals for witnesses. We go back to the studio.

[left]
He puts his penis in the anus of the dark-haired woman.

[right]
‘In Oakland,’ the anchorman says, ‘the funeral of pornographic actor Mark Steele caused controversy today. Demonstrators from the families of Jayne Lou Michaels,
known as Jayne Raine, Michelle de La Hoya, known as Jenna Levein and Angela Griffin, known as Angel Lord, disrupted this morning’s small service. Here’s Tammy Fallon at The
Shepherd’s Bay Funeral Parlour.