“I hope they continue to speak up,” the sound editor said. “Don’t forget they aren’t wearing their radio mikes. We’re relying on the ones dropping from the ceiling.”
“I know that, but what could we do? You can’t fit bloody battery packs onto naked people. They’d get in the way. Besides, what would you hang the mikes off?”
“All right, come on, then,” said Moon. “Another truth question. Who’s got one, then? Here, I’ve got one. Has anybody ever paid for sex?”
“Fahkin’ hell, Moon,” Gazzer laughed. “I’ve paid for it the next day all right, when I told the girlfriend I’d just knocked off her sister or her best mate or whatever.”
“No, I mean paid money for gratification. Been with a tart or summat.”
The reason Moon was asking became clear with her next comment. “All right, then. Who’s ever been paid for sex, because I know I fookin’ ’ave.”
This revelation definitely caused a flurry of interest.
“I’m not proud of it or anything, but at the end of the day I needed the money, right. I were doing arts and social studies at Preston uni, when it was the poly, and I hadn’t got the fees, and I were fooked if I was going to stand behind a bar all night making the same money I could get in twenty minutes lying on my back.”
Everyone was enjoying themselves except Sally. She hated Moon so much, her endless boasting and storytelling. So what if she’d been a prostitute? Who cared? Besides, Sally didn’t believe it. She didn’t believe anything that Moon said any more, and she never ever would again.
“I’ve been in a porn movie,” Kelly said. “Does that count as being paid for sex?”
Silent in the darkness, David tensed. Where was she going with this?
“Well, it depends if you’ve actually done it for the camera or not,” Garry said. “I’ve got this film, it’s called LA 100 and all it is, right, you’ll never believe this, but it’s true. All it is is this bird shagging a hundred blokes in a row. Can you believe that! I couldn’t till I saw it. One after the other. In you go, my son, wallop, thank you very much, lovely jubbly, we like that! Next!”
“I don’t believe it,” said Dervla. “You couldn’t shag a hundred times, it would be impossible.”
“No, no, honest. It was all kosher, they had authentic adjudicators with clipboards and everything. This bird really did do the ton. And at the end of the day, fair play to her, I say.”
“Yeah, well, I never actually had sex in the movie I did,” Kelly conceded. “I wouldn’t do that. You can forget it, they’re all such sleazy bastards, those porn actors. You wouldn’t risk it. I was just an extra, you know, a pair of knockers in the background. I had to kiss this other girl’s nipples, but that was it and we just had a laugh about it, but there was plenty of them actually at it, let me tell you, and it was disgusting: shagging and sucking and slobbering and all. The star took it both ways at the same time. I could not believe it, both ways, bonking and being bonked. I mean, come on.”
“Not easy rhythmically, I would imagine,” Jazz opined. “I should think you’d need a metronome, or there could be a nasty pile-up.”
“You wouldn’t know whether you was coming or going!” Garry roared, and they all roared with him.
Except David. Where is she going with this? he was thinking, his fists clenched with tension. Where is she going with this?
“He was called Boris Pecker, and he just stood there poking away at these girls in front of him while he got poked at by these blokes from behind him. Unbelievable, it was.”
David was already sweating profusely, but if it were possible he actually began to sweat a little more. Was she about to reveal all? Was this common, ignorant cow going to give him away? David longed to reach out into the darkness and shut that big fat mouth up before it could say any more. He longed to gag it, to ram it shut, to silence it for good.
It was obvious to David that Kelly was directing her remarks at him, and it was a bitter blow. He had almost begun to relax about that whispered moment of recognition that they had shared together in the hot tub. It had shocked him deeply at the time, but as the days wore on and she did not mention it again he had started to imagine that perhaps he had heard her wrong, or at the very least that his secret was safe with her.
And now…
Now she was teasing him, no, taunting him, with her knowledge of his secret, the secret that could destroy his dreams for ever.
Because there was only one thing in David’s life that really mattered to him and that was his acting. All he had ever wanted, all he ever would want, was to be an actor, a celebrated actor, of course, a star. At one time in his life, just after he had left RAD A, it had almost seemed as if this dream might come true. He had won prizes, got some decent first jobs, and his talent was spoken of highly amongst influential casting agents. But somehow it hadn’t lasted. While others in his graduation class had found their way to the National Theatre, the RSC, and even Hollywood, his flame had sputtered and dimmed.
But David still believed from the depths of his soul that he had a fighting chance. He was a good actor, his was surely a talent too rare to go unnoticed for ever. What was more, he was handsome, achingly handsome. All he needed was a break, and that was why he had applied to join House Arrest. He knew, of course, that it was a pretty desperate final gambit, but he was a pretty desperate man, a completely desperate man, in fact.
After House Arrest David would be a telly name. He simply could not believe that this would not get him somewhere, a nice little Shakespearean lead at the Glasgow Citizen’s, or perhaps the West Yorkshire Playhouse… and then, if the notices were good, a short London transfer would follow… and then… then he would be back on track!
Back on track to catch up with all the bastards from his year who were doing so much better than he was. Back on track to be able to open the arts pages of the newspapers once more without having to curse every single fucking profile of some bastard ten years younger than him who had just redefined the art of playing Shakespeare in a promenade production in a garden shed on the Isle of Dogs.
But none of this would ever happen if people knew that David Dalgleish, actor, artist, man who took no job unworthy of his talent, was in fact none other than Boris Pecker! Olivia Newton Dong! Ivor Biggun!
Then he would be a laughing stock. “Porn star” was not a label it was possible to shake off, particularly not the type of porn star that he had been, a fuck and suck man. Oh, certainly, a little bit of Polanski or Ken Russell early in one’s career was fine. Without doubt one could bare one’s youthful arse for a name director with impunity; it was actually considered rather classy. Even an early dabble in soft core classics was survivable, particularly if you were a girl. A daringly graphic Lady Chatterley rarely did any harm, nor did a corsets-off Fanny Hill.
But not Fuck Orgy Eleven.
Not The Banging Man.
Not… Pussy Picnic.
David wondered where Kelly was sitting. It was difficult to tell inside the hot, rank darkness. It crossed his mind that if he could reach her, he could strangle her where she sat and nobody would notice.
That would shut the bitch up.