Thankfully, when we get to the Standard, the escort, Brandi, is waiting, and she’s pretty cool. Conrad vanishes with her and both ay the girls, shutting a miserable Jensen out ay the party. But he has a room, paid for by Citadel Productions, to be later charged to their client Conrad Appeldoorn as a management expense. I take an Uber back tae Santa Monica and my bed. I try to get to sleep, craving that fluttering comma induced by two Ambien and half a bottle ay Night Nurse. I resist, in spite of my eyes snapping open at intervals and devouring the ceiling in creeping dread. When sleep comes it’s in the dreamscape of a theatre stage, where I seem to be taking part in a Noël Cowardesque play, with a monocled and smoking-jacketed Franco, and a ballgown-wearing Vicky/Melanie mixture.
My apartment in Santa Monica is in a dreary complex on the corner of a block. The orange paint covering the exterior walls has been diluted to save money, tapering out from brash and showy, to a meagre, insipid covering, pallid as it bends into the side street. On the plus side, it has a communal rooftop sundeck, with a pool rarely used by anybody other than two chain-smoking French queens. In the mornings, as I call the afternoons – I tend tae operate on DJ hours – I like tae sit up here with my laptop and dae emails and deal with calls. Up comes one I’ve been avoiding, a promoter back in Amsterdam. The poor cunt is so persistent that I have tae take it. Fucking time zones. — Des! We’ve been playing phone tag!
— We need Carl at ADE, Mark. He has relevance. Carl Ewart is acid house. Yes, that movable feast we know and love has fallen on hard times. But it will be back. Next year is the thirty-year anniversary of Ibiza ’87. We need N-Sign in that booth and on top form.
I’m silent in the face ay his rigmarole. It’s a heartbreaker when somebody is bringing their A-game and you ken that you’re still gaunny disappoint them.
— Mark?
I look at the blinding sun, screwing up my eyes. Should have put on sunblock. I consider hanging up or telling Des I cannae hear him. — We can’t do ADE, mate. We booked another gig in Barça.
— You bastard. You promised me at Fabric that you’d be at ADE!
I was coked. Never make promises on drugs. — I said we’d try. The Barça gig is a good stage for Carl, Des, we couldnae pass it up. They gave us the Sonar slots this year. Can’t disappoint them.
— But you can disappoint us, right?
— Des, I’m sorry, mate. You know the score.
— Mark…
— Yes, Des?
— You’re a cunt.
— I’m not going to fight you on that one, Des. I stand up, walk over to the parapet and look across at the freeway traffic, moving slowly towards the beach. Up ahead, the rumbling ay a new metro train on the downtown Santa Monica stop, at last connecting the beach towns with LA and Hollywood. There was a time when I’d have been excited about that; now I realise I haven’t even been on it, and tae ma horror, I can’t think ay when I’d need tae. Instead I’ll charge around in rental cars on choked freeways, looking for parking validation in hotel and office underground lots. Fuck sake.
— Wise move, Mark. Fuck you, you double-crossing motherfucker! If you knew the hassle I had to get your washed-up druggie homeboy on that fucking bill!
— C’mon, Des, let’s take it down a notch.
He sighs. — Fair enough, but fuck you anyway.
— I love you, Des.
— Yeah, sure you do, he says and hangs up.
I do feel like an absolute cunt, but as soon as ah acknowledge this, it just fades away. Back in the day, I never had that much ay a thick skin, even though ah pretended tae. Then, suddenly, it was just there. Like ah was a fuckin Tony Stark whae’d invented a psychic Iron Man suit. The upside ay developing that armour is the obvious one: fuck all bothers ye that much. The downer? Well, it’s like antidepressants. You dinnae get the lows, but ye sure as fuck miss the euphoria ay the highs.
The last few days have been so disorientating. Travel, time zones, sleep deprivation. I seem to be on the phone constantly, without making any inroads. Muchteld in the office back in Amsterdam, calling in various states ay alarm about it all. All this pish about online banking: it disnae work so smoothly when you’re between countries. Ah’ve spent most ay the eftirnoon talking tae ma bank in Holland, the ABN AMRO, to get them tae transfer money intae ma Citibank account here in the USA. Of course, trying tae withdraw cash is still a fucking hassle because… just fucking banks.
As is trying to withdraw fae Ambien. My eyeballs feel full of grit and my pulse trashes in them. Thankfully Vicky helps, coming round and dragging me tae bed. She tells me no more pills, just sex. After we make love I fall intae the deepest sleep I’ve had in months. In the morning, I’m delighted tae find that she’s stayed over. It feels great tae wake up with her. Even though it’s criminally early for me, I feel rested for the first time in ages. She even talks me into going for a run down the beachfront. Although she’s taking it easy, I’m struggling tae keep up, sweat surging and lungs burning. I dig in, pride at no being perceived as a past-it cunt propelling ays on. Afterwards we get some brunch then go back tae the apartment and bed. As Vicky stretches out, a big yawn, her sun-bleached locks sprawling over my pillow, it hits me through my ain exhaustion that I’ve no been this happy as I am at this precise moment in years.
In the evening we head tae Franco’s exhibition, or ‘Jim Francis’ as he now professionally styles himself. I suggest we take the metro. At first she looks doubtful, then agrees, and we glide in jocular relaxation towards downtown LA. Vicky is wearing a knockout glittering black dress and pumps, her hair pinned up. I feel an exalted, lucky bastard.
The gallery is in a single-floored warehouse conversion about fifteen minutes’ walk from Pershing Square in a neighbourhood full of cool street art. We chat to Melanie, with whom Vicky has already struck up a fine rapport. Although Vicky is English and shorter, there is a galling similarity in the way they talk and move. It seems bizarre that Franco and I can have similar tastes in women. Wearing chinos and a V-necked T-shirt, he stands a bit apart from everyone. He still gives off something that makes strangers reticent about approaching him, but it’s now more of a weary aloofness than naked aggression. Melanie provides the charm, excusing herself as she greets some more visitors, who are probably potential buyers.
We head over to Franco who welcomes Vicky and myself warmly. I haven’t told her his backstory (and mine) other than he was a bit rough and ready in the bad old days, doing some jail time before discovering art. As he chats to her about a painting depicting the crucifixion of Cameron, Miliband and Clegg, I look over at a grinning, charismatic wee guy with dark hair, who is being fussed over by an entourage. — Is that Chuck Ponce?
Franco nods, and Vicky remarks, — I’m working on the overseas sale of his latest film for Paramount. Not that I’ve met him!
The enthusiastic, slightly autistic star beams at Jim Francis, the artist formerly known as Begbie, and rushes over to us. Vicky and I get a nod and a cheesy smile, before he focuses on Franco. — Jimbo! My man! Long time no see!
— Yes it is, Franco concedes, his face immobile.
— I need a head! I need you to give me head, bro, he laughs. Franco remains stoical. — Charmaine, my ex… he drops his voice, as Vicky excuses herself and heads for the restroom, and I pretend to look at the art hung on walls and mounted on plinths. I pick up that Ponce is obviously trying tae get Franco tae dae a head ay Charmaine Garrity, his ex-wife and fellow Hollywood star. I grab a gless ay red wine fae a server’s tray and inch closer, hearing him urge, — Help a brother out, dude.