— Yes. It’s about a lesbian having a secret heterosexual affair with ‘the only man who could ever teach her…’
Loud, derisive laughter erupts fae somewhere deep inside her. — Yeah, well, you taught me zero. Fuck sake, Mark, I have had boyfriends before! Don’t flatter yourself that you’re some kind of Henry Higgins of cock, she sniggers. — Starr is only the second girl I’ve gone out with, and her bottom lip quivers a little as her guilt kicks in.
Fuck yes. Ah’ve jumped ahead ay myself again. Ah still believe – despite all the contrary evidence – that every woman in the world has the capacity tae fall in love wi ays. And that they maybe have to fight quite hard against doing so. That mindset, call it a delusion if ye will, is one ay the greatest gifts I possess. Of course, the downside ay this is that I tend to overreach. — So it’s a phase?
— Oh fuck off, Mark. How old are you? Sixteen? It’s called life. It’s called 2016. I don’t see the choice of sexual partners as binary. If I find somebody attractive, then I’ll sleep with them. You’re an interesting man, Mark, don’t devalue yourself, you’ve done a lot. Luxury was one of the best clubs in Europe. You always booked female DJs. You brought big-time success to Ivan.
— Yes, but he fucked off as soon as he broke huge, I remind her.
— You need to start talking more about music again, Mark. You were really passionate about it. Now you just listen to any mixes some arsehole with half a following sends you. You’re looking for the next big thing, rather than letting the music lead you.
She’s so on the money it’s fucking scary. — I know that. But I’m an old cunt and I look silly lurking in the shadows of a nightclub full of kids.
— You think of me as a kid?
— No, of course not. But I’m still ages with your dad and I’m your manager, and you’re in a relationship, I say, suddenly thinking of not Starr, but Vicky, then trying not to.
— Oh, don’t give me that buyer’s regret shit.
— What do you expect me to say? I’m glad our slivers of existence intersected in a Venn diagram between the crushing slabs of oblivion on either side of them, but –
Emily’s finger shoots over my lips, silencing me. — Please, Mark, not the old guy’s mortality speech; always that sad and tiresome conversion of sex into death.
— How many older guys have you slept with? I instantly regret asking that.
— However many, it’s a damn sight fewer than the young club girls I’ve seen you slope off with.
— Not for a while now. And never with a client: that’s just wrong, I contend, unwisely adding, — And Mickey would kill me.
— What the fuck has my dad got to do with it? I’m twenty-two, for fuck sake! You’re as weird as he is!
Jesus fuck, that is much mair than half my age. — Quite a lot if he finds out, I should imagine, and I go into the bathroom and pick up my electric shaver.
— Don’t tell him then, she shouts through, — and I won’t tell your dad. You do have a dad – I mean, is he still alive? He must be like, ancient!
I drag ma shaver ower ma coupon. I stare back at masel in the mirror: a hollow fool who has learned fuck all. — Yes. My dad’s a bit older and frailer than he used tae be; he has a dodgy pin, but he’s hanging on in there.
— What would he say if he knew you were sleeping with somebody young enough to be your daughter?
— Did sleep wi, once, in a drunken accident, I stress. — He wouldnae think very highly of it, but he’s way past bothering about anything I do.
— And my dad should be too. It’s creepy.
— He only wants the best for ye because he cares, I tell her. I cannae believe the pathetic words stumbling weakly from my mouth, or that I’m defending Mickey, who seems tae heartily dislike me. I’ve just banged the lassie aw weys, now I’m almost telling her she should study hard or she’s grounded.
I emerge from the bathroom as thankfully my phone is going again and I have tae take this call as it’s Donovan Royce, a promoter for Electric Daisy Carnival in Vegas, who never returns calls. — Mark! The fuck, bro!
— Hey, Don. So what’s the story on a slot for my boy? In the hallway mirror, I watch Emily bristle. But I have tae work for my guys too.
— I’ll be straight, EDC, the Ultra EDM crowd thing… they just ain’t for N-Sign. They’re too young, too musically uneducated for his sophistication.
— Don, come on. He’s putting a lot intae this comeback.
— Mark, it’s N-Sign Fucking Ewart! I grew up fucking chicks at high school under his poster! The man is a house-music legend to me! It’s not me you have to sell N-Sign to. It’s me who has to sell him to kids who have goldfish attention spans. Who don’t even wanna dance, just want to punch the air and go ‘yay’ and grind up against each other as another small segment of a pop hit comes on. They don’t wanna go on a journey with an old maestro. It’s apples and oranges.
— Let’s educate them then, Don. You used to be a true believer. l glance ower at Emily who has stretched forward in the bed, her long, thin frame almost in a yoga pose.
Loud laughter erupts down the phone. — You gotta be desperate to pull that old number. It’s business, bro, as in ‘regrettably in this instance we cannot get it on and do any’.
The conversation is depressing as fuck. But it’s the basic truth: Carl will never get on the bill for an EDC or Ultra unless he has another pop hit. Ironically, the cunt is capable ay daein just that. But first I have to get him back into a place he now hates: the studio. I look back at Emily. — What about my girl, Emily, DJ Night Vision?
— I like her shit, but she isn’t that sexy.
— I disagree, I say, genuinely stung. My ravaged baws say otherwise.
— Okay, seeing as it’s you; the Upside-down House, an afternoon slot. Tell her to show some skin. Maybe a bit of cleavage. She has a pair of titties, right?
For fuck sake. Who is this cunt? The Upside-down House too; it’s the smallest stage. — Early evening. Wasteland. It’s right up her street.
— Wasteland is booked solid with reserves in place. I can do her a Quantum Valley slot, provided she can do trance.
— She fucking is trance, mate, I wink at Emily, who is nodding fifty to the dozen.
— Four till five.
— An evening slot, mate, help a brother out.
A loud sigh down the phone, then, — I can do 7.15 p.m. till 8.30.
— Done. You are a fucking man-ride and you are getting rammed till your eyes pop out your head on stalks and swing so far doon your body they are like all-seeing testicles, I tell him. The fucker is getting objectified and sexualised right back.
— Wow… thanks, I think, he says.
As I click off, Emily shoots tae alertness. — What the fuck was that?
— Got you a slot at EDC, I say, keeping it low-key, pulling on my clathes. I find wi DJs, well, mine anyway, if ye fist-pump the air aboot a gig, bristling wi enthusiasm, the cunts will moan about it no being good enough. But play it low-key, and they squeal with excitement.
— EDC! That’s a big deal!
— It’s only Quantum Valley, early evening, and you’ll have to load it with a trance vibe, I say in fake dreariness.
— But that’s fucking great! Quantum Valley is the best space at EDC! You rock, Mark Renton!
It’s aw about expectation management. — Thanks, I smile, as the phone goes again.
— Switch that thing off and come back to bed!
— I cannae, babe, this isnae a good idea for either of us. If I shag one ay my DJs I have to shag them all. It’s called democracy. And I was always useless at swinging the other way. Let’s leave it at that and discuss later, I offer, as the phone rings off.