— Where is this? he asks.
— Wouldn’t it be great if there was this device called the Internet, whereby you could type in Speakeasy and Pico Boulevard, and the directions would come up as if by magic?
Conrad looks at me, and laughs disparagingly. — I think I know this device. It is in something called a phone, which you can also talk into when it rings. But I’m not sure that my manager has a fucking clue as to what it is!
— Point taken, bud, see you in a bit.
So I go up to the apartment, a bit trepidatious at the reception I’ll get from my dad, for taking off and leaving him and Alex, and now having to head straight back out. I’ve been leaning heavily on the poor old bastard. Since the two funerals, Vicky and I have been hanging out a lot, and I’ve stayed more than a few nights at hers down in Venice. Dad doesn’t seem to mind, agreeing that the couch won’t do my back any good, though I suppose I’ve been taking the piss a bit. But when I get in he’s sitting on the couch, playing video games with Alex. He points to the Xbox and the pile of games. — Just been stocking up, he says, neither one of them averting their eyes from the screen to me.
It’s fairly obvious that they are both fine with me going right out again. I head to the Speakeasy and Conrad’s parked up in the street outside, slumped over the dashboard like an activated airbag. I tap the window and he springs awake. We go into the bar and he orders a Diet Pepsi. Fuck me, the revolution has started. I order a nice bottle of California Pinot. The Speakeasy wine bar is almost empty tonight. Two young women sit at one table, and a group of executives at another, their loud chatter telling the world that they’re in TV. Conrad declines a glass of my plonk, but then augments his soft drink with a beer, as we settle down at a corner table. — I thought you were here to sack me, I confide.
— No, and he looks shocked, — do not be stupid! You are family to me, he says, as I quickly work through a glass, then refill. — Sometimes it feels like you are the only one who has ever taken an interest in me.
Fuck sake, now it’s me fighting back the King Lears here! This has been an emotional day. I rescue Begbie and Mel, and pummel some bent psycho copper half to death, get back the fortune I’d lost, and now this Dutch cunt is breaking my fucking heart! So I cope by letting the manager in ays kick in, the sudden intimacy between us giving me an opening. — The family thing, I look at him gravely, — I feel the same way about all you guys, mate… and that’s why it’s killing me to see you letting yourself go.
— What…?
— The timber, bro; it needs to be shed, and I punch his airm. — This weight is killing you, and it shouldn’t be that way. You’re a young guy, Conrad, it’s not right.
There’s a brief flash ay hostility in his eyes. Then they soften, moistening as he starts telling me about his old man. The dude is a classical musician with the Dutch National Orchestra, who has never respected his son’s love of electronic dance music. This lack of acknowledgement and credibility in his dad’s eyes depresses the fuck out of Conrad.
I suck in a long breath, and unload. — This maybe isnae what ye want tae hear, mate, but fuck him. He’s respected by some stiff-arsed old cunts who go tae listen tae his fannybaws orchestra playing the music ay deid fuckers. You’re respected by teenage Lyrca-clad goddesses who want to suck your brains out through your dick and then fuck whatever’s left out of your head. The old cunt is jealous, mate, it’s as simple as that. If our one goal in life is to replace our fathers, and I think in guilt at the lovely old Weedgie boy down the street, — then job done, and at a precociously early age, and I raise my glass in a toast. — Nice one!
He looks at me with that same tremor of anger again, before it melts into considered deliberation, then enlightenment and finally, a hopeful, — You really think so?
— I know so, I tell him, as the two young women who have been looking over at us come across.
— It’s you, isn’t it? one of them says to Conrad. — You’re Technonerd!
— Yes, Conrad says robotically as I look at him in affirmation. This woman has dramatically underscored my point.
— Oh my God!
They want selfies with him, and Conrad is happy enough to oblige. Afterwards, they have the grace to see that we’re into something, and head back to the bar. I’m surprised Conrad didn’t ask for a phone number, it’s very unlike him.
— Now back tae this business ay the coral reef. I jab a finger at him. — I know a trainer in Miami Beach. You like it down there. She’s as tough as fuck, but she will sort out your brain and body. I hand him the card of this woman Lucy, whom Jon, a flabby promoter at Ultra (at least until she got a hold of him), recommended tae ays.
Conrad takes it in his grubby fist, and slips it into his pocket. — Now that we are being frank, he says, — there are some things I need to tell you. The first one is that you are right about Emily. She is an amazing talent. Her new stuff is very, very good. I am remixing some of her tracks. We have been working in Amsterdam, but we need to find a new studio here for the Vegas season.
— Brilliant! That’s great news! I’m totally on it with the studio. I have several options –
— The second is that we are having a relationship. Emily and myself.
— Well, that’s your business, bud…
My face must be giving away that I believe they are probably the two most fundamentally unsuited people on the planet. But maybe not, as Conrad says, — She said that you guys had been fucking. So this thing with her and me, it is not a problem for you?
— No… why should it be? It was just once… I look at him. — She told you we had sex? What the fuck… what did she say?
— That you were good in bed – creative, was the word she used – but also that you do not have the stamina of a younger man. That you can no longer fuck all night, which is what she needs, and a trace of a smile spreads across the corners ay his chops.
I can’t help but laugh at that. — Let’s just leave it there and allow me to congratulate you both. I have a bit of news too. This will be your last season at Surrender.
— They cannot fire me, he fumes, then smashes his fist on the table and my wine glass wobbles, — you cannot let them do this!
I raise my hand to silence him and cut in, — Next season you’ll be playing XS.
— Fuck! He jumps up, and shouts across to the bar, — Give me a bottle of your best champagne, then says to me, — I have the best manager in the world!
I can’t resist it. — To quote Brian Clough, I’m certainly in the top one.
— Who is Brian Clough?
— Before your time, bud, I say depressingly.
For the first time, Vicky, with Willow and Matt, joins me in Vegas. We see Calvin Harris at the Hakkasan, Britney Spears at the Axis, and, of course, Conrad, Emily and Carl at Surrender.
While Conrad is on the decks, and Carl is explaining DMT to the others, I collar Emily. — Thanks for telling him about us. I nod to the box and Conrad’s hulking back.
— Oh, it just slipped out. Sorry!
— I should think so.
— Don’t take the hump. Emily raises a brow. — It was me who helped convince him, and Ivan, that you were the main man.
The fuck… — Ivan? What about Ivan?
— Yes, Conrad and I have been hanging out with him in Amsterdam. I’ve been trying to get him back onside. It’s only gone and worked, hasn’t it? she grins. — He wants to come back to Citadel Productions. You should expect a call soon.