‘Not bad. What’s it made of?’
‘Silk, man. Hundred per cent.’
‘Really?’
Elliot held the tie out on the palm of his hand. ‘Feel it.’
Moses bent over the tie, studied it closely, tested it between two fingers. Silk. You could feel that. He turned it over and held the label up to the light. SILK. 100 %. He nodded, looked impressed. ‘That’s a great tie.’
Elliot tucked the tie back inside his jacket.
‘Mine’s terylene,’ Moses said. ‘Hundred per cent.’ He waved his tie in Elliot’s face.
Elliot looked pained. ‘Terylene’s shit, Moses. If you’re going to live here, you better smarten up.’
‘What about this then?’ Moses opened his jacket and tapped the label. ‘Pure sharkskin, this is.’
‘Don’t give me no fish talk, Moses.’
‘All right,’ and laughing, Moses lunged at Elliot’s jacket. ‘What’s yours? Polyester?’
‘If you touch me,’ Elliot said, ‘I might have to call Ridley.’
Moses backed away with his hands in the air. ‘OK, Elliot. You win.’ He felt for his keys and walked towards his car.
‘Hey, Moses, about your friend, the singer,’ Elliot called out. ‘She’s on. Thursday. Happy now?’
Moses turned round, rushed over to Elliot, and hugged him. Smothered him in grateful sharkskin and terylene. ‘That’s great, Elliot. That’s really great. I’ll tell her tonight.’
‘Jesus, Moses,’ Elliot gasped when Moses finally released him, ‘you nearly fucking killed me there.’ He straightened his jacket and tie, hitched his trousers up, patted his hair. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered.
But Moses was already turning the key in his ignition. Two blasts on the horn and he vanished round the corner in a cloud of blue exhaust.
Nothing special happened on the way to Hampstead. He drove fast and learned quite a lot about Aztec rituals from some programme on Radio 4.
*
He turned into a street that ran along the southern edge of Hampstead Heath. Narrow, fastidious, a clutter of expensive parked cars. He noticed blue plaques on the walls of houses, the slanting roof of a conservatory, a cello in an upstairs window. Then the street widened, wound north. Double electric garages now. Serious children with golden hair. The burglar alarms alone looked worth stealing. When he reached the number that Gloria had given him he had to stop the car and double-check the address. It was the right house.
He didn’t honestly think he’d ever seen anything like it. Sweeping expanses of white façade that looked as cold and slippery as ice-rinks. Sheer stretches of glass (sometimes reflecting his shadowy figure, for he had parked the car and was now walking round the outside). The building seemed to absorb colour from its immediate surroundings — deep blue from the shadows, silver from the moon — and yet a grey day, he imagined, would only serve to heighten its intrinsic whiteness. No garden to speak of. No plants or flower-beds. Only a functional patio and a two-tier lawn. Trees and shrubbery shielded the house on three sides. On the fourth, a view of the heath. The effect was one of spartan luxury, a sort of inverted flamboyance. Gloria’s roots, he thought. And smiled, thinking of his own.
He circled the house for the second time. The lawn looked so modelled, so planed, that it seemed as if the house had just landed and would shortly be taking off again, leaving no memory or proof of its existence except, perhaps, for a few indentations in the grass that would be gone by morning; it didn’t seem to grow, or even belong there. When he returned to the staircase again — this was semi-circular, and broke up the relentless linear mood of the building — the door opened and a slice of white light fell across the lawn. A woman in a white knee-length dress appeared, her backlit hair a platinum-blonde, her figure youthful. From a distance she looked perfect, alien. This did nothing to rid Moses of his initial impression that the house had just fallen out of the sky. He approached the steps.
‘Good evening,’ he called up.
She must have noticed him already because there was no trace of surprise in her voice. ‘You must be Moses,’ she said.
‘And you,’ he said, reaching her and extending a hand, ‘must be Mrs Wood.’
‘Heather.’
Her name was like her voice — springy, fragrant, open-air somehow — and he told her so.
And Heather laughed, so he laughed too, and they stood there in the doorway still shaking, or rather, by now, merely holding hands.
‘Am I late?’ he asked her.
‘Late? No. We’ve only just opened the first bottle of champagne. I call that perfect timing.’
She ushered him into the house ahead of her, but he paused just inside the door, needing a moment or two to take things in. The living-area that spread out below him was thirty or forty feet long and furnished in a style that could, perhaps, have been called cubic chic. Blocks of white fibreglass or plastic, upholstered in white leather, acted as armchairs and sofas. An original Picasso drawing hung in a spotlit alcove. The floor was a stretch of pale natural wood, lacquered like a dance-floor and lavished with a profusion of white scatter-rugs. Six-foot Yucca palms and other, taller exotic plants led his eye towards the ceiling high above, a slanting amalgamation of mirrors, pipes and glass through which he could see, at certain points, a few rectilinear sections of starless night sky. Almost giddy, he dropped his gaze to the centre of the room. A long low coffee-table (also white, also cubic) dominated; arranged on its perfect surface, two bottles of champagne in a silver ice-bucket, a pair of mother-of-pearl opera-glasses (to see people on the other side of the room?), a vase of wild grasses and an Indian conch.
Moses took a deep breath. ‘Nice,’ he said.
Heather smiled. ‘Introductions,’ she said and, taking him gently by the arm, guided him down the steps. Her hand was elegant, tanned, and uncluttered by rings, except for the one that bound her, presumably, to Mr Wood.
Thirty or forty people stood about in different parts of the room. Heather steered Moses from one clique to another, supplying him with names and, where appropriate, pieces of information, gossip or scandal to fix the names in his mind. She was an accomplished hostess, but Moses’s mind, bombarded by an afternoon of Vince, took in less than it might have done.
He remembered meeting a barrister called John Dream, though, because John Dream looked exactly like Bernard Levin. Heather, laughingly, agreed.
He remembered ‘Prince’ Hudson Oleander too. ‘Prince’ Hudson Oleander was a tennis pro from Famoso, California. He had a lecherous sunburnt face with cracks in it, like wood. Apparently he had won the title ‘Prince’ at a tournament in Forest Hills on account of his extraordinary graciousness on court. ‘Apparently,’ Heather whispered behind her hand, ‘it’s the only title he’s ever won.’
Then there was Hermann von Weltraum and his wife, Lottie. (‘Astrologers,’ Heather explained, ‘from Munich.’ Moses thought momentarily, almost wistfully, of Madame Zola, Famous Clairvoyant. He wondered if the Germans were Famous Astrologers. Looking at Hermann’s prissy pink face he doubted it somehow.) And Romeo Pelz, a clothes designer, and his male assistant, Derek. (‘Romeo,’ Heather lowered her eyes, ‘lives up to his name.’) And Christian Persson, a member of the Swedish delegation for human rights and a man, Moses saw, with absolutely no sense of humour. Christian Persson introduced Moses to the Very Reverend William Cloth, vicar of the parish. Heather moved away to fetch Moses a drink. He would need one, the glimmer in her eyes seemed to say.
The religious atmosphere of the group was quickly dispelled by the apparition of a short muscular woman with glazed brown eyes. She had dark curly hair and wore a caftan. If she had had a beard as well as a moustache, she could have passed for Demis Roussos. She was, in fact, Margaux Kampf, an actress.