‘No, I’m not.’
She stares at him sceptically. ‘Okay.’
‘I’m not.’
‘So where do you go?’
‘I don’t ask where you go.’
‘You know where I go.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘I mean you know who I’m with.’
‘Where do you go?’
‘Look, Paul, I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘Why? I’m not “seeing someone”, Heather.’
She is not persuaded. She says, ‘M-hm,’ in a pointedly stony tone, and pours herself a huge glass of wine. Then she withdraws to the lounge and shuts the door. Of course, he thinks, taking the raisins from the cupboard, his going out on his nights off must mess up her own plans to some extent. Having to have Martin over here, with the kids upstairs, must be less fun than the bar of the Metropole, or his extravagant extension. Or his jacuzzi. Paul had remembered a few weeks earlier that Martin has a jacuzzi; it was installed last summer — a little winch lifting it from a flat-bed truck while Martin watched from the pavement, shielding his eyes, and half the curtains in the street twitched … Must be fun, he muses, stirring in the raisins, to fuck in a jacuzzi. He sighs listlessly, and starts to eat. Initially, the tone of Heather’s question had pissed him off; now her suspicions make him sad. Strings of light bulbs sway on the seafront. Yes, they make him sad. He is walking through Regency Square. In the twilight, the terraces look statelier — the square is lit like an expensive restaurant — with scores of softly lighted windows, and the entrances of the hotels illuminated. The scruffy lawn is lost in indistinct grey. The Regency Tavern, too, is illuminated; spotlit at the end of the mews like a national monument. The sign shows George IV in the high-collared handsomeness of his youth. Inside, the pub is lively. Andy is up on a high stool, nattering with the staff like a local. Seeing Paul, he smiles. ‘Right, mate,’ he says. The sloppiness of his smile, the fact that he says ‘Right, mate’ as if it were a single word, leave little doubt that he has been there for some time. ‘Wanna drink?’
‘Have you looked at that stuff?’ Paul says.
Unhesitatingly, Andy says, ‘No.’
‘You haven’t looked at it?’
‘S’all under control.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘S’under control.’
‘No it’s not under control.’
‘Yeah it is …’
‘I fucking knew this would happen.’
Andy looks puzzled. ‘What?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Oh.’ He leans unsteadily towards Paul. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘Look. It’s all worked out. All right? I’ll do it tomorrow morning. D’you wanna drink?’
‘No I don’t. This isn’t a fucking joke.’
‘What’s the problem? I’ll do it in the morning.’
‘You were supposed to do it today.’
‘What difference does it make? I’ll do it —’
‘You’re a fucking idiot, do you know that?’ This seems to hit a mark somewhere. Andy stops protesting. For a moment his eyes sink to the green carpet, its woven laurel wreaths and scallop shells. When they meet Paul’s a moment later they are obscurely distressed. He swallows. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Paul says.
‘I’ll do it tomorrow —’
‘What are you doing? You’ve been here all afternoon, haven’t you?’ Andy shakes his head. ‘I’m not paying you to have a piss-up. You’re not here to have a fucking laugh —’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t think you do know. Why haven’t you done what I told you?’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ he says quietly.
‘This is serious. Do you understand? It’s not a fucking joke.’
‘Look, I’m sorry —’
‘You will be.’ Then he says, ‘All right. Let’s go.’
‘Where?’
‘You’re not staying here.’
‘Why not?’
‘What do you mean why not? I’m going to be round early tomorrow morning —’
‘What time?’
‘Eight.’
‘Eight?’
‘Eight. Tough shit. And I want to have a look at your suit.’
‘My suit …?’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Why d’you want to look at my suit?’ Andy says, turning to search for someone as Paul hustles him out into the mews. Paul has been worrying about Andy’s suit — he remembers the chalk-stripe of a metropolitan barrister or senior estate agent; not the sort of thing a shadowy provincial strawberry producer would be likely to wear.
They climb the narrow stairs of the guest house. Mrs Mulwray — the proprietress in her plywood booth — watches as they disappear into the depths of the convex mirror. They are standing outside the door of Andy’s room — the paintwork is orange with age — when he says, ‘Oh fuck.’
‘What?’
‘Forgot the key.’
‘Get it then.’
He crashes down the stairs. There is then some sort of delay and it is a couple of minutes until he plods up, out of breath and smiling.
‘What?’ Paul says. ‘What you smiling about?’
‘She says …’ Andy pants, ‘she says if you stay the night, you’ll have to pay.’
‘What?’
‘If you stay the night,’ he says, sniggering, ‘if we spend the night together, you’ll have to pay.’
‘Open the door.’
The room looks even more threadbare than it did in daylight. ‘Where’s the suit?’ Paul says. Andy has taken the trouble to hang it in the wardrobe. He lifts it out, still in its carrier, and passes it to him. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed and starts making a spliff. Paul unzips the suit carrier, and pulls out part of the jacket. ‘You can’t wear this,’ he says.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too smart.’
Andy smirks. ‘Sorry, mate.’
‘I’ll lend you mine.’
‘All right.’
‘I’ll bring it tomorrow morning.’
‘All right.’
Paul rezips the suit carrier and slings it onto the bed.
‘D’you want some of this?’ Andy is holding the nose of the newly made spliff, swinging it like a sachet of sugar. Paul sighs. Yes, he does want some of that. He is knotty with tensions, furious with worries. The prospect of putting some immediate space between himself and his situation is an enticing one. His face is stony, set, expressionless. ‘D’you wanna spark it?’ Andy says.
‘No,’ Paul murmurs, ‘go ahead.’ Andy sparks it. ‘So I’ll be here at eight.’
With his mouth open, holding the smoke in his lungs, Andy nods.
‘You better be up and ready to start.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He exhales, finally, in a long smoky wave.
‘I’m not joking.’
‘No, I know.’
He holds out the spliff. Paul takes it. While he smokes pensively for a minute or two, Andy flops onto the bed, and stares vacantly at the ceiling. Suddenly he stands up. His face, Paul notices, is as white as a cloud. His lips look purple. He mumbles something. Then he opens the door and leaves. A few minutes later — it seems like much longer — there is still no sign of him. The silence of the small room has a piercing, singing quality; and staring intently at the swirling velvet whorls of the counterpane, Paul finds himself forgetting that Andy is even in Brighton. That he even exists. Sometimes, vaguely, it occurs to him that he is downstairs, presumably vomiting in the mouldy bathroom. Such moments, however, swiftly pass — and as soon as they have passed he has no memory of them. For minutes at a time he forgets where he is himself, and why he is there
Um.
That guest house.
The spliff has gone out, and he places it on the side table, next to the tannin-stained mug. His mouth is drier than the dry valleys of Antarctica, where it has not rained or snowed for thousands of years. These valleys must be something he saw on television — there is an associated image of a mummified seal (naturally mummified, he seems to remember, in that perpetually frozen and waterless environment) the colour of a nicotine stain, lying on a gravel slope. What was the programme? He does not know. The dry valleys, and the desiccated, weak-chinned face of the seal — which in a melancholy way resembles his own face — is all there is. Very slowly, he moves to the little sink in the corner of the room. He turns the squeaky tap and finds a trickle of water. It is not easy to drink, though. The sink is too small for him to get his face under the tap, and when he tries to use his hands the water leaks away before he is able to lift it to his mouth. Then he sees the mug. Even when he has drunk several mugs of tepid water, however, his mouth feels moistureless. Naturally mummified. If he keeps drinking, he tells himself, he will just have to piss. So he stops. Standing there, he senses that he has forgotten something … For what seems like a very long time he stands there, with his mouth open. Yes! Andy. He is downstairs, sicking up in the loo. Slowly, Paul switches off the light and leaves. Humming snugly, he descends the tightly turning stairs. He seems to descend through many floors — perhaps twelve — until finally he finds himself in the narrow hall at street level.