“Who is that?” I whispered. I learned that it was the Asian actor Karim Amir, fresh from a rehab near Richmond. I said, “Isn’t that Stephen Hero, getting out of the car after him?”
“Not Stephen Hero, for fuck’s sake,” Karen said, striking me on the arm. “Who the hell’s that? It’s Charlie Hero. Charlie. He’s a Charlie, and don’t you forget it, this evening or ever!”
I was delighted to see Karen had retained her integrity and was still capable of being impressed by the famous. Years ago she had, of course, been wildly impressed by anyone famous-indeed, by anyone who knew anyone famous-and still the celebrated had not disappointed her.
Karen led me into the kitchen for a glass of champagne and a cigarette.
“What’s wrong? Are you nervous?” she said, brushing down my jacket.
“Terrified,” I said. “I don’t know why. You’re the one who’s good on these occasions.”
She was giggling. “Are my breasts too on show?”
“You are virtually topless and indeed,” I said, looking her over, “virtually bottomless. The heels are great. Make the most of it, I say.”
“That’s what I thought. Jamal, I’m glad you like it. A lot of the other men here will be shortsighted.” She held up a bottle. “Let’s not waste all this fucking drink-there’s buckets of the juice here.”
“Pour me another.”
“Get it down you.” She was looking around the big kitchen. “It is true, the rich are different. They don’t have any clutter. They have people to throw things away for them, ruthlessly. I always thought I’d be rich,” she said. “I took it for granted in the 80s. Didn’t you?”
I said, “I was too foolish to understand the real pleasure of money. You’ve done okay, though.”
“That’s not enough. We’ve both let ourselves down, Jamal.”
We watched Mustaq’s staff moving about quickly and silently, up and down the stairs, in their smart but casual uniforms. Not only did they not look at the guests, they lowered their heads as we passed.
Fifteen minutes later Karen and I entered the dining room together. At the end of the room was a grand piano; on the wall hung gold discs, photographs and guitars. Karen spotted Charlie and Karim immediately and went over to sit with them.
I was holding back, hesitating until I knew for certain-until I could see it was true. Ajita was at supper.
She wore a black dress; her arms were bare, apart from a silver bracelet. I looked for her wedding ring but was too far away to see. She’d always worn expensive clothes and still seemed to, with a hint of ostentation, looking like a woman you’d glance twice at in a Milan restaurant. Her hair was shining, black; it was unchanged, but her head was half-turned away from me, and she was laughing.
Karen was gesturing at me to come and sit down. I had my own excitement to deal with and stood where I was, wanting this moment to last, waiting for Ajita to look at me, knowing quite well that, when she did, there would certainly be trouble. Of which kind, I had no idea, but how could the world not trip a little, after such a sight?
When she did glance over, I saw her start suddenly and then take me in, her lips parting and her eyes widening. She watched me looking at her. I could feel the readjustment of perspective between us, as fantasy and reality crashed together and began to realign. Neither of us were students now; we were more than middle-aged.
She began to smile, and so did I. She got up then. One of us had to do something. We were kissing and embracing, and swinging one another around until we were embarrassed.
When we were done her brother, not the only one watching but the most attentive, came and stood behind us, leaning down on both our shoulders as we dabbed at our eyes.
“My darling sweety sweets, I’m sorry I didn’t tell either of you that you might meet tonight. I was afraid that one of you would change your mind. Was that wrong of me?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think we’ll be fine.”
“Yes,” said Ajita. She turned to me with a determined smile. “So, how have you been? What’s been going on?”
“Quite a lot, actually,” I said. “There’s years of it.”
“And with me too,” she said. “Years of it.” We picked up our glasses and touched them together. She laughed. “You always said actually. I’m so glad you haven’t changed.”
“How have you changed?”
“I guess you’ll find out soon enough,” she replied, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was a long table; I guessed that thirty people could sit around it. There were half that number present, but more Londoners kept arriving, driving up for the evening or weekend and coming in to eat.
Karen was sitting opposite Ajita, and she talked continuously, as she did when nervous. This didn’t prevent her trying to get a good look at Ajita.
Omar Ali came and sat beside me. Charlie and Karim were further down the table, with people I didn’t know. Knighthoods-that prosthetic for the middle-aged-were being discussed, and whether it was a good idea to accept one. Then the subject was whether Karim should appear on I’m a Celebrity…Get Me out of Here!
Charlie argued against it, saying Johnny Rotten had lost more than his mystique by appearing. But as Karim, after acting in British soaps, had been living in America for years, mostly playing either torturers or the tortured in bad movies, he didn’t have any mystique to lose. Charlie had, of course, already said no, and was unsure whether to regret it or not.
Meanwhile, I turned to Ajita. When, years ago, Ajita was about to masturbate me-one of our favourite pastimes-she would rub her tongue on the palm of her hand as a preparation for the work ahead, a gesture I found unconscionably exciting. Later, when we were in a class together, we’d make the gesture to one another, and giggle. Now, when she turned to me, I repeated the sign. For a moment there was no recognition, before she began to laugh, and gave me her own demonstration of the long-lost lick of love.
After supper, but while most people were taking coffee and beginning on the brandy, Mustaq joined me. “Come,” he said. “Can we talk a little?”
Mustaq and I went upstairs to a large room with a long window over-looking his land. While Mustaq gave instructions to the staff, I noticed that there were, on a side table, numerous photographs. Looking closer I realised they weren’t what I expected: George with Elton John, George with Bill Clinton and Dolce and Gabbana, the stuff everyone had in their house. No, they were family photographs, pieces of frozen time which seemed, at that moment of the uncanny, to freeze me. As I picked one up, I noticed Mustaq looking at me.
“That’s Mother.” He came over. “Did you meet her?”
“She was in India when Ajita and I were together. I wish I had met her.”
“She’s still alive, and still beautiful, though lashingly bad-tempered,” he said. “She’s been here a couple of times.”
Less than a year after her first husband’s murder, their mother had remarried in India, to the rich executive she’d been having an affair with. She often came to London, where they had a flat in Knightsbridge. She was one of those foreign women floating about Harrods and Harvey Nichols for consumables unavailable in the Third World. Did she ever go back to the house in Kent? No; she didn’t like it the first time. She didn’t suffer from nostalgia, either.
Another photograph: one I’d never expected to see again. It was me, in Mushy Peas’s bedroom in the mid-70s, before our wrestle, I guessed. I had some kind of embarrassed smirk on my face, but at least I had plenty of dark hair. I supposed that Mustaq had displayed the photograph just for me.
“Yes, you,” he said. “Fresh young meat, eh?”
“I wish I’d made more of it.”
He picked up another picture. “Him-you cannot see.”