Suckers

Ruth did indeed look different. She'd had a nose job. I tried to remember her previous nose, but it hadn't been terribly memorable. I hadn't even realized she had been self-conscious about it. I floundered. Was one supposed to pretend that nothing had happened, or offer congratulations, or enquire about the cost, or the pain, or what? I ended up asking, 'Hey, where did you get the nose?' which wasn't what I had intended at all. Ruth stared fixedly over my shoulder and pretended she hadn't heard.

'Oh well,' I said, changing the subject. 'How's the art world?'

This time, she responded with enthusiasm, describing a recent trip to New York in brain-numbing detail and dropping a lot of names which meant less than nothing to me. Then she started babbling on about a brilliant young Australian performance artist who sewed his own eyelids shut and dangled for hours, stark naked, from meathooks. I was saved from having to hear more by Charlie, who wandered up looking anxious.

'Anyone seen Clive?'

'Hasn't arrived,' said Ruth.

'He was bringing the tapes.'

'Doesn't matter,' said Ruth. 'We can play some of ours.'

'No, we can't,' said Charlie. 'Hi, Dora. How are you?'

'Dreadful,' I said.

'Anyway, we don't need music,' said Ruth. 'Not just yet. No one wants to dance.' She and Charlie went on discussing party arrangements, so I wandered away. I didn't know any of the other guests; there were a half-dozen of them now, all gathered in a knot, all dressed in black and looking pale and rather uninteresting. One of them was saying, '…I saw him at Gnashers…' and another was saying, '…I'm so fed up with Gnashers…' and a third was saying, '…what's wrong with Gnashers anyway…?'

Gnasher chat bored me rigid, so I perched on the sofa and smoked a cigarette, dropping the ash into a potted palm since there weren't any ashtrays. Half a dozen more people arrived. My heart sank as Charlie noticed I was on my own and came barrelling over to talk. Charlie was a film critic who wrote reviews for provincial listings magazines and specialist publications with minuscule circulations. I didn't like talking to him about cinema, because he always prattled on about French films in which the characters sat around in rooms and talked, or Russian films in which the characters went into Forbidden Zones and wandered around for a bit before coming out again. Charlie based most of his opinions on the writing in Cahiers du Cinema or, when he was in a particularly jocular mood, The New Yorker. He strongly disapproved of movies in which horrible American teenagers went on panty-raids and got carved up by maniacs in hockey masks.

He opened with his favourite gambit. 'Seen any good movies lately?' I shook my head. 'Neither have I,' he whined. 'Nobody's making them any more. All these bloody sequels and remakes. Where's the originality? What about artistic vision? All we get are big budgets and special effects. The only good films these days are being made by the small independents. Small is beautiful, I always say.'

'In that case,' I yawned, 'you should be all right.' He chuckled and patted me on the head. 'I knew I could rely on you to put the case for the drive-in mentality.' Before I could stir myself sufficiently to respond, he added, 'Seen Duncan and Lulu lately?'

'Sort of,' I said.

'I hear Lulu's struck lucky.'

'I saw her in the tube just now. On a poster.'

'Yeah,' said Charlie. 'I saw that too.' He leaned towards me in a conspiratorial manner. 'Is it true about her and Duncan?'

I had the feeling he rather fancied his chances with Lulu. As if. 'Is what true?' I asked.

'They split up?'

'How should I know? Why don't you ask her? Isn't she supposed to be honouring us with her presence tonight?'

Charlie shrugged, and just then someone thought it amusing to sneak up behind me and clamp their hands over my eyes. I jabbed my elbow back and felt it connect with something soft; there was a grunt and the hands unclamped themselves. I turned round, half-expecting to see Andreas Grauman, but it was only Jack, thank God. He was clutching his abdomen.

'Jesus, that hurt,' he said. He was exaggerating, of course.

'How was I supposed to know? You could have been a mugger, or a rapist.'

'Oh, he's both,' said Charlie, 'aren't you, Jack my boy?'

'Where's Alicia?' I demanded.

'At home,' Jack said, still rubbing his ribs.

I looked across the room and immediately spotted Roxy, talking to Ruth. 'Oh I see,' I said.

Jack followed my gaze. 'We take it in turns,' he protested. 'I stayed in with Abigail a couple of days ago.'

'I'll bet you did,' I said. 'Someone has to babysit while Alicia shops for groceries.'

'Well, excuse me. You're in a friendly mood today.'

'Sorry,' I said, holding out my bottle as a peace-offering. 'Have some champagne.'

Jack went in search of a glass. 'You're being a bit hard on him, aren't you?' asked Charlie. 'He's a good father.'

'But a rotten, lousy husband,' I said. 'Poor old Alicia.'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Charlie. 'Alicia's not doing anything she doesn't want to do.'

The line sounded familiar from somewhere. I was still trying to remember where, when Ruth came over to tell Charlie that Clive had arrived with the tapes.

Chapter 4

I sat to one side of the room, smoking and drinking and occasionally chatting to passing acquaintances, but mostly keeping my eyes peeled so I would spot Duncan or Lulu as soon as either of them arrived. Every so often, someone would interpret my solitude as an invitation and buttonhole me with an in-depth monologue on modern architecture or the state of the nation. I'd escape by saying I had to refill my glass or go and powder my nose, but as often as not, as soon as I'd settled down on my own again, I would be cornered by someone else, and my eyes would be glazing over and I would be thinking about a movie I'd seen or about someone I used to know or about Docklands and Multiglom. Ah yes, Multiglom. I could hear someone droning on about it now. The name hauled me back on to full alert.

'Say that again,' I said. The person who had been doing the talking was a thick-set youth with a Yorkshire accent and big stubble like Desperate Dan. He yelled into my ear. 'I said, funny about this Multiglom business, isn't it?' He had to yell, because Charlie was playing Clive's trendy samba tapes at maximum volume.

I yelled back, 'What Multiglom business?'

'I said, they're taking over the world.'

My blood froze. 'Multiglom?'

The Yorkshireman allowed himself a patronizing smile. 'No, no.' I heaved a sigh of relief. For a horrible moment there, my paranoia had sprouted wings and been cleared for take-off.

'I'm talking about this Euro-consortium — Dragosh Inc.,' he said.

'Really?' My attention was on the wane again.

'Buying all those publishing companies, and the breweries, and the high-street stores.'

'Breweries? High-street stores?'

'Who hasn't been reading her FT, then?' he smirked. 'High-street stores. Pharmatech, Berkamart, et cetera, et cetera.'

'Wait a sec,' I said. 'I think there was something on the telly last night. Bagwash, was it? Dragosh?' The name rang a couple of distant chimes, but they faded into nothingness before I could match them up. 'Isn't there a law against it? Monopolies and mergers?'

'Loopholes. Did you know they've put in a bid for the country's third largest cinema chain? We heard that at the office today. It probably won't be in the papers for another week, but we sometimes get advance information on these things.'