‘The queerest.’
‘That’s true about us flocking together,’ said Bettina. ‘There’s Étienne the artist, Bart the actor and me the fledgling novelist… though I’m probably getting ahead of myself and shall end up an abysmal failure.’ She laughed with all her teeth showing – it was a laugh of childish vulnerability. She clearly thought this was going well.
‘So what do you do?’ Bart asked Jean.
She slanted her head in confusion.
‘Well, we’re all creatives and your Hollywood friend is a creative.’ He flashed a friendly smile. ‘So what exactly do you create?’
Her face paled – it was already horribly pale to begin with – and she started to fidget with her cigarette tin, opening and closing it with a snap – creak, snap, creak, snap.
Bettina leaned in. ‘Fantastic orgasms!’ she said.
They all laughed, even Jean, but her eyes were entirely humourless.
‘Quelle heure est-il, Monsieur le Loup?’
Étienne lay on the grass, holding Tabby above him. He bared his teeth – ‘Il est trois heures’ – and brought her down to his face, kissing her nose. She wriggled her legs and gurgle-giggled. She’d started laughing a week ago. It had become Bart’s favourite sound, replacing the ‘pock’ of a struck tennis ball and even the soft slap of testicles hitting another set of testicles.
The sun was close to setting – it was nearly nine – and the shadows stretched long and slender from the bottoms of the trees. Bats could be seen flitting high up, but always, teasingly, from the corner of the eye. They were all drunk and sprawled on the grass, except for Megan who was inside running a bath for Tabby, and Jean, who preferred the bench so she could watch all proceedings from her high vantage point, smoking and almost-smirking. Bart had only known the woman for a few hours but he’d already formulated a nickname for her: the Duchess of Disdain.
‘Quelle heure est-il, Monsieur le Loup?’ Étienne growled. ‘C’est l’heure du dîner!’ He lowered Tabby once more and play-bit her neck and she shrieked and chuckled.
‘Don’t get carried away, Uncle Étienne,’ said Bart. ‘We know what happened last time you did that.’
Étienne stopped. ‘Mais oui! You did a little wee-wee on your uncle’s shirt.’
‘In all fairness, it’s not as if she needs an excuse to piss everywhere,’ said Bettina, lighting a cigarette and looking around for Jean, who’d disappeared from the bench. She’d been nipping to ‘the john’ all evening. Bart wondered if she didn’t perhaps have a cocaine habit. He imagined following her in and catching her at it. Would he tell Bettina? Or ask for a line?
Étienne started flying Tabby around like an aeroplane, Bart and Bettina watching and smiling.
‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ said Bettina.
He nodded. ‘She’s the most gorgeous baby I’ve ever seen, and I honestly doubt parental bias comes into it.’
‘Oh, of course. Entirely objective. She’s objectively the most superior infant in the world, ever.’ She drained the rest of her drink, upending the glass and letting the trickles fall into her mouth. Suppressed a burp with her hand. ‘I can’t believe we made her,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I honestly can’t believe it. We made a little human being.’
‘No. You made her. My part was exceedingly minimal. You grew her.’ And I’m so proud of you, he wanted to add. But she would invariably make a joke about wanting to vomit, or something like that. Instead he took her hand and kissed her knuckle. She raised a sultry eyebrow. ‘Are we having a moment? A tender moment?’ She licked her lower lip, slowly. ‘Shall we fuck?’
And they laughed, falling onto the grass.
‘So,’ she said, once they’d regained their composure. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘Who?’
‘Jean, you turnip. What do you think of her?’
‘I think she seems like a very interesting person.’
‘That’s your way of saying you think she’s horrible.’
‘No! She’s intelligent and full of character. As you know, I like people who are intelligent and full of character.’
Étienne was lying on the ground again, arms and legs spread out like a snow angel, singing ‘Ah! Les Crocodiles’ to Tabby, who was lying on his belly. ‘Les crocrocro, les crocrocro, les crocodiles, sur les bords du Nil…’
‘I know she can be challenging. But once you get to—’
‘Bettina. I like her. And I’m glad she’s making you happy.’
‘Honestly?’ said Bettina.
‘Honestly,’ said Bart.
‘Why are you stopping?’ said Étienne. He was eating salted peanuts from a greasy cardboard box.
‘Hold on a second,’ said Bart, looking out of his side window and scanning the dark shopfronts – it was two in the morning, or thereabouts. He could see a delicatessen with round blocks of cheese on platters and thighs of smoked pork hanging in the window; a ladies’ hat shop – he’d gone in there once to buy a peach-ribboned boater for Bettina. A bit further on there was a tobacco shop and – ah, there it was.
He edged the car forward until he was alongside the shop.
The Cave of Virtue.
Fucking stupid name.
‘What are you doing?’ said Étienne. ‘I want to go home to my bed. I’m exhausted.’
‘I bet you are,’ said Bart, half smiling. They’d just come from Hampstead Heath. Bart had taken a man in his mouth while Étienne fucked him from behind. Vigorously.
He wound down his window then opened the glove compartment and took out a carton of eggs.
‘What are you doing, Bart? Bart?’
He took out an egg and aimed it at the shopfront.
‘Bartholomew?’
He threw the egg and it cracked and splattered all over the glass. He let out an excited, braying laugh and took out another egg, glancing mischievously at Étienne.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Étienne, giving him a dark look. He had powdered salt on his lip.
‘Well, I like it enough for the both of us,’ said Bart, turning back to the window and aiming.
Chapter 21
May 1932, Hollywood
‘Welcome to the land of broken dreams!’
Roger Stamper’s neat jewelled hands spread open in a gesture of welcome, his nails catching the light like shavings of pearl. He was wide and squat and he had a tiny diamond embedded in his front tooth which sparkled mutely, as if embarrassed by itself. His lips were a very soft pink, and glossy, daubed with petroleum jelly and laced with deep vertical creases, like tiger prawns. He gave off warmth and hopefully this was authentic.
‘This is my personal assistant, Mr Étienne Janvier,’ said Bart.
Roger shook Étienne’s hand. ‘Sure is good to meet you. Finally!’
They all laughed. Finally! Oh, it was so funny that they were meeting finally.
‘We’re having an unusually hot May. Been a real bitch on set. Speaking of which…’ Roger clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s get you to set for a looksy-loo.’
‘Marvellous,’ said Bart, following the man through the hotel lobby.
Bart was to star in The Mortician, playing the titular role – the mortician, Edward Crabbe (a part he’d already played on the London stage). It was a macabre story about an isolated, melancholic man who discovers a papyrus scroll rolled up in the oesophagus of a corpse on which is written a few lines of some ancient language – a resurrection spell. He goes on to bring back to life three men, all beautiful and exhibiting a certain masculine vitality and of course it all goes horribly wrong and the three reanimated men turn on him and eventually kill him. ‘Which is to say,’ Bart told Bettina, when recapping the story to her, ‘that the ugly old queer is suitably punished for his transgressions and the status quo is upheld, ta-da!’ The film was based on an English novel called Song of the Mortician which Roger adored, claiming its hidden queer subtext had been instrumental in him figuring out who and what he was.