‘Oui. Oui.’
The chapel doors swung open and Bart quickly snatched his hand away from Étienne’s. Barney walked up the aisle, clomping like a Minotaur.
‘Lady just told me five more minutes,’ he said.
‘We’ll leave you to it,’ said Bart. ‘So you can say goodbye.’
Barney raised his hand. ‘Stay.’ He held onto the coffin rim with both hands like a man about to be sick over a bathroom sink and gazed down at Roger, his lips tightening until they lost their colour. ‘Damn you,’ he whispered, a tear spilling into his beard. ‘Motherfucker.’ He pointed a giant finger at Roger’s face. ‘You cocksucker. You stupid fat cunt! Goddamn stupid prick, I—’ He raised his hands and held them half clenched over Roger’s head, hesitant, as if not knowing whether he wanted to caress or strike. ‘You’re a fucking cocksucker. A cocksucker! Stupid greedy motherfucker – I told you to stop eating that shit! I should kick your ass.’
Bart and Étienne watched, open-mouthed, as Barney clutched Roger’s face and fiercely kissed his lips. He looked up at them, little blue eyes glittering. ‘He was the love of my life!’
Of all the people, she had to sit next to him. She was wearing a mourning veil and her eyes peered out of it, jewelled by spent tears. The great actress. He touched Étienne’s thigh to get his attention. He nodded, without looking, to show he was aware of the woman’s presence.
A black-smocked priest floated up the aisle chanting Latin and holding a thurible of incense, followed by a procession of altar boys and another black-smocked man tinkling a tiny bell. The pall-bearers began their sombre procession, headed on the right by Barney. Two of the other bearers were men with plucked eyebrows and rouge and another looked like he could be Roger’s younger brother. A strange, beautiful mix of queer family and real family.
He felt Lillian grope for his hand. She found his fingers and grabbed them tight. Leaned her head towards his, that familiar perfume stink immediately molesting his nostrils. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Please forgive me.’
‘I’m going to have one more,’ said Bart. ‘Just one more.’
‘You are going to be sick on the boat,’ said Étienne.
‘And you’ll be within your rights to say I told you so.’
‘Don’t be a wet blanket,’ said Lillian.
Étienne pulled a face. ‘Wet blanket? I don’t understand. What is she saying?’
‘Go and do some card tricks,’ said Bart. Go and find your new boyfriend, he wanted to add. But they’d already argued about that twice today. Bart was apparently being paranoid and insecure. Well. Sometimes paranoia was justified.
Étienne looked at his wristwatch. ‘I want to go to bed.’
‘Then go to bed,’ said Bart. ‘I’ll follow on later.’
Étienne took his cards out of his pocket and, sighing, started to shuffle them. ‘I am a performing monkey.’ And he left.
They were in a shaded canopy at the end of the garden with a view of the house and pool. Bart could hear crickets chirruping in the lawn and the low buzz of the electric lights that were strung up everywhere. Further off – splashes and shouts from the huge outdoor swimming pool, the brass band in the conservatory. Barney sat atop a stool by the pool bar, conversing sombrely with Billy Haines. He hadn’t moved in almost five hours and his ashtray was bulging with black pipe ash and pistachio shells. The production team from The Mortician was here, still dressed in funeral attire. Joan Crawford was apparently on her way.
Stanley Yeltzin appeared at the canopy. Stanley – Reanimated Corpse No. 3 – was ravishingly handsome and always looked like he was on the verge of smiling.
‘My favourite corpse!’ called Bart, in greeting. ‘Come and join us!’
‘Some party,’ he said, sitting down next to them. ‘You wouldn’t guess that someone’s just died.’ He looked up at the stars. ‘Rest in peace, friend. Hell of a guy. Hell of a producer.’
‘A peach,’ said Lillian.
A great shrieking from the pool – a bunch of people had jumped in at the same time. ‘You sons of bitches!’ yelled a passing man, soaked through by the resulting wave. A female impersonator in a Garbo wig sneaked up and pushed him into the water.
‘What are we doing sitting all the way over here like old biddies?’ said Lillian.
‘I came here for some privacy,’ said Stanley. He pulled a brass tin out of his breast pocket and opened it up – inside was a vial of beige powder and a small pipe.
‘What is that?’ said Bart.
‘It’s dope, ya dope,’ said Lillian.
‘If it makes you folks uncomfortable I can go somewhere else,’ said Stanley, pausing in the act of tapping powder into the pipe chamber.
Bart raised his palm. ‘No, no. It’s a free world.’
Stanley blew out a thin plume of smoke and looked around with contented eyes, as if he’d just finished a slap-up meal. He offered the gear to Bart and Lillian.
‘Shall we be naughty?’ said Bart.
‘I think we shall,’ said Lillian.
Bart took the pipe. ‘Very, very naughty,’ he muttered. ‘There’s us, two innocent children, sitting away from the debauched revellers, not wishing to be tainted so. Then along comes the big bad wolf with his many temptations.’ Bart bit the pipe between his teeth, smiling.
Another great splash from the pool followed by shouts and cheers and shrill laughs, and this huge noise drowning out all others.
Such as footsteps. Approaching footsteps.
A hand shot out and slapped the pipe out of his mouth. The mouthpiece clashed against his teeth and the palm connected with his jaw. ‘Ow! Fuck!’
Étienne stood before him, furious. Fucking Étienne. Always right, always well fed and full on his rightness. He grabbed Bart by the arm and dragged him away from Lillian and Stanley.
‘Get off me!’
Étienne strengthened his grip. ‘You are coming home now.’
‘Didn’t I say he was a wet blanket?’ Lillian said.
Bart thumped Étienne’s arm – right on the bone – and tore himself free. Étienne came for him again, arms out as if to wrestle him. Bart threw a right hook – it landed with a meaty slap against his lover’s cheek. Étienne stumbled back, clutching his face. Looked at Bart. Too far. Too far. He punched him back, flattening his nose with a crack. Blood – a hot red sneeze of blood.
Then they were on the ground, scrabbling around, hatred twisting their faces while Lillian hopped about, saying, ‘Oh my gawd, oh my gawd, they’re gonna kill each other.’ And then Barney was there, huge hulking Barney with thighs looming over them like birches. With one hand he grabbed Étienne’s shirt collar and with the other Bart’s arm, and he pulled them to their feet and led them roughly up the garden path towards the swimming pool. He picked up both men and threw them in the water.
Bart twisted around in the water and emerged, spluttering, hair lacquer stinging his eyes and blood-pinked water trickling out of his nose. Étienne bobbed to the surface alongside a floating champagne bottle.
Poolside, Barney looked down at them, arms at his sides. ‘Have some respect for the dead,’ he growled.
Chapter 23
May 1932, Davenport House, London
He would hate it – he’d positively rage about it. In the first place, he wouldn’t allow it.
Jean was wearing Bart’s shirt.
They were in the garden reading on a strawberry-red picnic blanket. A large swatch of the grass was covered in bluebells, which, according to Megan, would only stay out for a month, and then, further into spring, disappear for another ten months. ‘Fleeting little pretties,’ she called them. Jean was reading something by Gertude Stein, her brow furrowed as if she was displeased. The shirt was baggy on her, the top two buttons undone. Bettina had a letter from Bart, received this morning. He was moaning about the special diet he was on, but added, ‘Perhaps it’s a saving grace that I must limit my food so, because American cuisine is horrible.’ Étienne was fattening himself up on hamburgers, which, contrary to their name, were not ham, but a thick slab of greasy, gristly beef, packed between two buns. ‘There is no polite way to eat one of these monstrosities, as Étienne has proved to me.’