“No, brother, you’ve done ENOUGH!” says Sifiso. I look at him with a frown. Another slap on the back, which leaves me slightly winded.
“You can’t hide the secret anymore, Harris,” he winks.
I still don’t know what he’s talking about. Then: uh oh.
“It’s OBVIOUS to EVERYONE!” he yells, his ice pirouetting in his glass. “You’ve FINISHED the book! And you know it’s GOOD! Why else would you be having this amazing PARTY?”
People around us turn to face us, hands in prayer position, as if expecting an impromptu announcement from me. I laugh, awkward, and touch my glass to Sifiso’s, then turn and walk as fast as I can to the bar.
Frank is there, faithful, drinking a Heineken and chatting up the bar lady.
“Hi Frank, enjoying the party?”
“Hey buddy,” he smiles, “yeah.”
We shake hands.
Frank always has a lot of intonation in his voice. He savours saying his words. So ‘buddy’ isn’t made of two short, sharp, monotonous syllables when Frank says it, it’s more like buuuyrrr-di. Then his Yankee ‘yeah’ is a ‘Yeah!’
I order a double single malt.
“So which one of these pretty women is your lady friend?”
Puurrdy women, lay-di friend.
“Oh, I’m not seeing anyone right now.”
Frank roars in happy disbelief.
“You’re kidding me, right? I’ve never known you to not have a lady friend.”
“I suppose I’m in between relationships, then,” I say.
“Ah!” Frank says, “so you’ve got a chick on your radar.”
“Kind of,” I say, knowing it’s not strictly speaking true. Frank comes up with the strangest expressions. Sometimes talking to him is like interpreting some kind of military code. His smile is conspiratorial and he nods.
“That’s cool, man. That’s cool.” He takes a sip of beer. “How’s life otherwise?”
I’m just about to nod and say ‘Terrific!’ because I’m the host of this great party. I’ve had plenty of the good stuff and if anyone should be cheerful, it’s me. That’s the kind of things hosts are supposed to say. And I’m sure that Frank doesn’t want a slice of my sorrow.
“I’m going through a pretty hard time, to be honest,” I say, smiling so that he doesn’t feel the weight of it. Thinking again of those damn bald kids. Why is it that lately, despite my dread of talking about my personal problems, I seem to be doing a lot of it? It’s as if the words just hop out of my mouth.
“That sucks, man. Is that crazy chick back? PsychoSally?” There is light in his eyes.
“Er, yes, but funnily enough that’s not the problem.”
“Is it your soldier?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, man, your pistol, your ammo.”
“Oh, no, my pistol’s just fine… last time I checked.”
“’Cos that kind of stuff happens to a lot of dudes, you know, nothing to be ashamed of. Some handguns jam, some fire blanks. That’s just what happens, you know.”
He gives me a slow nod, as if to encourage a confession.
“It doesn’t make you any less of a m–—”
“Frank, it’s not the goddamn pistol.”
He narrows his eyes in contemplation, suggesting those are the only things in life that can give you trouble, women and handguns. God, if only.
“Look, it’s nothing, really,” I say, “just battling a bit with the next novel. I’m a bit… stuck.”
Frank ponders this. Drinks beer, nods, ponders.
“It’ll come to you, buddy.”
It’s more than that, though, I want to say, it runs a lot deeper than that. Instead I smile and take a long sip of my drink. I shake myself. Maybe he’s right. Either way, this party was supposed to be about just letting go and having some fun, so I put on my party face.
I told everyone I invited to bring as many friends as they liked, which seems to have worked because my property is hot and heavy with the writhing bodies of strangers and stragglers. I dance for a while with a skinny blonde in a flapper dress who acts as though she is the star in her own movie, then move on to an energetic brunette with a feather headband. Gradually, for the first time in a long time, I start feeling good. I am looser: the lead in my stomach is melting, my feet don’t sting anymore. This party was A Good Idea. Out of the corner of my eye I see Eve. She is watching me with a smirk on her face, like an indulgent mother. Despite her obvious condescension my heart lifts when I see her. I squeeze my current partner’s forearm and leave the dance floor to go to Eve.
“Eve, thanks for coming,” I say, hugging her.
“This is quite some… party.” There is a hint of distaste in her voice. I wonder if this is all just too much for her. Too much extravagance, too much indulgence. Or maybe it’s worry: she knows I can’t afford it.
“Have you seen the chocolate fountain?” I ask.
She nods and laughs.
“There were some girls, twins, practically swimming in it, on my way in.”
“Were they naked?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
“Oh well,” I shrug, taking her hand, “let’s get you a drink then.”
I order a glass of champagne for Eve and another double for myself. I realise that I have been waiting all night for her to arrive. I wonder if I have actually had this party for her. My whiskybrain is thinking that this may be the night I am brave enough to make a move. The thought makes me cold and hot at the same time. Oh my God, I want this woman. I have wanted her for ten years.
She looks a little uncomfortable. I wonder if my face has betrayed me.
“Can we talk?” she asks. “I don’t want to take you away from your party—”
“Of course! Of course we can.” I look around the festivities and don’t see a quiet corner anywhere.
I lead her inside and unlock the door to my den, locking it again from the inside. I move some books around to make space and then motion for her to sit down on the chaise. I take the leather ottoman, close enough to smell her hair. Through the glass doors we can see the party in the garden.
“What’s up? Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m worried about you.”
“Me?”
What? Why? Look at what a great time I’m having!
“I’m fine! I’m great! Don’t worry about me,” I laugh.
Is this why she wanted to drag me away from the party? To have a heart-to-heart? To piss on my parade? I’m not in the mood. I want to go and flirt and laugh and dance.
“I mean, sure, I’m going through a bit of a rough patch…”
“A bit of a rough patch? Slade…”
“Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?” I chuckle, knowing she won’t fall for it.
“Sifiso just told me that you’ve spent your advance on the new book and you’ve already asked for more.”
“Sifiso should shut the hell up. I owe a lot on my credit cards. Doesn’t everyone? Post-recession. It’s practically de rigueur.”
“But you haven’t even started the book. Don’t you think that’s a little irresponsible?”
Ker-rist. Could she be any more overbearing? I am torn between pushing her away and ripping open her top.
“Eve, I get royalty cheques all the time. There’s nothing a little royalty sum can’t take care of.”
“Really?” she asks, as if she knows something I don’t. “What about your bond? You told me yourself that you’re behind on your payments.”
“They call every now and then to see how I’m doing. Offer to take me out for lunch.”
“Are you not even a little worried?”
“It’ll sort itself out, it always does.”
“Look, I can lend you money. Just let me know how much you need.”
The ape-man in me feels insulted.
“Eve, the problem isn’t money. I don’t care about it. And if I did, I could get some. The real problem is inspiration. I need an idea. Can you lend me an idea?”