Goodnight Steve McQueen (12 page)

I consider the bike option for a moment. “No,” I say, “I don’t think so, Kostas. Alison’s not really a bike sort of person.”

“You sure? Maybe she went to take ride round the Grotty Market.”

“Grote, Kostas,” says Sheila knowledgeably. “I think you’ll find that it’s actually pronounced Grote.”

I spend the rest of the evening moaning and sighing and haranguing every customer that wanders into the shop to come over to the counter and take a look at my brochures. The pillow-mint issue divides them fifty-fifty. The women think Alison will just eat the second pillow mint herself. The men think she’ll definitely be sharing it. Especially when I show them a picture of her. Especially when I show them a picture of her and hold it up next to me. Especially when I show them a picture of her, hold it up next to me and tell them all about her new boss Didier taking her out for a romantic champagne-and-oyster dinner. (Even some of the women begin to look a bit doubtful at this point.)

It’s doesn’t seem fair. I bet Didier could afford to take Alison on a holiday of a lifetime. I bet Didier isn’t planning a winter break in Larnaca at one of Kostas’s cousin’s apartments. I bet Didier’s never been stuck on a rush-hour train with a leatherette briefcase shoved up his arse crack. He probably has a bigger dick than me. And bigger balls. And one of those

greasy Hercule Poirot moustaches that curl up like a fork at both ends.

For some reason Kostas thinks it might be a good idea if I knock off early for the night. I tell him that I’m more than happy to stay and help him lock up the shop, but he seems quite insistent that I go. He thinks I seem depressed. He thinks I’m scaring off the customers. If I promise to cheer up he thinks Mrs. Kostas might make me some more hot dinners at the weekend.

I do as I’m told. I leave the shop around ten, pop into the Seven Eleven for a newspaper and a can of Diet Coke and walk home to a flashing answer phone and the silence of an empty flat.

This morning’s kleftiko has a waxy film of fat right across the top of it. I crack the surface with the back of my spoon, part the layer of dripping from the layer of meat and begin eating straight from the Pyrex. The gravy has turned to jelly: burnt peppercorns stuck to the surface like trapped flies and chunks of red and green pepper dotted through the middle like pieces of candied fruit. I spoon some into my mouth, swallow hard and hit the message button on the answer phone It blinks at me crossly. I have five new messages.

“Hi, Danny, it’s me… are you there? .. . come on, Columbo can’t be that interesting … it always ends the same way… Danny? .. . OK, I’ll try you a bit later on … bee eep

“Yeah, Danny, it’s Kate. Looks like the gig’s all set. Will three weeks be long enough to get yourselves ready? I’ll try you again this evening. Maybe I’ll pop round later to see if you’re in. If that’s OK. Right, but you can’t tell me if that’s OK or not because you’re not actually there… shit, I hate answer phones… they totally stress me out… bee eep—’

“Danny… Vince… just checking to see how you got on with finding that toss-wipe from Scarface. Give us a bell. Laters… bee eep—’

“Steve… it’s your mother. Perhaps you could give me a ring when you have a moment… bee eep—’

“Hey, you, it’s me … I guess—’

A piece of chilli hits the back of my throat and makes me cough. I can’t hear what Alison is saying so I rewind her and start the message over again.

“Hey, you, it’s me … I guess you’re still at work. I’m feeling a bit tired so I’m going to get an early night. I’ll try and give you a bell tomorrow. Everything’s going really well. Give my love to Sheila and Kostas… Miss you… big kiss… bye… bee eep

I sit down on the sofa, put down the empty Pyrex and pour myself a very large drink. There’s no wine or beer or Bacardi Breezers in the house but there is a bottle of Galliano that my mum brought us for Christmas a couple of years ago. I wrench open the sticky lid and pour some of the thick yellow liquid into a glass. It’s disgusting. But it is alcohol.

I toss my Bruges brochures on to the floor and flick over to BBCz. The Learning Zone hasn’t started yet and Newsnight has just finished. ITV is showing Renegade, Channel 4 has got something about clitorises and BBCi is showing a made-for TV film about incest that’s based on a true story. I sip my drink and flick between the clitorises and the incest.

I feel stupid. Like I’ve let everybody down. Why did I tell Vince and Matty that I could pull this thing off? What made me think Ike would be prepared to do me a favour after all this time? Why is my girlfriend so fed up with me that she feels the need to go and live in a whole other country? I wonder what my mum wanted. I wonder if Kate will mind cancelling the gig at her art college. I wonder if Galliano tastes any better if you put some ice in it and mix it with Diet Coke.

Fuck me. Galliano is excellent. It really is. I mean, once you get over the sickliness, once you get over the taste, once you get over halfway through the bottle. It’s great. I feel fantastic. Maybe I should phone Vince and see if he fancies coming over for a quick game of Fifa ‘98. Maybe I should do I471 and see if I can find out what hotel Alison is staying at. Well, what’s the good of that, then? What’s the good of 1471 if it doesn’t work on international calls? Useless fuckers. Maybe I should phone Matty; he’s bound to be up late. I love Matty. He’s a top bloke. I love him almost as much as I love Vince. And I really love Vince. A lot. Bollocks, he’s DJing tonight. He’ll be at Bar Vinyl till two. Maybe I could go up there. I could have a couple of beers and chill out to his set of sexy seventies Lounge Core.

Wait a minute, I know who’ll still be up. I know who I can phone. Why didn’t I think of it before? What have I possibly got to lose?

I turn off the Play Station slam down the dregs of my Galliano and try as hard as I can to remember the international direct dialling code for Los Angeles.

“Brad Pearlman speaking. How may I help you this afternoon?”

“Brad, thank God I caught you… it’s me … Terry!”

“Terry… the stationery man, right?”

“Right

“From the Sheep Herd’s Bush.”

“Right again.”

“Great, great… so how did you get on … did you manage to finalise all of Ike Kavanagh’s requests?”

“Well, we certainly did, and what a lovely chap he turned out to be, very polite, very easy going. He plumped for a mixture in the end. Half a dozen padded, half a dozen plain.”

“Good, good, so glad you managed to tie things up there?”

“Yes, and I just wanted to thank you for all of your help.”

“No problem, Terry, any time at all.”

“And the thing is, I wondered … I mean I was wondering if I might do you a small favour in return.”

“Sure, go right ahead.”

“Well, I happen to know that you’re still looking for support acts for the Scarface tour in October and I thought I might be able to recommend someone. We get a lot of excellent new bands coming through our doors here at the Empire and there was one recently that particularly caught my eye.”

“Oh, really?”

“Oh yes. They’re called Dakota. Guitar three-piece from North London. One of the best live acts I’ve seen on these shores in some quite considerable time.”

“Well, Terry, coming from you I’d say that was some recommendation. Who are they signed to?”

“Well, that’s the best part, Brad. They’re not even signed yet. It’s going to happen for them, though. Very soon. They’re going to be huge. Massive. The hugest. And the thing is, I know how concerned you are with making Scarface appear credible to the British media and I just thought how cool would it be if they were seen to take an unknown band out on tour with them? An unknown band that are inches away from being the next big thing. If you timed it right it would look like Scarface had had a direct hand in discovering them.”

“You don’t say… well, Terry, we should get on to this right away… perhaps you could send me a press pack and a band resume and a sample of some of their recent work.”

“Yes, well, I could do that, certainly, but the thing is and I’m letting you in on a little bit of inside information here, Brad I happen to know that a major UK act are looking at taking them out on tour at precisely the same time.”

“Really? Who?”

I take a short pause.

The don’t think I’m at liberty to divulge that, Brad, it’s a little, how can I put this… hush-hush.”

“That big, huh?”

“Yes, Brad, that big.”

“OK, then, let’s move on this one, Terry. Let’s get it done. Let’s be the first frogmen into the talent pool. Let’s knock this thing out of the ballpark.”

“OK, Brad, now you’re talking my language. I’ll just give you the number of the band’s manager. Lovely chap. His name’s Vincent.”

“Vincent… got it … I’ll call him right away.”

Shit. Unbelievable cock-up. Cannot believe what I have just done. Cannot believe I have just phoned one of the biggest live agencies in the world and tried to blag my own band on to the Scarface tour. Cannot believe Galliano has made me too pissed to dial Vince’s number. It’s too late. Vince is already engaged. To Brad.

“Danny, what the hell’s going on?”

“Vincel Mate, tell me that you didn’t fuck it up.”

“Of course I didn’t.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, I don’t know really, some Yank just called me up while I was watching this programme about clitorises and started talking about frogmen and talent pools and knocking things out of ballparks.”

“But what did he say … I mean what did he mean? … I mean did he give us the gig or not?”

“Well, yeah, I think he did. I think he just offered us the October support slot with Scarface.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“No. He said he’d heard fantastic things about us. Says to keep it all hush-hush until he’s released it to the press. Wished me good luck with negotiating the record deal and told me he’d fax the contract and all the tour details over to our live agent by the morning.”

“Shit, we don’t have a live agent. What did you say?”

“Said his name was Kostas and gave him the fax number at the video shop.”

“Vince… you fucking star.”

“So, are you going to explain what’s going on or what? I’m missing some quality telly here. There’s a bird on the screen looks like she’s got some sort of a miniature penis or something.”

I give Vince a brief rundown of the last twelve hours, stagger towards the bedroom and collapse on to the bed like a sick giraffe. My head hits the pillow like a wax brick. My clothes lie in a crumpled pile on the floor along with the empty bottle of Galliano that I’ve sucked dry. I have crystals of dried alcohol all over my mouth. And my chin. I still have my underpants on. And my shoes.

I rule.

Kostas is loving every minute of it.

“So this man, right, he comes on the phones and he say to me, What you want for the band’s riders? I say to him “champagnes”, he say to me, We give you one bottle of white wines. Then he say to me, What food you want? I say “smoke salmons and caviares”. He say No caviares, just fish pastes sandwich. Then he say to me, How long you can play for? I say to him you very good group, you much better than Scab Face, you can play for the whole night long. He say to me, You can play for half an hours only.”

Thanks, Kostas,” I say, picking up the contracts and folding them into my pocket. “You don’t mind if people keep phoning you like this and sending more faxes through to the shop?”

“No, is very good. I play hard balls. I get you the very best deal in the whole musics business.”

I leave Kostas contemplating his new role in band mismanagement and shuffle out on to the Broadway. I don’t feel very well. I spent half the night with my head hanging over the toilet bowl breathing in the heady fumes of puke and Toilet Duck and I’ve been left with the kind of indigestion that makes your whole chest feel sore and knotted and tight. It feels like I’m wearing a corset.

When did this happen? When did I become the kind of bloke who has to get up in the middle of the night and search through the kitchen drawers for a packet of broken Kennies? Five years ago I could have eaten a vindaloo, munched my way through a jar of pickled onions, polished off a barrel of home-brewed lager and not so much as raised a fart. Now I have to take spearmint-flavoured Remegel before I go to sleep. And an Alka Seltzer. And a Zantac. A mouthful of cold lamb and a few glasses of liqueur and I have the kind of acid indigestion that feels like my own stomach is trying to eat itself from the inside out.

And then there’s the hangover. The kind of hangover that you know is going to last all day. The kind of hangover that hits you in the nuts and the temples and makes you feel like you’re about to vomit every time you make a sudden movement. I’m only twenty-nine. Christ only knows how Vince feels after a night out on the lash.

I’m waiting for Vince in one of the greasy spoons on Park Road and the scent of hot pig fat is filling up my nostrils and making me heave. I order tea and a couple of slices of dry white toast, wash down a couple of aspirin with a slug of Pepto-Bismol and try to make some sense out of the tour contracts I’ve picked up from Kostas.

It turns out Brad Pearlman is a much smarter cookie than I thought he was. He’s not going to pay us a penny. In fact, he wants us to pay him: one thousand dollars. He’s checked us out. Nobody has heard of us. He’s doing us a massive favour, he says.

I take a quick look at the tour itinerary: twelve dates. A dozen cities. Two full weeks on the road. Ike wants a long turnaround between bands and we’re only going to have time to perform a thirty-minute set. Maximum. Eight to eight thirty. Sharp. Vince isn’t going to like this one bit.

Vince strolls into the cafe, orders himself breakfast A with extra fried bread, nicks one of my Marlboro Lights and sits down opposite me with a big grin on his face. He’s looking particularly dapper this afternoon: two-tone suede leather belt; beige wide-collared shirt with palm trees on the front; and a giant pair of charity-shop sunglasses that he picked up from the local Oxfam for fifty pence. He looks slightly demented: part

no rock star, part retard, part cheapskate Miami Vice pimp.

“You look like shit,” he says, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves.