Boys and Girls (22 page)

Black sighed as he eased himself down with gratitude and a considerable relief into the buttoned wing armchair by the mantelpiece.

‘Usually. Yes – pretty much all the time, I'd say. Well –
pain
is maybe going it a bit, but it's fair to say that discomfort is always with me. My loyal companion. Various reasons. Too dull to pursue, believe me. And the threat, you know – skulking. The possibility of worse to come. The claret was prime, I must say Alan. Although some more of that malt would also be good. Quite hit the spot. Do you know what, though? I just can't be bothered to decide. All right if I smoke?'

‘I know exactly what you mean. It starts off, doesn't it, with a sort of a whim, a fancy – and then you feel you maybe ought to urge it on to become a preference, if not an honest to goodness vital necessity. But after a bit, well … who cares, quite frankly? Anything will do. Won't it really? Anything will do.'

Black dragged hard on his Rothman and simply nodded; there didn't seem to be anything at all he could profitably add to all that. Alan, in his judgement, had just articulated rather well that quivering butterfly of incipient depression, and then the fathomless trough of apathy into which he these days quite frequently could tumble.

‘It's why, you know, I'm giving up my business. You know I've got this little publishing house …? Oh God – what am I saying? Of course you know, of course you do: where Susie works, isn't it? What am I thinking of. Anyway, um … what was I saying? Oh damn. This happens to me more and more, you know. I'd worry about it, if I could be bothered. But I start
off talking about a thing, you know, and then there's some sort of quite minor digression along the way – and then poof! Gone. Haven't got a clue.'

Alan was strewn across the sofa. He had given Black a very large whisky and had set his own down on the table beside him. Now he was comfortably lighting a Cohiba.

‘Know exactly what you mean,' he said, in between a short series of reflective puffs. ‘You're not the only one, believe me. Happens to me all the time. Well now let's think back. That sometimes does the trick. Susan works for you, you were saying … you can't be bothered to choose things any more – or worry about things, was it …?'

‘Oh yes – well done. Got it now. Yes – it's work. When I'm at work. It's quite a well-oiled little place, really. Key people I've got – pretty reliable. But they will keep asking me to make decisions. Well Black, they say – you're the boss, the final say, it rests with you. Well in the early days, of course – can't tell you what sort of a kick it used to give me. But now – oh bugger. Just don't
want
to, you see. Make a decision. Half the time I don't even know what I'm supposed to be deciding about. And small publishers, you know – if you have a decent turnover, steady profit, the big boys, they're forever hovering. We've got a good list. Perennials. Few big names, one or two anyway. And lately I just thought oh sod it – let's put out a few feelers. See how interested they are, or if it's all just talk. Well I've already had a couple of quite remarkable offers, you know. Quite amazed by the money involved. HarperCollins – have you heard of? Murdoch set-up. They're interested. Random House – that's another one. So I'm pretty committed to chucking it all in. But Alan – you must forgive me. I can't imagine why I'm boring you with all of this. When I suppose,
um … that we really ought to be talking of other things, should we …?'

‘Only if you want to. I mean – we've had a great deal to drink, I'm very pleased to say … and there's plenty more where that came from. So in a sense, now would be the optimum time for talk. We shan't be quite so careful in what we say. And if something dreadful emerges, well – there's a very good chance that neither of us will remember it in the morning.'

And Black was laughing through his pull of whisky – spluttered a bit, cigarette ash all over his waistcoat.

‘Take your point. But tell me, Alan … Susie. Susan, if you prefer. What, um – is she up to, as it were? I'm rather confused. Are you getting a divorce …? That it?'

‘Apparently not. You would have thought it was on the cards. I mean you can see that she more or less despises me, but still I am not for the scrap heap. All this, you see, it's because I'm so utterly useless and penniless and all the rest of it – no job, you know. It's you Black, really, who's paid for all this booze. Without what you give to Susan, we'd be finished, quite frankly. Anyway – she one day says to me, Susan, that she wants another husband. But not, she said,
instead
of, no no – but as
well
as. See? Well I know. Insane. And yet she doesn't seem to be, I have to say. Another man, well – he just would have walked. This man, however – he didn't. And note the word “husband”. She doesn't just want a careless fling with some rich young toyboy …'

‘Evidently not …' Black barely murmured.

‘Well quite. No offence, Black, but you're hardly that, I think we can both agree. I find it quite refreshing, actually, that it is you she has alighted upon. Quite restores my faith in
her, really. I mean – at least you've got character. And money, of course. Does she know about it? This takeover business?'

‘No. Oh no. I've told no one. Just you, rather oddly.'

‘Mm. Well – something of a bonus for her, then. Assuming you're even vaguely contemplating any of this nonsense. But do know, Black, that she wants to marry you in the eyes of God. Mad, I know. Not as if she even goes to church …'

‘In the eyes of who …?'

‘God. Old man. Beard. Whose eyes did you imagine?'

‘Sorry. It's my ear thing. Might need recharging.'

‘Talking of which – let's have another drink, shall we? Sometimes, it's the only thing to do. You're an Aries, of course. That featured strongly in her thinking, apparently.'

‘I'm a what …? Oh Jesus, you know – I need to go to the lavatory again. Wish I had a portable potty, sometimes …'

‘Aries,' said Alan, and smiled. ‘The Ram. This is commensurate, is what she said. I'm Pisces, you see. After all that fish, she needed a ram. Is all I can think.'

‘You don't believe in all this star stuff, do you Alan?'

‘I'd need convincing. In my view, if we woke up one morning and discovered in the papers that the previous day all the people in the world who had been born under the sign of Sagittarius had been hit by a milk truck – that might go a good way in furthering its cause …'

‘God I've had a lot to drink … You really are a highly amusing fellow, Alan. If I may say so.'

‘You may, Black. Indeed you may. Certainly I can't remember the last person who did.'

‘And that thing you said earlier – about you being a bit of a “drinkard”. I did like that. Awfully good, I thought. Remember
that. Drinkard. Love it. Um … do you think … do you think she's all right in there? Susie? Seems awfully quiet …'

‘Oh she'll be fine. It's probably all a part of her master plan, this. The two of us, alone and half cut, chewing the cud. Believe me, if she wanted to be a part of it, she'd be in here. Conducting.'

‘So … what do you think we … how do you think we ought to, um – go about this? All of this.'

‘Well it's largely in your court, you know. Ball, far as I can see. Just let me top you up – there we are. Don't worry – got another bottle. I should've offered you a cigar – didn't think.'

‘No no – wasted on me. I just like sucking down all this filthy tar. Don't care for nuance. Like the smell of them, though. Cigars.'

‘Really? What – do you mean you
really
do? Like it? Smell?'

‘Oh God yes. Absolutely. The odour of, well – not sanctity exactly, although there is that sort of incense overtone to it, isn't there? Civilisation though, certainly. The aroma of civilisation.'

‘Mm,' grunted Alan. ‘But what I mean to say is, Black – it all, all of this … it all rather depends upon your, um –
situation
. Doesn't it really? Your set-up. And, of course, your inclination. I'm rather praying you don't have a
wife
. I mean, Jesus – there is a limit.'

‘Ha! No. No I don't have a wife. Did once. Madwoman, basically. I mean – I don't mean mad in the mild and largely acceptable way that all women are mad, no no. I mean out-and-out psychotic. Murderous. Two children, grown up. Tim. He's thirtyish. Loathes me. Quite nice wife, can't remember her name at the moment. Little boy they've got. Adam. I've a daughter too – much older than your Angela, though. Anita.
Amanda
, I mean – damn, my mind. Yes – she's twenty-four, pretty sure. Footloose and fancy, um … she is. Lucky little bitch. Free. Footloose and fancy, um … Yes.'

‘Why do you think he loathes you, your son?'

‘Mm? Oh I don't
think
it – I know it. And I don't altogether blame him. I was no sort of a father, really. His mother, she used to beat him black and blue – had these mood swings that would leave you reeling. Mocked him in everything he attempted … ended up devoted to her. There it is. Blamed me for her condition. Well, I didn't fight it. You can't really, can you? And ultimately, well … what's the point, exactly? No point, is there? Not really.'

‘Do you ever see them? Your family?'

‘Well we have this rather splendid tradition at Christmas, you know. Unfailing. Happens every year. I ask Tim and his wife – can't remember her name at the moment – and the little lad Adam to a smart hotel for Christmas Day. Millie too – that's my daughter. Along with whatever loser and deadbeat she's currently fucking. And then I book it all and pay for every little detail and extra in advance and get my secretary to sort out all the present side of things – and then on Christmas Eve, usually around midday, always make sure I'm in – they all phone up to cancel. Tradition, you see. Unfailing. And then I end up taking along some woman or other instead.'

Alan nodded. ‘Like women, do you Black?'

‘Don't we all? No I do, I do – one of my failings. Or at least it used to be, anyway. There's a lot about me that used to be. The trouble is … I hope I can be frank? I don't on the whole tend to go for the women who appear to go for me.'

‘Old, you mean. Oldish, anyway.'

‘In a nutshell. I mean I can well understand the attraction of
a confident and mature woman, of course I can. They're wise, amusing, know how to dress … it's just that they're not, ah – how can I say …?'

‘Fuckish.'

Black just looked at him.

‘Puckish, did you say …?'

Alan shook his head.

‘Fuckish. They're just not fuckish. They're perfectly attractive and groomed – yes yes, I know all that. But it's all too studied. And you know that half of what you're seeing is not what you're going to get. Underneath that veneer of effortless sophistication, we have a very great deal of effort indeed. Opaque slimming pants. Once encountered, never forgotten. Support tights. Dear oh dear. Padded bra. With uplift. Great big scarf artfully knotted to cover up the crepey cleavage. Wig, in some cases.'

‘All sounds a bit like me …'

‘Christ, you say that – if you could be bothered to peel away all of the layers, though, I wouldn't be at all surprised to discover that half of them
are
men. All that “beauty is only skin deep” – it's rubbish. Junk.'

Black shuddered. ‘Hate that phrase. Makes me think of all the gore underneath. But I
think
I see …'

‘You do – you do see. And after dinner, or whatever – you're a bit tired, you're a bit drunk, they invariably live on the other side of London, or worse … and there's no – compulsion. That's the point, really. They're just not fuckish. Not like the young ones – the ones that just never even glance at the likes of us, Black. The slim and tousle-haired, long-legged dreams – the sort of girl who has slung on a T-shirt and some jeans and you'd sell your soul and lifeblood just to tear them off her.
That's fuckish. When you'd sell your soul and lifeblood. Yeh. And sell it cheap, as well.'

Black was leaning forward eagerly.

‘You know I think you're on to something there. What it is really, you know – is our consistency. When we were young, schoolboys onwards, what we yearned for and swooned over were sexy young girls. Our age, more or less. Right? Right. And over the years, well … we see no reason to change our minds. Our tastes remain the same. We are consistent in all of our desires. Sexually speaking, young women are nicer than old ones. Often less nasty too – not the same thing. Isn't difficult to understand, surely. And yet they make you out to be some sort of a, I don't know – pervert, or something. It's just that we like them …'

‘Fuckish.'

‘Yes!' laughed Black. ‘That's it! That's it! We are just a pair of old drinkards, who like them fuckish! How perfectly splendid.'

‘Well!' called Susan brightly from the doorway. ‘And what have you two boys been gassing about? Sorry I was just so … And I'm sorry I've been so long. There was quite a lot to see to. Everyone got drinks? God what a
stink
 …! Someone's got on one of his perfectly foul cigars.'

Alan was puffing out an ostentatious plume.

‘The general consensus of the world is that the very finest handmade cigars emanate from Havana, which is in Cuba, Susan – and that amongst this rare elite, the Cohiba reigns supreme. The undisputed
capo di tutti capi
, as it were. Or, as Susan will have it, “perfectly foul”. Take your pick.'

‘Another little speech from Alan. Well done Alan. I'm not sure they actually speak Italian in Havana, you know – but
there: let it pass, shall we? So, gentlemen – what
were
you talking about?'