Chart Throb (32 page)

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Authors: Ben Elton

BOOK: Chart Throb
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‘It’s
hunkah
, darling,’ his wife interrupted. ‘Not
hunk of.
You’re saying
hunk of
, it’s
hunkah
.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
‘Goodness, I can’t say
hunkah
, it’s appalling. I’ve been banging on for
years
about the importance of diction and the need to teach proper grammar in schools. Not that anybody listens, of course. But honestly, if I can’t be bothered to take the Queen’s English seriously, who can? Children watch this programme, I have a responsibility to
set an example
.’
‘Well, all I’m saying is that if you say
hunk of
, not only will you sound silly but it won’t scan.’
‘Won’t it?’
‘No, of course it won’t,’ the duchess said, putting away her brushes and her boot polish. ‘Just listen:
hunk of
is two syllables,
hunkah
is one and a bit. It fits, surely you can see that.’
‘Well, I suppose so but it does seem an awfully lazy use of English.’
‘Have another go and for heaven’s sake try to give it some
swing
.’
The Prince of Wales sang the verse and chorus of the song once more, this time being careful to say
hunkah
.
When he had finished, his wife considered for a moment before finally saying, ‘I think we need a different song.’
The Prince sighed and poured them both a small glass of Riesling.
‘One of the boys suggested something called “Smack My Bitch Up”. Ever heard of it?’
Hello, Baby
The man upon whom all the dreams were focused was in his hotel room indulging in a dream of his own.
‘Hello, Emma,’ he breathed into the telephone, ‘what are you wearing?’ ‘I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I’ve been at work.’
‘Shoes?’
‘No. I’m at home now. I’ve taken my shoes off if you
must
know.’
‘What about your socks?’
‘Calvin, I thought you were a busy, important man. Don’t you have anything more interesting to talk about than my socks?’
‘What could be more interesting than your socks? Except your feet?’
‘I’m going to hang up in a minute if this conversation doesn’t improve.’
‘Take off your jeans.’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Please.’
‘No! Absolutely not! I’d feel ridiculous. Why, anyway?’
‘Well, because I’ve asked you to, I suppose.’
There was a pause.
‘I’d have to put the phone down.’
‘No, keep it in your hand.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Hold the phone close to your zip as you undo it. Do it slowly.’
‘No!’
‘It isn’t a lot to ask.’
‘In my opinion it is.’
‘I think about you all the time.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’m obliged to let you listen to my zipper.’
‘I didn’t say you were obliged, I just asked. I don’t see why during this lengthy and, I might add, extremely demanding period in which I’m supposed to win your trust I shouldn’t be allowed some tenuous sexual connection with you, that’s all.’
‘And listening to me take off my trousers at a distance of a hundred and twenty miles would help, would it?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I think it would. Bit pathetic, I know, but that’s how much I love you.’
There was a pause and then Calvin heard the tiny, staccato clicking of a zip being pulled.
‘There. Happy?’ he heard her say.
‘Take them off, keep the phone in your hand and take them off. Pull them down over your knickers, right down your legs and over your socks.’
‘You take yours off.’
‘They are off. I’m in my suite. I’ve just had a shower, I’m wearing the hotel dressing gown and in a moment I have to go downstairs and have dinner with Rodney and Beryl and all I can think of is you.’
Another pause.
‘Well,’ said Emma, her voice a cross between defiance and seduction. ‘Take off your dressing gown then.’
‘Now you’re talking.’
Calvin did as he was told.
‘It’s off,’ he said. ‘It’s on the floor.’
‘So you’re naked then?’
‘Yes and I look fantastic. Totally hot, as they say. Now you take your jeans off.’
Calvin turned the volume on his phone up to full as he strained to listen to the muffled noises of someone disrobing.
‘They’re off,’ Emma told him, returning to the phone. ‘And I feel rather silly standing here in my knickers.’
‘So you’re wearing just knickers, a bra and a T-shirt?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Knickers lilac. Bra white. T-shirt pale pink before you ask. I suppose you want me to take them off too?’
‘No. I want to be there when you do that.’
‘If you were here I wouldn’t do it.’
‘But you will, one day.’
‘I might.’
‘Will you put the phone into your knickers and rub the mouthpiece against yourself?’
‘NO!’
‘Please?’
‘NO!! Absolutely not! Definitely absolutely not!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a bloody pervert!’
‘What’s perverted about that? I want to listen to the rustle of your bush.’
‘Don’t be
disgusting
!’
‘I think that’s a nice idea.’
‘Well, I’m not doing it.’
‘You do
have
a bush, don’t you? You haven’t done the full wax or anything horrible like that, have you? I hate that. Absolutely
hate
it.’
‘Have you seen many bald ones then?’
‘Loads. In America all the girls seem to do it, they think it’s sexy for some reason. It’s all part of this grim juvenilization of society. First grown women started to talk like they were little girls . . .’
‘Like Beryl.’
‘Yes, like Beryl for instance. Now they all want little girls’ twats. It’s actually sort of sick when you think about it.’
‘Do you get to see a lot of fannies then?’
‘Say that again.’
‘What?’
‘What you just said, it sounded so cute. Please say it again.’
‘Don’t be pathetic. Answer the question.’
‘Yes, in the past I have seen an awful lot of fannies, and, as I say, recently an increasing number of them have been bald, regrettably.’
‘And you like a fanny that makes a noise when you rub a telephone on it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m not going to do it. Get one of your other girls to, there must be some who haven’t Brazilianed themselves.’
‘There are no other girls, Emma. Not any more. And for what it’s worth I’ve never asked any girl to do this before. I’ve never felt the remotest interest in doing so. You’re the only girl who has ever excited me enough that even the thought of listening to the rustle of her pubic hair turns me on. This is all new territory for me.’
There was another pause, then Calvin heard a faint, soft, scratchy sound over the phone. After a little while he heard her voice again.
‘Can I stop now?’ she said.
‘A minute or two longer,’ Calvin replied. ‘I mean, only if you’re happy to. If you don’t mind?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I suppose I don’t mind although I do feel ridiculous.’
A few seconds later the faint rustling resumed and it was two or three luxurious minutes before she spoke again.
‘Are we done?’ she enquired sweetly.
‘Yes. We’re done,’ Calvin gasped. ‘You can stop now.’
‘Good.’
‘That was sort of wonderful.’
‘I’m glad, although I didn’t actually do it, I’m afraid. I rubbed the phone on the carpet.’
‘Bitch!’
‘I think it’s funny.’
‘Please say you took your trousers off.’
‘Nope.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Sorry. Will you call me tonight after your dinner?’
‘I’m never going to call you again.’
‘Please.’
‘All right.’
As Calvin dressed, he truly wondered what had happened to him. He had enjoyed sex with Emma more than he could remember enjoying anything in years. And he had not even
had
sex with her. He hadn’t even had
telephone
sex with her. He’d had telephone sex with her carpet. And yet still he had loved it. For a man used to being in control it was all most confusing.
Keen to Be Mean
Downstairs Rodney had been waiting for some time.
The three judges had agreed to meet at seven thirty in the hotel bar, so Rodney had been there since seven. Calvin arrived shortly before eight and Beryl, not surprisingly, was nowhere to be seen.
Rodney’s ill humour was slightly assuaged by the fact that, unlike earlier in the day, Calvin now seemed disposed to be pleasant.
‘Well, something’s certainly put a smile on
your
face,’ Rodney observed.
‘Yes,’ said Calvin bluntly but declined to illuminate further.
‘Champagne?’
‘Of course. But not that crap,’ Calvin said, nodding towards the bottle that Rodney had chosen and which he had in fact almost emptied during his hour’s wait. ‘I’ll order something decent.’
‘You always were a bit of a wine wanker, weren’t you, Calvin?’
The booze was having its effect on Rodney and he was taking a tone with Calvin that he would never have taken when sober. Calvin merely smiled.
‘I was wondering,’ Rodney continued, hoping to capitalize on his companion’s sunny mood, unaware that he was fast deflating it, ‘if you’d given any further thought to what we discussed in the restaurant the night before we shot the travelling stuff?’
‘What was that then?’ Calvin asked without looking up from the wine list.
‘Oh, come on, Calvin. We were talking about me being meaner, tougher, wittier this time round, and all I’ve heard of your plans for me this year is more of that bloody ridiculous business of Beryl throwing stuff over me which I’m quite sure everybody knows is staged.’
‘
Are
you, Rodney?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Well, in my view if the British public will accept that the twelve people we annually offer up to them are the best new performers with the most star quality we could find in the
whole of Britain
, then they’ll believe anything.’
‘Look, Calvin, let’s cut to the chase here. I want to be tougher this time and I won’t accept anything else. What’s more, Beryl’s not throwing any coffee over me. All right? I won’t have it. I mean it. I won’t.’
‘Cristal ’96,’ Calvin said to the wine waiter. After that he said nothing.
‘Did you hear what I said, Calvin?’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘Good.’
There was a long and uncomfortable silence which once more Calvin forced Rodney to break.
‘So we’re agreed then? I mean . . . are we?’
Calvin smiled, a weary, long-suffering smile. The champagne arrived and he allowed the waiter to open it and pour two glasses before speaking again.
‘Do you really think being tough is your thing, Rodney? I mean we should all play to our strengths, don’t you think?’
‘I’m tough.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes! You should have seen the way I laid into the receptionist this morning when I found out I was in an executive room . . .’
The words tailed away. Rodney had not intended to air this particular grievance. He was not drunk enough to fail to understand that by complaining about his inferior room he could only increase its significance. Rodney had promised himself that he would maintain a dignified silence on the issue but now he had blown it.
‘You’re not happy with your room, mate?’ Calvin enquired, his voice full of sympathy.
‘No, no, it’s fine. It’s fine.’
‘So what were you complaining about to the receptionist?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought you said you’d laid into her?’
‘I did.’
‘Why?’
For a brief moment Rodney was consumed with an internal struggle. He was not a stupid man nor did he lack human experience. He was well aware that complaining about room status would make him look weak and pathetic, something he already suspected Calvin thought him to be. His intellect informed him that the only sensible course would be for him to make up a broken kettle or an asymmetrical trouser press to explain his confrontation with the receptionist but the righteous anger that burned deep in his soul, fuelled by a thousand real and imagined slights that he had suffered throughout the previous series, plus nearly a whole bottle of champagne, forced him to speak.

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