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I quickly express eternal gratitude, then, wasting no time, I bell the bar leaving Mo and our new employee, the lovely Ali, to cope, muttering something about a licensing trade conference that had slipped my mind. I head straight to Waverley and get onto the Glasgow train. I take the script with me and go over the shooting order of the scenes. We’ll do the fuck scenes first, just shoot loads and loads. Start off at the orgy and work back. When I alight at Soapsville, I’ve an erection which is crushed instantly (and thank God) as I register Skreel waiting for me on the platform. He looks what he is, a man so ravaged by junk that he’ll always have that traumatised, wild-eyed bearing. That’s the big difference, the look of blighted intensity that separates the working-class ex-addicts from their middle-class counterparts. It’s skag plus the culture of poverty and the total lack of experience, or expectation, of anything else. Mind you, Skreel’s done better than even the most optimistic fucker could have hoped. The fatal OD of his mate Garbo on high-quality gear fair concentrated his mind. Now he’s clean, well, as clean as a soapdodger can be. He asks after Renton, which distresses me, and also about that renowned old east-coast scruff. — Whit aboot Spud, how’s he daein?

I shake my head in sombre judgement of a man who was once a friend but can now be described as a barely tolerated acquaintance. No, that’s incorrect, he’s more like a fuckin adversary. I consider that Murphy should just move here, he’s nothing but a displaced Weedgie. — He’s no really moved on, Skreel. Ye kin lead a horse tae water, eh. I mean, I’ve tried my best wi the cunt for years now, I pause, considering this deceit for a second, but, well, I suppose I did within my ability range, — we all have, I add piously.

Skreel’s hair is long now, to conceal those flapping, open-taxi-door lugs. His Adam’s apple bobs underneath a ratty, sparse goatee. — Shame, an awfay nice boey.

— Spud’s Spud, I smile, almost savouring the idiot’s demise as I think of how me and Alison . . . no, cancel that. Lesley. I get a strange gnawing feeling in my chest and I have to ask. — Lesley . . . she still kicking around?

Skreel looks at me doubtfully. — Aye, but dinnae go fuckin her about.

I’m surprised that she’s still alive. I think the last time I saw her was in Edinburgh, no long after wee Dawn died. Then I heard she was in Glasgow, hanging out with Skreel and Garbo. Then I heard that she’d overdosed. I assumed that she’d gone the same way of Garbo. — She still on the gear?

— Naw, leave her alaine. She’s clean, sorted oot. Merrit, wi a wean.

— I’d like to see her again, for old times’ sake.

— Ah dunno where she is. Ah saw her one time in the Buchanan Centre. She’s straight now, and she’s sorted oot, he insists. I can tell he wants to keep me away from Lesley, but fair enough, cause there’s bigger considerations.

My man has definitely come through for SDW as well. We get into the Clydesdale and the boy he points out behind the counter of the bank looks perfect: an overweight frame with a slothful bearing, dulled, almost tranquillised eyes sitting behind Elvis Costello glasses. When that hot wee bitch comes on to him the blood will flood from brain to groin and he will be at her beck and call. Aye, Nikki’ll have him speaking in tongues as he gratefully cleans out her toilet with his toothbrush. Yep, he’s my boy. Or rather, her boy.

She owes me one for getting her out of that mess with those three suits last night. They had that sort of look like they all wanted up her at once. She was a bit fazed then; the cool, posh, sexy wee bird. This work requires bottle, and I hope she’s as game as I thought she was.

As for me, I can hardly wait to get started on the girl of my dreams. I’m feeling so Terry-Thomas-on-an-ocean-liner-deck-with-a-rich-widow, I touch under my nose to make sure that I haven’t actually sprouted a large mowser. My scam, my movie, my scene.

39

‘. . . a question of tits . . .’

L
auren has returned from Stirling. I’m wondering what happened at the parental home to give her such a hearty infusion of live-and-let-live spirit. She almost apologises to me for interfering, while maintaining, of course, that I’m wrong. Thankfully the phone goes and it’s Terry, who invites us out for a liquid lunch. I want to go as we’re engaging in filmed sex in two days’ time, so it might be good to get to know him a little better. It took Lauren a bit of convincing to come out as she wanted to celebrate our new-found unity by having a joint and laughing at the TV news before heading to this affie’s lecture. I insisted though, even managed to get her to put on a bit of eyeliner and lippy, and we headed downtown.

Just as I prepare to leave, the phone rings again and this time it’s my dad. I’m feeling guilty about my activities the other night at the hotel as he goes on about Will, still in complete denial that a son of his could possibly be queer. What’s the difference between his two children? They both suck cocks but his daughter does it for a living. I can’t wait to get off the phone and out.

The Business Bar is one of those places which is somewhere between a club and a pub, with a DJ box and a set of decks in the corner. It’s mobbed because word of mouth has it that N-Sign’s doing a DJ-ing set in here; apparently he’s an old pal of Rab’s brother Billy and Juice Terry’s. Terry introduces us to Billy who’s pretty hunky. In fact, looking at Rab, it strikes me that Rab’s like a watered-down version of his brother. Billy smiles and shakes our hands in a gesture which seems quite gentlemanly and somewhat old-fashioned without being at all contrived. He looks so fit and wholesome, I confess to an immediate hormonal reaction but he’s back behind the bar, too busy to flirt with.

Terry’s trying it on with Lauren who is really uncomfortable. At one stage she tells him to keep his hands to himself. — Sorry, doll, Terry throws his hands skywards, — ah’m jist a tactile sort ay gadge but, eh.

She screws her face up and goes to the loo for respite. Terry turns to me and quietly says: — Huv a word wi her. Is she uptight or what? If ever a bird was in need ay a decent length but, eh. Guaranteed.

— She was actually a bit more chilled out until you started, I tease, but I find it so hard to disagree with him. If somebody was fucking Lauren, I’d be indebted to them, because it
would
chill her out. She’s too much time on her hands and all she does is get frustrated, anxious, and she starts worrying about crap. Other people’s crap.

— Is that no Mattias Jack at that table in the corner? Rab asks Terry.

— Aye, ah mean ya! Billy telt ays eh hud Russell Latapy and Dwight Yorke in here last week. Where there’s fitba players there’s fanny, Terry grins. — But what aboot this pair, ain’t they visions, Rab? He has an arm round my waist now and with the other extended, as if to entice the approaching Lauren in. She’s keeping her distance from him though and looks at the clock. — I’m going back up for the lecture.

Rab and I take the hint. We finish our drinks, leaving Terry quaffing happily with Billy at the bar. As we go, I smile: — See you Thursday.

— Cannae wait, Terry cheers.

— Sorry aboot aw that shite, Rab says as we head up the North Bridge passing the new Scotsman Hotel.

Although it’s a bright day, there’s a strong, rattling wind and it’s blasting my hair all over the place. — It was fun, don’t keep apologising for your friends, Rab, I know what Terry’s like and I think he’s brilliant, I tell him, pulling my hair down and trying to stick it behind my ears. I see Lauren, who’s chomping a chunky KitKat, brace herself and screw her face up against the wind, curse and blink rapidly as some grit gets in her eye. I’m thinking about how it’s the Bergman seminar next and I’m almost tempted not to go as I’ve made inroads into this assignment. I stick it out and feel guilty at being bored, as Rab and Lauren are totally engrossed. Afterwards, I don’t feel like hanging about; Rab gets off and Lauren and I head home where Dianne’s made some pasta.

The food is fine, in fact it’s excellent, but I’m almost choking on it, because
she’s
on the television. Britain’s Olympic-medal sensation, as Sue Barker calls her, Carolyn Pavitt. And Carolyn’s got the toothy smile and the dyed-blonde hair, which she’s letting grow a bit. She’s being all cutesy-pie but with that subtle hint of dynamism, which is bringing out the wolf in John Parrott and some guest footballer. I’m hoping Ally McCoist’s team thrash the thick, titless cow, and make her look like the imbecile she is. ‘
A Question of Sport
’? What the fuck does she know about sport? It should be called a question of tits. Where’s yours then, darling?

Then I look again. There
are
tits there. In horror I gape at her and realise: she’s had them done! Britain’s Olympic medallist anti-performance-enhancing titless gymnast cow, has, along with the bottle-blonde hair and the capped teeth, had a set of implants fitted in cynical preparation for a new, media career.

Dianne heads out to her folks’ place that evening. Lauren and I are staying in, watching more television. She’s irritated by an arts show where a group of intellectuals discuss the phenomemon of Japanese girl novelists. They display a selection of author dust-jacket photographs which show pretty young girls in almost soft-porn shots. ‘But can they write?’ one pundit asks. A Professor of Popular Culture, completely serious, barks impatiently, ‘I don’t see how that’s of any importance at all.’

Lauren is fairly enraged by that! We smoke some dope and get the munchies. I have another plate of pasta and Lauren opens a bottle of red wine. It’s only a small second bowl I’ve had but I decide it’s sitting too heavy in my stomach and I think of the Polaroid Severiano/Enrico took and I go to the toilet and vomit it up, brushing my teeth and swallowing some Milk of Magnesia to calm the stomach lining.

When I get back I enviously watch Lauren eat her food; she eats so much for a tiny girl. She’s how they’d like to be: all these showbiz girls who claim they are not anorexic and eat like horses. We know it’s lies though, but not our Lauren. She’s always munching away at something. The wine soon goes and a bottle of white gets opened. It’s a relaxing night and it’s like old times, me and her, on our own, a girls’ night in. Then the door goes and Lauren actually jumps in fright then scowls in anger. — Don’t answer it, she urges. I shrug, but the knock is persistent.

I get up.

— Oh, Nikki, don’t . . . Lauren pleads.

— It might be Dianne, she could have lost her keys or something. I open the door and it’s not Dianne of course, it’s Simon and he’s grinning from ear to ear. He looks so dazzling, so edible, that I have to let him in, although I know he’s messing me around. As he comes through into our front room, Lauren’s face falls. — I smelt the pasta, he smiles broadly, looking at her near-empty plate. — The Eyetie in me, he beams.

— You can have some if you want? There’s plenty left? I tell him as I see Lauren look away.

— Thanks, but I’ve already eaten, he pats his stomach as his eyes drift over to Lauren. — That’s a nice top, he says to her. — Where did you get it?

She looks at him, and for a moment I think she’s going to say ‘What the fuck do you care’, but she mumbles: — It’s only from Next. She gets up and takes her plate to the kitchen, then I hear her going straight to her bedroom, and I’m wondering if that’s the reaction Simon intended to provoke with his comment.

As if in confirmation, he arches his eyebrows and drops his voice. — Badly needs a makeover that lassie, he sings in soft, impatient conspiracy. — Very pretty girl though. You can see that, even under all the crap she wears. She isnae a lesbian, is she?

— I don’t think so, I tell him, nearly laughing.

— Pity, he says thoughtfully, with an almost palpable sense of regret.

I do chortle then, but he stays impassive so I speculate: — I’m always reminded of the opening chapter of George Eliot’s
Middlemarch
when I see Lauren.

— Refresh my memory, Simon requests, adding, — I’m quite well read, but I’m not much of a referencer.

— ‘Miss Brodie had the kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress, and seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain garments,’ I quote.

Simon seems to consider this, then decides that he’s unimpressed. I feel bad about this and hate myself for feeling that way. I should be telling him to fuck off. Why has the approval of this man of dubious character suddenly become so important to me?

— Listen, Nikki, I’ve a proposition for you, he says gravely.

Now my head’s starting to spin. What does he mean? I keep it trifling. — I know all about those kind of propositions, I inform him. — I had a drink with Terry? At dinner time? I don’t think he can wait till Thursday.

— Aye, it’s a big day, he says thoughtfully, — but no, this is nothing like that. I’d like you to help me, on eh, the fund-raising side of things. It’s strictly business.

Strictly business? After the other night? What is he saying here? And then he starts to tell me about this strange plan of his, which sounds so exciting, so intriguing, that I just have to agree.

Sick Boy, for sure.

I know he’s trying to play games with my head, the flowers and all that, but that’s exactly what I’m trying to do to him. All that intimacy, all that tenderness of the other night has gone. I’m now just a business partner, a porn star. I’m walking through a minefield and I know it but can’t stop myself. Fair enough, Sick Boy, I’ll play this game for as long as you want. — I met Rab’s brother Billy today. He seems nice, I tell him, looking for any reaction.

Simon raises an eyebrow. — Business Birrell, he says. — Funny, I didn’t know until the stag that Rab was his brother. You can see the similarity. Aye, I had a bit of a falling out with him years ago, when he’d just opened that Business Bar. I was in with Terry who was in these work overalls. We got a bit pished. I said to Business: ‘Boxing, a bit of a bourgeois sport, isn’t it?’ I was being ironic, but I think it went over his head. Anyway, he barred us, he chuckles, seeming more disdainful than jealous of Rab’s brother.