Porno (62 page)

I tell him as the room-service guy enters. Simon brings the Nurofen over. — They’ll soon kick in, babes, don’t worry . . . have you taken your Cylanol?

I nod weakly.

— I didn’t fuck that Roni, you know, he explains hastily, — we just went for a stroll along the beach because everyone else was crashed out. I’m a one-woman man these days, baby, well, off-screen anyroads.

A stroll along the beach. It sounds so romantic that now I’m wishing he had just fucked her quickly in her hotel room. He sees Mel and Curt and goes over and shakes them awake. — It’s nearly morning. Can you head back to the Beverly and give us a wee bit time alone, folks? Please?

Mel’s face screws up, but she rises. — Right . . . c’mon, Curtis.

Curtis gets up and sees my tears. — What’s wrong wi Nikki?

— Women’s problems. She’ll be fine. See you in a bit, Simon says.

Curtis doesn’t accept this though, and he comes over to the bed. — Are you awright, Nikki?

I acknowledge his concern, and as he kisses me sweetly on my fevered brow, I throw my arms around his skinny waist. Then Mel comes over and I give her a hug and a kiss. — I’m okay, I think the powders are starting to work. It’s just this cystitis. Too much wine and spirits. I think that corrosive champagne’s bad for it as well.

When they depart Simon and I get into bed, lying with our back to each other, stiff and tense, me with my pain, him with his cocaine.

Eventually, I start to ease up and unravel in the bed. It must be mid-afternoon when I wake up, disturbed by his moving around. He comes and sits on the bed, with a room-service tray: croissants, coffee, orange juice, rolls and fresh fruit. — Feeling better? he asks, kissing me.

— Yeah, loads, and I’m looking into his eyes, the both of us in silence.

After a bit he squeezes my hand and says: — Nikki, I behaved abominably last night. It wasn’t just the drink or the ching, it was the occasion. I wanted this to go so right, and I was a control freak, a fascist.

— What’s new? I remark.

— I want to make it up tonight, before we all go to the Fox Searchlight party, he says, his face split with a huge grin. Then he adds: — I’ve got some brilliant news.

He’s glowing. I have to ask. — What’s that?

— We’ve only been shortlisted for best film at the Adult Film Festival Awards! I got the call this morning!

— Wow . . . that is so . . . like, wonderful, I hear myself say.

— Too fucking right it is, Simon gleefully observes. — And yourself, myself and Curtis have been nominated in the best newcomer categories. For actress, director and actor.

I feel such a massive surge of elation, I’m almost sticking to the ceiling.

To celebrate our nomination, Simon’s taking me to dinner at what he refers to as: — One of the finest restaurants, not just in Cannes, but in France. Which, of course, means the world.

I’m wearing a sparkling pea-green Prada dress with some high-heeled Gucci shoes. I have my hair up and am adorned with a small pair of gold earrings, a necklace and some bangles. Simon, who’s wearing a yellow cotton suit and a white shirt, is looking at me and shaking his head. — You are the very essence of femininity, he says, seeming almost awestruck in admiration.

I’m tempted to ask him if he said the same thing to Fox Searchlight last night, but I let it go, because I don’t want to spoil the moment. We are here, and it is now, and I know that won’t always be the case.

And it
is
wonderful, the sort of small Provence restaurant where cooking is raised to high art. From the
amuses-bouche
through a sublime
homard bleu, suc lie de truffe noire et basilic pilé
and chicken breast
demi-deuil
covered in an inky truffle sauce to the
pièce de résistance
, a pile of truffles that enveloped a crisp green salad. Lovely.

For dessert, I went for the coffee-chocolate
coupe glacée
with a daring cup of liquid chocolate and a
brioche
to dip in it. All this was washed down with a bottle of champagne, ‘Cristal’ Louis Roederer, a Clos du Bois Chardonnay and two large Remy Martin cognacs.

We’re intoxicated by everything, lisping seductively at each other in pidgin French, when Simon’s mobile rings, the green one. It annoys me that he can never seem to switch them off. — Hello?

— Who is it? I hiss, more than mildly irritated that our moment has been invaded.

Simon puts his hand over the receiver. He looks quite concerned for a bit, then breaks into a waspish smile. — It’s François. Some wildly important news about a card school in Leith I forgot about. How remiss of me to double-book my diary. He speaks calmly into the phone. — I’m in France, Frank, at the Cannes Film Festival.

There’s a sharp voice buzzing on the other end. Simon holds the phone away from him. Then he winks raffishly at me and says into the receiver, cupping the other hand over his ear: — Frank? Are you still there? Hello?

He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and giggles. — François is being rather difficult. Trust me to forget that the Cannes Film Festival and the Leith Card School clashed. I should get a helicopter to Leith straight away, he sniggers, his shoulders shaking, and now I’m laughing too. — Are you still there, Frank? Hello? he shouts into the phone. Then he scrapes the grill of the mouthpiece with his fingernail. — I can’t hear you and you’re breaking up. I’ll phone you back later, he says, then snaps the phone shut and switches it off. — He is such a prick you can’t even hate him. It’s beyond that, he says in stunned admiration. — The man is beyond love or hate . . . he simply . . .
is
.

Then he grabs my hand across the table. — How can somebody like him and somebody like you exist in the same world? How can planet Earth produce such a range of humanity?

And we were straight back into each other again. Simon arrogantly tossed the odd withering glance around the room, but mostly our complicit eyes ate each other, dancing and teasing in and out of each other’s souls. To have enjoyed such intimacy, to fuck would actually be an anticlimax. Almost.

— Do we have time to go back to the room before we meet the others? I ask him.

— I’ll make time, he says, waving the mobile.

I repair to the toilet and push my fingers down my throat, throwing up the food and gargling with mouthwash from my bag. It’s lovely food, but far too rich and fattening to actually digest. Like most modern, intelligent women, I’m a Jungian, but Freud did have one thing going for him in that he hated fat people. Probably because they were happy and well adjusted and therefore didn’t line his pockets like the skinny neurotics. But now, at this moment, I’m happy. I’ve had my cake and eaten it, then sicked it up before it could damage me.

When I go back to the restaurant, there’s a row going on and, to my mounting unease, I can tell that it’s over at our table.

— This card cannot be over the limit, that simply cannot be the fucking case, Simon shouts, his face florid with the drink and probably cocaine.

— But please, Monsieur . . .

— I DON’T THINK YOU’RE HEARING ME! THAT SIMPLY CANNOT BE THE FUCKING CASE!

— But, Monsieur, please . . .

Simon’s voice breaks into a low hiss. — Don’t fucking gies it, ya froggy cunt! You want Cruise in here? You want DiCaprio to eat in here? I’m supposed to be meeting Billy Bob Thornton here tomorrow to discuss a major fucking project . . .

— Simon! I shout. — What’s going on?

— Sorry . . . okay, okay. There’s been some mistake. Try this one. He hands over another card which instantly goes through. Despite the maître d’s sour expression, Simon looks smug and vindicated, and not only does he refuse to leave a tip, he shouts back into the dining room in parting: — JE NE REVIENDRAI PAS!

Outside, I’m teetering between finding this whole thing annoying and amusing. As I’m still on such a massive high, I opt for the latter, bursting into a drunken, nervous fit of giggles.

Simon looks sourly at me, then shakes his head and starts laughing himself. — That was nonsense, it’s the Bananazzurri company card I tried to pay with. There’s loads of cash in there. All the one-six-nine-zero scam money is in there and only Rents and I are the signatories and he’s in the Da . . . He stops dead for a second, and a cold panic fuses in his eyes. — If. That. Cunt.

— Don’t be so paranoid, Simon, I laugh. — Mark’ll be here tomorrow as planned. Let’s go back, I whisper in his ear, — and make love . . .

— Make love! Make fucking love? When a ginger cunt could be taking everything I’ve fucking well worked for?

— Don’t be stupid . . . I implore him.

Simon, as if trying to control and fortify himself, stretches his arms out in front of him. — Okay . . . okay . . . I’m probably being silly. Tell you what, you go back and give me fifteen minutes to compose myself and make a few phone calls.

I respond with a sulky frown, but he’s not moving. I head away, reluctantly going back to the hotel room, where I pour myself a drink, thinking about the bastard on the beach with that Fox Searchlight bitch.

When he returns, he’s calmed down and is in better spirits. — You got Mark, I take it?

— No, but I spoke to Dianne. She said he’d just called her from Amsterdam. He’s calling her again later, so I told her to tell him to phone me straight away, he explains, then pleads: — Sorry, babes, I was jumpy. Too much ching . . .

I move over to him and grab his balls firmly, through the material of his trousers, feeling his cock stiffen. A big smile grows over his face. — You fuckin dirty cow, he laughs, and he’s on me and in me and we make frenzied love, hotter even than our first few times.

Later, we rendezvous along with Mel and Curt and head out to the Fox Searchlight party. It’s pretty dull at first but an excellent DJ livens things up and we get thrashed again. When it finishes, we get into a launch and head out to the do on the
Private
boat, an old cruise ship moored in the Med, which has been converted into a film studio. It’s a porn stars’ party, with banging, cheesy Eurotechno and free drinks. Simon’s obviously a bag of nerves, on the mobile all the time, trying to get Mark. He attempts to make light of things. — If this music doesn’t make you want butt-fucked, Nikki, nothing will.

— You’re right, I tell him, — nothing will.

Myself, Mel and Curtis are going for it on the dance deck, although Curt keeps disappearing and coming back with a grin on his face and a deranged starlet in tow. Mel and I are constantly getting hit on by all manner of guys including Lars Lavish and Miz, but we’re enjoying our sense of power, knocking everybody back, but flirting outrageously and prick-teasing horribly. At one stage we go into a toilet cublicle and make love, bringing each other off, only the second time we’ve been intimate in that way without a camera.

When we get back on deck, wired but satisfied, smirking at each other, we see Simon, still constantly trying to get signals on the mobiles. More launches arrive and the boat is filling up. I see a thin girl with long, blonde hair from the side of my vision, which isn’t surprising, but the voice I can hear talking to her makes me do a quick double take. Simon even clicks off his phone in shock. — . . . aye, but people think thit ah git called Juice Terry cause ay the load ay juice that ah shoot oaf in they cum shots. Bit naw, it goes back tae the time thit ah used tae deliver the juice, or what youse Americans might call soda, bit the technical term is aerated waters, eh. Listen, doll, no fancy gaun doonstairs fir a bit, explore the ship n that? Mibee a bit mair thin the ship!

— Lawson! Simon shouts.

— Sicky! Terry roars, then he sees Mel and me. — Nikki! Whae-hae! Mel! Awright, gorgeous! He turns to his compainion. — This is Carla, she’s in the business, San Fernando Valley stuff, likes. What wis your fillum again, doll?

—
A Butt-Fucker in Pussy City
, this blonde girl with an American accent smiles cheesily.

— Aye, Birrell’s here n aw, Birrell Senior, that is. Telt ays eh wis gaun ower tae see ehs burd in Nice, so ah jist sortay invited masel along. Goat the train doon here n blagged intae the porn fillum festival tent. Telt every cunt ah wis Juice Terry fae
Seven Rides
, n goat sorted oot wi a pass, he points to an orange badge with PRIVATE ADULT FILMS, ‘JUICE’ TERRY LAWSON, PERFORMER emblazoned on it. — Cannae wait tae git back tae Edinburgh, hit the Slutland at the West End wi this oan.

— Delighted you could make it, Tel, Simon says curtly. — Excuse me for a second, and he heads towards the starboard, punching digits into his green mobile.

Terry grabs a handful of my arse, repeating the exercise with Mel’s, and with a sly wink he vanishes with Carla, who evidently thinks – thanks to Simon’s editing of
Seven Rides
– that Terry’s cock is Curtis’s. — She’ll be disappointed, Mel laughs, — but no
that
disappointed.

This Eurotechno is so bouncy I’m almost wishing I had an E, but I’m not really a chemical sort. After a bit, an agitated Simon approaches us with another bulletin. — There’s no Renton, so he must be on his way here, but that specky wee Lauren says that that Dianne’s gone! Or at least that’s what I think she said. The stroppy wee hoor willnae talk tae me, Nikki. You phone her, he says, now thrusting his
white
mobile at me. — Please, he urges.

I call Lauren and speak with her for a minute or two, asking about her health. Then I ask about Dianne. After, I turn to Simon. — Dianne’s only staying at her mum’s for a few days, that’s all. She’s not been too well.

— What’s her mother’s phone number? I need to speak to Dianne!

— Simon, will you just, like, chill out? You’ll see Mark, like tomorrow? At the hotel? He wouldn’t miss this for the world! I urge him, swinging back into the beat with Mel.

But Simon’s shaking his head, not listening to a word I’m saying. — No . . . no . . . he moans, then smashes his fist into his palm, — that cunt Renton . . . right, you cunt, that’s it! He pulls out his green mobile phone.