A Certain Chemistry (33 page)

I leaned across and kissed Sara on the cheek. She looked at me like this was a strange thing for me to do (which it was). “Paul, George-
ina,
this is Sara, my girlfriend.”

George smiled and nodded.

“She’s a cracker, Tom,” said Paul, and winked at Sara. Twat.

“Ahh . . .” Hugh scanned the room. “That reminds me, I still haven’t located Mary. Would you all excuse me? I think I’d better engage in a search for my wife.”

“That’s what I say to myself every time I go to a party,” cawed Paul. “Still haven’t found a candidate yet. Mind you, I’ve seen a good few ‘honorable mentions,’ if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” replied Hugh, looking like he didn’t. “Well, see you all later.”

Paul coughed. A purely social cough—just one, carefully placed,
“Hch-arrr,
” and took a gulp from his wine. I was surprised that he felt awkward about his joke not being precisely on Hugh’s wavelength—I was surprised, in fact, that he was even aware there
were
wavelengths other than his own. “Well,” he continued, “I’ll piss off too, if that’s okay with you lot. I see your agent’s on her own over there, Tom. I’ll have a quick chat. See if I can find any pity in the woman, maybe.” He finished his wine, slammed the empty glass down needlessly heavily on a table, and strode over to Amy.

This left Sara, George, and me together, alone.

“So . . .” I said. I then clicked my teeth, let out some little puffs of air, hummed five or six notes of a nonexistent tune, and pulled various faces. “So, then . . .” Sara was looking at me in the strangest way. It wasn’t the intense, probing look she’d been carrying around earlier. It was a mixture of bafflement and fascinated inspection. I couldn’t even read whether it was affectionate or antagonistic; I’d almost say that she didn’t appear to be sure of this herself either. “Sara’s a big fan of
The Firth
!” I said suddenly, pleased to have had a thought.

Sara smiled at George, slightly embarrassed. “I am, aye,” she said. “I think you’re extremely good in it.”

“Oh, I just say the lines that are written for me,” replied George, switching to a stock modesty that I’d seen her use a couple of times before. “The crew and the writers do all the work. I simply have to turn up on time and try not to fall over the scenery.”

“Oh,
no,
I think you’re a very good actress.”

“I don’t know about that . . . but thank you for saying so.”

Well, that seemed to have gone splendidly.

“So—should we think about making a move to leave?” I said to Sara, taking an illustrative half-step in the direction of the exit.

“Leave? We’ve only just got here.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say ‘just’ . . . or ‘only’ . . . and it’s going to be
hell
to get a taxi if we wait until everyone else is leaving.”

Sara turned to George. “This is Tom for you,” she said with mock despair. “Hardly ever takes me out, then when he does, he wants to get it over with as soon as possible. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t thinking about making it home in time for the late-night film on the telly.”

“No, I—”

“Are you sure? When we get back I’ll be checking to see if it’s circled in the TV guide.”

I looked at George. “I
do
take her out. I take her out all the time.” I was filled with a strange desire to assure George that I was a good partner. “Strange” in the sense that I felt I needed to convince George how well I treated my girlfriend, the girlfriend to whom I was being unfaithful, with her.

“All the time?” scoffed Sara.

“We went to B&Q just last Sunday.”

“That’s not taking me out.”

“It is—
you
were the one who wanted to go, I didn’t want to go. But I went with you.”

“Nice one, Heathcliff,” Sara said. “I hope
you
managed to have a good time with Tom, Georgina.”

Bwoof
. The temperature of my body plummeted by eighty degrees in a single instant.

George didn’t display the tiniest flicker, however. She just smiled gently and said, “He’s very professional. I’ve enjoyed working with him. And I’m very pleased with the book, of course. Tom is wonderfully expressive.”

“Oh—
on the page
he’s expressive.
On the sofa
I can barely get a word out of him. Or maybe he’s many-sided; everyone gets a different Tom.”

This was really more information than was needed. I couldn’t tell whether Sara was trying to make a point to George (perhaps “Tom’s rubbish—don’t bother”) or whether it was simply that she’d become excitedly talkative in the presence of a celeb—I’d seen this happen to some of the people at George’s book signing.

“Well . . .” George shrugged amiably. “I don’t know about that. I’m just happy we got the chance to work together . . . and relieved that he survived the experience—psychologically
and
physically, eh?” She smiled. “Though, I must say, your eye looks much better now. No one would ever know.”

Sara smiled too. Then wrinkled her nose up, a little confused. “You saw Tom’s black eye? I didn’t know you two had seen each other since the Benny Barker show.”

“Hahaha,” I laughed. I have entirely no idea what I was hoping to achieve by doing this. “Hahahah . . . yes,” I continued, looking down into my wineglass and shaking my head, as though at some amusing memory. “Yeeeesss . . .” I glanced up. Sara was looking at me. Like someone who expected to hear an answer within the next day or so. “Yes, I saw Georgina, briefly, just after I fell over that tramp.”

“Ahhh, right.” Sara nodded. “You didn’t mention Georgina was in London too.”

“Didn’t I? Well, I only saw her briefly. She was with her agent when I went in to sign the amended contract.”

“I thought you said you’d fallen over the tramp after that.”

“I went back again after I’d fallen over him.”

“Why?”

“I was shaken up by the fall. I wasn’t completely sure I
had
signed.”

“You lost your memory?”

“Just briefly. It didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

“I see.”

“Yeah . . . God, this wine is
awful,
isn’t it? Hugh!”

Hugh had returned, and I’d shouted at him and pointed. It’s called misdirection.

“What?” asked Hugh, slightly anxiously.

“It’s you,” I said.

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

“No reason at all. At least none
I
can think of.”

Hugh thought for a moment, and then seemed to accept that this was the case. “Georgina, I’ve finally unearthed my wife. She’s chatting to someone who buys books for one of the big chain stores. I wonder if you’d come over and charm him a wee bit? It never hurts to plant the idea of an even more prominent display in these people’s heads.”

“Of course.” George glanced briefly at Sara and me before following Hugh away. “Nice to see you again, Tom,” she said, touching my shoulder, “and it was lovely to meet you, Sara.” Then she was gone.

I stood by Sara and kicked the crap out of my brain, as though it were a captured enemy agent and I was trying to get it to talk. The last thing I wanted was for there to be an awkward silence, because I didn’t want it to seem like there was anything to be awkward about, but I simply couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Perhaps it was just a few seconds, though it seemed much longer to me, but the uncomfortable lack of speech didn’t end until Sara spoke.

“She wasn’t what I expected.”

“They never are, are they? Bit of a letdown?”

“No. No, not a letdown, exactly. Just . . .”

“What?”

“Human. I suppose I was surprised to find her so . . . made of flesh.”

“Mmm . . .” I tried to shoo all sorts of images from my mind.

“What do you think of her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really think of her at all.”

“You were staring at her.”

“No I wasn’t,” I said, rather indignantly—wanting to continue, “I so bloody
wasn’t
. I was half killing myself with nervous exhaustion from the intensity with which I was forcing myself
not
to stare at her so it didn’t appear suspicious, in fact—so that shows what
you
know—you and your utterly groundless accusations.” Instead I repeated, “No I wasn’t,” with, for convincingness, a slight pout.

“Oh, you
were
. Furtive staring.”

“
Furtive
now? You’re imagining things.”

“Why would I imagine it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen her in London?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I did. I remember doing it specifically. I asked, ‘Who did you see in London?’ and you said, ‘No one.’ I tried again—quite a few times—and you finally gave up the precious information that you’d seen Georgina’s agent. But you definitely gave the impression that you’d done nothing else at all but sit in your hotel room. Or fall over tramps.”

“Oh,
God
. I didn’t
see
Georgina, not really. She was in the office and we exchanged a few words. That doesn’t amount to
seeing
someone. Why the interrogation?”

“Okay—don’t get defensive.”

“I’m not getting bloody defensive.”

“Have you got a crush on Georgina Nye?”

“Jesus! Where did
that
come from?”

“I’m just asking. I mean, she’s very attractive, and you’ve been immersed in thinking about her for the book . . . and you’ve definitely had something on your mind. In fact, I thought . . .”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she replied, shaking her head. “But is that what the problem has been lately? Have you come down with a case of the Nyes?”

“No, of course not. She’s too . . .” What was she
too
? The woman was perfect. “. . . rich for me.”

“You fancy Madonna—she’s absolutely loaded.”

“That’s different. She was poor when I started to fancy her. Back when she released ‘Holiday’ she hadn’t got two coins to rub together.”

“Well, well, I didn’t realize you were such a sexual Marxist.”

“Well,
I
didn’t realize we’d ‘had a problem lately.’ ” This was a lie, of course, but a white one. It implied that
I
was perfectly happy and that any “problem” she’d sensed was nonexistent and probably just due to her being premenstrual or wildly oversensitive or stupid or something like that. So, it was basically a white lie I was prepared to take on, as it would comfort and reassure her.

“Apparently not,” Sara replied, in a tone unusual for someone who was comforted and reassured.

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean.”

“And what’s
that
supposed to mean?”

She shrugged and looked the other way.

I huffed. “Look, I don’t know what you think the problem is, but there
isn’t
one as far as I’m concerned. I’m very happy, there’s nothing but work between George and me, and I’m going to get something from the buffet now. Do you want anything to eat?”

In an evening of curious looks, Sara gave me the most curious look yet. “No,” she said finally.

“Fine,” I replied, and strode off towards the food. Wondering if, when I found it, I’d be able to hold any of it down.

En route, however, I decided to ignore the food entirely and slip outside for a steadying cigarette instead. On the street, around the doorway, there were only slightly fewer people who’d popped out for a quick smoke than there were guests inside. I managed to scrounge a couple of cigarettes without particular shame and smoked them thoughtfully. I told myself to calm down. Myself replied that I’d try.

I finished my final cigarette and flicked the end off into the night; it hit the road with a spray of orange sparks, like the brief, blinking bloom of a fiery flower (is there
anything
about smoking that
isn’t
satisfying?). Then I quickly sneaked back into the party and began to look for Sara. I was saved the trouble of searching, however, because when I stopped for a moment to get another drink, she found me.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Looking for you.”

“You’ve been gone ages.”

“I couldn’t find you. Where were you?”

“Looking for you.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “Well, now we’ve found each other.”

“Yes . . . while I was wandering around, I bumped into Georgina Nye’s agent again. I was asking him about the amended contract you’d been down to sign.”

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

“Really?” I took a sip of my wine and glanced off around the room, clearly unconcerned with this fact and only half listening.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

“He said he didn’t know what on earth I was talking about.”

“Well,
obviously,
” I said with a roll of my eyes and a sigh. “That’s
obviously
what he’s going to say, isn’t it? It’s obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“Tch—he’s an agent. He’s not going to discuss contractual details with people, is he? He wants to keep everything private. And, anyway,” I said, visibly hurt, “why were you checking up on me in the first place?”

“I wasn’t ‘checking up on you.’ It was simply the first thing I thought of to say—it’s the only thing we had in common. I wasn’t asking him about contractual details either, I just said something like, ‘So you and Tom met up to amend the contract the other week, then?’ That’s all.”

“But that’s asking him to give away that the contract’s been amended.”

“Well, he could have said, ‘We did meet for business, yes,’ or something like that. Rather than, for example, saying, ‘No, I’ve never seen Tom in London,’ and then peering at me like I was a nutter.”

“Pff. He doesn’t want to give
anything
away if he can help it.”

“Not even admit he met you?”

“No.”

“Not even to me, your partner?”

“The man’s obsessive, clearly.”

“Let’s go back and ask him now, then. You come with me.”

“Jesus—we can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

Good question, Sara. I’ll just take a drink of wine while I think about that one.