A Certain Chemistry (7 page)

“No, that’s not the main thing. Ask most people if they want to be on TV and they won’t even
think
of asking if they’ll get paid—let alone respected, sexed, or drugged. It’s the fame itself they want, for its own sake. And they want it because, on some level, they think it’ll make them immortal.”

“So?”

“Well, that’s not true, is it? We’re in the twenty-first century now, and people remember some twentieth-century figures. What about in the twenty-
fifth
century? Who’ll they remember? Hitler, maybe? And in the four hundred and seventy-second century? In historical time Elvis is only a heartbeat away from anonymous. A billion years of celebs will pile on top of one another, burying the ones below, then the earth will be consumed by the sun. After that, just voiceless time until the universe ends it all utterly. It will be as if I’d never appeared on
Me and My Pet
at all.”

“Well, you certainly like to think ahead. I’ll say that for you.”

“I’d just prefer to pass on the whole fame business, thanks. Write the words, collect my check, buy a carpet. Fame’s just wrapping paper: a few seconds and then the wrapping paper’s in the bin.”

“Right.”

“Well, not if it’s really good wrapping paper, and you can get the tape off without causing too much damage. Then you’ll store it under the bed thinking you can reuse it. But it’s still quite a good metaphor.”

“I see.”

“Especially as you never
will
actually reuse it. It’ll just lie there for years, forgotten about, until you have a big clear-out one day and throw everything away in a cathartic orgy.”

“Hmm.”

“And, yes, okay, I bet
the very next day
you suddenly need wrapping paper, and now you have to go out and buy some. But that’s hardly the issue. I didn’t say you could just keep extending the metaphor forever or anything.”

“No.”

I thought I’d now made my point pretty skillfully, so I fell silent.

She stared at me for a few moments with that unreadable expression again and then turned away, looking out over the city once more.

“I’ve always wanted to be famous,” she said. Then, after a pause, “Are you married?”

“Er, yes. I mean, as good as. Sara. We’ve been together for about five years.”

“Is she a writer too?”

“No. She works in a frozen-food store.”

“God—a proper job. I’ve wanted to be someone famous for as long as I can remember. Not famous for anything in particular. I didn’t stand in front of the mirror pretending to be an actress or a singer or a model. I just used to have fantasies where I was being interviewed.” She slipped into a very well executed performance of playing someone being thunderously nonchalant. “You know, ‘Hahaha, well, that’s a question I’m
often
asked, Lionel . . .’
Nothing
is more conclusively validating than being interviewed. People actually wanting to know what you think—what you think about
yourself,
even.”

Or just the fruitful collision of people’s morbid curiosity and the strategy of some publicity department, I thought. But I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “Yes.” (But retained my integrity by giving it an ambiguous inflection.)

“Sometimes I think I only see my therapist because it’s like being interviewed—all that talking about yourself.”

She saw a therapist. Jesus.

“Right,” I said. Same inflection.

“Anyway, there was nothing I wanted more—no, there was nothing I wanted—
full stop
—except to be famous. Being interviewed. Photos in the Sunday supplements of me chatting at exclusive parties. People stopping me in the street and saying, ‘Wow! You’re
Georgina Nye,
aren’t you?’ Meeting other famous people and being somebody other famous people wanted to meet. Yet now, if there was a button I could press and it’d all go away—I’d be a normal person, a normal, nonfamous person just by pressing a button—then, do you know what?”

“You wouldn’t press it.”

“No bloody way.”

Again her toothacular grin.

“I suppose you think that makes me shallow or something? Needy?”

“Not at all,” I said, shaking my head with emphasis. “I don’t think fame’s desirable, it’s not something
I’d
want . . . but I feel the same way about anchovies on a pizza—and I don’t make moral judgments about people who order the Neapolitana.”

She scratched her nose.

“I like you. . . . Do you like me?”

“Well, I don’t really know you . . .”

What a
stupid
answer to give at this proximity to £150,000. I should have just said yes. Why didn’t I just say yes? This is why I needed Amy. Amy would have said yes
right away,
without even having to think; it’d have sounded sincere too. I quickly recovered though.

“Um, I mean, ‘yes.’ ”

She turned around, leaned back onto the rail, and pushed her hands into her pockets.

“I’m going to tell Paul that I want you to write my book.”

“Excellent.” Axminster, Wilton—here we come!

“I like you. You’re clever—which means you’ll make
me
sound clever—and you’re normal—which means you’ll make
me
sound normal. I don’t want to come over as all showbizzy, and I think you’re the ideal person to see to that.”

“I will, if that’s what you want. Thanks, that’s brilliant, Ms-um-Ny-Georgina.”

“George. Call me George.”

“Okay. George. You can call me Tom. Obviously.”

“Tom.”

“George.”

“Brilliant.”

I reached out, grabbed her hand, and shook it. Which was an idiotic thing to do, of course, but I was realistic enough to realize that there was no way I could possibly stop myself from doing it. If all went according to plan, this meant well over a dozen times more money than I’d ever got for a commission before. She was lucky I just
shook
her hand, rather than falling to my knees, pressing it to my forehead, and beginning to weep.

“Right,” she said. “What do you want from me?”

“I’ll need to go through everything with you, get all the basic biographical facts, any anecdotes you have lying about, that type of thing. And for this kind of book they’ll want some photos too. Not publicity shots but more personal stuff—family snaps or behind-the-scenes pictures.”

“Right. I think I can arrange the photos at some point. When do you want to start hearing my life?”

“Whenever suits you best.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Sure, if it’s okay with you.”

“Well, as you know, I simply
hate
being interviewed, so I’d prefer to get it over with.” She grinned. Hugely winningly.

“Look, here’s my phone number,” I said. “Just give me a call—tonight maybe?—and we’ll sort it out.”

“Okay.”

“Right.”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant.”

II

Hiya, God here again.
Forget I was watching, did you? Yeah, that happens
a lot
. Ha ha! Relax, relax, it’s okay—I’m just kidding with you. I got to tell you, one of the real drags about being God is being, you know, misunderstood. You know what I’m saying? It’s like I crack a joke and everyone’s, “What did he
mean
by that? Should we laugh? Or is he going to smite us or something?” I’m telling you, it’d really get me down if I let it. And expectations too. Man, you wouldn’t
believe
the expectations people have of you when you’re God. They can come to you with a real attitude because you don’t do things just the way
they
expected. Sometimes I have to get a bit heavy, you know—remind them of the lines. “I hear you’re upset, and that’s okay. But lose the attitude or you’ll find yourself in a situation—you hear what I’m saying?” Like, say, when they die. Some of them stand there shooting their mouth off. Real
obstreperous
. They’re like, “Hey, Tony, we followed this religion or that religion and this god or these gods, and it turns out you’re nothing anyone’s ever
heard
of! Why didn’t you tell someone, eh? Do you realize the time we’ve wasted panicking about certain days and what to wear and how to do things and what we could say? And don’t even
start
us on the nightmare we’ve had keeping to the
diet
.” You know, like that’s
my
fault. I have to try to calm them down, yeah? Say I can see where they’re coming from but
I
didn’t make all that up and, frankly, some of it . . . well, for ages I didn’t think anyone actually
believed
that stuff, I thought they were just pretending to believe it for a joke. You know, being kind of ironic. Anyhow, eventually I generally get them to calm down. It’s a bit of a kicker wasting all that time (though, I tell you, mostly I think they’re angry just because they’re embarrassed), but that’s over. Put it behind you. Fresh start. They usually come around in the end. It’s a pretty good place here, all things considered. We even have minigolf now.

Whatever—let’s stick to the matter in hand, eh? The tale I’m laying on you here, with Tom and all those guys, I’m showing you it so you understand a few things, okay? I’m trying to show you why things happen the way they do. It’s about how stuff works, basically—that is, it’s about how
you
work, that’s the thing I’m trying to explain: the reasons you all behave a certain way and how you stick to the path, even though you can’t
see
the path. Some of you may not like what I have to tell you, but it’s for the best that you understand the situation. So, for now, I just want you to watch the people, right? I know how you guys tend to get, well, “distracted.” You look at what work people do and where they are and all that kind of thing. The scenery. You get all caught up with the details and can’t see beyond them. Well, don’t, okay? What’s happening here is what always happens. And there are reasons for that, but I’ll come to those later. Just don’t get distracted by any of the background noise, okay? Watch the people. Don’t think about who they
are;
watch what they
do
. It’s the people. The people are always the important thing.

four

I rang Amy about four seconds after I’d said good-bye to George. She was pleased with the way the situation was progressing and commended me on my personal diplomacy.

“Yessssss! Way to go, you fucker!”

Amy said she’d get in touch with George’s agent and start working through the details right away.

Sara was also pleased.

“What was she like?” she asked.

“Damn quick on her feet.”

“See, I told you she was canny.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, “actually I meant that literally. It nearly killed me trying to keep up with her running all over town. She’s like a bloody whippet.”

“What else? Tell me everything.”

“There’s not a lot to tell. I haven’t really got a handle on her yet. She likes the whole celebrity game, certainly, and I think she might be a bit of a thesp on the sly, but that’s about it.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Sara, can I just mention that it would make my working relationship with her tricky if you’re going to start stalking her, okay?”

“Och, I’m just
interested
. You don’t usually have proper stars. You have boring adventurers or people who’ve suffered huge personal tragedies. But this is real
interesting
stuff—she’s on the telly.”

“Oh, right. She was wearing meaningful canvas jeans and a thought-provoking sweatshirt.”

“Wow. That’s just the kind of thing anyone would wear.
I
might wear something like that, even. Wow.”

“Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”

“Tch—you
git
.” She punched me playfully in the ear, then rested her head on my shoulder and said, almost sleepily, “I suppose, what with her being so famous, that she can get loads of complimentary things. You know, a wee enquiry about something and they just give her the stuff . . .” She drew swirling patterns on my chest with her fingertip.

“I am
not
asking if she can get you free bicycle-race tickets.”

She lifted her head off my shoulder abruptly and sat up again.

“It could be a way of getting her to talk,” she said. “You never know, she might be interested in the sport in the same way as I am.”

“Interested in it
in the same way as you are,
eh?” I replied, grinning.

“I have no idea what you’re implying there, but you’re a wanker, okay?”

I kissed her nose. She rubbed it off with her hand, extravagantly, but returned her head to my shoulder.

“Do you love me so powerfully it dizzies you like a glorious drug rushing through your bloodstream?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Good. Well, keep the tickets in mind. Just in case the subject ever comes up in general conversation with her.”

George rang at about half past nine. (When I heard her voice, I spontaneously stood up. Tch.)

“Tom?”

“Oh, right—
George,
” I said, trying to affect a “lots of other business deals on my mind” nonchalance. “Hi there, I was just”—I waved a hand in the general direction of the curtains—“you know . . . So, how are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks, fine. Look, does it matter where we do this interview?”

“Well, not really. Best not to do it at an all-nighter really—my Dictaphone has a poor bass response—but as long as it’s not too noisy and we can talk freely, it doesn’t matter. Over lunch in a hotel room, say, or in a quiet restaurant, perhaps.” I was obviously gunning for being fed on someone’s expense account.

“Right. That’s great. I thought we’d do it on Carlton Hill.”

“Great.” Yeah—great. Not only did it look like I wouldn’t be scrounging a meal but she was getting me to climb God knows how many steps as well. Couldn’t the woman function at sea level? If this carried on, I’d be calling Amy and getting her to add the purchase of a bloody mule to the commission.

“Great,” I repeated.

“Okay, I’ll see you there at, say, two o’clock? The weather’s supposed to be good tomorrow, and I hear the view’s lovely from there.”

“Yes. Great. The view. Yes, I look forward to it.”

Jesus.

I did a bit of research on the Internet in the morning. As you’d expect, what with George being a feminist icon and all, there was a good selection of sites offering photos of her naked. After checking out just thirty or so, however, it became clear that all the pictures were fakes. There was one picture that took a great deal of studying, but in the end I concluded that the shadows were wrong and that it was also pretty unlikely anyone would have that kind of wistful expression on her face while performing the act shown. The only genuine thing on offer appeared to be a shot up her skirt as she was getting out of a car at some premiere or other—her crotch helpfully magnified as a detail to the side of the main photo. She was, in any case, wearing knickers (pretty mundane ones at that), so it would only be of interest to people who got off on seeing that her legs joined at the top. Oh, I learned that she was thirty years old too. The Internet really is a tremendous resource.

I took the bus into town early and made my way up to Carlton Hill. My being late for our first meeting was a factor in making sure I was there ahead of time, but not the main one. It’s a steep walk up there, and when George arrived I wanted to be already at the top of the path, lounging nonchalantly against the railings like Marlon Brando leaning on the jukebox in
The Wild One
. Rather than appear on my hands and knees, gasping for air, like, um, well, like Marlon Brando trying to walk up Carlton Hill, later in his career, I suppose. I strolled up, spent a little time enjoying a search for my breath, and then picked myself out a good spot. I tried several positions: back to the path, gazing up at the observatory; one hand clutching the black iron railings, the other pensively at my chin; looking over the graveyard and the river and the castle; lounging back, hands deep in my pockets, eyes closed as my face tilted up to accept the warmth of the sun. After a good deal of experimentation, I decided on the final pose but—fatally—shuffled about a lot trying to find a place where I was angled just right and the spikes on the railings weren’t spearing me in the back too severely. Too much careless shuffling. When George arrived I was doing a little slap-drag-look-slap-drag dance in an effort to get a great, sticky, ochre dog turd off my shoe. Right up in the arch it was—it’s a bugger to get them off when they hit there.

You know what I think the worst thing about smells is? An unclear provenance, that’s what. Smelling of garlic is unpleasant, of course, but I’d far rather have someone think of me “He smells of garlic. He’s been eating garlic, and now he smells of it” than “My word, what
does
he smell of?” At least if people know, then they’ll make allowances, accept that, well, these things happen. Far better that, in my opinion, than being someone who is giving off a mysterious odor. I mention this because I hope it explains why, when George strolled up to me, smiling, and said, “Hi there,” my reply was, “I’ve got dog shit on my shoe.”

A gambit I followed immediately by lifting my foot up to show it to her.

She looked down at the turd squashed out beyond the sides of my sole and nodded.

I moved off a little to scrub my foot against some longer brushes of grass, while George waited patiently for me to return. She had on the same sunglasses and hair-concealing hat that she’d worn yesterday, but now she was wearing them above a pair of—pre-aged, no doubt—jeans and what looked like a man’s white cotton shirt (it was too big and the cuffs reached almost to her fingertips). She also had trainers on again. I hoped this wasn’t a bad sign.

When I made myself acceptably shit-free I trotted over to her.

“Okay, all done. Shall we?” I offered the hill to her.

“Would it be all right to sit up there?” she asked, pointing to the National Monument (a re-creation of the Parthenon: inspired by classical Athens but imbued with a distinctively British quality by having run out of funds and been left half finished).

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

Young people tended to gather on the steps of the National Monument and “hang out” in the early evening. God knows why they couldn’t do this outside McDonald’s or at the bus station like youths everywhere else in Britain, but in any case, none of them was here at this time of day. A few tourists wandered around taking pictures of each other standing in front of things, but other than that, it was pretty quiet. We strolled over and scrambled up onto the monument, plunking ourselves down between two of the pillars.

“Gorgeous view,” she said.

“Um, yeah, I suppose so.” And I suppose it was. Edinburgh’s an extraordinarily spiky city. There’s little of the thudding, sterile blocks you see when you look out over many modern places. It looks more like the stalagmite-strewn floor of a cave: random and pointy and crystalline. “I’m a bit blind to it, maybe, having lived here for ages,” I admitted.