Authors: Jude Cook
At the time it was hard to tell whether Antonia and Nick were good friends of Mandy or merely hangers-on. Each party seemed disposable in the eyes of the other. A tacit agreement always accepted with a smile. Everyone knew the deal. In that world, everyone was in it for themselves: there was a kind of Teutonic efficiency about the whole project of self-advancement. The hierarchies were clearly delineated. Only someone higher ranking in media or pop-music terms could afford to insult another or disregard their phone calls. The suppliant of lower rank accepted this with a stoic submissiveness. And this was only natural. One day he or she would be in a position to do the same, perhaps to the person of original high rank who had slipped down the greasy pole during the intervening time. Mandy very clearly saw Antonia and Nick as belonging to a lower rank than her, and treated them accordingly. She stood them up at the doors of clubs, borrowed money without giving it back (‘they can afford it!’ she would bawl), left their pet cat to starve when it came to stay. And yet she still kept them as friends and allies. Marvellous. All I can say is there’s just not enough masochists to go round.
I gained a true insight into how Mandy handled Antonia and Nick one February night after we married. There was a launch for some high-roller from a major record company who wanted to be cool and start an independent label. The usual fortysomething frequenter of prostitutes with the complete works of Simply Red in his CD collection. In a twist of what he probably considered Warholian irony, he had arranged to hold the party at Stringfellows, a notorious London shithole full of potbellied media whores that likes to think of itself as ‘classy’. We agreed to meet Antonia and Nick there merely because we were told there was to be free champagne. And not just the odd complimentary glass. But a whole bar full of bottles in a constant state of replenishment. As soon as we arrived I realised how much I liked them both. They had that effortless cool only attainable by having a bit of dosh behind you, by possessing moneyed parents. An hour later, after we had paired off into the corners of voluminous black-leather sofas, Nick became tired of talking about football and transfer fees. I was glad about this, as I thought my disinterest in his conversation might mark me out as a practising homosexual. We’d both sunk at least a bottle and a half of bubbly each.
‘Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you,’ said Nick, apropos of nothing, in his reassuring, engaged voice. ‘Dear, oh dear!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You obviously don’t know what went down with Mandy’s ex,’ he continued, meaningfully.
He focused his limpid brown eyes into the middle distance and shook his head slightly from side to side. Nick was tall, foppish, long-limbed. He was also a man of mysteriously independent means. Initially he had wanted to be a footballer, then tried his hand at acting with little success. He was currently running a glam clothes stall on Camden market, but that in no way provided an income that enabled a man to go out five nights a week and drive a bottle-green MG. He was also full of juicy tales about the movie and music-biz people he effortlessly drifted among. I realised I was about to hear a juicy tale about my own wife. I said, ‘The ex? He was a self-pitying loser who caused Mandy a breakdown.’
‘Maybe,’ replied Nick, with relish. ‘But when they split Mand tried to run him over in the street. I have this on the highest authority.’
‘She didn’t tell me that.’
‘Well, she wouldn’t.’
We both glanced over to the other end of the settee to check Antonia and Mandy were still deep in conversation.
‘What’s worse …’ and here Nick’s voice dropped to a whisper that was hard to hear over classic UB40 and Simple Minds. she tried to torch his flat.’
‘Christ!’
‘She still had the key. He came back one night to find an entire wardrobe of his clothes in flames. He refused to press charges.’
I looked again at Mandy and saw her, as they say, in a new light. Why hadn’t I been told this before? Admittedly, one’s first question to a girlfriend is rarely, ‘Have you ever at any time attempted to murder a boyfriend with a motorised vehicle, and then tried to immolate all his worldly belongings?’ Maybe that one should grace the questionnaires of dating agencies. I felt distinctly queasy. This was followed by anger at Nick for not sharing this with me before. To avoid appearing a complete fool, the man who married the booby-prize, I wiped the look of surprise off my face and said: ‘Well, that’s mental Mandy for you! Full of Spanish passion. Anyway, this berk probably exaggerated the whole thing.’
‘Yeah, but if he didn’t,’ smiled Nick, tossing his fringe back, ‘you’re in for a bumpy ride.’
There was movement next to us: the glow of a female presence, pre-empted by a gust of expensive scent. It was Antonia. She had left Mandy talking to a well-known record plugger named Victor Moore, a man in his early forties and the very spit of Bill Sykes in Cruikshank’s cartoons.
‘How are you, sweethearts?’ she purred in that innocent way of hers. She put an arm around Nick’s lanky shoulders and squeezed his knee. I felt a twinge of jealousy at this. Since our return from Spain, Mandy had rarely kissed the back of my hand. It hadn’t been on the menu, for some reason. Instead, much affection had been jettisoned as we were forced to face up to harsh financial realities. We were teetering on financial collapse. I had even considered plunging back into further education, but after recalling my one failed attempt at storming the groves of academe aged twenty-three—and Mandy’s sneer at its very mention—I ditched the idea. She said Fellatrix had to be signed by April, otherwise we would lose the flat. After all, since the switchboard job, she had been out of work for months. Then she had had a brainwave. Throw out all her old tenants and raise the rent. We had argued much about this. ‘You can’t just throw out Harriet, Matt and Steve with a week’s notice!’ I had exclaimed, open-mouthed. ‘Aren’t they friends as well?’ She had trained her eyes on me with full firepower, her lips thinning to nothing: ‘
I
can do what I like. I’m the landlady.’ And so it went on … I looked at Antonia’s voluptuous body and made a comparison with Mandy. I had been formulating a theory that thin women had a higher capacity for spite than those built on more generous lines. And Antonia certainly was a big beauty. You could probably sleep a small baby in each of her bra-cups. It was more the idea that an abundance of flesh equalled nurturance; the folds of the Earth Mother, the bountiful Eve, et cetera. All this seemed to stand in opposition to the tomboyish qualities of the slender shrew. On the acres of her father’s estate, Antonia owned many pedigree dogs, chickens and sheep. She loved them, and conversed with them daily when she was there. Yes, she was very maternal, sensual, fertile. She also had a sexy, marshmallowy voice perfect for fielding calls from the wealthy clients of
Acquisition
; a ‘hobby job’ she was always too discreet to talk about. ‘Look at Mandy chatting up Victor!’ she said in her erotic croak. ‘Look at her go. What a professional. At this rate they’ll get signed
tout de suite
. Anyway, what have the boys been so busy with to make them look so guilty?’
But we didn’t get the chance to answer. Mandy was on her feet, wielding a champagne bottle in one hand and the arm of the bestubbled Victor Moore in the other. They were heading our way.
‘Guys!’ said Mandy expansively. ‘Help me out. Tell this man he’s wrong about everything. He’s the most cynical person I’ve ever met.’
I located Nick’s eyes briefly. Had she pissed this plugger off already? No, she was merely proving my point that the recklessly impudent always make new friends. Victor and Mandy sat down heavily next to us. Nick nodded hello to Victor. To be hip held the ultimate social cachet for him; to be at ease in all company. He said, ‘All right, Vic. How’s the bitterness coming along?’
‘It ain’t bitterness or cynicism. It’s realism,’ said Victor with his mugger’s smile.
‘What’s realistic about telling me to keep my day-job?’ gushed Mandy ‘I don’t even have a fucking day-job. The band is my day-job.’
‘Okay, you got a lot going for you. Fellatrix, yeah? Cool name. That’ll get ’em hot under the collars, those that get it. An all-bird band. The press are interested. You’re seen at all the right knees-ups, and that, but …’ Here I knew Victor was going to allow Mandy into a secret. He was about to let her know that the music business was a far bigger, nastier, more nepotistic beast than she had made provision for. He locked stares with her. ‘… You have to bear in mind that all the journos writing about your band in a fanzine now will be reviewing fiction for the
Guardian
in ten years’ time. It’s doubtful you’ll be still making records. They will come on full of high-principle, oh yes! Be prepared for that. If you suggest that you want to make any money or have any longevity they will call it “selling out”, while they’ve got their big media careers all planned out. Today the
Cardiff Chronicle
, tomorrow the
Independent
and a TV presenter’s contract. Same with the record companies. Today’s scout is tomorrow’s CEO. Always remember the artist is at the bottom of the pyramid—just sausage mixture for the big machine; fodder for other people’s glittering careers.’
Mandy stared down her nostrils at this debunker of dreams, this heretic, and jeered, ‘Well, if you look like me, you ain’t got a problem.’ Victor smiled back. He would remember her arrogance. Make a note of it in his mental Rolodex for when Mandy came running in search of a favour. He merely held up his hands before him, as if he’d been stopped by Dick Turpin, and said,
‘More champagne?’
Victor disappeared into the melee of freeloaders and returned with an armful of bottles. The remainder of the evening passed through its expected stages of increasing oblivion, all gauged by one’s trips to the Gents. The first, a quick, dizzy visit. The second, a heavy gauntlet of stubbed toes and slurred apologies. The third, a swirling phantasmagoria of triple-vision and projectile puking down the express-tunnel of the khazi. Luckily, the third didn’t occur. By visit number three, I had sobered up and just wanted to leave. But Mandy insisted on a ruse that demonstrated just how flippantly she treated Nick and Antonia. Somebody revealed that the exec whose party it was, far from being a visitor of prostitutes, was a happy bandit. All evening, it hadn’t escaped our notice that he’d been doffing his cap at Nick. First a shy glimpse, then a languorous stare every fifteen minutes. Nick, by this time feeling like Dorian Gray, played up to it, to the great amusement of the girls. Then Mandy hit on the idea of seducing this man in order to land a deal with his new label. Nick would be his houseboy, like Bogarde in
The Servant
. He would bring this captain of industry lightly toasted snacks wearing a floral pinny. He would vacuum in his boxer shorts. He would work out before breaking the glazed meniscus of this guy’s pool with an Olympic dive. After these suggestions, Nick’s look was now more Alan Shearer than Dorian Gray. But by this time it was too late: the big man had begun his long cruise over. Nick was positively pale under his fringe by the time he was engaged by his combatant. He knew he’d have to make a go of it. That’s just how things worked. Mandy would blank them both for ever if he didn’t. Then came the cruel part. Mandy turned around, grabbed her glittery bag, and left the club.
I ran after her, into the February air, all the way up Shaftesbury Avenue. Eventually, I caught up with her at a bus stop. Panting, I said, ‘What’s wrong with you? You can’t leave Nick in there with him! You didn’t even say goodbye to Antonia.’
‘I couldn’t stand it all any longer. That queer. That prick who thought he knew it all.’ She flung her deadly nightshade hair back from her shoulders. ‘And you were giving Antonia the eye.’
‘Come on, I only have eyes for—’
‘Ah, shut up.’
‘You flirt with Nick all the time.’
‘Bollocks.’
I knew some kind of savage spasm was on its way.
‘Anyway, what about trying to run your ex over?’
Her fist caught me on the left temple, causing her watch to fly off into the street. I crumpled into a nearby phone booth. That wasn’t a girl’s punch. That was a right-hand jab worthy of McGuigan. I stood facing the woman I had married two months before. But she wasn’t looking at me, she was staring at her broken watch in the gutter. Her blue lips thinned and trembled. She looked as if she were concentrating on a tricky manual task, like the desperate act of forcing a big object back into a small bottle.
Now, many would conclude that I asked for it. That I deserved my first punch from mercenary Mandy. And to an extent I submit my
mea culpa
. After three bottles of champagne, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Antonia’s bust. But no one could say that Harriet, our wedding photographer and trusted tenant, got what she deserved. One evening in late February, as I returned from the shop, I caught a glimpse of Harriet marching down the Holloway Road towards me. Among the evening crowd of scarf-wrapped, steam-breathing commuters I could see the poor girl clutching a handkerchief to her forehead and crying. Her topaz locks were fanned like a bird in flight, or a Rossetti dreamer. I was shocked to see her in this state. She seemed to be walking somewhere with great purpose. I caught her by the shoulder and asked, ‘Harriet, what happened? Have you been attacked? There’s blood on your face …’ She seemed surprised and embarrassed to find me there, her eyes swimming with a kind of childish grief. She pulled away, though not roughly, accepting my concern but with an insistence that I could be of no help. The one sentence she spoke was uttered more with regretful anguish than anger. ‘Ask your fucking wife,’ she sobbed, then tumbled off into the human stream.
I climbed to the first landing of our Archway flat. Scattered on the stairs were Harriet’s possessions. The awful sight of destroyed things. There were the hand-embroidered cushions that I knew she spent evenings making, a broken-spined book, an upturned ashtray, a camera or two. I picked up one of the Nikons to inspect the damage, and called out, ‘Mandy?’ There was no reply. Pushing open a door, I found her in the cramped communal kitchen, alone, smoking, with a cup of tea before her. Her white shirt seemed to be stained with brown dribbles. ‘What the hell’s been going on?’