Authors: Derek Farrell
Chapter Twelve
“Sweetheart that is the most deluded woman I have ever met; and remember I’ve spent thirteen years in media.”
“Sssh, Caz; she’ll hear you!”
“Danny, we’re whispering and she’s upstairs behind a locked door, with her favourite thing in the whole wide world: an audience.”
After Mouret had made his escape, there’d been a millisecond where it seemed that Lyra might actually have been aware of a bad atmosphere in the room but during that millisecond Baker had said something complimentary about Lyra’s eye makeup and had been wheeled over to meet with the downtrodden Liz Britton.
Caz and I had taken our chances and made our escape. As we got to the bottom of the stairs – with me wondering whether it was too late to hunt down a drag ‘tribute’ to Lyra and pass it off as the real thing – we discovered Ali stacking boxes of crisps and using a box cutter to slash them open, exposing the contents like a bizarre cheese and onion autopsy.
“No offence,” Ali replied, “but have either of you ever actually done bar work? In a pub? Only, from what I can see you’ve got a sold-out crowd; a total of six, no–” she recounted, “
seven
boxes of out-of-date cheese and onion crisps to provide this sell-out crowd with sustenance; a parlour full of hooky Polish Budweiser; a van load of liquor that appears to have come from a warehouse in Syria; a dozen cases of Shampagne – spelled with an
S
– which the bloody ASBO twins are currently decanting into
Veuve
bottles you nicked from a bin somewhere; and that fucking
Witch
upstairs to entertain the place.”
“I hear you, Ali,” I said, “but believe me, I know the crowd we’re pitching to. They’re not the usual punters who’ll fill the place up every week. This is the opening night; these are the trendsetters, the
beautiful people
.”
“And as
beautiful people
,” Caz interrupted, “they attend ten cocktail parties a week; twenty at this time of year. And they never –
never
– eat. They drink like fishes and, so long as the alcohol is above eighty percent proof and ice cold, their taste buds won’t spot Syrian scotch from Johnnie Black.”
Ali sighed, a noise that spoke volumes about her belief in our abilities. “You’re the boss,” she muttered to me and strolled off to make sure that Dash and Ray were properly hammering the corks into the Shampagne. “Oh, careful in there,” she inclined her head towards the bar, “it’s another bloody minefield.”
Caz raised an eyebrow.
Minefield
, she mouthed, at which point Jenny Foster’s voice drifted through to us.
“I mean, who does she think she is?” she was demanding. “I could – oh, Dommy – I could fucking
kill
her. Are you even listening to me, Dominic?”
Mouret’s voice was heard murmuring something we couldn’t make out and then Jenny piped up once again, “Well that’s bloody easy for you to say; you haven’t had to put up with her all these years. It’s been hell. Her and her tantrums.”
Again, Mouret’s voice spoke up and again we couldn’t make out what he was actually saying. But this time there was a definite
tone
to the sound.
“No, Dom, it’s not
nothing
. My whole teens, ruined by that cow. And now she wants to ruin my bloody wedding.”
“Alright,
our bloody wedding
. God, Dom,
what is your problem
? Don’t you care about this? Don’t you see what she’s doing? Don’t you mind that she absolutely
ruined
my life and took over every single birthday party since I was, like, twelve?”
Which, considering the childhood that Dominic Mouret had discussed in his book, seemed a little rich. I looked to Caz to make a comment and she wasn’t there. Then I heard her voice – clear and distinct – issue from the bar.
“Ah, there you are. Thought I’d nip out to the offy and get some decent fizz to toast tonight. Give me a hand? You don’t mind if I borrow your fiancé, do you?” she asked, I supposed, Dominic, who murmured, I supposed, his willing assent and then I heard the pub door open and swing shut.
I stepped into the bar and found Dominic Mouret; his short dark hair tousled carelessly; his full lips pursed moodily in a frame of chiselled cheekbones, firm jawline and a chin with a cleft deep enough to drown a kitten in; his eyes squinting against the low winter sun coming weakly through the frosted windows as he hunched over a scotch – the last of the genuine Johnny Walker I presumed. A smoking cigarette was filling the bar with a greyish tint; in an empty tumbler before him two nicotine corpses already lay decomposing.
“Bit early for that, isn’t it?” I commented, glancing, in succession at the clock displaying eleven am and the tumbler of scotch, and wondering whether I was the only pub landlord on the planet trying to discourage his punters from drinking before lunchtime.
Then, remembering what had just transpired upstairs, what Mouret had just been subjected to by Jenny Foster and what the night might well hold in store for me if Lyra didn’t get her act – in every sense of the word – together, I too reached for and filled a tumbler full of vodka.
I swigged it and winced. I’d been unlucky – clearly the Absolut had already been replaced with the Absolutely-undrinkable. I added tonic water and ice, and tried again.
Dominic dragged on his cigarette – a long, slow drag that seemed to pull the smoke down into his very soul – and I thought
Jesus, you’re one beautiful man
, then caught myself and apropos of nothing said “You know, they’ve banned smoking in pubs now. Mad, isn’t it?”
“What?” For the first time, he seemed to actually see me and glanced at the cigarette in his hand. “Oh, sorry,” he muttered and went to stub it out.
“No,” I put a hand out to stop him. “That’s not what I meant. I just...”
What
? I asked myself.
You just what? You just did what you always do when faced with someone too gorgeous for words: you just made a tit of yourself
.
“You heard that?” Mouret jerked his head at the door where Jenny had just left with Caz.
“A bit of it,” I admitted.
“Thing is,” he said, sipping from the scotch, “much as it pains me to admit, Lyra might actually have a point. I can’t help wondering what on earth I’m doing with these people. Morgan has ruined his daughter by giving in to every demand she’s ever made, and Lyra...” he dragged from the cigarette again and shook his head sadly.
“So what
are
you doing here?” I asked and his eyes narrowed even further.
“My agent might ask the same question,” he replied. “She wanted me to write a
follow-on
to the first book. More about how vile the abuse had been and how redemptive the Mouret’s had been. But I didn’t want to; I’d told that story and wanted to tell another one. Then a few things happened: I met Jenny; I fell in love and, within a year, both of my adoptive parents died.”
“Jesus.” I gasped, swigged from the vodka, gagged, had a coughing fit and felt wretched for pulling up this poor man’s tragedy once again. “What happened to them?” I asked, unable – despite feeling so bad – to suppress my natural desire to have
details
.
“Car accident,” he said, sipping the scotch and draining the glass. I reached for the bottle and topped his glass back up.
“Go on.”
“Not much to tell. We have – had – a holiday place in Corsica. They went out one night, dad had had too much to drink, driving back to the villa, he missed a turning and they went off the edge of a cliff. Mum died instantly. Dad was airlifted to Nice and survived, but his heart was broken. He’d had a dodgy ticker for a few years and I guess all of this just broke it. He had a heart attack about nine months later.”
I carefully sipped my vodka as he opened the fag packet, offered me one – which I declined – selected and lit one for himself and then, his eyes squinting against the smoke, continued his story: “So, I’d met Jenny, I’d fallen in love and I’d lost the only two people who’d ever been a family to me. I guess I was looking for another family and when Morgan suggested the Lyra book, it just sort of felt
right
.”
“What did Lyra think about the idea?” I wondered aloud.
“Ah,” he held the glass to me in a silent toast, “That we may never know. What counts is that, whatever her initial thoughts, Foster managed to convince her that it would be a good idea. I’ve been working with her every single day – shadowing virtually every aspect of her life for the best part of the past six months – ever since she came out of the hospital and, up until today, she seemed to have bought into the idea. Then Leon Bloody Baker shows up and suddenly I’m not quite Marcel Proust anymore.”
“So what do you think is gonna happen?”
He shrugged, “Not sure. Morgan’s right, of course; she’s already had an advance and I’ve already had my cut of that. And if there’s one thing I know about Lyra, it’s this: she hates returning money. Her biggest regret about that debacle last year wasn’t that she had a breakdown in front of a theatre full of people; it was that the tickets had to be refunded because she didn’t get far enough into the show for it to be declared a full performance.”
“She’s something,” I said.
“Yes,” he admitted, “she’s definitely that.”
The clock ticked. Outside, a van went by, it’s gear change feeling like the bridge of a dance track and from somewhere inside the pub, the floorboards creaked.
An intense sadness seemed to have overtaken him and I was debating whether to come around to his side of the bar, put my arms around him and hug him close in an effort to make him feel better when he spoke again.
“Did you ever spend your whole life looking for something; get it, then realise that it’s the one thing you should – all this time – have been running a million miles from?”
“Yeah,” I said, “something like that.”
“So what did you do?” He was looking directly at me now and the low sunlight, coming from the side, made his eyes glow golden brown like a cat.
“Nothing. I told myself that I’d ask him outright what he wanted, what we were doing, where we were going. Whether we had a future. But I never did, cos I was afraid of the answer I’d get. So we drifted.”
“And what happened?”
“I came home one day and – well, I couldn’t pretend anymore. So I left.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes flicking down, then up again and fixing me with a stare that seemed to linger just a beat too long.
Stop that!
“Oh don’t be,” I said. “I’m not. Well, I was; then I realised: it would have ended eventually. One day – later on – it would have ended. I would always have walked in on what I walked in on, so better it should happen now when,” I remembered Caz’s words of comfort to me, “I’m still young enough to put it behind me and find someone who really does care. I’ve only got one regret,” I admitted, wondering why I was saying this to a virtual stranger.
“Which is?”
“That I was a coward.”
“You mean you should have fought for him?”
“God, no!” I laughed and swigged the voddie (which, once you’d had a few mouthfuls and overcome the odd numbness it engendered in the tongue, was perfectly palatable). “He was never mine in the first place. I regret not confronting him earlier; I’m sorry I left it so many years without sitting him down, telling him exactly how I felt and demanding to know how he felt. But I was afraid; of showing my hand. Of hearing him say that he didn’t want what I wanted. So...”
“You let it slide.”
I nodded and, at that point, Dash popped his blond head round the door to the bar. “Message from Ali,” he said, nodding once at Dom and addressing me, “says you might wanna get your arse upstairs. Said something about
The Fan Club overstaying his welcome
. She said you’d understand.”
I drained the glass, rinsed it, put it back on the shelf and heaved a heavy sigh.
“Sorry,” I said to a bemused Dominic and headed out of the bar, wondering whether Lyra’s number one fan and chief stalker had come tooled up; whether I’d be able to eject him by myself alone, or whether I’d face the embarrassment of having to ask the beautiful and heartbreakingly sad boy with the golden eyes to give me a hand dumping his literary rival on the pavement.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time I got up the stairs, Leon was already out on the landing being held back – as he yelled at a closed door – by a rather flushed Morgan Foster.
From the other side of the door I could hear Lyra’s voice screeching something about people taking liberties, a diabolical invasion of her privacy and the fact that there was no Perrier left.
Leon glanced at me and, sensing I guess, that his time was nearing an end, redoubled his shouting at the door.
“Right from the beginning, Lyra,” he called, “I know all there is to know. I could do a better job. You know there’s only me, Lyra. Only me.”
The door opened and a hand appeared, holding Leon’s bouquet. The flowers hovered, for a moment, then, with a flick of the wrist, arced across the landing and landed between Morgan and Leon. Morgan released Leon momentarily to swoop down and grab them.
Leon raised his head, his gaze shifting from the discarded tribute to the door. A sheen of spittle glinted on his lips and a shine of hatred flared in his eyes.
And then the fight went out of him and, sensing his moment, Foster hustled the deflated figure past me and down the stairs.
I stood alone on the landing, listening to the receding calls of Leon Baker and wondered what on earth I was doing in this place.
And then, remembering the look on Robert’s face when I’d discovered the window cleaner polishing his pane, I took another deep breath, stepped forward and knocked on the dressing room door. I had a star, regardless of how combustible it might be. I had bar staff. I had booze and I had a full house promised (though all of them seemed to be comped).
“Lyra,” I called, “Ms Day?”
A moment passed and then the door was opened. Liz Britton stood guardedly in the gap, her eyes flicking over my shoulder.
“He’s gone,” I said and she stepped aside, her hippy beads rattling against each other.
Lyra was sat at the dressing table, which had now been spread with cosmetics; scented candles; a selection of inspirational photos featuring, it seemed, everyone from Florrie Ford to Oswald Mosely; and a pin-stuck doll that, bizarrely, seemed to have Dame Shirley Bassey’s face stuck to it.
She glanced at me in the mirror, seemed ready to go into another round of screaming, recognised me and straightened up.
“Some fucking pit you’re running,” she growled at me. “You let any freak walk in here so long as they’ve got flowers.”
Liz bustled forward. “We need to get a move on; I see seven nails in need of manicuring.”
Lyra sighed and the mask of fury vanished. “The show goes on,” she muttered.
“S’right,” Liz confirmed, pulling a stool in front of Ms Day. “The show goes on.”
“Danny,” Lyra fixed me with a smile and favoured me with an instruction that seriously made me question her grip on sanity: “can you let sound know I’ll be ready for a check in half an hour?”
I looked at Liz Britton, who gave me a look that seemed to say
humour her
, picked up her emery board and advanced on the diva.
“Um,” I said once more, stepped out of the room, closed the door, walked to the end of the hallway and froze.
Sound check
? I wondered how to tell this diva – who had packed out the Albert Hall, emptied out every other venue on the Strip when she played Caesars, who is still available on DVD in Supermarkets singing ‘Somewhere’ with Pavarotti at the amphitheatre in Taormina in 1993 – that the sound check would consist of coughing into the mike and, if you can hear the cough, checking.
And then my phone rang and, without glancing at the display, I accepted the call and put the thing to my ear. “Yup,” I said – I mean how much worse could a phone call make my situation?
“Hi Daniel,” said Robert, in that tone he always used when he wanted to appear both chummy and landed gentry.
Something in my stomach clenched and I actually had to reach out and grab the wall for support. After months of silence, Robert was on the phone and Caz – my guaranteed wall of
He’s no good for you
was nowhere to be seen. I managed to croak out his name, which allowed him to respond:
“It’s been a while”
“
A while
?”
“Listen: I just wanted to check how you were doing? You need anything? You know...”
Moments passed. I listened to the ongoing work of the ASBO twins and heard the sound of a passing fire engine. I swear I became aware of the noise of Lyra Day’s nails being ground to dust and then I heard a voice speaking and realised it was my own:
“
Doing
? Oh, you know, I’m doing alright. OK, I suppose.”
“Your job,” he interjected, but there was no way I was letting him get into the conversation.
“Got a new job,” I shot back, “running a bar. Opens tonight, actually. Got Lyra Day as an opener. I’m doing OK, Robert,” I let go of the wall and stood upright. “What d’you want?”
“A pub? Oh Danny,” Robert’s voice – so avuncular initially– had reverted to the standard paternal tone he’d used with me for so long: cheery, but slightly disappointed. “Well, that sounds...
super
...”
“Yes,” I interrupted, seeing the window cleaner’s green eyes staring at me across space, “how’s Andy?”
“Andy?” Robert stopped dead, confused for a second and then recovered himself. “He’s fine. He sends his love.”
Be better if he could send the contents of my wardrobe
, I wanted to say, but I was too shocked: Andy, it seemed, was still around. And Robert, more to the point, seemed to think that sending the fucker’s best wishes to me was acceptable.
“Look, Robert: no offence, but I’m a little busy right now,” I said, summoning up a pair of balls from god-knows-where. “What do you want?”
“Want?”
“Require; request; what are your intentions?” I pressed, conscious of some new movement at the end of the stairs.
“I wanted to say hello,” he said in his best Hugh Grant.
“You’ve said it,” I replied as a veritable cloud of white – lilies, roses and delphinium – ascended the stairs in the grip of a still frowning Ali.
“There’s still no one stocking shelves,” she grumbled, “and if I wanted a job as a florist’s delivery girl, I’d have taken one.”
“Wait,” I stopped her, hunted through the plastic wrapping and discovered the little envelope containing the card.
“Why wait?” Robert was saying. “Tomorrow night would be good. Just one or two things...”
“What?” I jerked myself back to Robert. “What are you talking about?”
“The Roof Bar,” he said referencing one of his favourite bars in Soho.
“Wait, Robert, what–” I glanced at the card.
Lyra
, it read,
I hope the show displays you as you truly are. And I hope…
“So,” Robert said, “all sorted. See you then.”
“Wait, Robert,” I stuffed the card into the bouquet, waved Ali on and returned to the phone, but it was too late; my bastard ex had arranged an assignation with me and I had had no chance to, as I had repeatedly been instructed,
stand my ground
.
And, to make matters worse, as I was about to discover, I had just let a death threat past me and into Lyra’s dressing room.
Chapter Fourteen
Morgan, having disposed of Leon, had followed Ali up the stairs and on into the dressing room. He was on the threshold when Lyra, her hands in the midst of a French polish, received the tiny white card I’d just reviewed, read the greeting I’d just read, turned the card over and, as I subsequently discovered, found that the greeting that had started out as “
Lyra
,
I hope the show displays you as you truly are. And I hope”
finished up as “
that you die screaming you worthless fucking whore.
” To clarify their intent, the sender had completed their handwritten greeting by scrawling the words “
Die Bitch!
” across the bottom of the card.
Really, in hindsight, one could have forgiven Lyra Day for going totally mental.