S.O.S. (16 page)

Jennifer had been sneering from the moment she entered (and it was she who walked me miles to get here!) but Stacy had been thinking it was actually pretty OK. It looked like a film set, maybe – a safe and brightly clean disco from a Mom, Dad and the Kids PG movie, where all ages and races were encouraged to (Yee-Hah!) let their hair down and mingle, guys, and strut your stuff, why don't ya – all in a very rehearsed and modulated manner. The sunken and central area was well filled with little round tables and quite good tub chairs that hugged tight the small of your back and made you feel both a part of it, and wanted. There was a smallish circular dance floor at one end, this made groovy by the eternally prowling coloured strobes, agitatedly painting the few intrepid dancers green and pink to the point of luminous, the brown arms and shoulders of the girls picked out and caressed by fat blobs of hot orange, big hair dappled and streaked by zigzags of lemon. There was a raised mini gallery running right around the room (where Jennifer and Stacy had been sitting for a bit – until the champagne was finished and Jennifer announced that this is
dull
: let's check out whoever's at the bar) and it was the long and broad windows all down that curvaceous flank that now and suddenly grabbed hold of Stacy's whole attention (Jennifer's still yapping to her two new American friends: I don't actually think I'll stay here much longer). It was really the strangest sight because, well – I don't know, I
suppose you always assume, do you, that all that possibly can be beyond the windows of a ship, and even more so at night, is the encircling weight of daunting darkness, and then the sheer black plummet to the deep, lasciviously lapping and maybe luring-you sea. But beyond these windows stood a mournful and lonely man in a dripping sou'wester and whale-slick oilskins, and in both his hands he held a hose. Where Stacy stood was so hot and bright – suntanned girls are scooping up their hair in handfuls and then letting it go as they flaunt their chain-belted hips at the helplessly flailing men before them – tossing their heads, the silly sods, and shaking their arms from the elbow downwards, flicking their stiffened fingers, as if they have just scrambled to shore following an unexpected ducking. And beyond this diorama, stroked by colour and fuelled by the backbeat of the Vida Loca, stood this silent vision, rendering opaque with a mist of water each weeping window, like some slow-motion mime, glimpsed in a dream. Then his big sad face was lost to sight for just a moment or two before re-emerging again, framed exactly by the next big window, which he set to slungeing, with melancholy and deliberation.

‘He comes,' quavered a tremulous but still twangy voice at Stacy's side, ‘every goddam night. We don't rightly know who he is. But we call him the Fireman. Hi. My name is Debbie. Ain't seen you about before, right? Disco Debbie.'

Stacy beheld the almost literally inconceivably old and tiny woman beside her. How could so spare, blue and practically transparent a carcass actually be vertical and making sounds – and with such clear green eyes so alive in its skull?

‘Disco Debbie …?' is all Stacy felt fit for.

The very old lady grinned and looked away, her tautened and glossy face betraying a blend of knowingness and abashed delight – as if she were an incognito superstar caught while trying to slum it, her elaborate disguise so easily penetrated by a persistent and adoring fan.

‘Is what they call me,' she elucidated. ‘I'm here every night. Yes sir. Every night. I bop till I drop, y'know? Stay here till the lights go down, mostly. Disco Debbie. Yup – that's what they call me.'

Her arms were bare and pitiably vulnerable: beneath the silk camisole, no form at all was discernible. Purple plastic veins seemed to have been appliqueéd to her limbs some time lately, maybe by way of some misguided attempt at joky decoration; the bony wrists and surprisingly large hands beyond them hardly seemed up to bearing the weight of all those clanking bangles. Stacy really should have left maybe earlier – she didn't at all feel up to this, whatever might be coming; I think, she thought, I want to sleep – but if I do that now, then Mum will come barging in, oh, Christ knows when, and she'll be going Sorry Sorry Sorry as she crashes about, giggling and stupid – and then I'll be ruined for the night. But it was looking as if the old lady had done with Stacy, now: she simply slid into her hand some sort of
card
, was it? Smiled quite fondly and strolled away, really quite steadily, in the direction of the dance floor. Where she didn't so much bop as simply stand there, her two lazy, embalmed and ropelike arms high up in the air – and then she began to slowly revolve, her eyes yearning upwards in a face now touched by the ecstasy of some veiled and orgasmic religious icon.

Maybe, thought Stacy, I can find somewhere quieter to go – till Mum's had enough. She mouthed across to Jennifer
Lee- Ving
, and pointed towards the doors, though she really needn't have bothered because Jennifer at the time had her head thrown back and both eyes closed right down as she honked out her late-night-three-bottles-down hoarse but still glittering choir of laughter (which needn't at all mean that anything remotely funny had occurred). On Stacy's way out, she passed by a couple who were, could be, I don't know – fifty, maybe? But not a couple, it now transpired, because she was saying to him:

‘My husband – that's George, my husband – I just couldn't get him to leave London. He's a criminal barrister.'

The man pursed his lips and said slowly:

‘Your point being …?'

The woman was maybe thrown, but showing willing.

‘I'm sorry, I – I don't quite – ?'

‘Shall we see if we're still in time for these post-midnight snacks they were touting earlier?
Dockside
restaurant, I think they said – wherever that is. I'm still actually quite stuffed from dinner, but it is all
in
, after all.'

‘Well,' confided the woman, as they trudged away (and look – she'd slipped her arm quite neatly under his), ‘I must tell you now – I don't do wheat, and I don't do dairy.'

Stacy wandered off the other way, vaguely thinking that the pub thing they passed earlier (White Horse? Red Lion?) had been this way, hadn't it? Maybe sit there a bit. And as she ambled the full and thick-carpeted length of the endless and now almost completely deserted corridor, she glanced down at the pasteboard card in her hand: three addresses – one in New York, one in Florida and another in, goodness, Paris. And a Box number in London too, look. And at the card's centre, in wonky, larky purple print there writhed the legend, ‘Disco Debbie – She Bops Till She Drops'.

And Stacy thought, as she glimpsed the pub (ah,
Black
Horse – that's it) what a very funny place this is.

*

Nicole was finally – oh God at last – in
bed
, thank the Lord. You know, it honestly seems to take me longer, these days, to actually remove all my make-up than it does to apply it. Which can't be right. And then there are all the night creams and moisturizers and so on, aren't there? To deal with. Flossing, and all the rest of it.

Where's David?

This bed, I have to say, is more than comfortable. And
proper cotton sheets and blankets, I was very pleased to see. I'm so very glad we went for twins. The thought of David thrashing around in this very little space is just too awful to contemplate. Anyway. Tired, yes – but I don't know if I'll sleep. I don't think I'll read, though. Too tired, quite frankly. I bought some books, couple of paperbacks, in Southampton (God – seems
days
ago, now: isn't it odd?). There was a stall, what do you call them? Kiosk there. God knows what they're like – the covers were nice and they're both by
women
, which is half the battle these days, really: can't stand men's books, books by men. Are you the same? They're all so – oh, I don't know: not
nice
, if you know what I mean. I don't
quite
mean not nice, but you probably know.
Hardy
, of course – he's lovely. And that Morse man – quite good. Tired, yes – but I don't know if I'll sleep. I don't think I'll read, though. Too tired, quite frankly.

Anyway
, Nicole – I think what you deserve is one great pat on the back: well
done
, girl! Here you are, on the
Transylvania
, no less, with all your family, and all for free. Thanks to you and you alone. I hope the children will
enjoy
it – it's so hard to tell, isn't it? With children now. Marianne – she's so very quiet. Never confides in me, you know – oh good God no. Not like Sophie's two: always having girly head-to-heads, Sophie is, she's always telling me. With her two. Shopping trips. But not my Marianne. Oh dear me no. Keeps to herself. Adores her
father
, of course. For some reason that is – and I don't care if this sounds … well I don't quite know
how
it will sound, and I really don't
mind
, to tell you the honest truth – but quite
why
she should adore him, what exactly she actually
sees
in him, I shall never understand. It could be, maybe, a phase …

And where
is
David?

Rollo. Well – Rollo's a boy, of course. Young man. And they're
quite
different, as we all know. God alone knows what he's going to do after A-levels, though. If he doesn't mess them up. No sort of
direction
. Probably expecting
us
to
keep him until his old age. Which is
terribly
amusing. David can barely keep us
now
. I think he's not getting on well, you know, workwise. But we don't talk about it. Well look – I'm
here
, aren't I? If he wants to, you know –
say
, well – he knows how to get hold of me. He knows where I am.

But where is
he
, I'd like to know.

That
Charlene
, I have to say – bit of an odd fish. I don't know many Americans … well
none
, if I'm honest – so maybe they're all this way, are they? But it was a strange little chat we had in the, um – I think it was the
Zip
Bar, yes – that was it (this ship, I'm telling you – don't think I'll
ever
get the hang of it). David had gone off with
Dwight
(extraordinary name, isn't it? Dwight. Extraordinary). Anyway, yes – those two had gone off to, oh – God knows where, wherever men go, and Charlene said to me
Well
 – and I can't actually remember her
words
, exactly, and God
please
don't ask me to do the accent – but the general sort of idea was that we, you know – have a drink and a chat, sort of thing, and –

Ooh gosh. I've just had a brainwave. No wait – listen. I really ought to write this down. Can I be bothered? Oh God – I know from experience that if you don't write these things down the minute they occur to you they'll be gone, you know – no matter how well you think you'll remember them, by morning they'll be gone. But I think my pen – it's still in my bag, and God I just can't
move
. But listen to this: I think it's a winner. Ready? Right: The reason Trill is Britain's number one birdseed is
because
… it puts the bounce into Britain's number one birds! Or maybe
keeps
the bounce … or puts the
b'doing
in number one birds (b'doing is maybe good … bit slangy? Don't know – needs work). First prize for that one is Disneyland on Concorde (although since that crash, I'm not too sure). When I told
David
about this competition (and most of them I don't, don't even trouble to mention them – it's not as if he
appreciates
it, or anything: quick to share in the prizes, though, isn't he?). Yes anyway,
when I just happened to let drop that the reason there were (because he was going on and on) oh – not many, two or three packets of Trill in the cupboard (well, no more than six; it might just have been a dozen) was that I was closing in on getting us all to Disneyland on Concorde (maybe they'd make it a
747
?) and I needed the tokens – all he had to say was Oh
marvellous
! And what're the runner-up prizes, may I politely enquire? No – don't tell me, let me hazard: a lifetime's supply of fucking
Trill
, conceivably? Sit well with the Whiskas, won't it? Investing in an
aviary
, are we, Nicole? Or are we collectively doomed to pecking at
millet
for the rest of our days? Here, Rollo – who's a pretty boy, then? Will you be laying down newspapers for us all to shit on? (He can, David, be awfully crude. There: I've said it.)

My seventeen tiebreaking words for
this
prize, the one we're actually on (isn't it amazing?) were – have I said? – oh, magnificent, really.
Judges
thought so, obviously. Never forget them – listen: ‘The
Transylvania
to New York serves to fuse two continents with class, great luxury and sheer style.' Wonderful, isn't it? Like a poem. Just
came
to me, you know – like works of art are sometimes said to.

And
not
talking of works of art – where on earth
is
he?

Anyway. Tired, yes – but I don't know if I'll sleep. Don't think I'll read, though. Too tired, quite frankly. Now what was I …? Oh yes – friend
Charlene
, mm, yes.
Very
odd.
Nice
 – oh yes, perfectly
pleasant
woman, oh Lord yes, don't get me wrong. Just –
odd
, you know? As maybe Americans are. I asked her all about living in that perfectly ghastly
Vietnam
place, but she didn't actually answer, or anything; understandable, I suppose. And I must say I do have the most frightful problem with the
accent
; I don't actually mean the sound of it, or anything … quite like the sound of it, really – feels quite homely, in a ghastly sort of a way. I suppose one is used to it from all the
films
, and so on. No – it's just that I so often find it hard to quite understand what they're
saying
. I mean to say look – if they're
going
to speak English, well then why on earth
don't
they? Hm? Anyway.