Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

“Well, this is a full house,” I said. “For one happy moment I thought you were customers.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Miriam said. “I was passing, so I thought I’d stop by and see if you were in. Anna was a lifesaver and made me a cup of coffee. Good God, Donald, you’re soaked!”

“Yes, I got caught in it,” I took my coat off and gave it a shake. “It’ll teach me to find a nearer parking space in fixture.”

“Would you like a coffee?” Anna asked.

“I’d love one, please. I take it your lunch partner didn’t arrive?” I said to Zeppo. It was only after I spoke that I realised I wanted to catch him out. But he fielded the question smoothly.

“No, but it was probably my fault for being late. I must have missed him. How was your meeting?”

Now he had caught me unawares. “Oh... unproductive.”

“That’s a shame. It didn’t take very long, did it?” He sipped his coffee. The observation could have been innocent.

“Not as long as I would have liked. But never mind.” I turned quickly to Miriam. “This is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect to see you so soon after the party. Is it a purely social visit, or do you have an ulterior motive?”

“You are a cynic, Donald. Actually, it’s both. It’s a purely social visit, but I do have an ulterior motive.”

“That sounds intriguing.”

“Don’t get excited. Some friends of mine phoned yesterday and invited themselves up next weekend. So I thought I’d have a few people around for dinner. Take the burden of entertaining them off me for a while. I wondered if you’d like to come?”

I was about to make an excuse when Anna returned with my coffee. Before I could answer, Miriam added. “I was going to ask if Anna and her boyfriend Zeppo, isn’t it? wanted to come as well?”

There was a moment’s silence. Miriam had obviously seen them together at the party and drawn the wrong conclusion. Zeppo smiled.

“You’ve got the name right, but I’m not Anna’s boyfriend. I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought...” Miriam went red. Anna and Zeppo smiled at each other.

“It’s okay. You did meet her boyfriend, but only for a minute. He’s called Marty.” A flush of colour had touched Anna’s cheeks as well, descending to her throat.

“Oh, yes, of course, how stupid of me,” Miriam blustered. “Well, if you and Marty would like to come, you’re very welcome. And you too, of course, Zeppo.”

Zeppo looked amused. “Thanks, I’d love to.”

I followed his lead. “So would I. Miriam’s an excellent cook.” In fact she was nothing of the sort, but it would be worth risking indigestion to bring Anna and Zeppo together again.

Miriam laughed. “I think Donald’s being kind, but I’ll do my best not to poison you. Will you and Marty be able to come, or have you anything planned?”

I willed Anna to accept. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “Thanks very much.”

I looked across at Zeppo. He held my eyes for a moment before looking away.

It seemed that fate was on our side.

The dinner party was a disaster. Miriam’s guests seemed to have been selected with the same sense of foolhardy experimentation that she had used to decorate her house. It was a beautiful old Victorian villa that had been spoilt by the combination of period features and a more severe, modernistic style. Bauhaus chairs rubbed shoulders with panelled doors, and splashes of vivid, designer art hung below the original delicate wall and ceiling mouldings. It was a mish-mash that might pass for stylish in some circles, but which grated on my nerves.

The guests themselves were similarly ill-assorted. One of them, a crop-haired, overweight woman, was especially offensive. She appeared hostile to the world in general, and men in particular. It was quickly apparent that she had taken a strong exception to Zeppo.

“And what do you do?” she demanded, almost as soon as they had been introduced.

“I’m a model.”

“A model?” The woman spat the word out with distaste. She looked at Zeppo as though her worst suspicions had been confirmed. “Is that an artist’s model, or the other kind?”

“Well, I don’t do life classes, so it must be the other kind.” He gazed back at her with an amused expression. It was not calculated to improve matters.

“You’re a fashion model, then.” It was an accusation.

“More photographic, really.”

“What’s the difference?”

A trace of condescension entered Zeppo’s voice. “Well, I don’t do catwalk stuff. I do shoots for magazines. Advertising. That sort of thing.”

The woman appeared unimpressed by the distinction. “Doesn’t it bother you at all?”

Zeppo looked puzzled. “Why should it bother me?”

“Because the entire concept is sick. How can you justify doing something which is so totally non-productive?”

I saw Miriam glance over from the far side of the room, a worried expression on her face. But Zeppo only gave the other woman a dazzling smile. “It pays well. Excuse me.” He brushed past her and came to where I was standing, alone for the moment. “Keep the fucking dyke away from me.”

For once I found his profanity almost understandable. “She does seem to have taken a dislike to you, doesn’t she?”

“Because I’m a man, and good-looking, and she’ll never be either.” He scanned the room and quickly turned his back on it. “Jesus, what a bunch of losers. I hope you realise what a sacrifice I’m making. I could be somewhere having a good time. Christ knows why I’m here.”

“To quote you, because it pays well.”

He snorted. “I just hope Miss Muffin over there leaves me alone.”

It was a vain hope. I had planned to sit near Anna, Marty, and Zeppo, but Miriam, with a designer’s love of arranging things, had her own ideas. She seated everyone apart from friends and partners, obviously with the intention of forcing conversation. I was relieved that, either accidentally or by design, she put Zeppo and the crop-haired woman at opposite ends of the table. Unfortunately, it made no difference.

The woman waited only until the first course had been served before tackling him again. “So you don’t think that modelling is basically immoral, then?”

Her voice cut across several other people and conversations, but she seemed unconcerned about this breach of etiquette. Zeppo leisurely finished chewing and took a drink of wine before answering.

“No more than a lot of other things.” He smiled around the table. “I know one or two models who are, though.”

The woman refused to either lighten up or be drawn. “I’m not talking about individuals, I’m talking about the profession as a whole. If you can call it that. Doesn’t it worry you that you’re helping to foster false ideas of sexuality every time your picture appears in a magazine?”

“I’m not helping foster anything. People pay me to do a job, and I do it. If other people decide to take offence about it, that’s up to them. You can’t please everyone.”

“That’s just a cop-out. You can’t be given vast amounts of money without accepting responsibility for what you do.”

Zeppo smiled deprecatingly. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a “vast” amount of money.”

“It’s more than a factory worker or a coal-miner will get for what they do. How much exactly are you paid to have your photo taken?”

Zeppo’s smile had become set. The two of them were now the focal point of the table, it varies.”

“Yes, but in general how much? You must have a basic union rate, or something, mustn’t you?”

“Perhaps Zeppo doesn’t want to discuss his finances,” Miriam said, giving the other woman a shut-up look. She did not notice.