Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

“I don’t see why not. I don’t mind anyone asking me how much I’m paid.”

“And what do you do?” asked Zeppo.

“I’m a poet.” She spoke with a pride that challenged criticism.

“Really? What do you write about?” His tone was one of polite enquiry. But I had learnt enough in the past few weeks not to trust it.

“Truth. I write about the hypocrisy of society, and the sadistic repression of women by a male-dominated world.” It was a gauntlet thrown. No one else spoke.

Zeppo cocked an eyebrow. “Oh.” Everyone waited, but he seemed content with that response.

“Actually, I’ve read some of Jessica’s stuff. It’s very good,” Miriam said into the silence.

“Have you had anything published?” Anna asked. The crop-haired woman looked away from Zeppo reluctantly.

“I’ve had one volume published, and I’m working on another now.”

“Do you have much of a following?” asked another woman.

“It’s growing. But most people don’t like to face up to reality.”

“Surely though, that’s just what you perceive as reality,” a bearded man interposed. She dismissed him without a glance.

“Truth’s truth. But people are too conditioned by the money-orientated patriarchy to want to listen to it.

“People like me, you mean?” Zeppo said, smiling. She seized on the question.

“Yes, like you! It’s the attitude of take-the-money-and-run. Money is all, and be damned to whatever harm you do in the process! Tell me what use modelling is? What actual good does it do anyone?”

“It’s done me quite a lot.”

“Exactly!” She stabbed her finger at him, unaware of the half-suppressed smirks around the table. “A typically male attitude. Self. The self is all!”

“What about all the girl models? Do they have a typically male attitude as well?”

“They’re victims of social conditioning. They’re just letting themselves be exploited.”

“So when I get paid to lie on a beach, I’m being selfish, but when a girl does it, she’s being exploited?”

“You can be as facetious as you like. You’re just proving my point about avoiding the truth.”

Zeppo’s smile was indulgent. “But what gives you the right to tell people what the “truth” is?”

She glared at him defiantly. “Someone has to do it.”

“That’s how I feel about modelling.” He grinned. “Thank God it’s me.”

The crop-haired woman’s indignant answer was lost in the sudden, relieved laughter. “I think we’re ready for the next course,” Miriam said, hurriedly. “Jessica, do you think you could help me?”

Red-faced, the other woman rose and followed her into the kitchen. Presumably either a warning or entreaty was made, because for the rest of the evening she studiously ignored Zeppo. That made the meal a little more pleasant, although not much. Mercifully, it did not go on for too long. It was a relief for everyone when it was over.

“What a fucking waste of time that was,” Zeppo said, as we prepared to leave. Only I was within earshot. “I must have said all of three words to Anna.”

“It’s still quite early. Perhaps I broke off as Anna and Marty joined us to say that the taxi we were sharing had arrived.

Together we said goodnight to Miriam and the few remaining guests and went outside.

“I can’t pretend I’m sorry that’s over,” I said, as we drove away. Zeppo and I were in the pull-down seats, facing Anna and Marty. “I’m afraid Miriam’s taste in friends is no better than her taste in art.”

Anna smiled. “I don’t think Jessica liked Zeppo, did she?”

He smiled back. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be putting her on my Christmas-card list either.”

I looked at my watch. “It’s still only early. Would anyone like a nightcap?”

Zeppo took the hint. “Well, if anyone’s interested, I’m a member of a private club not too far away. It’s open till late. We could go there, if you’d like.”

I did not like. I could well imagine the sort of club Zeppo would belong to. But I feigned enthusiasm. “That sounds like a good idea to me.” I looked across to Anna and Marty. “Shall we?”

She glanced at him. He had been quiet all evening. I thought he seemed a little intimidated by Zeppo. I took a petty satisfaction from the idea. “Well...” he began.

“Come on, let’s go,” Zeppo coaxed, looking from him to Anna. “We deserve a drink after that. Just one, then you can get a taxi from there. It’s practically on the way. Okay?”

Without waiting for a reply he turned and gave the driver fresh instructions. Marty looked at him, then at Anna. They exchanged a smile. It excluded everyone else. I saw Marty put his hand on Anna’s knee and give it a little squeeze. When Zeppo turned around again, they were sitting as before.

“All set. We’ll be there in five minutes,” Zeppo said. Marty readjusted his glasses.

The club was not quite as bad as I feared. I had been expecting a nightclub, and was relieved when there were neither flashing lights nor loud music. But it was still very much in keeping with the sort of place I imagined Zeppo to frequent. Garish, brash, and superficial. It was full of glittering young people, liberally decorated with enough mirrors to satisfy even the most demanding narcissistic appetite. I felt utterly out of place, and Marty looked it, whether he felt it or not. Zeppo, however, was obviously very much at home.

“Hey, there’s some friends of mine,” he said, and set off towards a crowded table. We were left to follow.

“Have you been here before?” I asked Anna as we made our way over.

“No. I didn’t even know it existed.” She lowered her voice. “God, is everyone here a model?”

“I’m not.” Marty murmured. “I don’t think Donald is, either. Do you think they’ll serve us?”

Anna stared as a striking black girl in a bikini top and miniskirt went past. “I feel positively drab.”

“You’ve no need to,” I said. “You put most of these girls to shame.” I meant it. Their sharp, characterless looks left me untouched.

Zeppo had already arranged seats for us at the table. “Everyone, this is Anna, Donald, and Marty.” He ran through a list of names I immediately forgot. Marty and I received dismissive smiles and nods: Anna merited more attention.

“I’ll get some drinks,” Zeppo said, and disappeared without asking what we wanted. The people at the table continued their animated, slightly hysterical conversation as though we weren’t there. Only when Zeppo returned did we exist for them again.

“The drinks are on their way.” He suddenly seemed bristling with energy. “God, we’ve just been to the worst dinner party in the world,” he announced. The group listened deferentially as he gave an exaggerated account of our ordeal. It was greeted with wild shrieks of laughter. “Honest, I thought she was going to go for me over the mange-tout!”

The drinks arrived. I found myself presented with a Mexican beer. “How come you know Zeppo?” a bronzed young man asked Anna.

“Through Donald.” She indicated me. “I haven’t really known him very long, though.”

The young man showed no interest in how long I had known him. He was about to ask Anna something else when Zeppo cut in. “Donald’s an amazingly rich art dealer.” They looked at me rather more appreciatively. “Anna’s lucky enough to work for him. And Marty here’s an anthropologist.”

Marty looked embarrassed as attention switched to him, pinning him like an insect under a microscope. He studied his untouched drink.

“Anthropology? Oh, wow, that must be really interesting.” A vacuously pretty girl stared at him wide-eyed. Her hair was bleached white and cut close to her scalp, contrasting her thick dark eyebrows. “I’ve always been fascinated by that sort of stuff. You know, body-language and things like that.”