Irvine Welsh - If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

I almost fell off my chair at that one! The world had gone crazy! I’ll swear by my momma’s sweet life on a warehouse full of Bibles that it was the best week of my life! As I got back down to Santa Monica, Pen was packing her bags for Phoenix, and her eyes widened as I punched the air. I grabbed a hold of her, coughing out my news and we bounced on the bed laughin and foolin, until our eyes met in some primal gaze and we were helpin each other out of our clothes.

Afterwards, she sat up in bed and lit a cigarette. She rolled her eyes and said, — Now, honey, I really have to go.

The band’s shoot was scheduled for two days but took the best part of four. This was all down to the lead singer, who, like many of that breed, was a sullen, irritating, uptight asshole. At first he said that he didn’t want to be in the video. I told him that it was a long way to come from London just to catch some rays and get decent sushi, which he didn’t much appreciate. Then he wanted to wear a stupid leather jacket and a deerstalker hat and cavort with a bunch of models done up as cheerleaders. I was probably emboldened by my stock risin so dramatically lately, so I cornered their manager, a nice guy called Asad, and told him, — Tell that Limey bag of shit we do this my way or I fuckin walk.

To his credit Asad did, and after a band meeting, they decided that I was the man in the chair. The singer asshole, Tommy Sparrow they called him, well, he was hostile for a bit, before he did this complete about-face, spendin the rest of the shoot following me round like a fuckin puppy dog, telling me I was cool and wanting to get loaded with me. With his attention-seekin, he was still a tiresome pain in the ass, and I think I even preferred him sulky. Nevertheless, we finished the shoot if not on time then on budget.

All this and the other shit had shown me that I wasn’t really interested in Yolanda no more. I had all the material I needed on Glen Halliday. And that was who the book was going to be about, a great artist that was at the height of his powers, not some ol lush in decline with a drunken nutcase recluse of an ex-beauty queen turned crazy old crone.

All I needed from Yolanda was some specific information about the circumstances of Glen’s death. But while I was here in LA I had another opportunity to find out who the hell Glen Halliday was. There was a woman he spent ‘a lot of time with’ when he was out here, according to Sandy Nugent’s buddy, Jenny Ralston. And Halliday was out here a lot. Although he did most of his shooting on location in Texas, or occasionally Florida, he had a contact in an LA studio lab, and they let him do for cheap all his editing and post-production up here. He was also in town a lot on that relentless hustlin for cash merry-go-round that dominates the indie film scene.

His friend’s name was Andrea Lyons and she lived up on the hills in Pasadena. Andrea’s home was a smart colonial-style dwellin in an affluent neighborhood favored by Hollywood types. A big convertible sat in a three-car garage. Andrea herself was well groomed in a trashy kind of way, quietly smug with her lot, looking pleasantly surprised by the hand life had dealt her. She gave off the smell of a cocktail waitress who had snared and married the suit at the bar with the big bucks. There was somethin kind of upliftin about this gal, somethin that raised the spirits. I didn’t ask about her husband but I guessed that he was working away on some business trip, as she was very candid about her relationship with Glen Halliday. She told me that she and Glen were an item when he was in town. — I knew that he was hooked up with some mean bitch down in Phoenix, she said, taking a big drag on a Marlboro. — She had this useless old water farm but wouldn’t sell it.

So there it was, straight from the horse’s mouth. Glen Halliday was a gold digger and he was cheatin on Yolanda. I had this information confirmed and I now didn’t know whether I would bury it or use it.

One thing I figured for sure was that it was time to get the hell out of Arizona. It had served its purpose. Pen and I decided it made sense to move up here and Evan knew enough people in town to get her gigs. I reckoned I’d now be making enough to help her in her music career, just as she’d helped me in my screenwritin one; get her some studio time, good backing musicians, and a quality demo tape knocked out. Hell, I was even thinkin of her and Evan in terms of scoring Big Noise .

I loaded up the Land Cruiser, paid my dues on the apartment, booking it for another six months for Pen and me, so we could find somewhere good at our leisure. Then I headed out of LA. This time on the drive down there were no self-indulgent detours, it was interstate all the way. When I crossed the state line into Arizona, I called Pen but her cellphone was switched off; again, no surprises there. I dunno why she bothers with them at all. You could see where she got the habit: bookstores, the stage, recording studios. When I got tired on the road I checked into a motel and watched trashy TV. I felt high, like I wanted to celebrate, so drove to a truck stop and instead of liquor bought a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and headed back to my motel. I watched some reruns of Sex in the City feelin like a goddamn pussy without really caring too much about it.

The next day I was up later than I intended. Hadn’t slept so long or so well in an age. Sun was near as damnit overhead by the time I got back on the road. After drivin most of the day, when I got to the apartment there was no sign of Pen, and her mobile was still switched off. It was a Saturday, and she never worked the bookstore those days. I figured I’d take a run out to Earl’s Roadhouse. It was dark by the time I got there, and I entered with anticipation, though I guess I was also a little tentative in case that asshole Barry was in. But I hadn’t seen his truck outside, nor, for that matter, Pen’s car. Ol Earl spots me right away and comes across. He told me that she ain’t on tonight and that she ain’t stopped by.

I looked behind the bar. No Tracey. Of course, it was her night off every other Saturday and she and Pen often went out for a drink together. It was their night to grab a bite and sink a few beers and I couldn’t begrudge them that; not being a sauce hound anymore I always worried that I was maybe just a little borin in company. I reckoned I’d leave them to it and elected to drive out to Yolanda’s, calling her first to check that it was okay. She seemed flustered — probably drunk — but was pleased to hear from me. She told me that she had some company she needed to get rid of and would appreciate it if I could hold off for a while. That suited me fine. I went back to the apartment for a while, lookin over the latest draft of Big Noise . This, I said to myself in satisfaction, was why I met Yolanda. I got so carried away I guess I lost track of time. An hour had passed. I called Pen again, without expectin much, knowing that when she and Tracey got together it was party time. Then I headed outside and back into the Land Cruiser and out of Phoenix. The dark sky seemed infinite as I cruised down the highway, thinking about Yolanda. This would be my last interview with her. I was kinda concerned that she’d go all psycho-bitch on me after the last time, but I’d never seen her so calm and serene. There was a wild glint in her eye and a crooked smile on her lips as she stood in front of me wearing a white smock and black slacks. — I seem to apologize to you a lot lately, Raymond. I’m sorry if I was rather undignified at our last meeting, she said. — But I assure you there will be no more apologies.

— No problem, Yolanda. I raised my hand, brushin off her concerns. — But I gotta tell you that this is probably gonna be our last meetin. Got some good news workwise; I’m movin back up to LA, then I’m shootin a movie down in Texas.