Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Dean opened his eyes. The room was back to normal. ‘Yeah. Do that. And, why didn’t she come after me till she saw I’ve got a few bob to my name? Smacks o’ gold-digging, does that.’

Ted looked at Levon. ‘Thoughts? Concerns? Consequences?’

Levon lit a cigarette. ‘If we’d marketed the band as the Stones, people would just say, “True to form.” If we’d sold you as a sort of British Peter, Paul and Mary, it would kill you. But Utopia Avenue? It could go either way. There may be an element in the press saying, “ We should have let him rot in an Italian jail after all .” Elf’s female fans may wonder why she stays in a band with a love-cheat sperm-gun. On the other hand, Dean’s more red-blooded followers will think, “ Nice one, my son .” Nor are these reactions mutually exclusive. It’ll add up to column inches, that’s for sure.’

‘Agreed. Right now, we play for time. I’ll tell the Craddocks’ solicitor that Dean’s in a state of shock. I’ll ask for, say, a fortnight’s grace for us to put together a proposal regarding the next step. I’ll make it clear that if the Craddocks speak to the press, any deal will be off the table. I also propose we do this blood test now. If Miss Craddock is a gold-digger, she may be spooked into backing off. Either way, the blood test will cast Dean in a responsible light if we go to court later.’

Court. Newspapers. Scandal. Ugh. ‘They’re piss-poor, right, the Craddocks? Do they have the money for legal action ’n’ that?’

‘Awash with money they certainly are not.’

‘So if suing me looks like it’ll cost an arm ’n’ a leg …’

‘They may cut their losses.’ Ted Silver tapped his pipe. ‘Mind you, if thirty years of legal practice has taught me anything, it’s that a plaintiff is a fickle beast.’

Side three of Blonde on Blonde clicks off. ‘When Martin came along, Tony and I did a deal.’ Tiffany taps her cigarette on the ashtray. ‘I’d take a hiatus from my career and be Tony’s ideal stay-at-home mother. In return, after five years, he’d make a film and cast me as the lead. Quid pro quo. I am an actress. Thistledown was one of the British movies of 1961. People know me from Carry On , from The Tempest at the National, from Battleship Hill. I’d missed being Honey Ryder in Doctor No by a whisker. So, it was agreed. I did the nappies, bottles, nanny-organising, sleepless nights, while Tony made Wigan Pier and Gethsemane . My agent had enquiries, but Tony said I should keep my powder dry for the big Tiffany Seabrook comeback. Last year he finally started writing Narrow Road . By “he” I mean “we”. I wrote more of it than Max, Tony’s co-writer. Piper – the rock star’s dead sister – is a peach of a role and it was mine. Until a fortnight ago. The day you bought your car.’

‘What’s my Spitfire got to do with it?’

‘Nothing. But when I got home, Tony was waiting with the news –’ Tiffany’s jaw clenches ‘– that Warner Brothers love the script. They’ll put in half a million dollars if Jane Fonda plays Piper.’

‘Jane Fonda? On a spiritual odyssey to the Isle of Skye?’

‘They want to shoot in LA and call it The Narrow Road to the Far West. It’ll be all tits, mojitos and bimbos.’

Dean hears Jasper run a bath. ‘That’s bloody nuts.’

‘It’s a betrayal! So I told Tony to tell the Yanks where to shove their half-million dollars. Guess what his answer was.’

I doubt you liked the answer, whatever it was. ‘What?’

‘That he hadn’t paid for his house, my jewellery, “my” Midsummer Balls and nannies by turning down half a million dollars. End of conversation. A fait accompli. ’

Fay what? Fay Who? ‘That’s a knife in the back.’

‘He tried to fob me off with a new role Warner Brothers want to add – a demented lesbian psychopath. I told Tony to piss off. So he did. Off to LA. To put starlets through their paces.’

So , thinks Dean, I’m a revenge shag. Do I mind?

‘I didn’t mean to tell you all this,’ says Tiffany. ‘A secret lover who moans about her husband can’t be very—’

Can’t say I do. Dean kisses her – and hears a key in the front door – and abruptly pulls back from the kiss, listening.

‘What’s up?’ asks Tiffany.

‘Jasper’s in the bath. So who just came in?’

Dean hears voices. His body redistributes blood, instantly. He slips on his trousers and a T-shirt and grabs a wine-bottle candlestick that might, at a push, function as a club. He slips out into the hallway. Jasper’s got the radio up loud in the bathroom, so he may not have heard. Up ahead Dean sees two intruders through the curtain of beads …

Dean yells as he bursts through the beads. One of the burglars yelps, jumps back, terrified, hits the coat-stand, knocks it over and trips backwards. The older one is calm. About fifty, in a conservative suit and tie, he stares at Dean as if he owns the place. Dean brandishes the bottle. ‘Who the fuck are yer and what’re yer doing in my flat?’

‘I own the place,’ says the older man in a foreign accent. ‘I am Guus de Zoet. Jasper’s father.’

‘Yer what? ’

‘Did you think he was made in a lab? This is my son Maarten.’ Maarten, who looks about thirty, picks himself up, scowling. ‘So we ask you the same. Who are you? What are you doing in my flat? Put the bottle down. You are embarrassing yourself.’

Dean sees the family resemblance. ‘I’m Dean. Jasper’s flatmate. Thought yer were burglars. Sorry ’bout that.’

Jasper appears with a towel around his waist, dripping onto the floor. He exchanges a few Dutch phrases with his father and half-brother. The reunion looks joyless. Dean is referred to. Jasper tells them all, ‘Give me a minute, I’ll be right out,’ and retreats to the bathroom.

Maarten de Zoet picks up the coat-stand. ‘You play bass in Jasper’s band, I think.’

‘Utopia Avenue isn’t ’xactly Jasper’s band. If yer’d just’ve rung the doorbell, I wouldn’t’ve, uh, jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

‘I telephoned,’ says Guus de Zoet. ‘An hour ago. Nobody replied, so we assumed nobody was at home.’

Oh , thinks Dean, so that was you.

‘How long have you been my tenant, Dean?’ asks Guus de Zoet.

Tenant? Rent? Awkward. ‘I’ll let Jasper answer that.’

‘Surely you can remember when you moved in?’

‘Have a seat. I’ll make a pot o’ tea.’

‘Very English,’ says Maarten.

Tiffany was eavesdropping in case she had to scream into Chetwynd Mews for help. She’s worried about being trapped in the flat. The Hershey nanny is expecting her home by seven p.m., and it’s now gone five. Dean returns to the kitchen, where the two visitors are smoking Chesterfields, Jasper is smoking a Marlboro, and conversation is in Dutch. Dean turns to go, but the kettle is starting to boil and none of the de Zoets is making a move. Dean prepares the tea. During what feels like a lull in the Dutch dialogue, Dean asks, ‘What brings yer to London, Mr de Zoet?’

‘We are here three or four times a year.’

‘And this is the first time yer drop in?’

‘I come to London for business, not pleasure.’

Dean’s about to ask, ‘ What about family? ’ but remembers the unvisited Harry Moffat, pushes away the thought of Mandy Craddock’s son, and brings the teapot over.

‘We are expanding,’ says Mr de Zoet. ‘I may visit more.’

‘Great.’ Dean pours the tea. ‘Uh … milk?’