Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘ Dyke ,’ repeated Imogen’s voice. ‘ Dyke, dyke, dyke .’

Elf was either mad or hallucinating her voice.

‘ You sleep with boys to hide what you are ,’ said Imogen’s voice. ‘ And you’ve fooled your friends, you’ve fooled our parents, you’ve fooled Bea, you’ve half-fooled yourself – but you can’t fool me. I’m your big sister. I know when you’re lying. I always did. I know what you’re thinking even as you think it. Bruce is camouflage. Isn’t he, Your Dykeness? ’

Elf shut her eyes and told herself this was the acid-spiked Coca Cola. Imogen wasn’t here. She wasn’t going mad. Truly mad people don’t query their own sanity.

‘ Rubbish , said Imogen’s voice. And I note you haven’t denied that you’re a dyke. Have you, Your Dykeness? ’

Sitting meekly and pretending nothing was wrong and odd was, itself, wrong and odd, but Elf didn’t know what else to do. A taxi would get her home more quickly, but if none appeared, she might start tripping by a wintry Hyde Park. She might imagine she’s a fish out of water and jump into the Serpentine and drown.

‘ Good riddance to bad rubbish. You’re fat. Your songs are stupid. You look like a man in a wig. You’re a failure. Your music is a joke. Bea only talks to you out of pity … ’

‘Golly, you’re right about the loos.’ Bea sits down, here and now, in the Gioconda café, on a lovely day in April, a hundred nights after Elf huddled under her blanket in her flat waiting for the Imogen of the Mind to subside. ‘It really is a journey to the Centre of the Earth. I heard magma flows bubbling through the tiled floor.’ Bea sees the lovers in the doorway across Denmark Street, still snogging. ‘My, those two are going for it.’

‘I know. I don’t know where to look.’

‘I do. He’s a hunk. I like her miniskirt. Remember Mum’s verdict on minis? “ If the goods aren’t for sale … ”’

‘“ … don’t put ’em in the window. ”’

The lovers pull away, their fingers intertwined until the last moment. They turn, take a few paces, turn again and wave.

‘It’s like ballet,’ says Bea.

People sweep up and down Denmark Street. Elf twists a silver ring she bought from a market stall in King’s Lynn on a sunny Sunday before a Fletcher & Holloway gig. Bruce didn’t buy it for her – giving rings isn’t his style – but it’s proof that the Sunday was real, that there was a time when he loved her.

‘So when’s Bruce due back from France?’ asks Bea.

Yesterday, Elf came home exhausted after eight hours of rehearsals. Waiting for her was a phone bill, an invitation for Fletcher & Holloway to play at a folk club last August in the Outer Hebrides and a postcard of the Eiffel Tower. The mere sight of his handwriting tautened her innards:

Elf catalogued her thoughts. First, exasperation that the bastard had sent only one miserly card after a hundred days of nothing. Second, anger at its breezy tone – as if Bruce hadn’t bruised her heart, sliced Fletcher & Holloway in half and left her to sort out the mess. Third, a mortifying bliss at the ‘Dear’, the ‘Wombat’ and ‘Kangaroo‘, the ‘ avec bises ’… and dismay at the ‘flat upstairs I share’. Share with whom? ‘ Tr è s amicable ’ French girls? Fourth, suspicion that the ‘Hope we’re still friends’ is a hedge-bet – as if Bruce is lining up a bed for when he gets back to London. Fifth, fresh anger at the way Bruce uses her. Sixth, a resolve to slam the door in his face if he shows up at Livonia Street. Seventh, a dread that she won’t be able to. Eighth, disgust that one measly little postcard could still trigger a bout of Brucesickness. Elf ran a hot bath. She climbed in and read The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing to take her mind off Bruce Fletcher, but in the event Bruce Fletcher took her mind off Doris Lessing. Elf kept imagining him and a French girl having baths together, him wearing nothing but his corks-on-strings hat …

‘Bruce is staying in Paris a little longer.’ Elf tells Bea. A blind man walks by with his guide dog. ‘Australians like to see as much of Europe as they can when they’re here.’ Elf turns to Bea, so she won’t think Elf’s avoiding eye-contact.

‘Happy Together’ by the Turtles comes on the radio.

‘So is Fletcher and Holloway on hiatus?’ asks Bea.

The worst part is lying to Bea , thinks Elf. ‘Kind of.’

‘While you’re recording with Utopia Avenue?’

Elf notices a cigarette lighter wedged between the ketchup and the HP Sauce bottles. On the side is enamelled a red devil with a pitchfork, horns and tail. She flicks the spark wheel and a flame appears. ‘I wonder if one of those dishy art students forgot it.’

‘What dishy art students?’

Elf snorts. ‘You’ll have to do better than that at RADA.’

Bea does Bea’s impish smile. ‘If this was a story, one of them would come back in and say, “Have you seen a lighter?” and you’d say, “What, this lighter?” and he’d say, “Thank God, my dying mother gave it to me on her death-bed” and your fates would be entwined for evermore.’

Elf’s smile is swallowed by a mighty yawn. ‘Sorry.’

‘You must be exhausted, poor thing. You were up at six?’

‘Five. Graveyard-shift sessions are cheaper. Howie Stoker may be a millionaire playboy but he’s not throwing money at Utopia Avenue willy-nilly.’

‘Are you making money, if it’s not a rude question?’

‘It’s not. We’re not. We’ve only done four gigs and our fee is minuscule. Minuscule gets divided five ways. I was earning more when I was headlining at folk festivals.’

‘So you’re all paying to be in the band?’

‘Kind of. I’ve still got a trickle of Wanda Virtue money coming in . Jasper’s eking out an inheritance from his grandfather and stays at a flat his father owns in Mayfair. Dean’s moved in with Jasper, so he’s rent-free too. Griff’s living in an uncle’s back garden in Battersea. I should’ve invited you into Fungus Hut just now to introduce you, but I … was sick of the sight of them.’

‘Oh dear. What did they do?’

Elf hesitates. ‘Their default response to any of my ideas is to tell me why it’s no good. An hour later, they’ll arrive at the same idea – and truly not remember me saying it. Drives me mental. ’

‘Theatre’s the same. It’s as if “Female director” is an oxymoron, like “woman prime minister”. Are they always that bad?’

Elf makes a face. ‘Not always. Dean shoots his mouth off, but it comes from insecurity. I think. On charitable days.’

‘Is he good-looking?’

‘Girls think so.’

Bea makes a face.

‘No no no. Never in a million years. Griff the drummer’s a northern diamond in the rough. Anarchic, sweary, likes a drink. Great drummer. He’s more at home in his skin than Dean. Jasper’s … Mr Enigma. Sometimes he’s so spaced-out he’s barely there. Other times he’s so intensely there, he uses all the oxygen in the room. Don’t tell Mum and Dad, but he was in a psychiatric clinic in Holland for a while, and sometimes you think, Yes, I believe it. He reads a lot. Went to boarding school at Ely – there’s real money on the Dutch side of his family. You should hear him play guitar, though. When he’s on form, words fail me.’

‘Two coffees’ – Mrs Biggs arrives – ‘and a bacon butty.’ The sisters thank her and Elf takes a big bite. ‘Dear God, I needed that.’

Bea asks, ‘So what does Utopia Avenue sound like?’

Elf chews. ‘A mix of Dean’s R&B, Jasper’s strange virtuosity, my folk roots, Griff’s jazz … I only hope the world’s ready for us.’