Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘I’ll treasure the memory of my private audience.’ Peter Pope appeared. There was no sign of Elf’s hair. ‘Till the day I die.’

Elf didn’t trust herself to answer.

‘So,’ said Levon, ‘Mr Pope, we can rely on your support?’

‘My word is my bond.’ Peter Pope smiled at Elf, opened and closed his fist, like a toddler waving goodbye. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Nightingale.’ His trout’s lips blew her a kiss.

The trout on Elf’s plate gazes up. Lunchtime chatter fills the Seven Dials restaurant. Elf’s mother, Imogen and Bea are looking her way. They asked you something. ‘Sorry, what was that? I was distracted by my trout. It reminded me of a manager. In Slough.’

‘He must have made quite an impression,’ says Elf’s mum.

‘Mmm mmm .’ Elf sinks her fork through the trout’s eye

Bea recites the John Betjeman poem: ‘ Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough! It isn’t fit for humans now. There isn’t grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death. Then, of course, bombs really did fall. Betjeman must have felt absolutely dreadful.’

‘I went to Slough for a teaching seminar once.’ Imogen dabs her mouth with her napkin. ‘There are worse places.’

Bea spears a gherkin. ‘I can see the roadside signs: “ Welcome to Slough: There Are Worse Places – Imogen Holloway.”’

‘Imogen Sinclair now,’ their mother reminds her.

‘Still can’t quite get my head round that,’ says Bea. ‘Mum, there’s un petit goutte left in here. Go on.’ She tips the remnants into her mother’s champagne glass. ‘You’re only fifty once.’

‘Bless you, dear,’ says her mother. ‘Though “a drop” is feminine, “ une petite goutte ”. You can run into trouble if you guess your genders wrongly.’

‘In French grammar as well as certain Soho clubs,’ says Bea. Her mother and sisters give her a look. ‘So I’m told. By Elf.’

‘Funny.’ Elf dismembers the trout with her fork. ‘Levon said to send you all his best wishes, before I forget.’

Elf’s Mum is pleased. ‘Send mine back. He was quite the gentleman at Immy’s wedding. Ever so well-presented, and so well-spoken. I imagine he’d be a very fair-minded boss.’

‘We’re lucky,’ says Elf. ‘Most managers in show-business are just one step up from the Kray Twins.’

‘Bea’s flying the nest, come September,’ Imogen reminds their mother. ‘Have you thought of going back to work?’

‘Oh, I’m hardly kicking my heels, what with the Rotary Club, the Women’s Institute, the garden … not to mention your father.’

Bea slices her quiche. ‘Do you miss teaching, Immy?’

Imogen hesitates. ‘I’ve hesitated too long, haven’t I?’

‘Marriage takes acclimatisation, darling,’ says their mother. ‘For you and Lawrence. But don’t worry. You’ll get there.’

Imogen squishes peas onto her fork. ‘It’s what we sign up for, isn’t it? House and home and all that.’

‘In the meantime,’ says Bea, ‘we can live a vicarious rock ’n’ roll life via our jive chart-topping sister.’

Elf harrumphs. ‘Not even “chart-scraping”.’

‘It’s still early days,’ says Imogen.

Elf loads a forkful of fish onto a buttery potato. ‘Early days is all most bands get. Pop’s not as cottage-industry as folk. Overheads are bigger. Studio fees. Marketing. Forty-nine out of fifty acts fail before they get a sniff of fame and fortune.’

‘You’ll be the one in fifty,’ says Imogen. ‘My friends are still talking about the songs you did at the wedding.’

‘I loved that “Mona Lisa” one,’ says their mum. ‘Goosebumps. Why didn’t you release that as a single, darling?’

Good question. ‘ Because there are two other songwriters in Utopia Avenue, and we all want a crack of the whip.’

‘How did you decide on the first single?’ asks Bea.

Three months ago, the day after the Gravesend gig, Elf’s first thought was, It’s got to be ‘Mona Lisa’ . The problem was, Dean nominated ‘Abandon Hope’ and Jasper voted for ‘Darkroom’.

‘Pretend I’m Victor French,’ Levon suggested. ‘Pitch me why your song should be the one.’

‘“Abandon Hope”’s got a great riff,’ said Dean. ‘It gives us all a chance to shine. Plus, I need the money more than Elf ’n’ Jasper.’

Elf didn’t smile. ‘If we release “Abandon Hope”, we’ll get pigeonholed as a blues band. It’s very bloke-y.’

‘And “Mona Lisa”’s very girlie,’ objected Dean.

‘You’re guys,’ said Elf, ‘so guys’ll listen to us anyway. If we release “Mona Lisa”, we’ll get girls buying our records, too.’

It was Jasper’s turn. ‘“Darkroom” has a psychedelic vibe. It’s our song for the British Summer of Love.’

The clocks above Levon’s desk ticked. ‘All three could be hits,’ said their manager. ‘It’s a lucky problem. Griff?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Griff. ‘But you’ve got to sort this fairly. By the end of Archie Kinnock’s first band, all Ratner and Kinnock and the others did was squabble over fookin’ royalties.’

‘So what do yer suggest?’ asked Dean. ‘Pool all the songwriting money from the singles, and divvy it up equal?’

‘Or credit all songs to the three of us?’ suggests Jasper. ‘Lennon-McCartney. Jagger-Richards.’

‘I did that with Bruce for the Fletcher and Holloway EP,’ said Elf. ‘It made more problems than it solved. If the EP had sold, the problems would’ve grown even nastier.’

‘We could leave it all up to Ilex,’ suggested Levon. ‘Tell them, “ You decide and leave us out of it. ”’

‘No thanks,’ said Dean. ‘Our music, our decision.’

‘We should roll a dice, then,’ announced Jasper.

‘You … look like you’re being serious,’ guessed Levon.

‘I am. Whoever rolls the highest has the first single. The second highest roll decides the second single. The third, the third.’

‘That’s bloody nuts,’ said Dean. ‘Even for you.’

‘One dice. No blame. No bitching. Why’s that nuts?’

Elf looked at Dean, who looked at Levon, who looked at Elf.

Jasper placed a red dice with white spots on the coffee-table.

‘You ain’t half a weird fooker sometimes, Zooto,’ said Griff.

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ asked Jasper.

Griff shrugged, smiled and frowned, all at once.

Dean picked up the dice. ‘Are we actually doing this?’

‘It’s bizarre,’ said Levon, ‘but I admit, it’s … fair.’

‘It beats having a blazing, inconclusive row,’ agreed Elf.

‘Bigger things’ve turned on the toss of a coin,’ noted Griff.

‘The answer’s yes, then,’ concluded Dean. ‘We’re doing it.’

After a pause, the three songwriters nodded.

Levon held up his palms in resignation. ‘Fine. But don’t let Ilex know. Or anyone in the press. It’s … eccentric. Who throws first?’

‘I do,’ said Jasper. ‘Clockwise from the dice-owner.’

‘Right,’ said Dean, ‘as if there’s a rule-book.’

‘There is,’ replied Jasper. ‘Rule one: if there’s a draw, only the draw-ers throw again. Rule two: if the dice leaves the table, the thrower re-throws. Rule three: you shake the dice in your cupped hands for five seconds then you throw the dice – you can’t “place” it. Rule four: the result is final. No whingeing. No best-ofs.’

‘Blimey,’ said Dean. ‘All right. You go first. Dice-owner.’

Jasper shook the dice vigorously in his cupped hands; then dropped the dice. It landed on 3.

‘Could be worse.’ Dean scooped up the dice. ‘Could be better.’ He kissed his cupped hands, shook the dice and let it fall. It clattered, skidded, and landed on 2. ‘Shit.’