Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Everyone acts. The trick is to do it well and reap rewards.’

The Spitfire hummed down a tree-lined avenue of embassies. Most of the flags were unfamiliar to Dean. Old empires were coming unstitched and new nations cropping up every year. Not long ago Dean was facing three years in a Roman prison: now he was flying down Embassy Row in a Triumph Spitfire, and coppers were calling him ‘sir’. Dean turned left at Kensington Road. The lights stayed green as far as the Royal Albert Hall where he told Tiffany, ‘Utopia Avenue’s going to fill that place, one o’ these days.’

‘Reserve me the Royal Box. I’ll gaze down at you adoringly.’

You , Tiffany had said, not all of you or the band , and Dean’s desire shifted up a gear. She conjured a little mirror out of thin air and touched up her lipstick. Dean went through the motions of cautioning himself as to why an affair would not be a smart move. She’s a mother of two. Her husband would axe the band’s now-confirmed role in The Narrow Road to the Deep North soundtrack. Levon, Elf and Griff would be livid. If anyone found out.

Dean imagined unzipping her.

His pulse shifted up another gear.

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she said.

Dean wondered if all women were mind-readers, or just some of them, or just the ones he slept with. ‘I keep my thoughts firmly under lock ’n’ key, Tiffany Seabrook.’

Tiffany did a Nazi villain voice. ‘Vell, Mr Moss, ve have vays of mecking you talk zat you vill not so easily vithstand …’

Side one of Blonde on Blonde clicks off. Tiffany unties Dean’s blindfold and the cords binding his wrists. The breeze nudges the curtains of his room. London hums, drums, speeds up, brakes and breathes. The cocaine has worn off. Dean’s Swiss Army knife and a length of drinking straw are by the mirror. Tiffany could have stuck that knife in anywhere. He’s no longer nervous about the clap, at least. Today is their third liaison since the Triumph Spitfire morning. He would be peeing battery acid by now if she had anything.Tiffany lies down. ‘Sorry I got a bit bitey. When I met Tony, I was down to the last three for Kiss of the Vampire. Some American bimbo got the part …’

Dean touches the love-bite on his collarbone.

‘… then I fell pregnant with Martin, and that was that. On the bright side you’ve passed your audition with flying colours.’

‘Yeah?’ Dean bites his half-eaten apple. ‘What’s the part?’

‘Funny.’ She takes his apple and bites the last big chunk. ‘“Tiffany Moss” has a nicer ring to it than “Tiffany Hershey”.’

She’s just toying with you , Dean assures himself.

‘I’ll need a bigger engagement ring than Tony’s when we go public. People notice these things.’

Dean chews more slowly. Just let the joke die away …

‘My lawyer says my chances of getting the Bayswater house go up if I establish Tony’s adultery. I’ve kept notes, but it’s best if you buy a place for us in the meantime. One needs a roof.’

Dean looks at her to check she’s joking.

‘Chelsea’s nice. Somewhere big enough for parties. A flat for a housekeeper and an au pair. The boys need rooms of their own. Crispin likes you. Martin’ll stop hating you eventually …’

The apple sticks in his throat.

‘Or sooner, if we give him a little brother.’

The deeply unpleasant thought of a certain young woman named Mandy Craddock and her baby son arrives first; and is shoved aside the next instant by the equally unpleasant thought that Tiffany is not toying with him to get a rise, but is, in fact, stone cold serious. Dean sits up and backs away. ‘Look, Tiff … I-I-I … I don’t think—’

‘No, no, you’re right. Chelsea’s a frightful cliché. I’ll settle for Knightsbridge. We’ll have Harrods on the doorstep.’

‘Yeah but … I mean, we only just … but … ’

Tiffany sits up, covering her breasts with a sweaty sheet. She’s frowning, genuinely puzzled. ‘But what, darling?’

Dean stares at his adulterous lover. How the bloody hell do I get out o’ this? Tiffany’s face changes – into a big, naughty grin. Relief dissolves through his bloodstream like sugar. ‘You evil, evil bloody witch.’

‘It’s a basic exercise at drama school.’

‘You totally bloody had me.’

‘Why thank you. I—’ Her face changes to iffy disgust. ‘Just a minute.’ Tiffany snatches Kleenexes from the box, swivels away and wipes herself. Turning back, she notices a yoghurty smear on the back of her thumb. ‘Look at that.’ She peers at it. ‘Stuff of life.’

Ten mornings ago at their flat, Jasper was playing Dean a rough version of his new song when the phone rang. It was Levon, for Dean, sounding grim. ‘So here’s the story. A girl called Amanda Craddock just visited Moonwhale with her mother, a family-law solicitor and a three-month-old baby boy. They’re claiming you’re the baby’s father.’

First, Dean felt sick. Then, he tried to place the name. ‘Amanda Craddock’. It wasn’t familiar – but it wasn’t unfamiliar.

‘Dean? Are you hearing this?’

Dry mouth, tight throat. ‘Yeah.’

‘Is this girl lying or isn’t she?’

‘Dunno …’ He croaked. ‘I … dunno.’

‘“Dunno” isn’t an option. We need a “yes” or “no”. Both are problematic, but one is much more expensively problematic than the other. Can you come to the office?’

‘Right now? Is she still there?’

‘No, she’s gone. Yes, right now. Ted Silver’s leaving for his golf weekend after lunch. We all need to talk.’

Dean hung up. Jasper carried on strumming in the sunken lounge. Amanda Craddock? Three months plus nine equals June or July last year, around the time of Imogen’s wedding, or the Gravesend gig. He was with Jude. There had been extracurricular encounters. Dean had made it clear – or clear-ish – to the women involved that he wasn’t in the market for a steady girlfriend. Casual sex with a celebrity stays very very casual. That’s the unwritten contract. Unfortunately, Dean now realised, unwritten contracts have as much fine print as the written variety.

Dean set off for Denmark Street on foot, telling Jasper, an unreliable liar, he had an errand. As he walked through a warm and muggy Mayfair, he tried to put last summer’s girls in order. There were two groupies he met at the party of a pal of Roger Daltrey in Notting Hill. Was that May? There was the girl in the Land Rover round the back of the Young Farmers’ gig at Loughborough. Was she a Craddock? Izzy Penhaligon in June. Or July. Dean had to admit, he had no idea. He hoped that he could sort this out before Nan Moss and Bill got to hear. In their world, if a guy gets a girl ‘into trouble’ he marries her, plain and simple. Like Ray and Shirl. That’s not Dean’s world now, though. He would’ve paid for an abortion, if he’d known. They’re legal now. Girls don’t have to risk bleeding to death over a bucket in an old maid’s back parlour somewhere. Dean trudged up Greek Street and entered the short tunnel under the Pillars of Hercules pub into Manette Street.

‘Got the time, sir?’ asked a girl. By Soho street-corner standards she was pretty. Dean paused. Her pimp emerged from the soot-encrusted shadows, mistaking Dean’s hesitancy. ‘Lotta’s fresh up from the country. Nice ’n’ clean. Plump ’n’ juicy.’

Nauseous, Dean hurried into the seedy sunlight, past Foyles bookshop, wishing this was a film. Wishing he didn’t have to face Bethany at Moonwhale, who would look at him over her typewriter and say, ‘Good morning, Dean’ – almost as if nothing was the matter at all.