Пит Таунсенд - The Age of Anxiety

I looked her directly in the eyes in order to plead with her, my hands gripping her forearms so tightly she grimaced.

“Everything that’s wrong with you now,” she spluttered, “is all because of this. Set yourself free.”

I was terrified. I could feel the urgency of the moment in her, see it rising in her eyes. I knew if I didn’t stop her, she would move quickly. She had to win. I had always been a manipulator and had interfered in the lives of others, but I knew by now I had met my match. Selena was the arch-manipulator.

I protested: “I’m Walter’s godfather. It was years ago. For fuck’s sake,” I snapped, “it sounds to me as though you were the only one who was conscious!”

But this threw Selena into a fit of rage. “No, Louis!” she cried and everyone in the tent looked over at us.

I tried to pull her closer to me, so she would speak more quietly. She hissed, “I saw you and Floss together. I saw her pull you down onto her. I saw her kissing you hungrily. She was not innocent.”

As Floss and Walter looked at each other wondering exactly what was going on, Selena grabbed my hair angrily, pulling my head from side to side. She started sobbing.

“Please”—my voice sounded pleading now, pathetic and whining—“if you know, you’ve known for so long. Why must you break the news now, when everyone has been through so much? Let this be our secret.”

Selena seemed to quieten down for a few beats. Then she smiled that slightly crazy, conspiratorial grin of hers; her blue-green Irish eyes shone, her all-seeing third eye blinked at me, and her angelic witchery caught fire.

“But it’s no secret, Louis,” she whispered, laughing. “Soon after the wedding I told Siobhan. And there are other secrets you should know, secrets about your wife and daughter.”

“I’m not ashamed,” I said loudly, “that Rain lived with Siobhan. I don’t mind that they were lovers.”

She laughed. “Siobhan was fucking your wife ,” she said in a piercing tone. “Not your daughter. That’s why you could never track her down, never find her.”

Everyone within earshot at the party was looking at us again. Could they hear? I thought probably not. Siobhan was standing with Pamela and Rain by a long table at the far end of the room. Its white tablecloth was covered with bottles, glasses, and buckets of ice. I felt like the clumsy, possibly evil, fool I knew I was in Selena’s eyes. I realized how stupid the notion had been: Pamela, the ginger-headed sex machine, would never have survived for a month as a nun. For some reason, this made me smile: good old Pamela. As I grinned, the guests who had been watching me all turned back to their conversations, assuming that whatever had blown up had blown away.

Perhaps aware of the attention we had been attracting, Selena suddenly broke away and bolted toward the restrooms; as she ran she looked as if she were trying to wave invisible mosquitoes out of her hair.

She left me standing alone in the throng. Walter, I saw, was talking to Molly and she was obviously thrilled to have him in her family, even as a stepfather. There was an older couple with her, and from their uneasiness I guessed they must be her adoptive parents.

It took me a few minutes to work through the questions to which I needed answers. Had Pamela really told Rain that I was a rapist? Was that conceivable? If so, how could she have left me to look after Rain?

Had Rain ever told Floss?

Floss had never given any hint of knowing…

I stood there, still alone in the middle of the tent. Selena reappeared and stood at some distance looking at me sternly, a bright lamp shining up to the roof framing her hair in a halo. Dreams were converging again in my head. Again I thought I might go mad.

Selena must have seen my terror and moved to my side and impulsively wound her arm through my own. She locked me down.

“I saw you carry her to the sofa,” she said. “We were all tucked away in that arbor in the garden.”

An icy hand grasped my heart. She was simply picking up where she left off. I could hardly breathe.

“I heard Floss say you were a very attractive older man, then she pulled you down to kiss her. Not entirely your fault given the circumstances. I didn’t want to watch. I left you both to get on with it.”

I was shaking, overcome with a mixture of nausea and anxiety so powerful that I knew if heroin had been available to me at that instant I would have taken it.

“Attractive older man!” She was scoffing now, teasing me, but held my arm tightly to her bosom even so.

“You got it up all right, Louis,” she whispered closely in my ear. “You made her pregnant.”

It wasn’t possible. That’s all I could think. I couldn’t speak. I felt lost in a deluge of shame and misery. Then the atmosphere was broken. Walter was about to make a speech.

“Friends!” He shouted at first, then one of the crew gave him a microphone. The rabble in the tent all calmed down and focused. He continued.

“Many wonderful things happened to me tonight. I have been back onstage with my old friends from the Stand.”

There was a loud cheer.

“Together we have performed the most difficult piece of music, something none of us ever thought we could ever do. And the images and inspiration came directly from the audience, my soundscapes, that you all—and especially my dad, Harry—brought to life.”

Another huge cheer. Harry and Sally were holding on to each other as though they were on a sinking ship but still smiling. Sally kept looking at me, and I thought I saw her shaking her head slightly.

Walter went on: “And then Floss and I had the most incredible piece of luck when the daughter she gave away for adoption when she was nineteen years old turned out to be our Molly from Dingwalls!”

There was then an immense roar of delight from all the assembled VIP fans who had attended as special guests, and the friends, family, and crew members in particular joined in. Molly had always been popular.

Frank Lovelace gave Molly a hug, no doubt taking credit for starting her career as a lighting engineer. Walter and Floss brought Molly in between them as their friends all started to take pictures.

Then there was a shout.

“So who was the father, Floss?” It was Selena.

She had stepped forward, toward the center of the tent. So perhaps her machinations, her subterfuges, were not all about me? Did she still hate the idea of Floss having married Walter, the man who had always been her number one?

“Do you even know?” Selena demanded furiously.

Everyone in the marquee went quiet. I froze with fear. There was a ripple of muttered outrage; everyone was clearly bitterly angry with Selena. Some people started to berate her loudly.

“Selena!” Siobhan shouted. “Just stop! Stop this now!”

Frank rushed over and started to manhandle her out of the tent. I interceded.

“No, Frank,” I insisted. “Let me handle this.”

I put my hand in the air and walked over to Walter and took the microphone from him.

I was about to confess. I hadn’t really thought it through, but the impulse to say something was very powerful. As I took a deep breath and the people in the tent began to turn to me, I noticed Ronnie approaching me. Usually so handsome and powerful-looking, he seemed shriveled, his skin pallid, his gait uneven, his skin not bronzed but yellow. Did he have AIDS? Cancer? What could possibly be wrong with him? He reached me, gently took the microphone from my hand, and turned to the audience.

“I am this young woman’s father, I believe.” Ronnie was laughing now. He looked relieved and happy, tottering on his high heels, his face covered in thick makeup; he wore black mascara, blush on his cheeks, bright red lipstick, and his hair was clipped up with a pink clasp. He pulled Molly to his side and stood next to her. “Look at her. She’s totally beautiful. And she’s probably gay, bless her. I’m her father.”