Rupert Thomson - Dreams of Leaving

As was happening more and more these days (ever since the arrival of the suitcase, in fact), Moses’s thoughts turned to his own background, setting against this brilliant suburban machinery, against this concentration of dazzle, a darkness illuminated only by a few photos in an old album and a dress that he had given to Gloria (who probably had hundreds more upstairs), and a sudden panic washed over him, the feeling that he had been squandering valuable time, that he should have been buying torches, lighting fires, calling electricians, anything to lift the darkness a little, to reveal his machinery.

Where was his machinery? Perhaps he had been the spanner in those particular works. Too big a spanner. Perhaps that explained everything.

Perhaps.

But he wanted to know.

*

Somebody had turned up the volume of the conversation. Fred Astaire was trying to make himself heard with his own version of the Cole Porter classic ‘Anything Goes’. How apt, Moses thought. Unable to find Gloria, he ended up in a lamplit corner next to Paul Newman. Next to Paul Newman stood the awful Margaux.

‘Moses!’ she cried. ‘Moses with no x! Come and talk to us!’

Moses groaned inside.

‘Have you two met?’ Margaux asked.

‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,’ Paul Newman said.

I don’t believe you ever will, you bastard, Moses thought. The American had a pleasant transatlantic drawl and, for a moment, Moses wished he had brought Vince along. He would have enjoyed watching Vince toss a glass of champagne in that pleasant American face.

‘This is Moses,’ Margaux was saying. ‘Moses, this is Tarquin.’

Tarquin? Jesus.

‘Have you seen Gloria?’ Moses asked.

Neither of them had. Not recently, anyway.

‘It’s very important.’ He looked round, as much to avoid further conversation as anything else.

Ronald stumbled past, ash on his tie, flies undone. He had stuck the vodka bottle in his trouser pocket. It swung against his hip like a six-gun with no bullets in the chamber. Phoebe and Prince Oleander still hadn’t reappeared. They were probably still fucking in the shrubbery (one day my prince will come). Violet de Light, who had seen her husband stroking Margaux’s hand on the patio, had captured Romeo and was pawing him in a desperate last-ditch attempt to arouse her husband’s jealousy. Raphael de Light, the publisher, knew Romeo was gay. He wriggled with amusement in the kitchen doorway. John Dream was quietly taking his leave of Heather who, turning back into the room, caught Moses’s roving eye and came towards him.

‘Moses, are you enjoying yourself?’

‘It’s a wonderful party. Tell me. Have you seen Gloria anywhere?’

‘The poor boy’s desperate,’ Margaux said.

You cunt, Moses thought, and smiled pleasantly. He began to look round the room again. For a blunt instrument this time. Margaux drifted serenely out of range.

‘— I don’t know where she is,’ Heather was saying. She pushed her hair back from her forehead with spread fingers. An expensive smell circled her left wrist like a bracelet.

Moses felt a wave of nausea well up inside him. His body started moving up and down, up and down, a smooth well-oiled movement, almost pistonlike. The sweep of Heather’s hair became a part of this. The smell of her perfume too. He didn’t dare look at her.

‘— she could be anywhere — ’

He heard her voice through a buzz of interference. The air between them had broken up into patches of black and white. He hoped to Christ he wasn’t going to pass out. Not in Hampstead. He hoped with a desperation which, if anything, made it seem more likely to happen.

‘Got to go to the bathroom.’ Hardly able to move his lips. Mouth heavy, hydraulic. And he could see the sound waves his voice made looping out towards her. Loch Ness monsters made of words, of frequencies. There was a look of concern on her face, he thought, but it was like a bad television picture. All snow. No, bigger than snow. Black gaps between the flakes.

‘ — first on the right at the top of the stairs — ’

He thanked her.

All the way to the bathroom he seemed to be falling. He locked the door and dropped to the floor.

*

Time passed.

Slowly — reluctantly, it seemed to Moses — the nausea withdrew, the pistons ceased. He lifted his head. Marble surfaces. Gold fittings. Plants. In the centre of the room, a sunken bath. Roman-style. He reached over, turned on the taps. There was great wealth in their smooth tooled action, in the instant power they released. He listened to the crash of water on enamel as Chinese philosophers once listened to crickets. He drifted into calm stretches of contemplation. Mr and Mrs Wood must have extraordinary problems, he thought, to own a bathroom as magnificent as this. He would write a book one day. He would call it The Bath — A Definitive Study. Something serious like that. There would be glossy colour plates shot by you-know-who and an introduction written by somebody distinguished. He could already see the press reviews:

— It is not easy to find words to describe the joy, the delight, the passion which Mr Highness evokes — Publisher’s Weekly

— I was held spellbound. Mr Highness is clever, very clever, and immensely entertaining — Sunday Telegraph

— Memories came flooding back. Enthralling — Woman

— Exhibits a wonderfully dry sense of humour throughout — Times Literary Supplement.

Fame beckoned. Fan-mail. Royalties. He would have enough money to fly to America and look for another Highness. He might even appear on the Michael Parkinson show.

As he left the bathroom he heard a sigh of ecstasy and, turning round, saw Margaux and Mr de Light (his future publisher maybe!) breaking from a surreptitious drunken clinch.

‘My Raphael,’ Margaux murmured. ‘My priceless Raphael.’

‘Mein Kampf,’ whispered Mr de Light, erudite even in desire.

Moses didn’t know how long he had spent on the bathroom floor, but the party, he was glad to see, was obviously still in full swing.

Moses slipped across the landing and down the stairs. There had been a few departures, he learned. Violet de Light had stalked off in a huff. Christian Persson had gone to Heaven (he wanted to check out London nightlife). Phoebe and her tanned tennis-player had taken leave of the Woods (and the bushes) and sped off in a white Golf GTI convertible. Ronald had departed too, but only into unconsciousness. He lay in the garden, his face a mask of masochistic agony, the casualty of too much jealousy and vodka. Alcohol had also transformed the Very Reverend Cloth. He towered over Lottie von Weltraum, two fingers raised, the other two tucked into the palm of his hand, like the pope. He was telling her that he would like to talk to Derek about unnatural acts. But Derek was in the bathroom with Romeo, performing one. Moses knew. He had watched them go in together. Then, finally, he saw Gloria. She was standing in the Picasso alcove. Talking to Paul Newman. Moses walked over.

‘Hello, Gloria.’

‘Hello.’ Without actually moving at all, she seemed to shrink from him. Perhaps to fill the silence, she said, ‘Have you met Tarquin?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘Is that what you were doing in the bathroom for an hour? Looking for me?’

Moses stared at her.

‘Are you all right now, Moses?’ Tarquin asked.

Moses swung round. ‘None of your business, Paul.’

The American smiled. ‘My name’s Tarquin.’

‘Well, you look like a Paul to me.’

Gloria pushed Moses away into the corner. ‘Why are you being so weird tonight?’