Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

Marsha looked at me in surprise. 'But of course I am. How could you live in W11 for twenty years and not be friendly with Dinsdale and Lionel?'

'Dinsdale and Lionel?' I queried, having lost the plot. 'Who the hell are they?'

'Busted!' shouted Dirk.

Marsha collapsed into peals of mirth. 'For Heaven's sake, you don't think his dad christened him Dirk , do you?'

'Dirk Bogarde's father did,' said Sophie.

'Nah,' said Dirk. 'Dirk Bogarde was a Derek.'

Marsha told us she was making very dry Martinis and asked who wanted one. Dirk and Lemmy's hands shot into the air faster than the speed of light. Sophie said, ooh yes, and I followed her example, because even though I needed to keep my wits about me if I wanted the evening to proceed as planned, it seemed somehow supremely glamorous and Notting Hill-ish to be knocking back very dry Martinis at two in the afternoon.

'Clare wants her flat decorated too,' said Sophie. 'Don't you, Clare?'

'Is there enough time?' I asked.

'Pas de problem,' said Dirk. 'We work at warp speed.'

'Papageno,' said Lemmy.

'Just as soon as we've finished in here,' added Dirk.

I wasn't sure of Dirk and Lemmy's official standing this company. Were they honoured guests or hired hands? Out of the corner of my mouth, I asked Sophie if anyone had issued them with a party invitation. Marsha overheard. 'Of course we invited them,' she boomed. 'How could you possibly have a party and not invite Lionel and Dinsdale?' She tousled the top of Lemmy's head so affectionately that I wondered whether they'd ever been an item. Lemmy had a tendency to get romantically involved with the darnedest people. I'd always wondered how he'd managed to get as far as he did without Dirk there to translate for him.

'Down there down there down there ,' rumbled Dirk as he applied another red stain to the wall and watched it trickle slowly down.

'Ah,' said Marsha. The Drunken Boats. They used to live in this house, you know.'

And Sophie whispered in my ear, 'They still do.'

As I climbed back upstairs, stomach comfortably lined with gin, I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt liberated, carefree, and all those other words favoured by the makers of ads for sanitary towels. It was the best possible portent. Dirk and Lemmy were back, and it was as though they'd never been away. Miles was up for grabs. All was right with my world.

I'd even felt brave enough to talk to Sophie about Robert. I'd half expected her to tip her Martini over my head, but all she did was put her head on one side and give me a funny look. 'I thought he was with you,' she said.

'Not any more.'

Sophie looked exactly how I'd felt when Miles had told me about Ligia. 'What a pity. The two of you seemed to be getting along so well.'

'You saw him?' I asked her. 'All the time?'

Sophie looked smug. 'You mean you didn't?'

Dirk and Lemmy came up later to give my flat their specialist Halloween treatment, and even though I'd forbidden the use of aerosols because I didn't want to have to paint the walls again, I had to admit they worked miracles. By the time they left, my living-room looking every bit as spooky as the others. Dirk draped decorators' sheets over the furniture. Lemmy threaded severed chickens' claws on to lengths of long black thread and strung them across the ceiling like outlandish paper chains. I didn't ask where he'd found the claws. Some things it was better not to know.

I shaved my legs with a disposable razor, plastered my face with mudpack, and wallowed in the bath until the water cooled from balmy Aegean to icy Atlantic. I hadn't lingered so long in my bathroom for ages, but the ambience no longer seemed sinister, and besides, the mirror was safely misted up.

'Sorry, Robert,' I said, clambering out of the bath and wiping a small clearing in the foggy glass. 'I need someone who's going to be there for me. I'm afraid Miles is back in the picture.'

Wrapped in a towel, I went back into the living-room, slotted the Drunken Boats into my tape machine, and settled back into one of the decorator's sheets to coat my fingernails with black varnish. I hadn't played the Boats in ages. Only now did I realize how much I'd missed them; it was like being in the presence of old friends.

'Hello, Jeremy,' I said. 'Hello, Hugo, hello, Ralph, hello the other one whose name I can't remember.'

Down there down there down there

My evening had been coasting along very nicely, thank you, until Graham dropped his bombshell. Up until then I'd been on a roll — for once in my life, scores of people seemed eager to talk to me, and I hadn't had a second to myself, let alone the time to entertain an unsettling thought.

And then Graham had gone and spoiled it all.

The epicentre of the party was turning out to be Marsha's flat, with Marsha herself apparently generating most of the vibrations as she lurched around the dance-floor in her stripy T-shirt, torn trousers, eye-patch and stilettos. Stapled to her shoulder was a stuffed parrot. She waved. I made myself wave back.

The revelry was gradually percolating upwards. A few intrepid souls had already set up camp in Sophie's living-room, but so far the only explorers who had toiled even further up had taken one look around my draped, deserted nest and promptly fled back downstairs.

So when Graham turned up, and I took him upstairs to show him the chicken claws, we had the place to ourselves. I fetched my Cinghiale ashtray, and we sat on the edge of the draped table, and Graham produced a ready-rolled joint, which we smoked briskly, passing it back and forth in a businesslike fashion. I wasn't dead drunk, not as drunk as I normally was whenever he and I ended up in bed together, but I reckoned I was drunk enough, so I leant over and tried to kiss him.

He shrank back with a look of utter dismay.

I was taken aback. 'What's the matter?'

He muttered something about it not feeling right.

'What do you mean?' I demanded. ' I'm the one who I should be complaining about how it feels. Look at you — you haven't even bothered to shave.'

Graham explained that not shaving was part of his costume. It was only then that I realized why he was wearing furry gloves and what appeared to be some sort of toupee stuffed down the open neckline of his shirt.

'Oh, I see,' I said. 'You're supposed to be a werewolf.'

'Rrraaarrgh,' he roared, holding his hands up like claws. I roared back and tried to nuzzle him wolfishly, but he edged along the table, making nervous swatting motions as though I were a troublesome bluebottle.

'I'm sorry, Clare. I really like you, but I just don't think of you… that way .'

I leaned back and silently passed him the joint, blinking back the tears that were threatening to well up. When I was sure I wasn't going to embarrass myself, I asked, 'So what brought this on? Was it something I said?'

Graham inhaled deeply, giving himself time to devise a diplomatic reply. I watched him go cross-eyed as he tried to keep the tip of the joint in focus.

'You're one of my best friends,' he said at length. 'Let's leave it at that, shall we? Let's not spoil things.'

This was really too much. 'It's a bit late to talk about spoiling things, don't you think?'

Graham was picking at an obstinate shred of tobacco that had adhered to his tongue. 'What do you mean?'

'Excuse me ,' I said, 'but what do you mean? We've been going at it like rabbits for months and now all of a sudden you're playing hard to get?'

Graham stared at me with a look of such absolute horror on his face that I wondered if I'd inadvertently cast aspersions on his manhood. He said something I didn't catch, or maybe I just hadn't wanted to catch it. I asked him to run it by me again, and leaned closer to make sure I didn't miss it.