Chapter 32
Maybe it would have been different if he hadn’t been alone the night before the wedding. Maybe if Sophie had been there. But she had gone to her sister’s hen party.
Damien was left with his thoughts for company. Bad thoughts. And in his misery, he had snorted six lines of cocaine and drunk a bottle of whisky.
Come the day, he was lying on the sofa with a nosebleed, dabbing his nostrils with a sheet of toilet paper, when Sophie rang.
‘I’m not going to make it to the church, Sophie. Go without me,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Damien. I’ve been waiting for you for forty minutes and you didn’t even have the good grace to tell me you weren’t coming.’
‘Sophie, just don’t hassle me. I’ll show up this evening. You know I’ve had a terrible week.’
He turned off his mobile and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to listen to the increasingly vitriolic phone messages that his agent had left him over the last couple of days.
Damien had screwed up on the deal with Netflix, and he’d been so out of it for the last month that he’d forgotten to finish the screenplay of Writing in the Sand .
He’d finally drifted off to sleep when the insistent chime of the electric doorbell woke him.
‘Okay… okay! I hear you.’ He staggered to the entry phone, eyes half shut. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded. ‘God help you if you’re Bible pushers. I really don’t care if Jesus is coming back. Although, on second thoughts, he could be quite useful if I run out of vino.’
‘It’s your agent, in case you’ve forgotten you have one,’ Angus said.
‘Well, how thoughtful of you to come and remind me.’
‘Stop fooling around, Damien. Where’s the bloody script?’
‘In my head, Angus, don’t worry. Just need another few weeks to write it down. I’m very busy at the moment. Can I call you later?’
‘No,’ Angus said firmly. ‘I want to see you face to face.’
‘Okay, okay… just a second. I’m coming.’ He threw on his dressing gown, staggered down the stairs and flung open his front door. ‘Here I am.’ Damien stood barefoot in the doorway, squinting at the sunlight. ‘How can I help you, Angus? What’s the trouble?’
‘You’re the bloody trouble,’ Angus replied, staring at the dried blood caked round the edges of Damien’s nostrils and the grubby white piqué dressing gown. ‘You look terrible. For goodness’ sake, let me in.’
‘Of course.’ Damien bowed and waved him through with a flourish. ‘Please excuse the mess… To be honest, I’ve been preoccupied with personal matters and my last cleaner has gone back to Ireland. I think she only came here to have an abortion. Went off without any warning.’
Angus stood gaping at the slices of chewed pepperoni pizza, which had migrated from the cardboard box directly onto the surface of the coffee table, the empty whisky bottle lying on its side, an open wallet, a credit card and three rolled-up banknotes.
‘Oh, my God, you self-sabotaging fool, you need to get yourself sorted out.’
He scanned Damien’s glazed, dark-rimmed, soulless eyes. ‘What sort of psychodrama are you creating this time?’
‘Elizabeth’s the trigger. I know I’ve always been a mad muller, but this time the evil witch has pushed me right to the edge of the cliff and I’m about to fall off and to tell you the truth I don’t give a damn. It’s my karmic punishment. I swear to God, if Laura was still alive, I would treasure her and never touch another woman again. What a fool I was. I could have saved her. Instead, I screwed everything that moved, and she knew it.’ Damien bit the back of his hand.
Angus grasped his arm. ‘Don’t do that!’ He hated histrionics from anyone. And his star writer was losing his grip. ‘Look, I feel sorry for you,’ he said, ‘but what gives you the right to screw up things for everyone else? If you don’t deliver the screenplay by the end of next week, my reputation will be in the shit. They’ll say I can’t handle the horses in my stable. The deadline was yesterday. You’ve been given a huge advance – how could you be so irresponsible?’
‘Money,’ Damien said. ‘Sometimes it gets in the way and obstructs the path of my existential angst, but essentially I know my journey is between me and God.’
‘Don’t give me that esoteric gibberish.’ Angus waved at the table of powdery residue. ‘What else have you been taking?’
‘Just a touch of MDMA, Angus. You should try some. You’ll feel all loved up and want to kissy cuddle everyone. Anyway, it’s been a pleasure speaking with you, but I’m sorry, you’ll have to go. I need to get dressed for a wedding reception.’
‘I don’t think you can pull back from this one, Damien. You’ve broken the clause in your contract. I only hope that you haven’t sniffed all the advance up your nose, because I am certainly not bailing you out.’ And he was gone.
Damien’s nose had started bleeding again. He went to the bathroom, took another sheet of toilet paper and pushed it into his nostrils. He pressed his face to the bathroom mirror. ‘Just between you and me,’ he whispered, ‘I think my time’s up.’ His hot breath clouded his reflection.
Pull yourself together, Damien Spur, you selfish bastard, and get dressed , the Voice said .
‘I don’t know where my clip-on dickie is.’
Next to the self-tie in the box on top of your dresser , the Voice said.
Damien smiled at himself. ‘Clip-on dickie, best friend when you’re high.’
Try not to make a fool of yourself , the Voice said.
‘But it’s going to hurt seeing Elizabeth with another man… Well then, see you later. Please don’t give up on me.’
You need to listen to me, Damien. I know you better than anyone , the Voice said.
Damien showered and struggled into his clothes. Thank God his nose had stopped bleeding.
‘Bloody hell! Where are all my cufflinks?’ Damien had opened the left-hand drawer of his desk where he kept them in a small velvet pouch.
He fumbled around the inside of the drawer.
No luck; gone. And where was the Movado fob watch that his father had left him, and the little leather box with Laura’s wedding band?
All gone. Save for Laura’s love letters; her legacy. A punishment that served as a reminder of what a bastard he had been. He didn’t need to read them. The words were etched in his head.
Every time you leave, my soul weeps.
I know that you love me,
but my mind is in the way, Damien.
My body won’t let me say what I feel.
He pushed her to the back of his mind. At this rate he wouldn’t even make the reception.
But who was the thief? Was it the temporary cleaner who stood in while Marta was away on holiday last week? Or was it Yulia, the sexy Russian blonde he’d met at a nightclub in Regent Street the weekend before? Most likely it was her.
‘Are you free this evening?’ he’d asked transfixed. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Here she was in the flesh. The fantasy queen from his schoolboy days with her glossy voluptuous lips and large firm breasts accentuated by a tight red satin dress.
She had given him a playful smile. ‘I am not free, but for you being so handsome, I will give you a special price, ￡800 for the whole night.’
So he’d brought her back to his flat, and had fallen asleep on the job.
In the morning when he woke, she’d gone and so had the ￡50 notes left in his wallet on the bedside table.
He cursed her and ripped off the smart silk shirt with French cuffs and put on a foppish chemise with a jabot and a black velvet suit.
‘Randy Dandy, I am,’ he said to the mirror. ‘Fuck the bow tie.’
Calm down , said the Voice.
He waited in the road for the Uber. He needed some air. His own company had begun to frighten him, and he was relieved to see the elegant black Mercedes slow down in front of his house. He flung the door open and settled himself in the back on the black leather seat.
‘Very nice car. I always go for the executive class. Those standard Priuses are such ugly buggers. Where are you from, driver?’ he said.
‘Guess.’
‘Iran.’
‘No. Try again.’
‘Armenia?’
‘That’s right!’
‘How long have you been living here?’ Damien said.
‘Ten years.’
‘And where do you live?’ Damien liked hearing the drivers’ stories. It stopped him thinking about himself.
‘Cricklewood,’ he replied.
‘Ah, very central. Are you married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does your wife work?’
‘No, she look after our two children.’ The driver looked around thirty, his strong features softened by deep-set, gentle eyes. He wore a spotless, well-pressed shirt.
‘And she cooks for all of you?’
‘Of course. How else to eat?’
‘What a lucky man you are,’ Damien said. ‘And what does she cook?’
‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Lamb, dolma, beef and aubergine… and sometimes she make English food. Roast chicken, shepherd’s pie and stew with dumplings.’
‘Love to come to dinner,’ Damien said, and gave the driver a smile.
The driver looked uncomfortable.
‘Come on, I’m not serious.’ He took a ￡10 note from his wallet.
‘For your wife,’ he said. ‘She is fast becoming extinct.’
By the time the driver pulled up outside Quaglino’s, he and Damien were talking like old friends. He waved Damien farewell, pocketing the tip, and Damien squared his shoulders, walking tall as he approached the doorman.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Damien offered a mock salute. ‘I’m here for the wedding… Spur… Damien Spur,’ he said.
You’re so bloody late , the Voice said. Fancy arriving at ten for a reception that started at seven. Terribly rude .
‘Look, just leave me alone,’ Damien muttered. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the doorman said. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing, just talking to myself. Open sesame, please. I’m dying for a pee.’
‘Downstairs on the left, sir.’
In the quiet of the bathroom, Damien winked at himself in the mirror. ‘No one here. Now, then.’ He tweaked the frill of his white silk jabot. ‘You look a bit pale, but apart from that, not bad for a nutter.’
You look great. Just be your amusing, erudite self , the Voice said.
‘If you say so.’ Damien slipped his hand in his trouser pocket. ‘Just one for luck. Have to be the party me, now.’
Don’t, you mad bugger , the Voice said.
‘Why should I listen to you?’ Damien said.
Because I’m the Voice of Reason – and you’re out of line.
‘Oh no I’m not.’ Damien took a folded paper from his trouser pocket and waved it in the air. ‘You stay outside,’ he said to the Voice, and slammed the door of the cubicle.
***
Ten minutes later, Damien, wedged against the wall at the back of the room, unseen by anyone, watched the passionate couple dance the paso doble.
‘Oh, Javier, you snake, that’s great. Give the bitch what she wants,’ he whispered to himself.
The handsome Argentinian swivelled his body this way and that while Elizabeth dipped and swayed, making beautiful shapes as she circled him.
Damien bit his lip. The jabot felt tight round his neck. A waiter was passing. He grabbed his arm.
‘Bring me a glass of white, please.’
‘Of course, sir. Where are you sitting?’
‘I’m staying here. Don’t you know it’s bad manners to interrupt a performance? You stand at the back and wait till it’s over.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘About what, sir?’
‘The couple dancing.’
The waiter paused. ‘I think they look in love,’ he said.
‘What the fuck? I didn’t ask you that. He’s the matador and she’s the bloody cape. I was asking you whether you thought they caught the spirit of the dance. The story. You’re from Spain, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I’m from Cordoba.’
‘Well then, surely you should know the paso doble.’
‘Yes, but… I didn’t understand what you meant. I just think they look hot for each other.’
‘Do me a favour. Undo the button at the back of my neck.’
‘Sir…’
‘Do you want me to have a heart attack? Okay, okay, leave it.’ He tugged at the jabot and pulled it apart. ‘Anyway. Here’s the question. Do you know what’s missing?’ Damien crossed his arms, his flushed face dripping with sweat.
‘Where?’
‘In the dance, you fool. You don’t know shit. The bull… the bull. That’s what’s missing.’ The waiter drew breath to speak, but Damien pushed past him. ‘I’ve had it. Fuck the glass of wine.’
He made a swift beeline to the nearest table of guests. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I apologise for the interruption, but do you have a couple of spare forks?’
‘That’s a strange request,’ said a woman with spiky blonde hair and large breasts.
Damien glanced beside her plate. ‘Look, here’s one. You only need to eat ice cream with a spoon, so there’s no problem.’ He took her fork, and scanned the table. ‘And I’ll take this one.’ He plucked another resting next to a piece of chocolate cake.
‘I haven’t finished yet,’ said a plump woman with a tiny mouth and curly dark hair.
‘Well, if I were you,’ Damien replied, ‘I would have chosen the strawberries instead.’
He blew her a kiss and swivelled round to address the other astonished guests.
‘These are my horns.’ He placed a fork on each side of his head, puffed out his chest and charged, deftly weaving his way through the tables to the edge of the dance floor.
Don’t , the Voice said. You crazy fool. No point in going any further. The bull always loses.
‘Not me – you’ll see,’ Damien shouted.
Sophie, who had left her table to help her drunken mother find a cab, returned just in time to see Damien’s extraordinary behaviour.
‘What are you doing? Where have you been? You look terrible,’ she said.
He turned to her and wiggled the forks. ‘I’m feeling horny.’
‘Please, Damien, let me take you home. You’re not well. Your eyes, they’re so red! And you’re shaking. Please, let me help you.’ Sophie took his arm.
‘Leave me alone,’ he said, and pushed her aside.
Damien dipped his head, flared his nostrils and pawed his foot. ‘Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage.’ He narrowed his eyes focusing on his enemy. ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George! Let’s go!’
The lovesick rival charged.
‘Javieeeeeeeer,’ he roared.
Javier, who had previously been oblivious to all but the dance, seeing crazy Damien come for him armed with forks, nimbly ducked.
‘Okay, let’s play the game properly,’ the Argentinian said, and with a flourish swiped a cloth from a nearby table.
Damien, who had sprinted past him, spun round and paused to stamp his foot, the forks still held to his head, ready to charge again.
Elizabeth smiled, thrilled to see two men fight, beguiled by her beauty.
If only they both had guns , she thought, now that would be sport .
There was a silence in the room. The bride and groom sat like king and queen, watching the horror unfold.
Damien was ready. It was exciting. ‘Come on, the crowd is waiting,’ he said to himself.
No , said the Voice, y ou’ll regret it.
‘Leave me alone. This is my show. Don’t try and stop me. I’m super-charged. I can take on anybody.’
The thoughts pounded in his head.
He crouched down, eyes straight ahead.
The taunting matador brandishing the tablecloth struck the floor with his foot. Suavely, he pivoted and shuffled back as Damien rushed through the makeshift cape.
‘ Olé ,’ the guests chanted, swept up by the macabre dance.
Damien, incensed that he’d missed his target, charged again, but this time fell. The forks clattered across the floor as a rivulet of blood trickled from Damien’s temple.
‘Oh my goodness, is he dead?’ Sophie cried.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Elizabeth laughed, and stepped over him.
‘That’s it, old boy.’ Justin appeared. ‘Thanks for the show, but now it’s time to go home.’
Damien struggled to his feet and, smiling at the victor, bowed.
‘Pride comes before a fall,’ he said as the groom led him through the guests to the exit.
Justin hoisted Damien into the back of the taxi. He was a lot heavier than he looked. ‘Come on, old boy, need a bit of compliance here.’
Damien tugged at the lapels of his friend’s dinner jacket. ‘Stay with me.’
The smell of his sweat made Justin queasy. ‘Take him to 22 Cheyne Walk,’ he said, and gave the driver a ￡20 note. ‘And look after him.’
The car pulled into the traffic. Damien curled himself into a foetal position and wept. What had he become? A tragic disappointment of a man who had sunk into the abyss of unrequited love. Waves of nausea swept through his body. The throbbing in his head had fogged his brain, obscuring all reason. He wanted to die.
‘Driver, let me out at the river. I need to walk. I need some air.’
‘Whereabouts, mate?’
‘Waterloo. Walk will do me good. Take me to the bridge.’
‘Are you sure? Your mate asked me to keep an eye on you,’ the driver said.
‘Yes. I need to breathe. It’s nearer than my house. Can’t talk any more. Feel very sick.’
‘Right, mate. Please don’t throw up in my cab.’ He sped down the empty streets, a brief ride to the bridge.
Damien clambered out of the taxi and fell onto the pavement. Grasping the open door, he pulled himself to his feet.
‘Thank you, driver.’ He fumbled in his pocket, took a five-pound note from his wallet and thrust it into the cab driver’s hand. ‘Buy yourself a drink, my man.’
‘It’s nearly midnight, mate. I’m going home to the wife.’
‘You’re a lucky chap, having a good woman waiting for you.’
The cabbie looked worried. ‘Think I might have a coffee at the all-nighter round the corner. Shall I get you one?’
‘No, thanks. You go home.’ Damien gave him a hint of a smile. ‘Give your wife a cuddle from me.’
The stillness of the river at night did not calm his dark thoughts.
He staggered past a grimy old man asleep in a cardboard box. At the entrance of the bridge, he focused on the ornate riverside lamp post a few feet ahead. He grasped the railings and pulled himself along. Reaching the metal post, he clamped his legs around the circumference and levered himself up the pole. Finally, at the top, he grasped the neck of the lamp and looked down at the glittering water.
‘I am a king without a throne,’ he shouted at the moon.
He held his breath and then, with a silent prayer, plunged into the river. The icy water flooded his eyes and mouth, and the powerful current dragged him along, miraculously propelling him to the edge of the bank.
He grabbed the safety chain and held on while the water gushed beneath his feet. His hands were frozen stiff and he was losing his grip. ‘Oh God, please help me,’ he pleaded.
‘Hold on to my hand, mate,’ a man’s voice said.
‘Who are you?’ Damien said. ‘Am I dreaming?’
‘No.’ A firm hand grasped his wrist. ‘Now come on, mate, give me a bit of help.’
Damien grabbed the eyebolt with his other hand and found a foothold on the wall.
The man managed to lift him out of the water and Damien collapsed on the verge, his body covered in mud. His eyes half closed, he looked up at the man. ‘Are you an angel?’ he said.
‘I’m the cabbie, mate. Thought you looked as if you were going to do yourself a damage, so I stuck around.’
‘Don’t have any money.’
‘No worries, mate. I’m taking you to hospital.’