Namedropper (15 page)

Ray shot me a daggers look, as if I were a bumpkin fool who could never understand the tormented soul of a poet, and then stormed up the road. The kids were still pointing. I had to run to catch up with him.

“What did I say?” I jogged alongside him because he wouldn't slow down or even look at me. I had to pull out all the stops. Ray would only react to intense flattery now. “You don't want to be as big as them, you always say that. It's football-terrace music. Sure, lads go out and get drunk and bellow out Skyline songs outside your window at one in the morning. Yeah, the tabloids love them and the
NME
loves them and everyone loves them. And the reason everyone loves them is because they make money for anyone who even breathes their name. You don't need that. You're not coarse enough to make music for the masses. But a lot of people do worship you. You're not that far behind. And the real difference is, you make music that teenage girls can dream to. That's much more important than lager-and-vindaloo anthems.”

He stopped abruptly, which was good, because he was about to tread in dog shit, and reached over to hold my hand. “You're so sweet to me, Viva. You're the only one who's not out to fuck me over.” His voice was quivering and he had tears in his eyes. Heads began to turn and so did my stomach.

“Don't worry, Ray. Nothing to get upset about.”

A tear rolled down his face. He didn't try to catch it. “I'm
sorry I've been grumpy. I know how much Drew meant to you. I'll take you to the hotel.”

For the first three minutes in about three weeks, I actually had forgotten about Drew, and I felt good. I decided perhaps I ought to take a break from Drew obsession for the evening, so I could store up energy and really get into it bright and early the next day.

“Look, Ray, I've got a funny idea. Why don't we go and see Skyline play tonight?”

Ray shook his head and blinked away the last of the tears. “No way. Uh-uh. Me? Go and worship at the shrine of Skyline? Dillon would think it was hysterical. He'd tell all his Neanderthal mates. It would be in the gossip column of the NME.”

“No, I don't think so. Look at it calmly. It would be the coolest thing you could do. It would show how little you care about them. Like, oh, you happened to be in Brighton, so you thought you'd stop by and see what all the fuss is about. Dillon would be impressed that you were there. He'd be really freaked out. You would have one over on him.”

“Tommy would say I was consorting with the enemy.”

“Oh, fuck Tommy. He does what you say, not the other way around, remember?”

Ray cocked his head and frowned.

“Stop frowning,” I almost yelled, “those wrinkles aren't getting any better.” But bearing in mind his fragile ego in the face of Dillon from Skyline, I thought better of it.

Ray frowned harder. “I thought we were here to find Drew.”

“No, God no,” I laughed, as if that were the most ridiculous thing in the world and it was Ray's idea, not mine, to come all the way to Brighton just to look at a hotel bar Drew had drunk in. “No, no. We're here to find Drew's aura.” I thought that would make him giggle.

But he dropped my hand and barked, “Yeah, right, Viva.” He made a horrible face, like the girls at school on non-uniform days as they scathingly eyed up my pencil skirt, kitten heels, and white mohair Elizabeth Taylor sweater. They always wore jeans and a little T-shirt with a slogan on it. What was the point of non-uniform day? They only wore a different uniform—they came as Lolita. Again and again, I'd rather go as Shelley Winters. “Right, Viva.”

“It was an Andy Warhol reference, Ray. The aura? In
From A to B and Back Again
. Don't you remember?”

“No, I don't, and I don't care. Can we just not talk about celebrities for one minute? Jesus, Viva, you are the worst namedropper in the world. It's really hard to talk to you sometimes.”

I'm not, I thought. Ray is. Ray gets angry if I talk about someone more famous than him (Dillon) and he gets mad if I talk about someone less famous than him (Drew). I can't win. Sure, I drop names, but they're all dead people and B-movie actresses who haven't worked in thirty-seven years. Ray's the real namedropper. He's the one who goes to clubs and has sex in the toilets. He's the one who always goes to all the awards ceremonies even though “they're all bollocks.” I've said to him, “So don't go. You have no obligation. Skyline never go,” and he screams, “They can afford not to go. They can do anything
they like. I have to go or the record company will start plotting against me and someone will spread rumours about me. I know it!” He accuses me of being celebrity-obsessed because it's the thing he most dislikes about himself. There's nothing I can say when he gets like that, so I just have to change the subject.

“I want some more chips.”

We stood in line again and the girl frying the fish looked at us oddly.

“It's for her,” he apologised.

“No,” stammered the girl. “I was just wondering if I could have your autograph. I'm a big fan. I was too shy to ask when you came in before.”

Ray grinned and pulled a Bic from the back pocket of his jeans. “Are you going to see Skyline tonight?”

“No way.” The girl beamed. “I don't go for that hooligan music.” Ray signed his autograph with a big heart and ten kisses. And suddenly, when the girl handed me my chips, he was prepared, even quite into the idea, of going to see Skyline.

Ray thought he knew the bloke who was roadying for Skyline—he'd done a European tour for him back when Ray was bigger than Dillon. He could get us in with the minimum of fuss. I tried to persuade Ray he should cause the maximum fuss, let the whole band know that he was really eager to watch them play, but he said, “You're such a drama queen. Let's do it my way.”

We hovered outside the venue, looking for the stage door.

“I must know where it is. I've played here enough times.”

We went round the back of the alleyway, where a gang of
thirty beer'd-up boys were chanting Skyline's last hit. “Flyyy higher than the staaars!” They jeered at us as we pushed past. I don't know who it was harder for—me or Ray.

The shaven-headed, thick-necked bulldog on the door laughed. “And what can I do for you? Want an autograph, do you?”

I could tell Ray was about to back down, so I fixed the bulldog with my best PR-girl stare and ordered, “Just fetch Mole the roadie and tell him that Ray Devlin is here.”

He nodded at Ray. “I know who you are. You can come in, so long as you promise not to start any fights.” Ray nodded meekly. Yeah, right, Ray starts a fight. He couldn't win a match against a one-armed baby.

The corridor was dark and the walls were pasted with mouldy old tour posters, several of which had Ray's face on them. As we turned the corner, we could hear the sound of a guitar being tuned up and an extended drum solo, which the drummer was clearly enjoying, since it would never make it into the real show. We followed the music out to the front of the house.

And there was Dillon, at the back of the hall, clapping his hands. He didn't look like a geography teacher at all. In fact, he looked more like a substitute Religious Studies teacher, young and wiry and over-enthusiastic. His hair was dark blond and parted to the right. It was old man's hair on a very young face. He looked both older and younger than his twenty-eight years. His face was pleasant enough, but hardly there at all. Everything was so even: his eyes the same size as his nose, which was the same size as his mouth. If he were a criminal, he would never get caught, because he looked like anyone. It
would be almost impossible to draw up an effective likeness. His frame was slight. He had tiny bird bones—skinny little arms and legs. His only outstanding feature was his skin, which was so pale, it almost glowed.

Dillon was the biggest star in pop, but there was something about him that suggested there had been a terrible mistake, and that the understudy had accidentally been allowed onstage without enough preparation. What on earth did the British record-buying public see in him? Why had all those boys chosen him to carry the burden of their dreams and ambitions on his slender shoulders? Then he saw us and snapped to life. A light went on in his grey eyes and he bounded over, bouncing, not like the waif that he was, but like a boxer. He pulled up two feet in front of Ray, and I saw that Dillon was a short-arse, barely reaching up to Ray's nose. Neither of them spoke. Then Dillon snapped his fingers in front of him and smiled.

“Y'all right, Raymond. Didn't think I'd see you here.” He spoke with a Merseyside tinkle.

Ray shuffled backwards and forwards. “Well, we were in town. And my friend Viva's a fan.” With utter disregard for any concept of subtlety, I stamped on his foot. I wasn't having that. I hadn't the slightest interest in Skyline, other than using them as a tool to help Ray conquer his fear of celebrity.

“Nice one,” chirped Dillon, looking me over. I obviously didn't impress him, because he focused his attention back on Ray, just looking at him and grinning, a child who hadn't been taught it's rude to stare.

Then he reached out and shook Ray's hand, pulling him closer bit by bit. It looked like Ray had suffered a terrible
industrial accident and had his arm caught in a machine. Dillon stopped at his elbow and pulled him into a hug. Ray was absolutely rigid.

“Top, Raymond, top. So I'll see you and your friend later. Come to the dressing room after the show. We'll have a beer. I've got a great new bird. She's a model. Been on the cover of Italian
Vogue
or summat. You've got to meet her. Boss tits. A right laugh.”

Then he nodded at me and trundled off.

We scarpered out the front door, past the merchandising stall just being set up. We were both breathing as hard as two teenage girls who had just stolen a bagful of makeup from Woolies. As the Skyline fans pointed at us some more, which seemed all they were equipped to do, we started laughing so hard that I almost threw up. We dragged each other back into town.

Finally Ray managed to speak. “If Skyline are playing the same venues as me, they can't be that big.”

I patted his back. Good old Ray. That was all he could think about. “Yeah, Ray, but you saw the advert in
NME
. You know what they've got booked for the next tour. Three nights at Wembley Arena. Which they'll probably move to the stadium.”

He put his hand across his forehead, as if my very presence was giving him a blinding headache. “Why do you always have to be like that?” he growled.

“Oh God, forget it. This is enough bickering for one day. Can we please find somewhere to stay? I've got to sit down and have a Coke before we go to the show. I bet Dillon's having
his sit-down and coke about now too.” I patted the side of my nose. Thank the Lord, Ray managed to crack a smile.

We checked into a B&B, but quite an artsy one. There was a poetry reading that night. The poetry looked bad. The key to the room was a proper metal one, not a stupid plastic credit card like you get in big hotels. The bed was a double. Ray threw his coat over it, attempting to cover it, like he was dignifying a dead body. I studied myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were bigger than I remember, bigger and darker than they had been this morning in Ray's rearview mirror.

“Ray. Do you think I'm gross?”

“No, not at all,” he called back, sniffing under his armpits for BO.

“I think I'm pretty.”

“I think you are too. I just said so.”

I put on some bronze-tinted Guerlain lip-gloss. “But am I pretty like a kid or pretty like a woman?”

“Did you say pretty or petty?”

I came out of the bathroom and kicked him.

We made tea in the room and then headed back out for Skyline. It was pouring rain and the kids were getting soaked. Like I said, Skyline attract a different kind of audience from Ray. They were all leering at me and pointing at Ray again, and I started to regret suggesting this excursion. The lads were whacking each other and pouring beer over each other's head and I felt pathetically intimidated. Being with Ray made me feel worse, as if everyone, especially the girls, was looking at me because I wasn't pretty enough to be out with a pop star. Of course, the big lunk chose that moment to put his arm
around me and some men in anoraks whistled and started singing his songs. Why do people do that? Like Ray has never heard them before. He wrote the fucking things.

We had passes for the balcony, where we sat next to the band's manager and the guitarist's girlfriend, who I think I recognised from J-D, although I'm not
au fait
with the style magazines. Skyline sloped onstage at twenty past ten, by which time the crowd were beating each other up. I hardly even noticed when Dillon ambled onstage, tambourine in hand, so tiny was he. But as he crept up to the microphone, the crowd let out an almighty roar and the girls leaning over the front of the barriers began to faint.

The drummer rolled out a fucked-up marching-band beat and the bassist plucked out a fuck-you thwack. Then the guitar kicked in. It ground and shimmied around the room, as if it were a whole person in its own right, unattached to the person playing it. He was so skilled at his instrument that he made it sound like he had no control. Finally Dillon tipped his head back and opened his mouth as wide as a Muppet and began to sing. I realised immediately why he looked so tiny and insignificant. His voice was so huge that there was nothing left for the rest of him.

I couldn't believe I hadn't paid any attention at all to Dillion or Skyline. Here was a real white soul singer, as good as Rod, as good as Stevie Winwood, as good as anything in Manny's record collection. I was riveted. I didn't even look round to see what Ray was doing. I didn't know what the songs were called and I couldn't make out the words. But it felt like reading Truman Capote—it was so brilliant that you didn't
even feel yourself taking it in. It was just in you, in one graceful swoop. Although they were whipping the crowd into a frenzy of pogoing and bear-hugging and glass-throwing, they sounded inexplicably elegant. The way this group played, they should have looked like Kristin Scott Thomas, not a gang of Liverpudlian drips. Their music seemed to rise, like smoke, to the ceiling. You could only look up at it. They played for barely an hour with no encore.