‘Whether he was pushed?’
‘Or dangled?’ She laughed. ‘I heard some girls earlier saying they were at the door when Craig nearly dropped James on their heads. They had to dive for cover, they said.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Oh, some publicity assistants. Of course it wasn’t true – and if it was, it still wouldn’t be. They looked rather scared when I butted in and asked for their full names and where it was they worked. So how’s Craig holding up?’
‘He’s fine. I think. Actually, he took me to the flat where it happened earlier.’
‘When you were supposed to be here.’
‘Must you keep mentioning that?’
‘And what did he say about it?’
‘Nothing. He was staring down from the window where it happened, looking down at the ground.’
‘Liam, you said he was staring down, that’s where the ground’s kept. Is that all you’ve got? What you need is an editor. Talking of which, aren’t you nearly finished with that novel you’ve been promising me? I rather think you should meet Helen over here.’
And with her marvellous, instinctive gift for a change of subject I was led around for the next twenty minutes, pitching my entirely fictional novel (in the worst way, in being unstarted) to editors, many of whom were friends of mine. This was excruciating, for there are few things more undignified than an editor who writes.
I should explain that, in general, we hated writers. Awful people. Scavengers. Needy little vultures, picking around in creative writing classes, sending in expenses for dinners they had eaten on different dates and in different cities to the events they had not turned up for. Fine artists, the lot of them, experts in cover art. Parasites. Imperiously rude and/or sleazy to editorial assistants. Lazy readers of their own work. Hungry bastards. Reviewers of their friends. Reviewers of their rivals. Making young women cry. Making them sick. Making advances. Not earning advances. Making them pregnant. Making line graphs of Amazon rankings. Sending you these line graphs. Seeking plot and motive in them instead of their own flimsy storylines and characters. Accidentally ccing you into correspondence berating you to another needy little vulture. Being ‘glad, in some way, that this mistake happened’. Never more than a metre away from the booze table at a book party. Obsequious chairs of literary events until the sixth drink in the follow-up dinner. Quoters of Goethe and Schiller. Owners of The Mammoth Book of German Aphorisms. Twitterers. Shitheads. Carrion-pickers. Slobs. Sociopaths. Laptop-dogs. Wolfes. Woolfs. Carvers. Lushes. Lishs. Gougers. Hacks. Mice. Lice. Writers, they were the worst, the most awful, we pitied them but loathed them more; because if it wasn’t for them, the job really would be a pleasure.
My confrères listened to me with suppressed amusement. They had all seen me arrive with Craig Bennett and were polite enough to skip over my pitch completely and ask me the same set of questions when it was over.
‘So, is it true Cockburn was screaming for mercy?’
‘And the window wasn’t even open, I heard!’
‘Well, someone told me he was holding him by his shirt collars, just, y’know, to shake him up, and the fabric just ripped – he hadn’t actually meant to drop him.’
‘Yah. Apparently there’s a whole chapter missing they didn’t print and he’d only just noticed. A whole chapter. If that was me, someone would definitely have gone through the window. Who can blame him?’
‘Someone said to me it was actually Nick Cave who pushed him.’
‘Really, because I’d heard it was Bret Easton Ellis.’
‘No, no, it was F. Scott Fitzgerald,’ I said, and fled to the bathroom, bumping straight into Bennett in the corridor heading the same way with his publicist in pursuit. Amanda glared hard at me as I pushed the door open and went in.
‘Thank God, I thought she was going to follow us in for a minute,’ he said.
‘Shall we?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said and we ducked in together to the free cubicle.
We had conspicuously avoided the subject so far (I had been advised not to bring it up) but I had been made giddy by the speculation outside, and I couldn’t resist asking him any longer. ‘So, go on then, what did happen with you and James?’
He paused and shot me a disappointed look. I’d said it gleefully.
‘From the tone of your voice, I think you’d like to believe I pushed him out. Imagine if I had done that – what an appalling thing to do. Is that what you think of me, Liam? You sound like you wish I was that man, like you wish I was indecent. Is that how little you think of James?’
He delivered this soliloquy turning between the cistern and me, gazing into my face then back and with economical movements setting out two large lines.
‘I’m sorry, I was being glib,’ I said. ‘I would much prefer you to be decent.’
He finished rolling up a note and pointed it towards the cistern. ‘And this – is this compatible with decency?’
I searched for a truism to excuse our behaviour but came up short. ‘No, it’s really not.’
He leaned over and snapped up his line. ‘Of course it isn’t, and if you’re going to behave in a certain manner it is important to name it correctly – or else how will you recognise and resist it one day?’
He passed me the note. He had still not told me what happened with him and Cockburn. ‘To decency,’ he said.
‘To decency,’ I repeated, and leaned over.
Chapter 5
‘You like drugs?’ interrupted Arturo.
‘He loves drugs,’ said Lizzie quickly, and I wondered how she knew before I realised she was talking about Arturo.
‘I used to like drugs,’ I said. ‘But I don’t take them any more.’
‘Why no?’ asked Arturo.
That was the easiest and hardest question in the world to answer. Because drugs made me so hungry and irresponsible. Because that was the best thing about them.
Bennett and I exited the toilets together to a welcoming party comprising Amanda, Belinda and Suzy. They scrutinised us and in the surge of enthusiasm the coke had inspired it felt like being caught doing something heroically wrong at school. Bennett roared with approval at the sight of them while I tried to keep a straight face. I’d examined myself in the mirror and given my face a good rub to eliminate any stray traces of powder, but under the test of those three meticulous and knowing gazes I felt transparent. When I looked over at Bennett I could see a smudge of white on the tip of his nose.
‘Craig,’ said Belinda. ‘I’m so glad you’re getting looked after so well by Liam. Now, could I impose on you for just a few more minutes? There’s a very attractive and also quite important supermarket buyer whom I’m sure you’d love to meet.’
‘I can’t promise I’ll fall in love with her,’ said Bennett.
‘I promise you won’t want to marry her,’ I said, and all three women turned to look at me as though I had made a racist joke: this despite Belinda having last described the woman in question to me as ‘that half-price desperada cunt’.
I had been becoming someone else for quite a while, or someones, but that was the day when it became clear to me that I had chosen a role that did not become me, that was pushing the people around me into roles that did not become them. I liked these women. They were clever and sophisticated and knew far more than me about almost everything. I had wanted to be their colleague, learn from them, assist them. But