in the gay café on the corner of Frith Street. Richard was surprised to see the big man outthis early, and as he approached the back – fashionably suited by Barries in the finest of hound's-tooth checks – he checked and rechecked, to be sure. He even worked his way around the horizon of dark brow very slowly, very carefully, as a space probe might make its way over the curvature of an alien planet, in order to be certain that he wasn't committing some awful solecism.
But it was definitely Bell. The flesh had that exact Bell shade, like the inside lip of an old Wedgwood teacup, and the black bangs arched over in exactly the right way. The hand that grasped receiver against ear even had Bell's signet ring on its fourth finger. Richard said ‘Hiyah!’ brightly, but somewhere between the ‘Hi’ and the ‘yah’ the figure on the phone turned, and as the face came into view there was an instant when two sets of features were revealed to Richard simultaneously: those of Bell, and those of someone else. Then the Bell features dissolved and he was looking straight into Trellet's face. The venal thespian expostulated, ‘What the fuck are you doing? Grabbing hold of me like that – get off!’
Richard reeled away, back into the street. His head pounded. He wasn't so much humiliated as painfully disoriented, perplexed. There was that – and therewas the oppressive smell of Jicki in the air. Why was Trellet wearing the fragrance Richard associated solely with Ursula? There was no particular reason why he shouldn't, but it did seem a bizarre coincidence.
Then there was the occasion when Richard had arranged to meet Todd Reiser for some sushi in the little café in the basement of the Japanese Centre on Brewer Street. Richard was late. That morning had been one of the worst – hangover-wise – he could remember. His nose had bled when he blew it over the soapdish-sized sink in his Hornsey flat; and then he'd fainted, banging his head hard on the radiator as he went down. Richard hadn't even bothered to go into Rendezvous; he'd simply sent a ‘sick’ fax from the bureau on the corner of his road. His co-workers weren't that taken aback – they already had a slew of the things, which they'd pinned to a photograph of Richard up on the office bulletin board. Pinned to his nose, to be precise.
Cramped and bent, he had come down the narrow flight of stairs to the sushi bar. Hunched over one of the lacquered boxes of fish niblets was – Bell! But as Richard descended, and Bell's chopsticks ascended to his sculpted lips, the big man seemed to shimmer, to dissolve, like areflection in agitated water, the transmogrification was effected that quickly. In Bell's place sat Todd Reiser, grinning facetiously.
Richard gulped, heaved. The lingering scent of Jicki was in the air, with its faintly sticky mélange of fruits and flowers. Richard said nothing, moved past Reiser and went straight to the toilet, where he had an hots d'œuvre with Pablo.
But most of the belles époques occurred at the Sealink – and occurred with a mounting rhythm. Whenever Richard ran into any of the clique members off guard, in the brasserie, the restaurant, the table-football room or either of the bars, he would see them first as Bell and only latterly as themselves. And always there was the smell of Jicki, the smell of Ursula.
Richard would have been more disturbed by all of this had it not been for the fact that he knew he was getting closer to Ursula, closer to making her his. She now allowed him to kiss her full on both cheeks when they met, and near the perfect bow of her lips when they parted. Day by day, party by party, line of coke by line of coke, Richard's mouth drew closer to Ursula's. He knew that she liked him; she made it abundantly clear. She had stopped talking of her sexual affairs inhis presence – something he was grateful for. In the past she had referred to them deliberately, coldly, as if assaying the exact quantities of bile and
But it was definitely Bell. The flesh had that exact Bell shade, like the inside lip of an old Wedgwood teacup, and the black bangs arched over in exactly the right way. The hand that grasped receiver against ear even had Bell's signet ring on its fourth finger. Richard said ‘Hiyah!’ brightly, but somewhere between the ‘Hi’ and the ‘yah’ the figure on the phone turned, and as the face came into view there was an instant when two sets of features were revealed to Richard simultaneously: those of Bell, and those of someone else. Then the Bell features dissolved and he was looking straight into Trellet's face. The venal thespian expostulated, ‘What the fuck are you doing? Grabbing hold of me like that – get off!’
Richard reeled away, back into the street. His head pounded. He wasn't so much humiliated as painfully disoriented, perplexed. There was that – and therewas the oppressive smell of Jicki in the air. Why was Trellet wearing the fragrance Richard associated solely with Ursula? There was no particular reason why he shouldn't, but it did seem a bizarre coincidence.
Then there was the occasion when Richard had arranged to meet Todd Reiser for some sushi in the little café in the basement of the Japanese Centre on Brewer Street. Richard was late. That morning had been one of the worst – hangover-wise – he could remember. His nose had bled when he blew it over the soapdish-sized sink in his Hornsey flat; and then he'd fainted, banging his head hard on the radiator as he went down. Richard hadn't even bothered to go into Rendezvous; he'd simply sent a ‘sick’ fax from the bureau on the corner of his road. His co-workers weren't that taken aback – they already had a slew of the things, which they'd pinned to a photograph of Richard up on the office bulletin board. Pinned to his nose, to be precise.
Cramped and bent, he had come down the narrow flight of stairs to the sushi bar. Hunched over one of the lacquered boxes of fish niblets was – Bell! But as Richard descended, and Bell's chopsticks ascended to his sculpted lips, the big man seemed to shimmer, to dissolve, like areflection in agitated water, the transmogrification was effected that quickly. In Bell's place sat Todd Reiser, grinning facetiously.
Richard gulped, heaved. The lingering scent of Jicki was in the air, with its faintly sticky mélange of fruits and flowers. Richard said nothing, moved past Reiser and went straight to the toilet, where he had an hots d'œuvre with Pablo.
But most of the belles époques occurred at the Sealink – and occurred with a mounting rhythm. Whenever Richard ran into any of the clique members off guard, in the brasserie, the restaurant, the table-football room or either of the bars, he would see them first as Bell and only latterly as themselves. And always there was the smell of Jicki, the smell of Ursula.
Richard would have been more disturbed by all of this had it not been for the fact that he knew he was getting closer to Ursula, closer to making her his. She now allowed him to kiss her full on both cheeks when they met, and near the perfect bow of her lips when they parted. Day by day, party by party, line of coke by line of coke, Richard's mouth drew closer to Ursula's. He knew that she liked him; she made it abundantly clear. She had stopped talking of her sexual affairs inhis presence – something he was grateful for. In the past she had referred to them deliberately, coldly, as if assaying the exact quantities of bile and
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