Ten Storey Love Song (10 page)

Sun
cutouts, Bobby does realise in his heart he can’t end up forty years old with no one having appreciated him for his artwork. Alan Blunt hardly even has anyone to appreciate him as a person, let alone as an artist. But saying that, perhaps it’s best if the world doesn’t see Alan’s disgusting drawings. Firing himself up again, Bobby gives Alan a hug goodbye, and for the rest of the week he paints furiously, snorting coffee powder and getting pissed and chasing fame like a maniac with a carving knife. He completes ‘The Angels’ (244x233cm) and ‘Bobby’s Favourite Trip’ (120x150cm) as well as something called ‘Georgie on the Toilet’ (60x80cm) and a large canvas with Alan peering lonely out of a TV set called ‘Channel Alan’ (200x1513⁄4cm) and, by the time Bent Lewis turns up at Peach House in his platinum BMW and paisley cravat, Bobby’s got masterpiece after masterpiece lined up in the front room and the bedroom and one on the cistern in the bog. Bobby imagines the flat to be some sort of underground makeshift gallery like what you’d find in the East Village in the eighties or Shoreditch in the nineties. There’s nothing Bent Lewis enjoys more than viewing art in a trendy squat or disused butcher’s shop or North East tower block, and he’s beside himself with glee walking up the patchy stairs to floor four with Bobby the Artist dressed like a trampy golfer. ‘This is it,’ Bobby says, pulling the sleeves of his smartest (blue) argyle sweater shyly as he shows Lewis into the flat. ‘Gosh, it’s like the Fun Gallery in New York … this one’s very Keith Haring,’ Bent Lewis yelps, pointing at ‘Bobby’s Favourite Trip’ (120x150cm). He looks like your typical London art dealer: pink shirt, plush suit, posh shoes, cravat, creases in his face from thinking about conceptual art too much. Bobby shuffles on the clean carpet (him and Georgie hoovered it especially) while Bent Lewis lifts paintings and looks at them with his head on its side, Georgie peeking out from the kitchenette. Bobby mumbles a few embarrassed comments like, ‘I was off my head when I did that one,’ and, ‘That’s our lass in the nud,’ but it goes down well with Bent Lewis – it’s the first time he’s heard an artist speak so candidly about his work, like how a commoner would explain their holiday snaps of Faliraki to you. He thinks Bobby’s very good looking – as well as a fairly good painter – and he loves watching Bobby trying to sell his work in an obviously hangovery state. To calm his nerves, the last few nights Bobby’s been on a binge of Special Brew, Bombay Sapphire and Three Hammers, and to be honest it hasn’t helped much. He only just rose in time this morning to fix up the flat. Georgie, still peering from the crusty breakfast bar, has been finding him unbearable now he’s on solely the fighting juice – last night he accused her of not giving a shit about him or his artwork, and he refused to say good-night to her before bedtime, which upset her. Bobby hates himself this morning for acting like that, and he hates how booze can turn you into a dithering, manic-depressive aggressive cunt, with very bad breath. He adores Georgie and would never want to hurt her feelings, but sometimes on booze he feels so much weird antagonism towards her (for example when she moves his paints to sit down, when she leaves the light on in the bathroom, or when she says she’s too tired to have sex with a jibbery drunk fool) and last night it worried him because he was THAT close to hitting her for no reason. You just get in such a foul mood sometimes! In the past Bobby and Georgie haven’t really been ones to argue about anything, but mostly the fights stem from him wanting a rock-and-roll bohemian lifestyle, not a life where you worry about food and rent and clean carpets, except you have to. Today he feels all crappy, and now and then he catches Georgie’s eye in the kitchen and gives her a little sorry blink. ‘I love all of them,’ Bent Lewis yips, his posh-tosser voice grating on Bobby slightly though he seems like a nice enough person. ‘This one in particular,’ Lewis continues, pointing out ‘Boozy Bastard Bashes Bird’ (81x58cm) – a wacky cathartic painting Bobby whipped up last night, ‘has a real don’t-give-a-fuck quality, like a cross between – say – Willem de Kooning and Liam Gallagher. It’s great.’ Bobby the Artist nods but smirks a little inside, clocking straight away Bent Lewis trying to butter him up with hip pop references and shite like that, and slowly he realises he’s got Lewis wrapped around his finger. It’s weird – no one’s really spoken about his work since art college two years ago, and back then it was all ‘maybe put some blue over there’ or ‘this area’s a little unresolved’. Today it’s all gasps of pleasure and slapping on the back. Bent Lewis doesn’t usually drink before six but he desperately does want to appear credible to Bobby and he asks, ‘Shall we have a drop of champagne?’ and the answer’s yes and he takes a fancy bottle of Laurent-Perrier from his bag of tricks and Bobby and Georgie’s eyes both pop out. Georgie scrabbles like a budgerigar, washing three pint glasses in the sink, then comes through and says, ‘Are these alright? Soz, the wine glasses got smashed a bit ago …’ Georgie feels a bit uncivilised, but she tries to strike a divine pose in her charity shop Jessica Rabbit dress while Lewis fills the glasses. ‘No no no, it’s fine,’ he laughs. Imagine the stories he can tell the guys at the Tate, or the guys he vaguely knows at
Frieze
magazine! Giggling, Lewis sips the champers, glancing over the rim at Bobby with huge blackpool eyes, feeling absolutely giddy. Georgie follows Lewis’s movements and sips hers delicately too. Bobby the Artist wallops his down, then gets a refill and asks, ‘So you might want some of these for an exhibition and that?’ Bent Lewis’s face expands into a big gay balloon then he bellows, ‘Oh definitely! I’ll show you which of these would be perfect.’ He stands up, then fingers all the canvases again and singles out ‘Bobby’s Favourite Trip’, ‘Georgie on the Toilet’, ‘Boozy Bastard Bashes Bird’, ‘Channel Alan’, ‘Stripy Socks’, and ‘The Angels’. ‘I mean, basically, my gallery opens next month and I think these one two three four five six paintings would be ideal for the opening,’ Lewis rambles, feeling the champoo going to his head already, ‘it’s sort of a group show – you’ll like the other artists. I think your work will stand out particularly well. I can see them all fetching high prices. What I propose is – if you accept – you bring all the work down mid-August, we’ll set up the show together ready for the 18th, and hopefully we’ll both make lots of money! I’m going to suggest a sixty per cent commission. How that works is, say, if a painting is sold for a thousand pounds, you’d get four hundred and I’d get six. It’s simple. Trust me, Bobby, I expect us to make lots of filthy lucre! Haw haw haw. Anyhow, would you like another refill?’ Bobby nods, but it’s weird how fancy Laurent-Perrier tastes about the same as the
£
1.49 Friscino Perry from over the road, and it’s about the same percentage and all. And Bobby hates all the talk of money, as if that’s all he’s even bothered about. What he really wants is just a bit of fame before he dies of a drug overdose or perhaps natural causes. Bobby the Artist says, ‘Well, don’t worry too much about coin, mate, but yeah, nice one,’ then carries on swallowing the champagne trying to get hammered. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ Bent Lewis interjects, ‘but it’s nice to have financial support, isn’t it? I think you’re going to make lots of dollars, Bobby, whether you like it or not!’ Soon Bobby starts to feel fidgety with boozyness, and the aggressive pangs come back what with Lewis kissing his arse so much – it just seems rather fake and plastic like they’re both Barbie dolls and someone else is playing with them. Bobby would much rather just get mortalled with the gadge and talk about artists they like or the parties or the women, not all this fucking oohing and aahing. However, Bobby does sort of agree it’d be nice to have some money and enjoy himself and get the rent in on time this month, and the exhibition malarkey sounds exciting too. The afternoon really picks up when Bent Lewis, art dealer extraordinaire, pulls out a wee baggy of cocaine he bought out of the gallery finances. ‘Shall we adjourn to the bathroom?’ Lewis asks with a slopey eyebrow, and at first Bobby thinks he means Bobby has to bum him in order to seal the deal and his stomach turns over, but then he sees the Charles and he laughs. Georgie politely declines the offer, swishing the Perrier, feeling like royalty despite her sixty-seventh period sandpapering her insides. Slightly grimacing, she listens to the boys cram in the bog, and they move ‘Gurnica’ (100x350cm) from the cistern to rack up a couple of white worms. Bobby hoovers his through his craggy white nostril, then blurts, ‘Cheers, mate, for the sniff; you’re sound, you.’ Bent Lewis pats Bobby on the back like they’re best mates, then snorts his own – more modest – line, and in his head he squeals the word, ‘Yes!’ He’s a bit of a tosspot but Bobby supposes you have to be in a business where all deals are made by licking someone else’s arse. ‘I’m really excited about your future, Bobby,’ Lewis says, gobshiteing in a look-at-me-I’m-on-drugs way, rolling his eyes round. ‘Aye, top notch,’ Bobby grins, feeling all fat-lipped and frozen from the dusty Charlie. ‘So where’d you get it from?’ he asks. ‘Oh, down in London you can get cocaine delivered by cab nowadays – it’s hot stuff, isn’t it? – woo, haw haw haw,’ Lewis explains, and Bobby wonders what sort of insane place his capital city is. The furthest south he’s ever travelled is to his aunty’s for hols in Leeds, and in his head Bobby always imagines London to be some cartoony citadel of smoking chimneys and Big Bens and Krays and people in suits drinking coffee and breathing cocaine and going hmmmm. It gives Bobby the Artist sparkly chills in his belly just to think he’ll be there in a month! ‘Cheers for sorting all this out for us, like, Lewis,’ Bobby speaks, the aggression finally drifting off like a red helicopter. ‘Oh, not at all, Bobby. Thank
you
for creating such lovely art,’ Lewis jabbers. ‘So I expect you’ll be celebrating tonight then, eh?’ Bent Lewis nudges Bobby in the ribs, which is quite irritating, and Bobby sort of ducks his shoulders a bit and says, ‘Ah, well, I would do, but I haven’t got a penny to my name at the minute, so probably just get a White Ace and sit in with the lass.’ Bent Lewis gives him a glare of oh-my-God-no and says, ‘That’s not on – here, Bobby, have a drink on me,’ then hands the Artist the twenty they snorted the coke through. Bobby licks the residue off, then remembers to say thanks and shakes Bent Lewis’s shaky hand. What a dream come true – a real-life art dealer drooling over his work and handing him free money. But then he does feel slightly guilty and greedy (after all, he’s never taken twenty quid off a stranger before in his life, and now he’s got his new-found fame he doesn’t want to always be expecting everything handed to him on a shiny plate), so Bobby the Artist lands his hand on Bent Lewis’s forearm and asks, ‘Lewis, would you like to stick around for another drink? I might have some Brew left in the fridge …’ Bent Lewis’s eyes prise open all bewildered like the ugly duckling at a disco getting picked to dance by the school heartthrob. He grabs the Artist’s hand again, shakes it again, then sort of holds on to it for a minute and says, ‘I’d love to, Bobby, but I’ve promised I’d see Mary before I head off back to the Smoke. Do you know the Fletchers very well? No?’ Bobby just shrugs, even though it was Mrs Fletcher who discovered ‘Blob with Eyes’ (58x81cm) all those days ago. ‘She’s my cousin,’ Lewis continues, ‘don’t see her very often. Nice to kill two birds with one stone eh, coming here. I just hope I’m not too coked up to see her!’ Bobby cringes. By now he just finds Lewis sort of comedy; a bit embarrassing like when your mam says she likes your taste in music when you’re thirteen. The two of them shake hands another handful of times before Bent Lewis takes the trek to floor eight, Bobby shouting behind him, ‘Thanks for the money!’ and ‘See you later, mate!’ and all that pleasant stuff. When Bobby finally taps the door shut, he flops onto the clear carpet with a face like a fried egg. Georgie wanders over and gives her boyfriend a great massive hug, spilling a bit of her champagne on the floor but it doesn’t matter now. They kiss for a long time. Bobby the Artist grins, feeling like he’s been given the key to a secret silver castle. He’s now part of the Art World, which he imagines is a sort of fantasy world with Kandinsky hills, Cubist crazy paving, money growing on trees, still-life foliage and lots of silly wankers. Georgie plants a slobbery rosy-red kiss on Bobby’s neck and she sighs heavily, like saying, ‘Ooh, well done,’ in breath, then they start throwing each other round the room with glee, then twenty seconds later Bobby’s in Johnnie’s flat telling him and Ellen about the exhibition and telling them they have to come out tonight for a shindig. The last few days Johnnie and Ellen have been bored, crunching Americanos and watching American sitcoms on the box, and Bobby says he’ll pay them both out in exchange for a couple pills for everyone, if that’s alright. ‘I should be able to pay my ticky off in a month and all, Johnnie,’ Bobby promises with big round thank-you eyes. Johnnie’s not bothered – he’s in higher spirits now Ellen’s back in the flat and the dustbin’s been emptied of tissues, and even more chuffed now Bobby’s got a break down in London. It saddens him slightly that Bobby has to go down South where apparently all the dickheads are, but he supposes that’s just where you go to become famous. Johnnie ruffles the Artist’s neverending hair and hugs him round the neck, getting all elated and saying, ‘God, Bobby, you’ve made it, mate, you’ve made it,’ then he goes scrabbling about in the vitamin tin and pulls out a goody-bag of a hundredish ecstasy, and gives Bobby a handful of fifteen or so. Bobby’s face goes all happy and spastic and elastic. ‘Cheers, Johnnie, I’ll defo pay youse out tonight – fancy coming to the Indie Night, though?’ The Indie Night takes place at a place called the Arena and, although Bobby would never admit to listening to indie music, it is the sort of scene where lots of people take lots of old-fashioned drugs like speed and pills and occasionally mushrooms if they’re in season (last October Bobby found himself clinging to the dark walls of the Arena like he was in some hellish cave, accidentally stumbling into the heavy-metal room). So Bobby pockets the pills, then there’s two or three hours of getting ready and phoning people (Pamela, Mandy, Dave Morton and all those madheads from upstairs are over the Linny, and they agree to come over Arena later, on the promise of free E) and putting away paintings and putting on fresh jumpers, and Johnnie wheels the Sunny out of the car park and Bobby, Georgie and Ellen jump in. It’s five minutes past seven and, as they drive, this half of the world gradually starts going dark blue and the wind starts smelling dusky and the birds start saying night-night to each other, and Bobby the Artist sticks his head out the window with puppy eyes of wonder. He feels like he’s on ecstasy already – sometimes the world can do that to you. Sometimes it can be such a heart-choking beautiful place, like you’ve accidentally walked into a Turner painting. Bobby feels so humble and grateful and wobbly with joy crammed in a car full of his favourite people, and he thinks even if every dickhead and idiot in the world are out tonight as well he’ll still have a wonderful time. Johnnie pulls into the Linthorpe car park, reversing at top speed into one of the white spaces. Being in such close proximity to two art colleges, the Linny is sort of the Beat Hotel of the North East, where all manner of beatniks and meatheads and thinkers and drinkers smash it into themselves. Three years back, Georgie and Bobby were studying their Art Foundations two minutes down the Roman Road, and they had their first drink together in the Linthorpe and their first kiss and their first toasted cheese sandwich. They failed their second term coursework after submitting their video collaboration ‘Un Hommage de Monsieur Condom, 2005’, which was basically forty mins of the pair making love in Georgie’s parents’ boudoir. The video still lives under the couple’s bed in Peach House, and Bobby occasionally digs it out – not for sexual gratification, mind you – to remember what it’s like to first go out with a girl and be excited about everything about her. He can’t believe the teachers shunned it. Stepping into the Linny, Bobby squeezes Georgie’s paw and can’t help grinning in her face as they worm their way to the bar. The pub’s quite hot and packed, and you can tell who’s been on their hols recently because they’ve got roast chicken skin and rainbow braids in their hair, and all their mates have gone overboard with the fake tan to compensate. Georgie feels horribly pale in comparison – you’d think she’d see a lot of sun living so high in the blue sky, but in fact their flat faces north and she spends most of her time in Bhs watching sweeties getting old and sweaty instead. Saying that, she’s kitted herself out in a white Victorian slip and wee winkle-pickers and she’s stolen that daisy-chain off Ellen, and she does look the embodiment of summer. Bobby the Artist smirks. The hippy outfit is one of his favourites. ‘I’ll go look for the others,’ Johnnie states, kicking about in his brown Kickers. It turns out Pamela, Dave and Mandy have popped off to Isaac’s instead – the Wetherspoon’s – so the Peach Housemates perch themselves round one of the pint-size tables, working their way through lots of pint-size drinks. It’s nice to be back in the Linny – Bobby doesn’t recognise half as many faces as he used to back in his heyday of sex, lectures and Ayingerbräu, but at least the lager’s still strong and cheap. He gets about four rounds in with the twenty pound, and everyone toasts him and he feels like a king and very pleased to be alive. It’s the first time in a while they’ve all been out together, and how nice it is just to sit around a table with your best mates laughing and talking and getting full of liquid! Bobby the Artist strokes Georgie’s knee under the flowery embroidered slip, gazing out at the beer garden though it’s not made of beer it’s made of trees and grass. Over the slopey table, Johnnie and Ellen are having a bit of a snog, and it’s nice to see them so happy together. Bobby the Artist knows they’ve been going through a tricky patch even if he doesn’t know all the details, but relationships are meant to be all ups and downs, aren’t they? Weird how you get maybe a three-month honeymoon period, then suddenly you’re in a boring pantomime of breaking up and making up over and over and over and over. ‘I love you,’ Bobby says to Georgie in her fossil-shaped ear, and she says it back. Soon there’s lots of empty glasses in the middle of the table (the glass-collector’s sick tonight, with some sort of summer cold or maybe hay fever or lazyitis), and everyone’s pissed and jabbering to each other and laughing loudly like fire alarms. Just for the fun of it, Bobby and Johnnie and Ellen drop a pill for the walk to the Arena, and Georgie drops an antihistamine. The pollen count’s astronomical today, and she can feel her eyes turning to mush the more she touches them. She sniffs and sniffs and sniffs en route to the Arena, the four of them striding up the Roman Road like marionettes on very wobbly wires. It’s a lovely evening with all the brown stars out and a cool breeze dipping into the streets occasionally, although it’s spoiled slightly when a boy in shellsuit bottoms shouts from across the road, ‘Fucking pansies!’ He’s probably referring to Bobby the Artist, what with his long girly hair and strange fashion sense, or perhaps he’s referring to Georgie’s daisy-chain. Seething, Johnnie shouts back the word ‘Eh?’ and manages to give the boy in the shellsuit some dirty eyeballs. ‘Get a fucking haircut,’ the boy screams, but then he backs off and scuttles down the alley with his shoulders hunched round his earlobes. What a bastard. Bobby the Artist feels all upset now, clinging on to Georgie like a security blanket, although to be honest it’s pretty common for someone in a town where everyone’s got army haircuts to get abuse if they let it all hang out. Bobby’s dream is to live in some sort of happy Shangri-La, where everyone’s nice to each other and it’s hot and you can have any haircut you want. Round here, everyone loves taking the piss out of each other – groups of lads will go out at night, call each other names, embarrass one another in front of the opposite sex, try to start fights with other groups of lads, and never in their life tell each other they love them. What a stupid world we live in where it’s easier to say you hate someone than to say you love them. Bobby bobs his head, but once they get in the Arena he starts feeling comfortable again. They walk through the dark misty entrance. Then they drop another pill with a bottle of Holsten Pils, the sound of three rooms pounding different drumbeats and guitars in different keys, spinning their heads. The Indie Night is a bit of a safe haven, full of kids in their mam and dad’s outfits and tight jeans dancing and hugging each other. Most of the kids think they’re wild and dangerous, but in fact they’re fairly harmless – they spend too much time in their bedrooms listening to music to be that fearsome. Bobby the Artist starts smiling again as the four of them weave their way up the slippy steps, to that dinky room where you’re allowed to sit down. He can feel the pills ever so slightly casting spells on him, and he has his first gurn as he drops down on the sofa. Georgie kneels next to him, pinching her hippy skirt in two hands so it doesn’t touch the scummy ground. She wishes she had the guts to try a pill, because Bobby looks so happy, but sometimes even the buzz off a vodka-Red Bull is too much for her. Johnnie and Ellen come over to sit with them, wibbling like flowerpot men with their jowls going all over the place. It’s one of those nights you want to thank the heavens and angels that the world got made up and you got invited to play on it. Bobby has his first big rush of ecstasy just as Mandy, Pamela and Dave Morton come downstairs from the main bit, and he beams at them with a smile the size of a white brick. They’re with a girl from the green tower block (Pear House) called Katey, and straight away he thinks she’s good looking and very paintable and nice, but then he looks back at Georgie and his pupils go dilated and she climbs into them. She makes space for Mandy and Pamela on the crushy sofa, and Mandy quite surreptitiously keys up a bit of white powder. As usual her head’s full of bizarre thoughts and her mouth’s full of shit, and she tells Pamela, ‘I want to be on the ceiling. Like Bowie in