Goodnight Steve McQueen (18 page)

“Well, cross-legged with your hands in your lap wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. How shall I put this? It rather ruins the line. Why don’t we try you lying on your side with your head on one arm. That’s it… lovely… very good. No, no, don’t move now. Keep that arm by your side. Good. That’s excellent. Stay exactly where you are.”

This is excruciating. This is worse than being picked last for games. Worse than getting myself trapped in Vivian Ducksford’s swimsuit elastic when I was trying to finger her for chips. Worse than my mum turning up to sports day in her clay-stained pottery smock and her furry Minnie Mouse slippers. I can’t look. I can’t look at them. Keep your eyes on the easels, McQueen. Don’t look at the students. Don’t look them in the eyes. Bollocks. I’ve looked. I couldn’t help myself. I can see that girl’s nipples poking through her shirt. I can see that bloke checking out my arse. He likes my arse. He definitely likes my arse. He probably fancies me. Shit, now the girl with the nice nipples is telling her mate that she thinks I’m gay. Maybe I am. Maybe I am gay. Maybe I’m giving off some kind of closet homosexual-type vibe that I didn’t know I had and it’s encouraging him to pay particular attention to my arse. Or maybe he’s just having trouble capturing the dimensions of that week-old bum boil near the top of my left leg.

This isn’t bad. Not bad at all. What a great way to earn a living. Lying here stark naked in all my glory while horny fine-art students attempt to immortalise me in thirty-six different colours of chalk. This is my dream job. It’s definitely bringing out the exhibitionist in me. Maybe I should phone up the pictures editor of For Women and see how much they’d be prepared to pay me. I mean, a bloke with my experience, I could earn

a fortune. I could earn the tour money in no time.

This is boring. I have never been so bored in my entire life. Not since Vince spent a whole weekend smoking banana skins and attempting to convince me of the merits of Dark Side Of The Moon. Not since he started telling me about the time he bumped into Kevin Rowland in the frozen-food section of his local branch of Waitrose.

“Danny, did I ever tell you about the time I bumped into Kevin Rowland in the frozen-food section of my local Waitrose ?”

“Yes, Vince, you did, about a hundred thousand million friggin’ times.”

I’m beginning to get uncomfortable. I have dead-leg. And dead-arm. And I have an odd tingling sensation in my right calf muscle that probably means I’m going to end up with a life-threatening deep-vein thrombosis. Why isn’t anyone looking at me any more? It’s the strangest thing. Even though they’re staring straight at me, none of them seems to be paying me the slightest bit of attention. I’m not even sure they realise that I’m naked. I don’t even feel naked. I’m pretty sure I could jump up off this plinth, grab hold of my nuts and start twirling my knob around like a sideways helicopter blade and no one would even raise an eyebrow. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll do it now and see what happens. Maybe I’ll leap up, twirl my knob and see if I can get my knees to bend backwards like that toss-wipe off of Riverdance.

“Mr. McQueen… Mr. McQueen…”

“Sorry, sorry, I was miles away. Is it time to put my clothes back on now?”

“Yes, Mr. McQueen, I think it is.”

The students wait outside while I get dressed and I take the opportunity to look at some of their drawings before the tutor lets them back in. Well, what’s the point? What’s the point of

that, then? It’s just a green blob. A green blob with a set of random pencil squiggles running through the middle of it. It looks nothing like me. And look at this one. He’s done me square. He’s come over all Cubist and drawn me as a naked square. I have a square arm. And a square knob. And a rectangular arse hole And a revolting rhombus-shaped bum boil.

Hold on, though, this one’s more like it. Excellent. Pretty accurate, I’d say. I look like a cross between Russell Crowe in Gladiator and Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights. Maybe I should see if they want to sell it. I wonder how much they’d want. Perhaps I could send it to Alison in Bruges. I could have her put it up in her room for when Didier comes round to visit. Maybe I’ll ask the tutor if I can have it.

“Um … if you don’t mind me asking,” I say, trying not to look too pleased with myself, ‘who did this one?”

“Yes, I see what you mean, it is rather good, isn’t it? Excellent use of light and shading.”

“Exactly, and… well, I was just wondering. Do any of your students ever sell any of their work?”

“Not usually. But I’m sure you’ll be able to hold on to this one for a while.”

“How come?”

“Well, your friend sketched it. The girl with the red hair. What’s her name now… ?”

“Kate?!”

“Yes, that’s right, of course, Kate. She’s in the sculpture department, isn’t she? Didn’t you notice her? She was over at the back there, just next to the door.”

Shit. I didn’t even realise Kate would be taking the class. I had no idea she was there. Why has she drawn a picture of me that makes me look like an extra from a King Dong movie? What does it mean? What if she fancies me? What if this whole thing was a convoluted ploy to get into the pockets of my baggy khaki combat trousers? This is not good. This is probably quite bad. I’ve a nagging feeling this might be very bad indeed.

“Hey, Danny, what d’you think of my drawing? Do you like it?”

“Yes… it’s very good, it’s, erit’s great, definitely my favourite one.”

“Cool. I was hoping you’d like it.”

Well, what was I supposed to say? She was gazing up at me with her squishy brown eyes and tugging at my sleeve like a distemper-ridden puppy, and the thing is she really wanted me to like it. And I do. I do like it. And now she wants to walk me home.

“Hey, I’m heading back your way,” she says brightly. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

“No,” I say, “I don’t mind at all.”

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m asking for trouble. But I’m not. I have a plan. I have everything under control. I’m going to ask her up to the flat for a cup of herbal ant’s milk, or whatever it is that she drinks, and I’m going to sit her down and get a few things straight. I’m going to start by telling her that I don’t fancy her. I’ll tell her that I’m flattered by her attention but that I’m strictly a one-woman bloke. I’ll remind her that she’s my best mate’s girlfriend. I’ll remind her that I’m a meat-eating, leather-wearing, short-haired daytime television addict with no prospects and inordinately hairy toes. That ought to do it.

We’re halfway down Stroud Green Road somewhere between my favourite Indian greengrocer’s and the late-night Tesco’s

Metro when I suddenly realise that I have no idea what I’m doing. What if I’ve got it wrong? What if she doesn’t fancy me at all? What if she’s just being flirty and Bohemian? Maybe it’s normal for artistic types like Kate to while away their afternoons sketching naked pictures of their friends. Maybe I’m just being uptight. And why would she fancy me anyway? Why would she fancy me when she’s already going out with someone like Matty? He’s taller than I am; he can drink more beer than I can; he can eat whatever he likes without keeping an emergency packet of antacids hidden under his pillow; and he can play fourteen different rhythms at once.

He can wear a beady choker round his neck without looking like a girl; he can wear a tight T-shirt with a cigarette packet stuffed into the sleeve without looking like a complete git; he has all the best-looking waitresses in North London desperate to take him home and get into his Calvin Klein underpants and he doesn’t even know it. He doesn’t even try to pull them. Bastard. Maybe I should go back to the flat and have a quick snog of his girlfriend. That would show him.

What am I talking about? What am I saying? Why am I even thinking these things? I would rather snog a dog’s arse hole than get off with Kate. I feel dizzy. I wonder if this is what a panic attack feels like. I’m having a panic attack. I am. When did this happen? When did I become the sort of bloke who gets off with other blokes’ girlfriends and has panic attacks in the middle of the street?

‘—you were so cool this afternoon, Danny. Most men would have been nervous getting their clothes off in front of all those people, but you seemed really comfortable with it … woah, are you feeling all right, you look like you’re about to throw up or something?”

“Yes … no … I’m fine,” I say, wiping a trickle of sweat off my palms. “Kate?”

“Yes?”

“Do you mind if I borrow your mobile phone for a second? I’ve suddenly remembered that there’s someone I have to call.”

I leave Kate standing in the middle of the pavement, nip into the greengrocer’s, crouch down behind a pyramid of fist-sized oranges and a tower of freeze-dried popadums and dial Vince’s number as quickly as I can. “Vince, Vince, are you there? … If you’re there pick up the phone… I’m in big trouble… you’ve got to help me… Kate’s just seen me naked and now she’s gone mad… she’s a sex addict… she’s lost the plot… Vince… this is serious… I’m not joking … I think she might fancy me.”

I’m just about to give up hope and start planning my escape through the rear entrance of the shop when the receiver picks up with a deeply satisfying click. It’s a bad connection but I can just make out Vince hooting to himself at the other end of the line: he seems amused by something; he seems to be saying something about pies.

“Vince, not now, OK, I know you’re on a bit of a big gay diet and it’s making you obsess about Fray Bentos but now is not a good time to be talking to me about pies.”

“Not pies, you wanker,” he says, bellowing through the static, ‘surprise! Surprise fucking surprise.”

“You knewir I say, standing up and banging my head on a giant tin of tamarind paste.

“Of course I knew. It’s pretty bleedin’ obvious, Danny. You’d have to be blind not to have clocked it. Alison spotted it straight away. Why d’you think she’s always had it in for Kate?”

“You’re kidding me?”

“No, I’m serious. It was great. Whenever they were in the same room it was like watching a couple of cats fighting over their favourite piss bush.”

“You’re comparing me to a piss bush?”

“No, not exactly… well, yes, in a manner of speaking.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Dunno. I was sort of having a sweepstake with myself on

how long it would take you to twig. I was going to tell you about it in the cafe this afternoon. I suppose I never thought it would come to anything. How was I to know you were going to start stripping your keks off and waving your knob about in front of her face?”

“Vince?”

“Yes, mate?”

“I think I’m in trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” he says seriously. “Here’s what I reckon you should do

.. .”

I’m not entirely sure that Vince is right on this one. He thinks I should ignore the whole situation. He thinks it’s just a crush. He thinks I should be as unfriendly to her as I can without being overtly rude and that I shouldn’t under any circumstances invite her up to my flat for a cup of coffee.

“Kate? Do you want to come up to the flat for a cup of coffee?”

“Yeah, nice one, I wouldn’t mind. Thanks.”

I have no idea why I did that. I have no idea why I just asked Kate to come up to the flat. I don’t know what came over me. I suddenly felt compelled to get things sorted out. I couldn’t stand the tension. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her all the time and bumping into her with Matty and not having things out in the open. It would be like living in a haunted house and never bothering to go down to the basement. It would be like having a perfect, pus-filled scab and not bothering to pick the crusty lid off the top.

Good job I’ve worked out what I’m going to say, though. It would be a bit crap if I hadn’t worked out what I was going to say.

“What music do you like, Kate?” “Music?”

“Yeah. Do you fancy listening to a record? Shall I put a CD on or something?” |

“Yeah, all right… I’ll choose something if you like.” |

“OK, good idea.” “

She’s taken her time but she’s finally gone with Midnight Vultures by Beck. This seems an innocuous enough choice: better than Barry White, better than Smokey Robinson, better than my collection of Azerbaijani love songs or Alison’s double album of Sinatra’s greatest hits.

“This is such a great opening track,” she says, sliding the CD into the tray and easing it shut.

“Is it?”

“Yeah, “Sexx Laws”, it’s so cool, it makes me feel really loose.”

“Right,” I croak. “I know exactly what you mean.”

OK then, this is it. I’m going to break the ice. I’m going to ask her if there’s something she wants to tell me. I’m going to ask her if there’s something that she thinks we should sort out. I’m going to tell her that I have no feelings for her other than friendship. I wonder if I should tell her that I don’t even like her very much. I wonder if I should tell her that she’s possibly one of the most irritating people that I’ve ever met in my entire life! Get off me. What do you think you’re doing\?

“What? What is it? What did I do wrong? I thought this was what you wanted.”

“No/’

“But you looked like you were just about to … you did… you were just… but you were taking so long to make up your mind… I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, Danny. I know that you’ve wanted it too.”

“No, no I haven’t. What are you talking about?”

“Come on, I’ve known you felt the same way ever since you invited me up here to talk about the gig… you know, that afternoon you spent the whole afternoon looking down my dress.”

“No, Kate, this is wrong, this is all wrong.”

“I know. It’s hard, you’re still with Alison and I’m still with Matty, but we can sort everything out, Danny. It’s karma. We were meant to be together.”

Kate reaches out with her hand and starts massaging her fingers along my thigh. I feel nauseous. My heart is beating out of my ribcage. I can’t believe I let her come up here. I can’t believe I didn’t follow Vince’s advice.

“Look, Kate,” I say, pushing her hand away and jumping up off the sofa, ‘that’s not what I meant. I meant this, you and me, it’s all wrong. You’ve got everything arse ways up. I only asked you up here so we could sort things out.”