Ten Storey Love Song (13 page)

paintings nailed up all professional and jazzy. Him and Lewis arrange to meet at the gallery at 9.30 tomorrow morning, then they shake hands and all that rigmarole, and Lewis escorts him back out onto the road going vroombroomvroombroomvroom. ‘So what do I do now?’ Bobby the Artist asks, since there’s nothing on his itinerary to tell him how to spend his leisure time. ‘I’m not sure!’ Bent Lewis giggles, awed and also slightly jealous of Bobby the wee fawn in the big bad city for the first time. ‘I’d invite you out for a drink – and maybe a snort, haw haw – but I’m meeting a very important client for supper … there’s Farringdon tube down there’ (Lewis points down there). ‘Have an explore! The city’s your oyster, my friend.’ Bobby the Artist smiles skew-whiff, and it’s only when he finds himself in Farringdon station he realises an Oyster’s that daft card that lets you travel on the trains and buses and that. You have to bash it on the little pad to get through the gates, and at rush-hour it’s a bit like being at the dog-track with all the funny greyhounds bursting out the traps. No one in London likes to talk to each other – on the tube, everyone avoids eye contact at all costs. At one point Bobby asks a fellow passenger what time it is, but he gets completely blanked and it makes him sad. He doesn’t feel very comfortable, and he has the first pang in his heart of: Aaargh, where’s Georgie? On Alan Blunt the Cunt’s advice, Bobby’s first port of call is Brixton, and although it does seem to be a largely black community it’s pretty cosmopolitan and not a ‘fucking hellhole’, as Alan put it. Bobby the Artist pushes down Atlantic Road then Coldharbour Lane, dodging ticket touts for the Academy and ginger cunts trying to scrounge money off people who look pretty skint themselves. The hum of people and traffic sounds like one big ghetto-blaster, and within a moment or two there’s a stocky black fellow offering him a menu of, ‘Skunk, hash, pills?’ Bobby goes round the corner with him to score a twenty-bag of weed, and the fellow tells him, ‘This shit’s the bomb, bruv, I smoke it myself, gets you right off your bonce and that,’ or words to that effect. Bobby waits to see the goods before handing over any coin (he knows what Johnnie’s like to unsuspecting customers, giving them a jab in the eye then running off), but the black guy seems trustworthy and quite amicable. He loves how he talks in such a rhythmical, Bob Marley manner. ‘Can I get a receipt off you?’ Bobby asks, pocketing the skunk, but a split-second later his friend has tootled off down Coldharbour, and Bobby shrugs and decides to head back to the tube. He does his Oyster again on the yellow pad, it says beep yes, then he gets the sky blue line to Oxford Circus. The trains are less busy now, but when he gets off all the shops are still open and people are milling around with armfuls of designer clothes and shoes and records and other silly bits and bobs. There’s a man on the corner talking about Jesus. His head in the clouds, Bobby gets some small green Rizla and a twenty-four pack of crisps from a newsagent, asking the hairy man at the counter if he knows where the Saint Georges Hotel is. Bobby gets told to head up Regent Street, past tables with people on them sipping coffees and shops beginning to shut their metal eyelids, and when he finally reaches the Saint Georges it reminds him of Peach House except much fatter and not pink. There’s a bar and restaurant on the top floor, and he grins, imagining sipping cocktails on top of the world. He checks in, then takes the lift up to floor seven, staring with spiral pupils at how smart and spotless the place is. The dodgy lift at Peach House smells of disinfected wee and crap sex. When Bobby the Artist keycards his door open, ker-clink, the first thing he does is bellyflop onto the double-bed and gaze out the window at the BT tower and Centrepoint and the big Duchamp bike wheel. It feels weird being at the edge of fame and fortune in the most famous city of them all, and it also feels weird being at the edge of the double-bed and he falls off by accident. Bomping his head off the floor, Bobby the Artist lies there in a daze, tweety birds ballroom dancing round his temples. What an unusual day. Bobby the Artist unpacks his things – he was so overloaded with canvases, all he’s brought is a toothbrush, two socks, one boxers, cigs, HB pencil, and the itinerary – then adopts a lounging pose on the mattress and mechanically sparks up joints and gets stoned for a bit. He considers taking a shower, but after a few Happy Fags he can’t be fussed and instead just slouches there, turning into part of the furniture. The wallpaper goes slightly Indian and arabesque for half an hour and he eats a lot of crisps. But it’s boring not being able to tell Georgie all his wacky spacky thoughts, and sooner or later he starts drifting off to sleep on the sinking-sand covers. It’s been a busy day, after all, and completely insane to think he was drinking tea with Georgie in the flat this morning and now he’s here. He wants to give her a ring but the hotel phone doesn’t seem to spit out receipts, and he wants to raid the mini-bar but he feels too much like a giant and it worries him. After one more smelly joint he resigns himself to a deep dingy sleep, weird dreams of big cities unfolding in his head like the pages of comic books. Snore snore snore. TUESDAY: The sun wakes him up, grinning through the window. Bobby the Artist can’t be arsed sharing croissants and all that continental shite with the tourist types he observed yesterday in reception, so he smokes the rest of the ganj for breakfast and sets off to Clerkenwell at 10.02 by the hotel clock. Maybe it’s the smokes, but everything seems to be staring at him on the tube this morning. He wishes he packed more than just the yellow argyle; he feels a bit of a scruffbag when he turns up to the gallery late, and Bent Lewis is standing there all immaculate in an Outrageous Orange shirt, like a work of art himself. The other pieces in the exhibition look a lot more innovative and appealing on skunk this morn. ‘How are you today?’ Bent Lewis asks, clinging to Bobby’s arm as they step through to Gallery 2. ‘A bit stoned like,’ Bobby replies. Bent Lewis’s face ruptures like a sunflower, laughing hysterically in that squeaky gay tone he has, and it sets Bobby off too because it’s fucking giggly reefy. The whiteness of the gallery almost blinds the poor boy to death. Squinting, Bobby the Artist sees Lewis has leant the paintings against the walls in a certain arrangement, with all these tools and spirit levels and stepladders and tape measures and fancy things relaxing in the middle of the space. ‘I think this arrangement gives the works a fabulous tension, a sort of ambiguous narrative flowing from one painting to the next …’ Lewis begins, smugly waving his paws about but, for the sake of being different, Bobby pushes him aside and starts wildly bashing in nails and throwing up the canvases in the wrong order, at wonky heights and angles. Bent Lewis looks fabulously tense as the paintings go up. ‘
Voilá
,’ Bobby the Artist puffs, putting down the hammer. Lewis frowns at first, then his eyebrows lift and all his hairs stand on end and he starts raving, ‘I see, I see … yes yes … you’re completely right – a very raw hang. It’s like, well, I suppose it’s like two fingers up to the stuck-up art world, isn’t it?’ Bobby the Artist nods, but to be honest he just wanted to get the paintings up as quick as poss so he can enjoy all the sights of London while the ganjy feeling lasts. All the characters in the paintings have a little smirk. Bent Lewis stands still, slack-jawed. Having said that, when Bobby the Artist dashes off merely forty-five minutes after turning up, Lewis can’t help straightening the paintings slightly and he air-freshens the space of Bobby’s BO. Stinking out the Circle Line, Bobby the Artist stands all the way to the Westminster stop, feeling cheery about the exhibition and all the beautiful ladies hopping on and off in slinky summer outfits. He’s starting to like London. Bobby wafts a bit of air under his sweater, racing up the escalator then diving into the sunny breeze rubbing shoulders with Japs and Yankees oohing and aahing at Big Ben standing there all erect on the Thames. It’s like a giant gold grandfather clock, and Bobby stares at it for thirteen puffs of a Regal. On the last puff, he turns his back and starts ambling up Whitehall, following the signs to TRAFALGAR SQUARE. He tries to see the Prime Minister’s house at Downing Street but there’s a big black fence keeping your eyes out, and when he gets to the square he’s annoyed to see Nelson’s Column hidden in scaffolding, getting spring cleaned. Sighing and sweating, Bobby sits for a bit on a lion’s paw, then goes wandering over to Leicester Square but there’s no celebs or premieres, and he goes to Carnaby Street but there’s no sixties people just Reebok and Diesel, and he tries Buckingham Palace but the Queen’s not in. There’s loads of queens on Old Compton Street, but it freaks him out slightly getting eyed-up by a muscly bald T-shirted person. Bobby gets lost in Selfridges, and he even gets lost in McDonald’s. Plopping himself down on a red bench, he puts his chin in an eggcuppy fist and sulks at London. All that great British history like beefeaters and Chelsea girls and mods and men in big white ruffles seems to have swirled down a plughole in the Thames. Now it’s just a town full of shops and clowns and adverts – London probably cries itself to sleep every night, missing the good old days. Bobby misses the North East, and he really misses Georgie. It’s funny how, after living with her for months and getting so used to her little intricacies and getting used to arguing with her, just two days apart gives him insane withdrawal symptoms, and he’d do anything to have just one little cuddle with her or a single lingering kiss. He never wants to be apart from her again. Sprinting into a BT phone box, Bobby the Artist dials her number but he only has 20p and he only gets to talk to her for a minute. Georgie sounds well – she tells him quickly she loves him and she’s dead proud of him, and she also tells him Alan Blunt the Cunt caused a scene in the chippy last night after the two Korean boys tried to charge him for the HP sauce. Bobby cringes, smiling, but his skin feels slightly frosted with sadness because he wishes he was there with her. When the phone dies, Bobby dies a bit inside, and he’s left holding the limp telephone with all the call-card girls leering at him. He bashes it down on its holder, then screams silently with his hands like tense eagle claws, then slips out onto Oxford Street again and composes himself as he goes to find the nearest watering hole. Weaving through rampant shoppers, Bobby can’t possibly face the city sober. He ducks into the Ship on Wardour Street, makes himself comfy at the table over in the corner, and all he wants to see of London now sits in a bottle on top of the counter. He’s green and his name is Gordon. WEDNESDAY: Bobby the Artist turns up to the gallery at 2.36pm wearing a terrifying hangover like a crown of thorns. He ended up with his head down the bog last night, sicking up, and his hair’s still soaked with toilet water when he trails into the gallery space on such a fairytale summer afternoon. His stomach still feels turbulent, and he remembers nothing past the seventh supersonic in the Ship, but he smiles earnestly at Bent Lewis when he arrives. Bobby bought all the drinks on expenses, but let’s not mention that to Lewis, shall we. Instead, Bobby shakes the fairy’s hand as usual and asks, ‘What’s the crack then?’ Bent Lewis grimaces, sniffing the Artist’s eau de toilette of sweat, sicky dribble and hotel lino, then replies, ‘Ah, well, we’re just waiting for the card stock to arrive with the printed labels, then we’ll discuss how we might want to present the titles, prices, etc. If you’re feeling up to it, that is …’ To be fair, Bent Lewis is starting to get a bit aggravated about Bobby’s awful punctuality and increasing body odour, although in his heart he knows these incredible paintings could never be painted by a clean-cut, always-on-time sensible human being. If only he could get Bobby the Artist to die young, Bent Lewis would make an absolute killing. But as it stands, he just wants his first exhibition to run smoothly. ‘I’ve marked up a basic price list,’ he explains, handing Bobby this laminated bit of paper, ‘but prices can fluctuate – hopefully for the best, if I do my job right!’ The figures make Bobby’s eyes roll back (ranging from
£
750 for ‘Georgie on the Toilet’ to
£
4,000 for ‘The Angels’). He only got
£
100 to paint the Fireman Sam mural at Corpus Christi, where Alan Blunt the Cunt nowadays pervs over young girls. Squinting, Bobby’s too hungover to speak. Taking that as bewilderment and joy, Bent Lewis bashes the Artist on the back and yippety-yaps, ‘I think we’ll have no problem off-loading all these works – you’re going to be a star, mate! I could see this one, in particular, making an excellent commercial poster. Or an album cover even …’ Bent Lewis motions limp-wristy at ‘Bobby’s Favourite Trip’ (the one with the Artist climbing into the bright shopping shelves, six inches tall) and, although Bobby wants the world to see his work, he cringes at the thought of some wanky student having his image on their dusty cum-crusted wall. ‘I mean, I think you’ll go down very well with
the kids
,’ Bent Lewis continues, sunny sky slapping him on the face. ‘You’ve got a great future ahead. Trust me, Bobby, I’ll take care of everything. We’re mates, me and you.’ Bobby just stands there perfectly still, like the Statue of David got put in the exhibition too except it got pissed up on gin the night before. He doesn’t really think of Bent Lewis as a mate per se, after all they’ve never been out on the town together and they’ve never snorted coke off a Page 3 model’s tits yet, like he thought they might. London’s slowly becoming a disappointment to Bobby – everyone’s so obsessed with money, and less interested in getting to know each other. Down the Linthorpe back home, you can get mortalled with total strangers on just a tenner; down here you need twice the money for half the pleasure. For someone like Bent Lewis it’s a great place to be, always in contact with clients and wankers and always invited to the latest trendy private view, but for someone normal like Bobby it’s a nightmare. He always did imagine London to be a wonderful crazy castle of hedonism and history and people living in cardboard boxes, but as well as that it’s full of brainwashed people in suits chasing pound notes round the city. Down the tube, you can bash into someone and say sorry sorry sorry and you won’t get any reaction. Getting exasperated, Bobby the Artist’s brain starts to t t h h r r o o b b, and he sits down with a gasp on the gallery floor. ‘So the painting titles are going to be dead professional and that?’ he asks, looking up at Lewis all distorted from his mouse-eye view. ‘Yes yes, they’re made by a lovely little printer off Old Street. They’re couriering them over as soon as they’re ready.’ Bent Lewis smiles at the sweet efficiency of it all, but of course Bobby has to go and throw a spanner in the works and mumbles, ‘Righty ho, but, but I thought maybe it might look better if I just scribble all the titles in felt-tip. Have you got a felt-tip?’ Unfortunately for Lewis, he’s got a felt-tip. He screws his nose up as Bobby jumps to attention, snatches the permanent marker, and hurriedly scrawls the titles and dates and dimensions straight onto the whitewashed walls. Bobby’s handwriting is like that of a ten-year-old girl – his teachers tried to get him to join everything up and put dots instead of circles and punctuate everything perfectly, but it’s quite typical of Bobby to ignore anyone like that. ‘What do you reckon?’ he asks Lewis. Sweating, the two of them twirl once in the finished space like cassette-rollers, and at first Bent Lewis is devastated, but then he tries to convince himself it looks primitive, or seductive, or not bad. In any case, by now he just can’t be bothered arguing. ‘It might just work!’ Lewis guffaws, feeling like a loon. ‘So we’re done and dusted now then, eh?’ Bobby asks, proud as punch to have his very own art exhibition. Look at it! ‘Yes, we’ll just have to wait and see what happens tomorrow!’ Bent Lewis replies, knowing it’ll cause a storm but the art world can be awfully harsh sometimes. It’s one of those industries you either get your arse licked and roses thrown at you, or you get criticised to death by people who never made it as artists but know lots of long fancy words. ‘So I’m free to go, then?’ Bobby the Artist asks, tongue lolling at the prospect of drinking the Saint Georges dry the rest of the day. So much twirling round Gallery 2 has made his head go funny. ‘Of course yes, cheers Bobby,’ Bent Lewis says, then, ‘What are your plans?’ Bobby the Artist picks a bit of black bogey out of his nose (smoggy London gives you that), then sniffs and says, ‘Oh I’m just gonna get wrecked again.’ Bent Lewis lets out a belly-laugh like a flock of cawing birds, then his face becomes serious again and he says, ‘Oh yes, that reminds me. A friend of mine, Francis Fuller, gave me a present to give you. He’s very interested in seeing your work tomorrow – he could prove to be a very important buyer.’ Bent Lewis smiles, then takes great pride in looking over his shoulder once or twice (to add tension), then palms a chunky wrap of coke into Bobby’s hand. Bobby the Artist grins appreciatively, sliding it into his Magic Pocket (the tiny compartment situated above your right pocket, perfect for hiding drugs and johnnies and other embarrassing things). ‘Admittedly I’ve already had a little dab myself,’ Bent Lewis continues, trying to be cooooool, ‘but there’s about two or three grams there for yourself. This stuff is top notch, mate. One word of advice though: don’t get too