‘Upstairs or downstairs?’
The man hung his head in shame. ‘Downstairs,’ he admitted.
‘Then you can fuck right off. Up and coming, my arse! Fuckity bye! Go on! Fuckity bye! And you!’ he cried, looking over at another of the actresses, who wasn’t even a movie star. She was just a regular on EastEnders. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Her phone was held aloft and she was pointing it in his direction. ‘Filming you,’ she said. ‘This is classic stuff. Sure to go viral. Also, I want to direct.’
‘You don’t even know the rules, do you?’ he shouted. ‘There’s no photographs or filming allowed in here.’ He looked around, appealing to his audience. ‘She’s breaking the rules!’
‘This will get a million views by this time tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll survive.’
‘Not if you don’t get to post it, you won’t,’ he said, launching himself at her and, to the consternation of the onlookers, the EastEnders actress disappeared beneath George’s bulky frame.
‘George!’ cried Denise, rushing over. ‘Someone, help!’
From beneath George, the actress could be heard screaming, while several people, including some of the waiters, waded in to try to drag him off her. When they finally succeeded, he had her phone in his hand too and, like the hipster’s, it soon found itself smashed on the ground.
‘There!’ shouted George. ‘Tweet that!’
The atmosphere changed suddenly, and those who were holding him let go. Every head turned in the direction of the entrance, where two policemen had appeared, and they were standing there watching, with bemused expressions upon their faces.
‘Some sort of commotion going on here, I see,’ said one.
Everyone tried to speak at once and, leaving them to it, George wandered back to his seat, where he buried himself in what was left of his beer and whisky, while the most famous person in the room was given the right to tell the authorities what had just taken place. She explained it all, dramatizing some of the moments and even doing a passable imitation of George’s voice.
‘Fuckity bye, he kept saying,’ she told the officers. ‘Fuckity bye! What does that even mean? I’ve never heard it before.’
When she was finished hogging the limelight, the officers made their way over to George.
‘Is all this true, sir?’ they asked. ‘The things this lady has told us?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why deny it? It’ll be all over the Internet by now anyway, so, true or false, it just automatically becomes fact.’
‘Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us to the station,’ replied the younger of the pair. ‘I hope you’ll come peacefully.’
George shrugged as he stood up. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not? I’ve got nothing else to do now anyway.’
He took his Soho House card out of his wallet and threw it on the table.
‘It’ll save them the hassle of writing to me, asking for it back,’ he said, shuffling out towards the lounge.
Denise watched, fifteen years of an agent–client relationship coming to an end, before removing a leather-bound notebook from her bag. On the front page were listed the names of all the people she represented. Taking a fountain pen from the side pocket, she drew a line through George’s name. Cancelled, she wrote beside it.
TORTOISE KILLER
While George was being bundled into the back of a police car, Beverley was making excellent progress through another bottle of wine, when there was loud knocking at the door again. This time, as she wobbled unsteadily down the hallway, she found herself hoping that it would be her husband. Perhaps he’d forgotten his key. She just wanted to collapse into his arms and have him tell her that he still loved her. To her disappointment, however, she was confronted not by George but by two police officers.
‘Mrs Beverley Cleverley?’ said one, a young woman with an Audrey Hepburn haircut circa Roman Holiday.
‘The one and only,’ she slurred. ‘Nobody I’d rather be.’
‘We’ve had a report of an incident at this address.’
‘What sort of an incident?’
‘The murder of an animal.’
‘The what?’
‘Specifically, a tortoise who answered to the name of …’ She consulted her notepad. ‘Ustym Karmaliuk.’
‘After the great Ukrainian folk hero,’ added her colleague.
‘Firstly, he didn’t answer to any name,’ said Beverley, almost falling over. ‘He was entirely unresponsive most of the time. Like one’s husband becomes after thirty years of marriage.’
She burped and Audrey Hepburn snorted a little.
‘And secondly, I didn’t murder him. I threw him out, that’s all. He’s with my ghost. He’s having sex with my ghost. And I loved him.’
She started to weep, and the police officers looked at each other in confusion, uncertain what she meant by this.
‘The tortoise is having sex with a ghost?’ asked the policeman.
‘No, of course not. That’s idiotic. I didn’t say that. Pylyp is.’
‘Pylyp Tataryn,’ said Audrey. ‘The rightful owner of the animal?’
‘If any of us can really own animals,’ replied Beverley, looking up at the ceiling. ‘It’s a question for the great philosophers, don’t you think?’
‘The point is, madam,’ said the policeman. ‘We’ve had a report from the RSPCA that you killed a tortoise by throwing him across the road.’
‘No, I didn’t do that,’ she said, drying her eyes. ‘He ate too many After Eights, you see, and I was keeping his corpse in the kitchen until I figured out what to do with him. Yes, I threw him across the street, but I assure you he was already dead by then. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.’
‘We’ve seen a video, madam,’ he continued. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to take you in for questioning.’
She burst out laughing. ‘You can’t be serious,’ she said.
‘I’m afraid I am. We don’t take these matters lightly. Perhaps you’d like to get your things?’
‘You’re arresting me?’
‘Not yet. But we would like you to accompany us to the station, yes.’
She laughed again, hoping that they’d simply leave her alone, but when it became obvious that they weren’t going anywhere, she retrieved her coat and keys and phone before following them to the police car, feeling a mixture of horror and excitement when the man put his hand on her head as she climbed inside, just like they did on the television.
Sitting in the back seat, however, as they drove to the station, she began to feel a certain fear building inside her. Her readers were probably animal lovers and the newspapers would surely get a hold of this story. One of the RSPCA cyclists would pass it on. There’d be a scandal. Another scandal.
She felt a sharp pain in her stomach. I’ll be cancelled, she thought.
LINE OF DUTY
When they arrived at the restaurant, Susan was already seated at a table by the window, and she greeted her brother affectionately before turning her attention to Nelson, looking him up and down as if he was a piece of furniture she was considering buying. He tried to smile but felt his expression made him look rather creepy so executed a half-bow instead, like a knight before an evil queen. Introductions made, they sat down and he tried to figure out who she reminded him of. It came to him after a moment: Wednesday Addams. Only older. And without the charm.