The barman came over, handed her phone back, and she muttered a quick thank you, feeling a surge of relief to have these six crucial ounces back in her possession. There were some notifications on her home screen, a few messages from her father, her mother and from Nelson, but she ignored them all and switched it to mute as she continued to drink her wine.
Imagine, she thought to herself, just imagine what it would be like to delete your account, like Wilkes had done. Would it be like cutting off your oxygen supply? Now that he wasn’t on any social media, she had absolutely no idea where her former boyfriend might be or what he might be doing. He could be still planning his trip to Indonesia, for all she knew.
She made a quick grab for the phone and pressed the Twitter app, turned to the settings and found the red button at the end of the screen that said ‘Delete Account’. Her index finger hovered over it for a moment, but she knew it was impossible and returned it to the table. She couldn’t do it, she could never do it. The truth was that the phone was as much a part of her as her hands, her feet, her nose, her mouth. She couldn’t possibly live without it.
FUCKITY BYE
As George pushed open the door on Dean Street, he reached into his wallet to remove the black member’s card before handing it across to the young woman behind the reception desk. Usually, the greeters didn’t even glance at it, welcoming him warmly and asking whether he would be joined by any non-members. Today, however, he sensed a distinct froideur from the body language presented to him and, when the receptionist scanned the card into her computer, she did an excellent impression of a person who did not believe that he really belonged there.
‘I’m not seeing you,’ she said after a moment.
‘Really?’ replied George, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’m standing right here. Perhaps if you looked in my direction, that would help?’
She turned and glared at him.
‘This is a private members’ club,’ she said. ‘Are you a member?’
‘Well, let me see.’ He looked up for a moment and put a hand on his chin. ‘I remember joining when it first opened in 1995, and I don’t believe my membership has ever lapsed in the quarter-century since then. And I’ve been here, I would imagine, on … oh … several thousand occasions. My wife went into labour with our third child, a delightful boy named Achilles, a complete idiot, of course, but delightful nevertheless, on the second floor during a dinner with Michael Winner. And, of course, you’re holding my membership card in your hand. So I have a strong feeling that if you just continue to tap away on your keyboard, or perhaps consult one of your colleagues, then there’s a good chance that I’ll be granted access to the sacred area beyond.’
The woman continued to peruse her screen before, barely concealing her disdain, she handed the card back.
‘Of course, Mr Cleverley,’ she said. ‘I should have recognized you.’
‘Most people do.’
‘It’s wonderful to have you back with us.’
‘Isn’t it, though?’ he said, returning the card to his wallet. ‘Thank you so much.’ He offered a courtly bow at the waist. ‘I shall leave you to get on with your lawful business and I shall get on with mine.’
He turned and entered the ground-floor bar area, stepping out into the courtyard, where, he knew from many years’ experience, Denise would be waiting for him, as she was, seated at her usual table and wearing an ill-advised scarlet jumpsuit. He glanced around, as everyone always did, trying not to make it obvious that he was looking to see who else was present. A special BAFTA Fellowship ceremony honouring an ageing film director was due to take place the following night, and several Hollywood stars had descended on London to join in the festivities. He smiled and waved at a couple of actors and actresses who he’d interviewed over the years but chose not to approach any of them, not just because it was considered bad form in a place like this, but because it was obvious they were employing all their best RADA or Juilliard skills to pretend that they hadn’t seen him arrive.
‘Darling,’ said Denise as he collapsed into his chair with an exhausted sigh.
‘Darling,’ he replied.
‘You look terrible, darling. Have you been sleeping?’
‘Thank you. And no, not very well. It’s been a difficult week.’
‘The world is a hellish place,’ remarked Denise. ‘Sometimes I think it would be a lot easier just to put all the tablets in my house into a bowl, grind them up, and swallow the whole mess with a good bottle of Dom. Have you ever thought that?’
‘I’m not the type, Denise,’ he replied wearily. ‘As you know, I have a tremendous lust for life.’
‘Indeed. What would you like to drink? A coffee? Or something stronger?’
‘What am I likely to need?’
‘Something stronger.’
He raised a hand and the most beautiful young man he had ever seen in his life approached, as if from the ether, to take his order.
‘So here’s what I’d like,’ he said, turning to him. ‘Write it down so there’ll be no mistakes. I want a sparkling mineral water, lots of ice, two slices of lime, and a plastic straw. Not paper, plastic. I want a cold lager in a glass that has been chilling in a fridge. And I want a double Glenfiddich with no water or ice. Just as it comes. Have you got all that?’
The waiter nodded, looking slightly terrified, and made his way quickly back towards the bar.
‘I can see you’re suffering the ill effects of your recent notoriety,’ said Denise with a smile.
‘Did I ever tell you that I have a theory about the waiters here?’ he asked, happy to put off the inevitable for a few minutes longer.
‘No, darling. Tell me now.’
‘They’re very handsome, yes?’
‘Darling, they’re works of art.’
‘And they look for a job here because, I assume, they’re hoping that they’ll be spotted and cast in a movie. But the truth is, they’re too good-looking. In the olden days, in our day—’
‘Your day, darling. I’m a good seven years younger than you.’
‘In the olden days – ah, thank you!’
The waiter had returned carrying a silver tray that bore each of George’s three drinks, poured to his exact specifications.
‘You’re welcome, sir,’ he said, scurrying away.
‘In the olden days, movie stars looked like that. Marlon Brando. Warren Beatty. Robert Redford. But today, it’s all changed. The most popular film stars now, as far as I can tell, are all shrivelled up little man-children. Whatever happened to Paul Newman?’
‘He died, darling.’
‘Yes, I know he died,’ said George irritably. ‘I mean whatever happened to his type? The waiters here belong to a bygone era, not to the contemporary world. They’re simply too attractive to make it in the movies. Beauty, it seems, is no longer in vogue.’
‘I don’t have a problem with it, myself,’ said Denise. ‘It’s one of the reasons I enjoy coming here so much.’
George grunted and took a sip from his water, then a long draught from his beer.
‘It’s people like them, however, who have done so much to make my life a misery this week. All of them weeping into their white mocha decafs with ten pumps of raspberry syrup and a chestnut on top over my supposedly transphobic remarks.’