‘How do you know all this stuff? I was at the same table, I didn’t get any of this.’
‘People just tell me things,’ said Jolyon.
They reached the door marked VI and Chad savoured the kiss of cold stone on his palm as they climbed to the top of the narrow staircase. Inside the room, Jolyon reached for the cocktail bible they had bought from the creaky used bookstore on Martyr Street, near the Oxonian Theatre whose name was another of the university’s peculiarities, Chad learned – the Oxonian ‘Theatre’ was used for ceremonies, music, lectures . . . but never for plays. Jolyon turned the book’s pages with reverence and great care, the brown-taped thing nearly thirty years old. They had bought it after their first night in Pitt’s crowded bar, Jolyon having felt quickly crushed and unable to hear Chad though the din.
First they had made Manhattans in honour of Chad’s heritage and decided they liked them on the sweet side of perfect. The next night came rusty nails, Drambuie with whisky, which tasted of heather and honey. Chad and Jolyon would spend the rest of term turning their gins pink or into gimlets and Gibsons, making concoctions for the delight of their names. Monkey glands, weep no mores, corpse revivers.
The liquor collection was clustered on Jolyon’s desk. He had spent hundreds of pounds from his student grant to acquire what their book called ‘the basics’ and refused any offer of money from Chad. ‘What goes around comes around,’ Jolyon had said.
On the coffee table stood an unopened bottle of framboise. ‘Ah, that reminds me,’ said Jolyon, ‘I bought this so we could try Floradoras tonight.’
‘Twist my arm,’ said Chad.
VI(iii) Jolyon’s room looked best in the lamplight at night when the stark walls glowed and the ceiling beams cast dramatic shadows. The towers and domes of the city became obscured by the windows’ inward reflection but there was time enough to enjoy towers and domes in the daylight.
As they sipped their Floradoras they returned to their favourite topic, an idea for a new kind of game that had been amusing them for several days already. When Chad finished the last of his cocktail he turned in the armchair to hang his legs over its side. He let out a long sigh, his inner bliss now drifting around him like smoke.
Jolyon seemed to have been asleep for the last minute but then he opened his eyes. ‘I think those girls really liked you, Chad. Tamsin and Elizabeth. I could tell.’
Chad blushed, hoping Jolyon wouldn’t notice. He had always wondered if behind his teenage mask there was someone worth looking at. ‘Liked me?’ said Chad. ‘It was you they spent the whole night talking to.’
‘Talking’s easy. You could program a computer to say the right things to make people feel special. If I had your looks, Chad, your softness. That’s real charm.’
Chad would cherish the warmth of this compliment for the rest of his life. Better even than his adventure made him feel. Lighter yet than the cocktails.
‘I’m starving,’ said Jolyon. ‘How about we order some pizza?’
‘No, let’s go out. Hey, we should go back to that kebab van. What was it you made me get? A doner and cheese with the works and extra chilli sauce. Man.’
Jolyon was lying on his bed, limbs spread and belly up, a starfish gazing absently at the plasterwork and timbers. ‘I have no legs,’ he said. ‘Really, not even jelly, just a complete nothingness.’ Jolyon wallowed in the pleasure of his total immobility. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘they’ll deliver pizza to the lodge and I’ll pay if you’ll pick the thing up.’
‘I don’t even like pizza,’ said Chad.
Jolyon lifted his head and looked quizzically at his friend. ‘Who on earth doesn’t like pizza?’ he said. ‘No one doesn’t like pizza.’
‘I don’t like pizza. I just don’t.’
‘Is it the tomatoes?’
‘What does it matter why I don’t like pizza?’
Jolyon let his head fall back against the bed again and Chad relaxed, his fingers having been clenched to the armrest from the moment that word had been spoken. And then when the topic seemed to have receded, Jolyon spoke again. ‘I’ve seen you eat tomato sauce,’ he said. ‘And cheese. And bread. Which means it’s logically impossible for you not to like pizza.’ He raised himself onto his elbows and stared curiously at Chad.
Chad turned again in the chair, gathered his knees and hugged them in his arms. ‘It’s not about the taste,’ he said. He couldn’t find a good place for his limbs. He dropped his knees, crossed his legs.
‘What is it?’ said Jolyon.
Chad felt a ballooning sensation in his head. The alcohol, the surprising urge to tell. ‘Oh, shoot,’ he said, uncrossing his legs. ‘OK then, you see all this?’ he said, tapping a finger across his brow and down past the bridge of his nose.
‘All what?’
‘Scars!’ said Chad. ‘Craters and pits.’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Jolyon lied. He squinted and pretended to see for the first time.
‘I was the first kid in class to get a zit,’ said Chad. ‘Thirteen years old, a big yellow sucker right between the eyes. It’s hard not to notice when everyone at school stares you right between the eyes.’
‘Every teenager gets spots. I had them quite bad for a while.’
‘No, Jolyon –’ Chad’s tone became full of voluminous certainty – ‘you didn’t have what I had or you wouldn’t be you. Trust me, that just wouldn’t be possible. Anyway, within a week I was covered. They grew fat and yellow and when they faded turned red. A sea of red, here and here and here.’ Chad dabbed at his chin, his cheeks, his forehead. ‘And there was always a fresh batch growing on top of the red sea, bright yellow bubbles.’ He paused, his body stiffened. ‘So when I think about it now,’ he said, ‘I guess Pizza Face is a pretty accurate nickname.’
Jolyon sighed and shook his head. ‘Kids are cunts,’ he said.
‘Yes, they are,’ said Chad. He nodded over and over. ‘And it didn’t stop at Pizza Face. There was Pizza Boy, Pizza Pie. Oh, and Chuck E. Cheese, which soon became Chad E. Cheese. And when I came into the room, invariably someone would ask, Who ordered delivery? I couldn’t even stand hearing the word . . . pizza. I don’t even like saying it now. And if a commercial came on TV, I’d start to burn with shame. And there are a lot of you-know-what commercials on American TV.’
Chad laughed, so Jolyon laughed too. ‘How long did it last?’ he asked.
‘I still get the occasional zit,’ said Chad, ‘but throughout high school was the worst, the names never went away until college. I guess over the last two years it cleared up. Perhaps it hasn’t looked so bad for a while.’
‘Didn’t you use anything? I thought they had good stuff for acne nowadays.’
‘Yeah, they do,’ Chad said. ‘Only this wasn’t acne, this was bubonic frickin plague.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I had some liquid stuff from a doctor, made my face stink and turn green. Loads of different pills. I tried a flesh-coloured cream but someone at school said I had make-up on. Or rather he shouted it out in the hall and everyone came running to see. Anyway, none of that crap really worked. Except the fleshy cream made me look better but I didn’t dare use it after the first day.’
‘So you really don’t like pizza at all?’