‘Where were you hiding?’
Eddie leaned back. ‘In the broom cupboard,’ he said. ‘I think it was a broom cupboard. There was a broom in it.’
Moses had to smile. ‘The broom cupboard. Of course. Next time I’ll look in the broom cupboard. Anyway, listen. I dropped Doreen off for you.’
‘Dawn.’
‘What?’
‘Dawn. Her name was Dawn.’
‘I’m surprised you remember.’
‘I found a bit of paper in my pocket this morning. It had Dawn written on it and a number. I rang the number to find out who she was.’
‘And?’
‘She said she never wanted to see me again.’
‘Incredible.’
Eddie shrugged.
A hand reached down in front of Moses, snatched up his glass, and replaced it seconds later, empty. Before he had time to say ‘Hello Gloria’ or ‘That’s my wine’ or ‘What did you invite him for?’ she was up on stage introducing herself.
‘Good evening, folks,’ she said, hands behind her back. ‘This is Holly again — ’
Whistles. Applause.
‘Second set,’ Eddie said. ‘You see? I told you.’
But Moses was thinking, Who?
‘That’s her stage name,’ Eddie whispered.
How come he knows so much? Moses wondered.
‘ — and this is the band who haven’t got a name yet — ’
More whistles. More applause.
Holly? Why Holly?
‘Her surname’s Wood,’ Eddie told him. ‘Her real surname, I mean.’
‘ — and we’re going to do a few songs for you — not too loud, though, because they’re trying to sleep upstairs — ’
Jeering.
‘ — it’s an old people’s home or something — ’
Laughter.
‘ — anyway, this is the first one — it’s called “Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do”-’
Gloria swung away from the microphone and the band launched into the intro. Remote smiles played on their faces. The drummer was using brushes. He looked a bit like Teddy Kennedy. It was a slowed-down slurry version of the song.
‘ — oh and thanks for coming — ’ Gloria was looking directly at Moses — ‘don’t think I hadn’t noticed — ’
Moses settled deeper in his chair, almost blushing. Eddie nudged him in the ribs, half-rose out of his chair, and, looking round as if Moses was somebody famous, clapped loudly.
For Christ’s sake, Moses thought.
They had just finished their second bottle of wine, some French stuff, nineteen seventy-something. Now Eddie was ordering champagne. It wasn’t that he was ostentatious. It was just that if money began to pile up in his bank accounts (and he had at least three) he felt as if he had slipped up somewhere, as if he wasn’t really living. So he spent money like water and the water turned into wine and Moses drank it.
Moses turned back to Gloria. He quickly realised that he wasn’t going to have to lie to her about how good she was. She didn’t let the music dominate her. She used its rhythms, its momentum, and rode on them, always balanced, always in control. She could be as agile as the song demanded. She could wrongfoot you just when you thought you knew where her voice was going, leaping seemingly into a void, landing in places you hadn’t even known were there. What a relief, Moses thought, not to have to lie to her.
He had been thinking about her off and on all day, going over remembered ground — incidents, gestures, fragments of conversation — going over and over them in his mind as waves go over stones, polishing them until they shone, felt smooth against his skin, had value. Something went through him, sideways and upwards, as he watched her performing on stage in her charcoal-grey forties’ suit and her diamante earrings and her diaphanous black scarf that she wore looped loosely about her neck, something made up of so many feelings, half-feelings and fractions of feelings that he felt like a whole audience — generous, expansive, irrepressible. The song finished and he was clapping, using every square millimetre of his massive hands.
Towards the end of ‘Stormy Weather’ Vince showed up. He dropped into the chair next to Moses, his hands wedged into his pockets, his waistcoat slippery with grease and oil and spilt drinks. His face had the dampness, the pallor, of a sponge. Stubble littered his chin. Moses could sense his knees jiggling up and down beneath the table.
Vince scowled. ‘I feel like shit.’
Eddie grinned. ‘I was just going to say. You look like shit, Vince.’
‘How did you get in with that waistcoat on, Vince?’ Moses asked. He poured Vince a glass of wine.
Vince downed it in one and slumped back in his chair. ‘I haven’t slept for three days.’ He stared morosely at his empty glass. ‘Took some smack on Wednesday night. Fucked me up completely.’
Moses and Eddie exchanged looks of resignation. Vince being histrionic again. Nothing unusual about that.
‘I thought you’d stopped that,’ Moses said.
‘How many times do I have to tell you, Vincent?’ said Eddie.
‘Screw you.’ Vince turned to Moses. ‘You got any downers, sleeping-pills, anything like that?’
‘Why would I have anything like that?’ Moses said. ‘I’m in love.’
Vince grimaced.
‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ Moses said. ‘What’ve you been up to?’
‘Not much,’ Vince said. ‘Staying home, mostly. Getting out of it.’
‘With Debra,’ he added as an afterthought. He held his glass out for a refill. Moses poured.
‘Debra?’ Eddie said, as if the name meant something to him.
‘You don’t know her,’ Vince said. ‘She must be one of the few women you don’t know.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that.’ Eddie smiled.
‘You don’t know her,’ Vince repeated.
Eddie looked pensive. ‘Did she used to work in that café in Victoria Station?’
‘No, she didn’t.’
‘She hasn’t got blonde hair, has she?’
Vince looked at the ceiling. ‘No, she hasn’t.’
‘Does she come from Hampshire?’
‘No,’ Vince said. ‘Liverpool.’
‘Was she at that — ’
‘Look, fuck off, Eddie,’ Vince said. ‘You don’t know her. OK?’
‘Well,’ Eddie grinned lasciviously, ‘I suppose there’s still time.’
Vince picked up his glass of wine and threw the contents in Eddie’s face. Vince smiled for the first time since he walked in. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Eddie wiped his shirt-front with one hand and smiled back.
‘Why did you do that, Vince?’ he said quietly.
‘I got bored with the shit you were talking.’
‘Was I talking shit?’ Eddie asked, still dabbing at his clothes.
‘Yes.’
The champagne arrived like a change of subject.
‘Seen Alison recently?’ Moses asked Vince.
‘That fucking bitch,’ Vince snarled. ‘I haven’t seen her since she went back home to mummy. I don’t need any of that shit.’
‘She rang me last week,’ Moses said. ‘Asked me to Sunday lunch.’
‘Sunday lunch.’ Vince’s face screwed up in a paroxysm of scorn and disgust. ‘Sunday fucking lunch. I’ve been to a few of those.’
‘What about them?’
‘It’s her mother. She floats around like some kind of fucking wood-nymph. She talks a pile of crap.’
‘What?’ Eddie laughed. ‘Like me?’
‘Yes,’ Vince said. ‘Like you.’
‘I can’t go anyway,’ Moses said. ‘I’ve got something else planned.’
Eddie leaned forwards. ‘With this Gloria of yours, I suppose?’
Vince leered.
‘It’d be a shame,’ Moses said, ‘if any more of this nice champagne got spilled, wouldn’t it?’ and reaching for the bottle helped himself to another glass.