(rather more helpfully), then ruins the effect by gently adding, ‘Prematurely?’
‘Yes,’ I nod (pointedly ignoring the ejaculatory slur). ‘Another woman. And instead of just walking by, like most people would, this other woman pauses and then whispers…’
I pause myself, as I recollect (then I digress), ‘I mean obviously I have my back to her, and the girl has hers against the wall, so she can see her better. But we’re in a clinch…’
Solomon slowly rotates his hand to move me on.
‘But when she hears a voice,’ I continue (ignoring him), ‘she pulls away slightly, opens her eyes, and she sees this other girl. This woman. And this woman in standing there, smiling, like something from Fatal Attraction…’
‘And she says?’ (Solomon obviously finds the film reference a step too far.)
‘And she taps me on the shoulder and she says, “You. In Bow. The VD Clinic. Six o’clock. Last Tuesday evening.”’
Solomon snorts so hard that he spills ash on his trousers.
‘Fuck,’ he curses, and quickly taps it off.
‘But that was her,’ I say, ‘that was Aphra. I turned round and I saw her, from the back, retreating. But it was definitely her. I remember her hair, and her shoes. These strange green shoes. The noise they made…’
Even Solomon is perplexed by this story. ‘But why’d she want to do that?’ he asks. ‘Out of sheer mischief, you think?’
I scratch at my neck for a moment, saying nothing.
‘I mean you said she had an axe to grind…,’ Solomon continues musing. ‘When she approached you today she called you a whore –’
‘No,’ I interrupt, ‘she called me a pimp. Then she claimed that I was using Blaine to pimp for me…,’ I pause. ‘It was all a little confused, actually.’
‘Argh, pure semantics,’ he waves me away.
‘Although I suppose,’ I start off nervously, ‘I mean, I suppose she might’ve said it because…’
I clear my throat, ‘Because it was true.’
It takes Solomon a moment to catch up, but when he does, he starts, ‘What?! You got yourself cock rot, Massa?’
‘Leave off! I had an appointment. Amanda – three exes ago – got chlamydia. She said I needed to get a checkup. But I’m clear, thank you very much.’
Solomon’s still perplexed. ‘But how on earth did she know?’
As Solomon speaks, one of his three Dobermans stands up, stretches, sniffs the air, trots over to the bath, dips its head down and laps at my water.
‘The million dollar question,’ I say, trying to push the dog away with my toe. The dog lifts its head and growls at my foot.
Okay.
The foot rapidly retreats.
Solomon clicks his fingers and the dog, Jax (who completes the foul triumvirate with Bud and Ivor), trots mechanically back to his side again.
Man. How’d he do that?
‘You think she’s following you?’ he asks, glancing towards the window (Solomon’s had three girl stalkers in his time, one of whom subsequently had a successful career in children’s TV presenting. See? Even his freak-followers are interesting).
‘What else to think?’ I say.
‘You believe she actually had a migraine?’ he asks.
I pause for a second, mouth slightly ajar –
Uh-oh –
Head-fuck time…
‘She didn’t!’ Solomon jumps in, roaring with glee, slapping his thigh. ‘She just Ian McEwaned you, man, and you’re still none the wiser!’2
(He seems indecently delighted by this thought.)
But, fuck…
My mind is racing.
And the porter? Even the porter? Was he…?
Nah!
‘No,’ I say, ‘I really think she was sick. I honestly do. She seemed sick. She was sick. She smelled sick.’
I remember the smell. Like rotten milk mixed with cheap lager.
‘And so you get her home, and she’s sick, like you say. And then you leave the room, and she takes off her skirt…’
Yeah. Solomon’s recall seems disturbingly on point this evening.
‘Then the sister comes home, or the friend…’ he chortles.
I sit up, panicked.
‘What? You think they set me up? You think they’re planning to mess with me in some legitimately fucked-up, McEwan-like way?’
‘Blackmail,’ Solomon sniggers, ‘or worse.’
‘I gave her my phone number…’
Solomon throws up his hands, ecstatically. ‘But of course you did, Massa. Of course you did.’
I stare at him, in silence, while the genius McCoy Tyner hammers away discordantly on his crazy, plinky-plonk piano.
‘Karma.’ Solomon grins, taking a last, long draw on his spliff and then leaning forward and proffering it to me. ‘Pure, undiluted, genius karma.’
Wow. Thank God that album’s over.
No matter what your views happen to be on the subject (love him or loathe him etc), there’s still no escaping this one essential thing (no, I’m not evading the issue, because this is the issue, see?): it’s like a bloody 24-hour party down here. And everyone’s invited – the famous, the infamous, the rich, the poor, the pretty, the ugly, the lovers, the haters. Everybody’s invited. Seriously. And everybody’s equal; they simply wouldn’t dream of turning you away. Because they want you, no matter what, to be a part of the spectacle.
It’s an event. It’s a happening. It’s fluid – like an organism. It has integrity, it flows, it’s vital and screwed up, and ridiculous and ongoing…
It’s a pure, fucking blast (I mean let’s just shelve the moral whys and
