Remembering Carmen by Nicholas Murray

could smell her scent. He could sense the tension in her body. Her desire. The power of this unspoken feeling silenced both of them. The wrong words could have wrecked this moment so they chose to use none.
    She had withdrawn her hand before Christopher returned, with a red-faced type in tow in a grubby white jacket, dirty trainers on his feet. Hanks of stringy and disordered hair had been scraped across the bald summit of his scalp. His glass was slopping over and he was waving his arms about. Ignoring Carmen’s scowl of disapproval, he insisted on introducing himself.
    â€œPeter Worsley. Christopher was telling me you interviewed Lavinia Watersmith not so long ago. I had her on The Culture a couple of years ago but I am sure we haven’t milked her dry yet. I am quite keen to set up an interview to coincide with the Francis Quine exhibition at the Tate. You’ve got to catch these old biddies before they croak. They always give good value for money.”
    â€œWhy’s that?” Jimmy found himself asking rather tartly.
    He was familiar with Worsley, who had interviewed him on his weekly radio arts programme a year earlier. It purported to be a discussion about the public’s tolerance of new music but it turned out to be the usual ritual display of soundbites provided by a round-up of people who seemed to Jimmy to have little passion for music of any kind. He was cast as the Uncompromising Artist, and round the studio table there was an Earnest Provincial Post-Modernist Academic, a Smirking Populist, and a New Labour Voice Machine. Worsley slurped his way through two bottles of wine, occasionally sending the bottle in the direction of the panel as an afterthought, before abruptly calling time in response to a gesture from the producer on the other side of the soundproof glass who mimed the slashing of his own throat – a gesture with which Jimmy could only sympathise.
    â€œWell, first of all they do Posh. Those high-pitched upper crust voices talking about Bertie and Virginia and Aldous are cracking radio. And then there’s the sheer bloody marvel that they’re still alive. Still churning out anecdotes about people whom you thought had died half a century ago – at least. The market for this sort of thing is always buoyant.”
    â€œBut you aren’t really talking about the artistic giants are you? These people were minor players even in their own day.”
    â€œTrue but the big game have all been bagged.”
    Carmen now cut in aggressively.“How do you rate Ben Bush then?”
    She gestured towards the photographer, who was now out in the yard like every other escapee from the heat of the gallery and surrounded by admirers. He was dressed in black with Ray-Bans propped up on the top of his head. He rolled a cigarette, while a blonde journalist with a small Sony recorded his clipped replies to her questions.
    â€œDon’t care for his stuff much. It’s all been done better by Danziger. But he’s very sexy just now. The Observer are doing a feature on Sunday. The book is in the hardback top ten. We can’t afford to ignore it.”
    â€œWhat is the radio equivalent of bums on seats?” Christopher suddenly asked.
    â€œEarholes on static,” suggested Carmen with a laugh.
    Worsley looked a little put out. He probably thought that they weren’t taking him seriously enough. In common with most people in his trade he had an immoveable conviction of his own importance but at the same time required periodic affirmation of that status. Like someone pressing a safety button he signalled madly to another group and, making a swift apology, darted off to join them. They all looked at each other in relief. Christopher spoke first.
    â€œIt’s faintly worrying that people like that are in charge of the imaginary museum.”
    â€œI have never met anyone who actually listens to his programme,” said Carmen.
    â€œOh I am sure there are a few