Basin. It was the era of warehouse parties, word-of-mouth and flier events like the Dirtbox, floating notoriously between vacant tenements in King’s Cross, with its sound systems and zinc bathtubs full of ice cubes and tins of Saporo beer. But the Wharf had a gentler and more contrived atmosphere of tidal drift, almost of permanence. And its clientele reflected its status in contrivances of their own.
There was a boy in a matelot shirt and a canvas yacht cap like a Jean Genet caricature on the door. A scar blunted the bridge of his nose and his tattooed arms were sinewy and tanned. The spring was hot that year, warm already with the intense promise of the burning summer to come. The club was lit by yellow oil lamps, and starlight cast on to its ceiling in pale ripples reflected through the windows from the river below. Patrick was there with friends from St Martin’s. Stuart Lockyear was there. And Greg Foyle, whose pictures would one day sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars and hang in the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art in New York. They were seated at a table on the other side of the dance floor and Patrick said something to Greg and Greg looked at Patrick and Paul knew from the look that his brother was very drunk.
He saw the mysterious girl from the fashion course, Lucinda Grey, sipping a viscous green drink from a shot glass in a flamboyant huddle of people by the bar. He became aware of the music, as the final notes of the Jacques Brel song, ‘Amsterdam’ faded. It was the version of the song sung in English by David Bowie. And in its histrionic aftermath he recognised the first bars of ‘Bad Day’, a new song sung by the English torch singer Carmel McCourt. She came from Manchester and she lived in Paris. Her songs were becoming very popular in the clubs that year. He breathed in the smell of the place; the mingled aromas of tar and timber and tobacco and dank night river. And he walked over to Patrick’s table and Greg poured him a drink from one of the bottles of Lambrusco they were sharing.
‘You’d be on the scent,’ his brother said to him. Patrick blinked, but the blear remained across his eyes.
Paul sipped wine.
‘In the hunt,’ Patrick said. ‘The chase. The game’s afoot, is it not?’
‘Don’t sound so disapproving. It’s hypocritical. You’d shag anything with a pulse.’
Patrick appeared to ponder this. ‘Wouldn’t necessarily insist on a pulse,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to over-egg the pudding.’
Paul laughed. And from the other side of the room, he saw Lucinda Grey smile at him above the shot glass held poised beneath her lips. She raised an arched eyebrow and, with the fingers of the hand not occupied with the glass, she beckoned him across.
‘Your fat rockabilly friend looks drunk.’ She sipped her drink and looked at him over its turning rim. The drink was iridescent, like her eyes.
Seaton looked back to his group. And back again at Lucinda Grey. She had her arms folded across her chest and the posture pulled the leather sleeves of her jacket, taut and soft. It had a mandarin collar, the jacket, and her neck was long under her jawline, the hair cut close, razored to a velvet nap above the hollow at the back, rising above her collar.
‘He isn’t fat. And he isn’t a rockabilly.’
Patrick, who was powerfully built but cherubic of cheek, had made the fatal mistake of wearing a letter jacket with some collegiate logo displayed across its back in his first week at art school. It had cost him thirty-five quid at Camden Market. And it had cost him any shred of credibility. He’d been the first to admit, afterwards, that this particular item of Americana had been a misjudgment. But despite the peach zoot suit he’d teamed with a hand-painted tie tonight, despite the careful strokes of eyelash dye he’d brushed into his pencil moustache, he’d been the Fat Rockabilly, at least in the third person, ever since.
‘You’re right,’ Seaton said. He sighed.
There was a boy in a matelot shirt and a canvas yacht cap like a Jean Genet caricature on the door. A scar blunted the bridge of his nose and his tattooed arms were sinewy and tanned. The spring was hot that year, warm already with the intense promise of the burning summer to come. The club was lit by yellow oil lamps, and starlight cast on to its ceiling in pale ripples reflected through the windows from the river below. Patrick was there with friends from St Martin’s. Stuart Lockyear was there. And Greg Foyle, whose pictures would one day sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars and hang in the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art in New York. They were seated at a table on the other side of the dance floor and Patrick said something to Greg and Greg looked at Patrick and Paul knew from the look that his brother was very drunk.
He saw the mysterious girl from the fashion course, Lucinda Grey, sipping a viscous green drink from a shot glass in a flamboyant huddle of people by the bar. He became aware of the music, as the final notes of the Jacques Brel song, ‘Amsterdam’ faded. It was the version of the song sung in English by David Bowie. And in its histrionic aftermath he recognised the first bars of ‘Bad Day’, a new song sung by the English torch singer Carmel McCourt. She came from Manchester and she lived in Paris. Her songs were becoming very popular in the clubs that year. He breathed in the smell of the place; the mingled aromas of tar and timber and tobacco and dank night river. And he walked over to Patrick’s table and Greg poured him a drink from one of the bottles of Lambrusco they were sharing.
‘You’d be on the scent,’ his brother said to him. Patrick blinked, but the blear remained across his eyes.
Paul sipped wine.
‘In the hunt,’ Patrick said. ‘The chase. The game’s afoot, is it not?’
‘Don’t sound so disapproving. It’s hypocritical. You’d shag anything with a pulse.’
Patrick appeared to ponder this. ‘Wouldn’t necessarily insist on a pulse,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to over-egg the pudding.’
Paul laughed. And from the other side of the room, he saw Lucinda Grey smile at him above the shot glass held poised beneath her lips. She raised an arched eyebrow and, with the fingers of the hand not occupied with the glass, she beckoned him across.
‘Your fat rockabilly friend looks drunk.’ She sipped her drink and looked at him over its turning rim. The drink was iridescent, like her eyes.
Seaton looked back to his group. And back again at Lucinda Grey. She had her arms folded across her chest and the posture pulled the leather sleeves of her jacket, taut and soft. It had a mandarin collar, the jacket, and her neck was long under her jawline, the hair cut close, razored to a velvet nap above the hollow at the back, rising above her collar.
‘He isn’t fat. And he isn’t a rockabilly.’
Patrick, who was powerfully built but cherubic of cheek, had made the fatal mistake of wearing a letter jacket with some collegiate logo displayed across its back in his first week at art school. It had cost him thirty-five quid at Camden Market. And it had cost him any shred of credibility. He’d been the first to admit, afterwards, that this particular item of Americana had been a misjudgment. But despite the peach zoot suit he’d teamed with a hand-painted tie tonight, despite the careful strokes of eyelash dye he’d brushed into his pencil moustache, he’d been the Fat Rockabilly, at least in the third person, ever since.
‘You’re right,’ Seaton said. He sighed.
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