The Half Life Of Stars Part 19

'Amnesia?'

'Yeah, amnesia. Maybe the Columbia crash set him off, sort of a delayed reaction kind of a thing. What with that and the affair and the break-up, I doubt he even knew what he was doing. I'll bet all he could remember when he left his office that night was his time as a kid out here in Miami.'

'I'm guessing this happened in a book that you read?'

'Yeah, it did. How d'you know? It's a great story, actually, The Forget-Me-Not Bride The Forget-Me-Not Bride. I'll tell you all about it while we get changed to go out.'

'What about...what about Michael?'

Michael has his head on the table. He can hardly keep his eyes open any more.

'You leave Michael to me,' says Tess, mischievously. 'I have just the thing to wake him up.'

Pretty Woman

Tess fixes Michael a special recipe special recipe energy drink, which seems to perk him up again in seconds. I have a suspicion there's more than caffeine in the syrupy brew she makes, but the truth is, I'm too relaxed to care. On Tess's insistence I've had a touch more of the margarita salt mix in preparation for our special night out. I'm grateful not to feel anxious or worried for a while, I'm looking forward to us being outside. We're all going to change into party outfits. We're going to drink more c.o.c.ktails and eat spicy Cuban food, and finish the night off at a jazz club. Michael and I didn't have time to pack much more than T-s.h.i.+rts and shorts before getting on the plane, so Huey and Tess are going to lend us clothes. We let our hosts get ready first. The two of them emerge hand in hand, some minutes later, looking like they're going to a film premier. Huey is decked out in a silver-grey suit with a vintage energy drink, which seems to perk him up again in seconds. I have a suspicion there's more than caffeine in the syrupy brew she makes, but the truth is, I'm too relaxed to care. On Tess's insistence I've had a touch more of the margarita salt mix in preparation for our special night out. I'm grateful not to feel anxious or worried for a while, I'm looking forward to us being outside. We're all going to change into party outfits. We're going to drink more c.o.c.ktails and eat spicy Cuban food, and finish the night off at a jazz club. Michael and I didn't have time to pack much more than T-s.h.i.+rts and shorts before getting on the plane, so Huey and Tess are going to lend us clothes. We let our hosts get ready first. The two of them emerge hand in hand, some minutes later, looking like they're going to a film premier. Huey is decked out in a silver-grey suit with a vintage 'I 'I[image] cannabis' cannabis' T-s.h.i.+rt underneath it. The outfit is nicely topped off by a pair of crocodile-skin loafers and a khaki hunting cap with bendy ear flaps. Tess's look is marginally more traditional. She wears a short white mini-dress with sequins down the front, and gold stiletto slingbacks that make her look almost a foot taller. It's Versace, she says, giving us all a twirl. Of course it is, what else would it be? T-s.h.i.+rt underneath it. The outfit is nicely topped off by a pair of crocodile-skin loafers and a khaki hunting cap with bendy ear flaps. Tess's look is marginally more traditional. She wears a short white mini-dress with sequins down the front, and gold stiletto slingbacks that make her look almost a foot taller. It's Versace, she says, giving us all a twirl. Of course it is, what else would it be?

Tess drags me into her bedroom, tottering over the lino in her narrow heels. The room is decked out like a bordellopink satin sheets, mock velvet curtains, a red bulb in the overhead light.

'You're so lucky,' she says, watching me strip down to my underwear. 'I wish I had long legs like you. And your b.o.o.bs are awesome, Claire, if you don't mind me saying so. Thirty-four C, am I right? I hope mine look that good after the operation. I want them to look natural. I don't want them to end up too tight, too rigid, you know what I mean?'

Tess takes her time choosing a dress for me. She picks out something slinky and black, not too showy, and decides to perk it up with some choice accessories. Her wardrobe is crammed tight with extras: shoes, lingerie, handbags, belts and drawer after drawer of costume jewellery.

'You'll need a necklace,' she says, narrowing her eyes. 'Definitely a necklace with that dress. Something discreet, something cla.s.sy.'

Tess's idea of cla.s.sy and discreet is a b.u.t.terfly pendant the size of my fist, covered in multi-coloured gemstones and pale pink seed pearls.

'It's my favourite, but I'd love for you to borrow it,' she says. 'And don't worry about damaging it or nothing, it's not worth nearly as much as you'd think. The gems are totally fake.'

'Really? I'd never have guessed.'

'I know. Because they're pretty realistic, right? You want to try it?'

How can I say no? I put it on. It hangs heavily from its chain (thick and gold) and nestles in my cleavage like a bird of paradise 'That's it. That's precious on you. Now we need to do something about your make-up. You definitely need lips, and eyes.'

'I have lips and eyes.'

'Not like these, you don't. Check this out.'

Tess's make-up box is the size of my suitcase: br.i.m.m.i.n.g with glosses, varnishes and powders, and bottles of mysterious scents and unguents. She applies false eyelashes to my scrubby ones. She paints a thick goo on my lips. She layers on bronzer, blusher and mascara and, just to be sure, she sweeps some glittery shadow over my eyelids.

'Wow, that's quite a transformation. You look so Miami now, take a look.'

I don't dare.

'Come on,' she says, excitedly. 'Open your eyes.'

I look like someone completely different. I don't recognise the woman staring back at me. I'm a cross between Jane Seymour and Alice Cooper. I'm a ballroom dancer and a synchronised swimmer. I'm the kind of woman who'd be eliminated first in a local seaside beauty page ant; my special talent would be baton twirling or advanced dog grooming.

'You look just like J-Lo, don't you think so? That's what I was going for, that kind of a look. Your hiney looks just like J-Lo's in that dress.'

'Tess, are you saying I've got a fat a.r.s.e?'

'No, not at all all. But for Christ's sake don't point it at Huey, that's all I'm saying. He's like a dog on heat in this humidity. When we go out in a little bit, we ought to make sure that you walk behind him.'

'You're serious serious?'

'Deadly.'

'I see.'

Michael looks almost as uncomfortable as I do. My scruffy ex-husband, come boyfriend, is wearing a fringed suede jacket and leather trousers. He smells like an abattoir. He squeaks as he walks. His pupils are fixed and dilated.

'Are you OK?'

'Yeah, yeah. I'm good. My vision's a little blurry that's all. Do I look...I mean, is this OK?'

It's the way that he asks megently, a little vulnerableit makes me reach out and stroke his face.

'Michael,' I whisper, smiling at him, 'You look...ridiculous.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, but we both do, it's fine.'

'I can't tell what you've got on,' he says, squinting at me. 'Is that a...is there something on your chest?'

'b.u.t.terfly.'

He looks confused.

'Not a duck? It looks just like a duck.'

'Oh, man, you look wild,' says Huey, coming over to join us. 'Turn around. Let's take a proper look at you in that dress.'

Tess frowns at me. She mouths no way no way with her lips. with her lips.

'Uh...you know what, Huey? Better not. It's getting late. I think we should probably just get going.'

Huey shrugs, pulls down his ear flaps, and off we go.

The air feels warm on my skin. We parade with the other peac.o.c.ks to our starting position on Ocean Drive and s.h.i.+mmy through the sleek, s.h.i.+ny bodies. I'm enjoying my clothes; I feel like I'm wearing a costume, like I've walked onto the pages of a comic book. Tess says h.e.l.lo to a lot of different people. She knows the cigar girls peddling fake Cubans; she knows the other snake charmers with their writhing boas. She knows the happy hour waiters in their hot pink thongs and the drag queens in their ten-dollar dresses. The flash and the trash, the camp and the curious, the college kids and the pudgy, fat-faced tourists. Tess points out two guys from a famous hip hop band that I've never heard of, Huey points out an actor from a film I've never seen. Their chatter is filled with who goes where and who stays here, and who knows anyone important. They find out who's in town from the cigar girls, they find out where the best gigs and pool parties are from the hotel concierge. Tess wants to know if any cool record producers are in town, she thinks we might hook up with her manager later. From time to time she asks if anyone's seen a love-sick English guy wandering the streets who looks like he might have amnesia. The answer is always no, but I never get the feeling that they think it's a ludicrous question.

Halfway down the street we settle in at a bar, cooled by the soft ocean breezes. We order a pitcher of Majitos and a bowl of conch fritters that we can share. From time to time a clutch of fas.h.i.+on models sweep past the bar on their way to some fabulous party; freakish-looking women, genetic mutants: long limbed, tanned, and blonde as fairies. Tess checks out every single one. As the rest of us dig into our greasy bar snacks, Tess calculates a beauty rating in her head for each and every woman that walks past us. In an instant she has it all downage, attractiveness, breast size, slimness, nose shape, who has and hasn't had plastic surgery. I imagine her marking them out of ten. The low scorers seem to keep her happy, the high ones leave her reaching for her make-up compact. She dabs at her nose repeatedlyshe's not powdering it exactly, it's more like she's trying to make it smaller or shapelier just by touching it.

'So,' she says, putting her mirror away for the twentieth time. 'This is some cool music, huh?'

Salsa is playing in the hotel bar next door, and beyond that, somewhere in the distance Phil Collins is singing 'Another Day in Paradise'. It has a strange effect on me, this odd musical mix. It begins to make me feel dizzy. The noise the colour, the intensity, the heat, I suddenly feel overloaded. I sit back to catch my breath, close my eyes for a while, try to focus through my Valium haze. When I open my eyes I'm looking upward, staring at the hotel behind us; a pretty white building, deco and elegant, whose facade reminds me of the bow of a s.h.i.+p. Deep inside the lobby, a party blossoms. Wild, chatty voices, light with expensive drink, echo off the walls of the foyer. Upstairs bright bulbs glint on and off in the guest rooms, and up in the penthouses something strange protrudes from the balconies; long, black and phallic, their ends tipped up to the night sky. It takes me a moment to work out what they are.

'Are they...?'

'Telescopes? Yeah. Cute, huh?'

'What are they...what are they for?'

'Beats me...so the guests can look at the cruise s.h.i.+ps, I guess.'

'Have they always been there, these telescopes?'

'Ever since I can remember,' says Tess. 'That hotel has always had telescopes. Only difference from when I first moved here, is that this hotel used to be bright blue.'

The Blue Hotel 'What kind of hotel are you building?'

'I'm not building it. I'm overseeing the renovation.'

'You're painting it?'

'Among other things, yes.'

'Is it as rundown as our house back at home?'

'More so, it's practically a sh.e.l.l.'

I thought about this for a moment. A building like a sh.e.l.l, brittle and empty, just a skeleton frame to hold it up.

'Can I go there one day, can I see it?'

'No.'

'But I'd like to see what it looks like.'

'It's dangerous. Things could fall on you, you might get hurt.'

'I'd wear a hat.'

'We don't have any hard hats that would fit you.'

'What about the one you give to Daniel? His head's not much bigger than mine is. He has a pin head, everybody says so.'

'I don't have a pin head...shut up, Fatso Fatso.'

'You do. And you have weird-shaped ears as well.'

'It's not going to happen, Claire, that's final final. Stop asking, you'd only get in the way.'

I don't think he realised how harsh he sounded. I don't think he realised what he'd said. I felt myself shrinking into my chair, like I suddenly needed to take a pee. My father had one of those large, resonant voices whose volume k.n.o.b only had three settings: off, regular and loud. When he was angry or peeved, like he was after I'd spent the last ten minutes badgering him, it sounded like the honk of a ba.s.soon. And I was was in their way, I could feel it, just by my being there in the kitchen. Mum could barely get past me to empty out the was.h.i.+ng machine; Daniel couldn't get to the cupboard to fetch his cereal. And Dad couldn't shuffle out from behind the breakfast bar without me squeezing my stool tight into the counter top until it knocked all the air out of my stomach. in their way, I could feel it, just by my being there in the kitchen. Mum could barely get past me to empty out the was.h.i.+ng machine; Daniel couldn't get to the cupboard to fetch his cereal. And Dad couldn't shuffle out from behind the breakfast bar without me squeezing my stool tight into the counter top until it knocked all the air out of my stomach.

'So, that's definitely a no, then?' I said, as my father reached up for his file of blueprints.

He didn't reply. He didn't have to.

My father always left for work before the rest of us had properly woken up yet. He was dressed, showered, and halfway through his eggs before we'd had our first gla.s.s of juice, or changed out of our pyjamas. He always wore a serviette when he ate because he sometimes spilt food down his front. By the end of his breakfast his newspaper would bare a tell-tale egg stain, or a translucent b.u.t.ter stain, or a splash mark from the coffee he'd just gulped down to help aggravate his ulcer. Everything my father did was in a hurry. He was a man who always did things in a rush. He ate too quickly. Spoke too soon. He sometimes didn't speak to us at all. He had hair that grew out of his ears and his nose, and a thumb that was crooked from where he once hit it with a hammer. He liked Marx Brothers' films and football and fatty food, and he never forgot the punchline to a decent joke. He was an atheist. A pessimist. A mischievous cynic. I never once saw him wear a suit or tie. Nothing got him down like the winter time. Nothing cheered him up like the spring. He wasn't as bright as we thought he was. He wasn't as ignorant as he feared. He was fiercely, blindly judgemental and blunt. He was generous, affectionate and kind. Sometimes he'd pick us up and kiss our cheeks for no reason, sometimes he'd ignore us all for days. He didn't know why we didn't get him. Couldn't work out why he didn't quite get us. This was his greatest confusion, I think. Open minded as he tried so hard to be to the world, a part of him seemed ever closed to us.

'So what's it like, then?' I said to Daniel.

'It's amazing,' he said. 'It's ten storeys high and it's crumbling, they're going to paint the whole thing bright blue.'

Thanks. Don't play it down, then. Not for my sake.

'It's like somebody set fire to its insides,' he said. 'It smells damp inside, like a cave. They're taking it apart piece by piece and making it s.h.i.+ny and new again. Better than it ever was before.'

'Will it still be the same place?'

'How do you mean?'

'Well if they take all the pieces away and replace them with new ones, if all that's left is the facade. Will it still be the same place, or different?'

'Who knows, Fats? But Dad said I can have a say in the final design.'

'You?'

'Yeah. I'm going to think of something really good. I'll get to choose how big the swimming pool is, or something cool like that. Maybe they could lay a running track around it.'

What a way to bribe your teenage son; the chance to design his own running track. I'd never seen my brother look so excited.

'A running track,' I sniffed. 'That's boring. If he'd asked me I'd have chosen a waterfall, or a lake with alligators in it and tropical fish and...'

'And what?'

I thought for a moment.

'A giant slide.'

'Dad would never go for that.'

'How do you know?'

'I'm telling you, Fats. He just wouldn't.'