Martin Amis. The Rachel Papers

‘Not really.’ I heard her stifle a yawn. ‘A friend invited him for the weekend.’

She stressed ‘weekend’ on the first syllable. DeForest’s influence. I turned, smiling.

That means you can come to a film tonight. La Rupture is on at the Classic.’

She closed her eyes and nodded, seemingly in regret. I stole a worried kiss.

Suddenly there was clamour from the direction of the stairs, as if a victorious Cup Final team were running down them. Rachel and I had only just enough time to sit up and look startled and guilty before the door swung open. Norman’s beachball head loomed over us. It ignored Rachel.

‘Come on. Upstairs. Your dad’s here.’

‘What? Here?’

‘Yeah, come on.’ He turned to leave.

‘Look, Norman, slow down,’ I said. ‘Can’t you tell him I’m ill or something, or out? What the hell’s he doing here, anyway?’ I was making little allowance for Rachel’s presence, having explained to her that my sister had gone and married, quite unaccountably, this mad cockney – perfectly harmless, something of a character, totally off his head of course, don’t be alarmed by anything he says or does, and so on.

‘No, you’ve got to come up. Jenny said. She thinks I’ll nut him or something unless you’re there. This Rachel?’ He looked her up and down in insolent appraisal.

‘Yes. Rachel, this is Norman.’

‘Hi,’ said Rachel chirpily. She had sat up, arms wrapped round her knees.

‘Tsuh.’ Norman threw his eyebrows and head back with disgust or envy – I couldn’t tell which. Nor could I tell how anyone could be so offensive and give so little offence.

‘Come on, then,’ he said, ‘both of you.’ He frowned and gestured towards the door encouragingly. ‘His tart’s here, too,’ he added, as if they had arrived independently.

‘You mean his mistress?’

Half after: right Charlie

A moment ago mother came in and asked me if I wanted any supper. I said no, of course, and added that I would appreciate not being disturbed again. That sort of thing can put you right off your stride. Now I have to lie on the bed for a few minutes and let the solitude gather round me once more.

I assumed that for all her social varnish Rachel must have been feeling rather overwhelmed, so I was relieved when we were hailed outside the kitchen door by an unkempt, hurriedly made-up Jenny. She was making a big tea. I introduced them, and Rachel immediately started to help, assembling trays, grilling toast, transferring milk and sugar into genteel containers.

‘What does he think he’s doing here?’ I asked.

‘Gosh,’ said Jenny. ‘Norman must be up there. Oh Charles, do go up.’

I wanted to know how long they’d be. Jenny said not long. I disappeared.

My father, arms folded and needly legs crossed, was at the far end of the room. To my right: a small blonde in white shirt and black velvet trouser-suit. To my left: Norman, back to the window, in brick-jawed relish of the uncomfortable silence.

Gordon Highway was startled but, all in all, quite pleased to see me. He stood up and held out an arm towards his tart. She was called Vanessa Arnold. I leaned down and shook her jewelled hand. Vanessa was a midget, and had a drawn, over-tanned face, but she wasn’t unattractive.

‘No, I don’t believe we have met.’ I sat down beside her.

‘Yes, I was just telling Norman here,’ said my father in a declamatory voice, ‘Vanessa has just flown in from New York.

It’s topping ninety there! It’s hot, dirty, expensive, bad-tempered – the blacks are going crazy, everyone’s striking, the students are restless again…’ He laughed. ‘What a God-awful country!’

He continued, exchanging the odd political or ecological platitude with Vanessa, until the deliverance of ‘Ah, here we are.’ The girls placed both trays on the drinks-table between the windows. I introduced Rachel, with some pride.

My father told Jenny and Rachel what he had just been telling Norman and Charles here. Rachel said she had been there the year before … oh really? lot worse now what’s going to happen mugging Nixon riots Central Park pollution even in the day-time.

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