Excerpt - Dining at the Table of Ludicrous Good Fortune

Two chapters, each of them illustrating stunts Vespa Draykes pulls to entertain Radford Masters, his billionaire patron.

Vespa unveils his first stunt to his best friend and his patron’s right-hand man. Then it’s straight on to the grand opening of the Museum of Modern Baboon Art (MoMBA).

It’s impossible to suppress my amusement as I lead Jackson and Frederick down the narrow alleyway that leads to the warehouse.

‘Vespa leads the lads astray,’ Frederick says cheerfully, eels of pipe smoke slithering from between his grinning teeth.

I’ve gotten to know him better over the past few weeks and he has let his guard down a little. He’s still the dapper aristocrat, but I’ve had a few glimpses of his curious sense of humour. It’s difficult to define what amuses him. Things Jackson and I have laughed over hearty hard have barely tickled Frederick, yet he’ll chortle to himself for minutes over something as silly as a drunk man stumbling into a lamp post. I have yet to hear him laugh heartily. He appears curious about today’s event: a sneak peak of my first stunt.

As we turn a corner the first strains of shrieking fall upon our ears. Gershwinne stops to listen closely. I usher them on. The shrieking becomes louder as we approach the warehouse entrance. I think it’s now clear that the noises are not human. We enter and they stop dead in their tracks, thunderstruck.

The shrieking emanates from eight baboons that are leaping and slipping and sliding and wrestling over a series of huge canvasses on the floor. A cage of sturdy wire hems in this dance floor. In each corner of the baboon pen is a monochromatic pool of paint – white, yellow, blue, and red – and an assortment of brushes.

‘Baboon art!’ Jackson yells triumphantly, ‘Finally!’

One of the baboons is beating another over the head with a yellow dripping brush. The beaten baboon leaps on his attacker, disarms him and promptly bites the offending brush in half. Frederick starts to laugh. Finally he really laughs. It’s deep and rumbling, punctuated by the odd wheeze. Meanwhile the chaos in the pen swings on unabated. Two swirling baboons slide across in a blur of blue and white. One leaps up and down in the red corner, splattering a (pri)mate nearby that munches on the bristles of a thick brush. The penultimate baboon is doing an alternating roll-jump thing, which makes for a rather pleasing wipe-splat effect, while the final artiste sits absently by, scratching his balls, rendering his scrotum yellow as he waits for his muse.

It’s beautiful. And it won’t harm them. The paint is safe for toddlers to ingest while making a mess in pursuit of formative artistic training, and is thus, as the vet on standby assures us, also baboon-friendly. When our savage artists are done, they’ll be hosed down with warm, hypoallergenic soap water by our vet and the South African baboon wrangler. We’ve done everything by the book so we can pacify the rabid animal rights activists who are bound to come scampering after us.

‘Ooooh, I love baboons…’ Jackson enthuses.

‘I hate baboons,’ Frederick wheezes, still laughing, ‘But I love this!’

‘Where d’you get them?’ Jackson asks.

‘A game farm near Cape Town.’

‘Beautiful baboons from Africa.’

‘I knew you’d approve.’

Gershwinne and I became fascinated with baboons a few years ago and baboon art came to me in a primal flash of inspiration last year when I came across an old story from Life Magazine about Congo, a chimp whose art made minor waves in the sixties art world. I imagined that baboon art would be fiercer, more aggressively expressive than the mannered kindergarten style of Congo. From what I can see coming together on the canvasses before me, this is absolutely the case. Frederick is now shaking silently and wiping a tear from his left eye. Gersh remains transfixed by the baboon blitz.

‘Where to from here? A high profile art auction?’

‘Way better than that, Gersh. They’re getting their own museum.’

He wheels around and grips my shoulders urgently.

‘Brilliant! What do we call it?’

‘The Museum of Modern Baboon Art.’

It’s around eight p.m. on a balmy Thursday night and it’s so far so good at the gala opening of The Museum of Modern Baboon Art, or MoMBA. It’s MoMA with a primal B(eat). I’ve taken a two-year lease on a late-Victorian bathhouse in Hackney. Despite having been boarded up for decades, the bathhouse is in surprisingly good repair and the imperfections that years of dereliction have wrought add depth to the venue, imbuing it with the same rough and ready charm one instantly recognises in a baboon. The endless tiled surfaces are also sublimely practical when it comes to hosing down the artists in residence. The aesthetic mood I was after is gritty urban art punk meets Darwinian specimen hunter/collector/displayer. Baboon art demands a sense of gravitas and veneration, so I want a museum rather than a mere gallery. To this end we hired two of London’s top curators to work with some of the city’s most promising young designers. Despite being given only ten weeks to complete their work, the outcome is arresting. Money can’t buy me love but it can compensate for much of what time takes away. The experience of MoMBA is unsettling yet familiar, at once outrageous and inspired, anarchic yet refined.

Comrade Jackson has outdone himself in yanking a mighty fine one from his fez: drawing on his film contacts, he’s conjured a few A-list celebrities to grace our opening.  A few minutes ago Jim Patterson, somehow still alive after his notorious excesses of the late 60s and 70s, raised a glass to me with a slight bow of his head; not explicit praise but in addition to the nod and toast I’m taking the sly smile and eyebrows arched diabolically over his ever-present shades as approval. When Jackson challenged me to come up with a list of Hollywood invitees that I thought would enjoy MoMBA, Jim Patterson’s name was one of the first that came to mind. It would be great fun to get him in on a gag if my mad new assignment were to spin me into his orbit somehow. In addition to being the oldest star in Hollywood still considered sexy, he’s also the ultimate trickster.

But enough of tomorrow for today. It’s time to focus on Billy Sparks who’s considering bidding on some of the works up for auction. Having been regularly voted the hottest/coolest male on screen and having dated many of the hottest/most unattainable females on the planet, he’s latterly expanded his flawless indie repertoire by starring in one of the many comic book franchises, which has catapulted him from former bad-boy and auteur directors’ favourite into box office gold. Thankfully his dress has not gone mainstream and he still sports the gypsy bohemian look he made his own long before tattoos went mainstream. His unkempt, shoulder-length hair is light brown and on the greasy side.

Jackson slides up from behind a waiter with a Martini.

‘Hey, Billy,’ he says cheerily.

‘Jackson…’ Sparks says absently, engrossed in a large canvas of furious red and yellow smear- and splat-work. The words ‘Congo wozza pussy’ are emblazoned across the work in inexpertly rendered blue letters.

‘Congo was that chimp artist?’

‘He was not an artist, Billy. He was a meek chimp. A doodler… insipid in his mediocrity.’

I can’t believe I’m saying this kind of stuff to this kind of person. Handing me the drink, Gershwinne joins in.

‘Baboon ensemble work is stronger, more visceral’ he says, ‘and is born of baboon passion, which is the most passionate passion there is.’

‘Of course,’ Billy Sparks replies, eyes still on the work, his voice thick with scepticism. He raises an arm towards the painted proclamation that Congo wozza pussy.

‘And you’ve taught them to write I see.’

‘Or course,’ I assure him with some fervour. ‘Baboon upliftment is a central tenet of MoMBA. Lucius’ spelling needs improvement though, so we’ve increased his weekly literacy modules.’

‘You guys are funny,’ Sparks deadpans. He looks me straight in the eyes and I suddenly feel like a stranded extra in one of his films. ‘I mean it. This must all be very entertaining for you.’

From behind his black horn-rimmed spectacles, those big grey eyes of his bore into mine. His angular face is set stern and is not amused.

Fuck.

A surge of panic weakens my knees.

Since childhood I’ve battled anxiety brought on by Impostor Syndrome. Standing here now in a museum for baboon art and selling it to A-list celebrities, there’s a better reason than ever to feel it. No matter what I’ve achieved in overcoming the adversity of being alone in the world, I invariably feel unworthy and that my position is precarious. At any moment I may be caught out, impertinently attempting to operate above my station. Orphans are the ultimate impostors.

To my relief Sparks breaks into a grin and playfully slap-pats my face. The heavy silver rings on his fingers catch my left cheekbone but the pain is sweet relief.

‘It’s a great gag,’ he declares. ‘And somehow…’ He peers up at the walls a tad theatrically, ‘Your primate fiends have created something pleasing to the eye. I may just bid on it.’

With that he propels himself towards his magnificent Venezuelan wife who is grimacing her way through a tedious interaction with a fawning tabloid editor. Gersh is working hard to suppress his delight.

‘Oh, Curte, this is the life. Selling paradigm-shifting baboon art to Billy Sparks.’

‘Fucking crazy.’

‘Walk with me to the Baboon Box. You’ve got an interview with an art correspondent from CNN. A number of people have asked me why we’re only auctioning ten pieces.’

‘Because this is a museum and not a commercial gallery,’ I tell him, ‘and we must think about the legacy of MoMBA.’

‘Absolutely, slash/ baboons have waited millennia for their own museum.’

We arrive at the Baboon Box, which is a glass cube all a-bounce with technicoloured baboons. Since we’re in polite company the cube has been soundproofed, but not too much. One can still hear muted shrieking when the party takes one of those unexpected dips in volume.

‘Mr Draykes?’ A voice that sounds like the pushy sell side of the Manhattan rental market.

‘Vespa.’ I tell her. She’s about sixty, short, rotund and confronts me with the face of one of Lautrec’s homelier showgirls. Her feet are stuffed into stilettos, the heels of which are in for a heavy night. 

‘Gwyneth Dorfman. Fabulous to meet you,’ she lies through a weathered purse of lips. She gives my hand the two-handed clutch. For the umpteenth time I have a camera-mounted flamethrower of hot light upon me. I stand sweating quietly by as one of the crew mics me up.

‘Let’s start shall we?’

‘I’d be deliriously happy if we did.’

She scowls a little and turns to the camera.

‘I’m here in London’s funky East End, at the hottest art event of the year…’

‘Hottest of the year? But it’s only July.’

She’s stumped for a moment, catches herself and gives me an off-key laugh.

‘Oh, Vespa,’ she brays, ‘modesty is unnecessary for art mavericks such as yourself.’

‘Quite.’

‘Behind me is the performance art section of this fascinating exhibit, where a tribe of baboons…’ She looks at me plaintively. ‘That’s not right is it? It’s not a tribe…’

‘You must brush up on your collective nouns, Gwyneth. Tribe is wrong, verging on pejorative. It’s a council of baboons.’

Again with the laugh. She turns to face the camera.

‘Behind me a council of baboons is engaged in what… what looks like… a primeval art clash. All the work around us is created in this way… by the smash of painted monkey on painted monkey and by painted monkey on canvas.’

‘How elegantly put! Mind if I use that?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘I’d rather not, but I’m here nonetheless.’

This throws her off pleasingly; she decides it’ll be safest to just pile through with the interview. I have no intention of it lasting more than another minute or so.

‘I see that in addition to the abstract work by baboons, there are also a few paintings of baboons by human artists.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’

‘Yes.’ She smiles and her eyelids quiver.

‘Why?’

‘Why.’ The smile is trapped in gritted teeth.

‘Oh, because at this stage our baboons are incapable of creating self-portraits. And since MoMBA would not be complete without work featuring baboons, we’ve commissioned some of their human colleagues. Supporting human artists is important too.’

‘Hmmm… how do you go about selecting the human artists?’

‘We work with homo sapiens whose work conveys a sense of baboonness. Only the very best come close, those able to channel their inner baboon.’

She raises an eyebrow at me. That was probably a step too far.

‘How would you class the baboons’ art, stylistically speaking?’

‘It’s Jackson Pollock being subjected to a brutal polka by King Kong. At the roller derby.’

‘Ok…’ she says looking thoughtfully at a work to her left

‘It’s art made in the passion of fury… by baboons… or of baboons…’ I lean into her and smile sweetly, ‘...for baboons.’

She frowns and steps backwards against the side of the cube. At this precise moment a pair of whirling baboons smashes into the glass. She shrieks, not unlike one of the artists, and falls to earth courtesy of a heel that is grateful to snap at last. Her cameraman waits a few beats too long before moving in to help her.

And just as I’m wondering how to clean up after this little fiasco I see her: Astrid on the arm of a bearded somebody in a cream linen suit, fedora and Lennonesque sunglasses lensed light blue. Who the fuck is that? I peer down at the crumpled journalist at my feet.

‘Sorry, darling, I simply must dash. I do hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.’

I spin on a heel and head for Astrid, who appears somewhat disapproving. Mr Fedora Beard is just a fuzzy image to the left of her.

‘Astrid, how good of you to join us.’

‘Vespa, don’t you think you should have helped her up?’

Shit. That would have been a much better idea than bounding over like a puppy.

‘You’re right, I should’ve been a better host.’

I look back to where Gwyneth Dorfman fell. She’s hissing at her cameraman who is kneeling next to her in hysterics with the heelless shoe in his limp right hand. She’s attempting to balance on the other foot while trying to kick him with her heelless trotter. There’s a froth of malice dancing on the whispering lips of those who are delighted, as he is, to see her plummet from grace.

‘Hilarious, Vespa. Very funny.’

Jesus.

Shock spikes icicles in my veins. The voice that issues forth from below the blue spectacles is my Masters’. He doesn’t sound overly amused. Given his loathing for personal publicity I was not expecting to see him here. But here he is. And I saw only Astrid. Yes, he’s in disguise, but my eyes were on her alone. I played that like a fool. Best to take the initiative.

‘Nice disguise, sire,’ I whisper as I lead him towards a quieter part of the gallery. A few flashbulbs blink to our moves.

‘Thank you, Vespa,’ his voice is warmer now, ‘I’ve been growing it since you announced the date of your simian soirée.’

A cool hand takes my arm. It’s Astrid and I’m now strolling slowly between them.

‘Vespa, inhospitable side show aside, congratulations. The museum is beautiful. And weird. Fascinating really. Who would have thought baboon art could be so visually arresting?’ She gives me her slightly asymmetrical smile. It demands an echo so I smile back.

‘I’m happy you like MoMBA. Even if at the moment the critic is outperforming the artists.’

‘Perhaps you should go back and help her.’

‘Um… Jackson will sort it out.’ I’m being distrAstrid again and better get back to the boss. ‘It falls to me to present your man with our collection. Perhaps he’ll bid on some.’

‘I would have thought I own it all already, Vespa.’

His voice is cool and measured. My heart takes a cold cold bath.  Astrid looks up at him a little nervously as he eyeballs a canvas before him. Time to start the backpedal dance.

‘But of course. All yours… Except… for the few on auction.’

‘Sure, those must go to the highest bidder,’ he pauses and looks at me mildly. Perhaps he’s done rattling the bars of my cage. ‘The museum and its proceeds are yours, Vespa. The entertainment gleaned from all this is mine. I’ll pick one out as a souvenir.’

He turns languidly and ambles deeper into the museum. Astrid gives me a conspiratorial phew! face, winks and skips on behind Masters, taking his hand and giving him a big kiss on the cheek. He’s standing posture perfect before a canvas ablaze in a roar of dirty pink and yellow. Astrid has cuddled herself around his long frame. I’m fizzing frustrated at having disappointed her and by letting myself get dazzled by Masters’ woman. This boyish behaviour is unlike me and is bound to do me no favours. I’ve never believed in love at first sight and I don’t know what this is, but I’ve got something and got it bad. Perhaps being a Pisces makes me more vulnerable to instant love when the first sighting occurs in water. And perhaps she’s not a mermaid but a Siren.

Vespa appears on a TV talk show to promote Miloney, his baloney milk product.

In the green room I’m clammy apprehensive about my interview on Fred Trevor Tonight. As much as I would have liked to believe it was inevitable to appear on his hallowed talk show, I wouldn’t have dreamed that I would be here within a year of having been given a seat at the Table of Ludicrous Good Fortune. Fred Trevor is on his last televised legs after having been an institution for decades. Fortunately for me he’s generally one of the more affable hosts out there; unfortunately for me he’s tenacious when he smells a rat and Miloney certainly has a murine odour. An attractive but highly strung production assistant grins at me through clenched teeth. I send a sip of my whisky to a place that I hope will instil some calm in me.

‘Five minutes, Mr Draykes,’ she grimaces.

‘Give me six and it’s a deal.’

She’s not amused and shuffles off in steps calculated to deliver her from A to B as fast as possible without expending unnecessary energy.

I’m bone tired. More weary than at any other point in this game. While I’ve succeeded in beefing up my resistance to criticism and media attack, something new occupies my fretting mind. More and more regularly my insecurities have been turning to Masters. My doppelganger patron is a vague shadow on an overcast day, trailing me at times, at other times not. I’ve not seen him since our meeting at MoMBA and haven’t heard from him in over a month. While the feeling has intensified lately, it’s been there from the beginning – I’m at the end of a hook, a lure lightly perched on the meniscus of a stream, biding uncertain time before being whipped off without warning, only to be dispatched somewhere else with a diffident flick of the wrist. On the one hand, I enjoy the freedom to get on with my games unfettered; the other hand, however, slaps me with a cold new metaphor – I’m being allowed to run only as far as the end of an unseen leash, oblivious to the gag-throttle only centimetres away.

Ice jingles numbly on the end of my nose as the last of my watered-down whisky flees the scene. I presume that my patron is auditing the financial performance of my work, which should (I think) satisfy him at this stage. MOMBA will be self-sustaining for at least another year. Any proceeds after balancing the books and closing the museum in the future will be mine. But that’s potential future income and I’m trying not to dwell on that and focus instead on Masters’ directive to entertain him and not become a businessman.

That said, Miloney has played out just peachy for me. Two weeks ago I called time on manufacture and distribution. This week all marketing ceases – just before the majority of the American market realizes that Miloney is indeed just foul-tasting processed meat milk in a sexy can. (Our marketing campaign entreated patience because the acquired taste of Miloney ‘like the great American West, wasn’t won in a day.’) I was expecting to lose a few million on the prank but was gleefully surprised to see strong sales erupting all over the interior of the US following the launch of the campaign featuring Betsy-Lou and Chip. Some of Masters’ finance people helped me with projections and my exit from the market. As of today I’m about $2 million in the black. And that money is all mine. So now I’m a millionaire in my own right but somehow the money seems entirely abstract. The fact that at this point I have absolutely no need for money at the moment probably has something to do with it.

‘Mr Draykes, you’re up.’

A make-up woman darts in front of me and gives me a final powderdusting. Breathe in deeply through my nose as I’m ushered into the studio. Fred Trevor walks towards me; having only ever seen him sitting on TV it’s strange to see him in motion. He looks older in person than on screen and his bald head appears a size or two too big for his small, stooped frame. His handshake is a firm one from the fifties.

‘Hello, Mr Trevor.’

‘Fred. Mr Draykes.’

‘Vespa.’

‘Welcome, Vespa.’

He’s looking at me quizzically and I’m trying to determine whether he’s mildly amused or slightly affronted behind those big spectacles of his.

‘We’ll be live soon. Have a seat, I’ll be back.’

He strides off briskly, leaving me alone in the studio I’ve watched countless interviews play out in. I take my seat. Hands clammy and skin feels dry and itchy. I’m relieved that on this show there’s never a live studio audience. The imperceptible buzz of the studio burns the nerves a little more. Thank sweet baby Jesus this won’t be a very long interview. Around eight minutes or so.

He’s back and we’re on.

‘Welcome back. I’m joined by Vespa Draykes, the man behind Miloney, the…’ he pauses to chuckle, ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this… the baloney milk product… that’s been causing a stir across the United States. Good evening, Vespa.’

‘Hello, Fred.’

‘I’m gonna launch straight in here, Vespa. Miloney. What were you thinking?’

‘I was thinking baloney and milk. And a snazzy can for it to live in.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s what I thought.’

‘But it tastes terrible.’

‘Not if you have a taste for baloney.’

‘Do you drink it?’

‘Not often.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because I don’t like milk.’

He smiles and leans back, smoothing down his loud, thick-knotted tie, before leaning in towards me.

 ‘Do you stand behind the quality of your product?’

I think about this for a few seconds and answer, ‘Not necessarily.’

‘No?’

‘No. Sometimes I stand in front of it.’

He’s not particularly amused by that one.

‘Well… we’re going to do a little live experiment here, Vespa. And from what I’ve seen of this Miloney… phenomenon… I think you enjoy a little game. Are you prepared to put your Miloney where your mouth is?’

I can see where this is going. And I dig it. Dig it deep.

‘Only if you’re prepared to put my Miloney where your questions come from, Fred.’

I beam at him. This is going to be good television.

‘I think I’m going to regret this,’ he sighs. ‘Bring it out…’ He leans back in his chair, folds his arms and appraises me once again. A faceless personage brings out a can of Miloney and two glasses.

‘Have you ever tried Miloney, Fred?’

‘No. Never appealed to me.’

‘You’ll love it. But,’ I wag a pedagogic finger at him, ‘I am disappointed that you didn’t do your research.’

I pick up the can and start shaking it.

‘May I do the honours?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘I am your guest.’

The can is warm, which makes it taste worse. Way worse. They may know this and want to give me the ultimate taste of my own medicine, but now Fred’s going down for it. I know how to drink my Miloney and show no discomfort; it’s hard to fake enjoying it, but the performance has a better chance of succeeding if you’re not gagging. The trick is to take small sips and swallow them quickly, that way you don’t end up with pearl overload.

I divide the contents of the can between our glasses. Fred peers with horror into his.

‘This is disgusting. This… colour. What colour is this?’

‘I call it sunset on an overcast day.’

He just looks at me. I try again.

‘It’s a grey shade of pink.’

‘Why is it this colour?’

‘Because that’s its unadulterated, natural state. We use only the finest baloney and real milk - no artificial colourants.’

I turn to the camera with the blinking red eye and smile like a used car salesman. 

‘I think I would have preferred some colourants. Get the camera in here.’ He puts down his glass. ‘See the little chunks in there… I presume that’s the baloney.’

‘We call those the pearls, Fred. Pure baloney, every last one.’

‘How true. Pearls before swine, Vespa?’ He gives me a meaningful look.

‘That’s very good, Fred.’

‘Ok, let’s do this before I lose my nerve.’

He holds up his glass and sneers at it as if there’s a tadpole swimming laps in his champagne. ‘How much do we drink?’

‘Well, how much were you going to make me drink, Larry?’

‘The whole thing.’

This interview is on the home straight.

‘Then we share the whole thing,’ I raise my glass in a toast, ‘Bottoms up.’

I drink in rapid shallow sips, peering along my nose and past the glass to see Larry taking the opposite route – draining his in long gulps. Bad idea. He finishes three seconds before I do. As I take a long, deep breath through my nose I can tell, from the knitted brow and snarl prowling his face, that Fred Trevor is working very hard to keep nature’s gag response under control.

‘You see?’ I manage to smile, ‘It’s delicious! Don’t you think?’

‘No.’

‘Fred?’

‘It’s…’

He stuffs a burp into a clenched fist and gags audibly. His red eyes swim behind a film of nausea as he clenches his fists and gasps for air.

‘We’re gonna… take. A break. While I… try to… Good night, Vespa.’

‘Thank you, Fred.’ I can’t resist keeping him a little while longer. ‘It’s been good to be here… and a rare honour to share a Miloney with you. I’m just sorry that it’s unlikely to become your drink of choice.’

We shake hands and as soon as the show goes to commercials Fred Trevor lurches offstage and finally surrenders to the alimentary uprising in his belly, heaving into the wastepaper bin being held gingerly by the highly-strung production assistant. She glares at me as he takes the bin from her and vomits his way to the darker recesses of the set.

I suddenly feel very alone. Most eyes on set are looking at me and they do not look impressed. Somewhat clumsily I begin to meander towards where I think the green room was. Fantastic Frederick appears out of the ink behind the blazing lights to guide me from the studio with a steady hand.

‘Vespa. I am hysterical inside but propriety demands I keep it under wraps. You’re off to see Masters.’

‘Fuck. Now?’ The Miloney is spinning cartwheels in my gut and this news magnifies the nausea. I might need a good vommie too.

‘Now. But you’ll enjoy the ride.’ 

Without my even asking, Fantastic Frederick navigates me to a toilet where I gratefully expel the Miloney from my system. Five minutes, a mint and two pieces of gum later my guts feel a bit better as we enter the basement parking lot. My mind is racing over the prospect of having to see Masters. Now.

I look for a waiting car. There is none.

‘How am I getting there?’

‘With me.’ Frederick marches down a line of cars and disappears behind a pillar. I’m not in the mood for intrigue. I hear what sounds like a sewing machine gagging to life and am confronted with the preposterous image of the Easter Island mass of Frederick teetering towards me on a scooter.

‘Not a fuck.’

‘I thought it fitting for you to exit on a Vespa.’

‘I’m not riding with you on that… that! I can’t. It’s barely big enough for you on your own! Where’s you car?’

My voice has risen petulantly and he counters with a stern and stormy look.

‘Don’t own a car here. This is better for Manhattan traffic. And simmer down, Vespa. Playing Betsy-Lou doesn’t become you… You know as well as I that there’s no question of your not meeting Masters when he calls. And I hope for your sake you don’t take this snarky tone with him.’

He pauses to look a little sadly at his feet, then stoops over to buff a scuff mark on the toe of his Church’s brogue.

‘Have I ever failed you?’ he asks softly, looking me deep in the eye.

Effectively castigated, but still an irritable bowel post vindaloo, I wedge myself onto the seat behind him. We skittle off shakily. I see tomorrow’s newspaper headline gloating: Trickster Meets Ignominious End on Eponymous Scooter.

We exit onto the street and have been driving only two or three blocks when Frederick pulls over.

‘What now?’

‘This is as far as I’m going.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you don’t have a helmet. And I told you that you’d enjoy the trip.’

Over my shoulder a meaty stew of engine noise signals better things to come. He gives me a smile I don’t deserve, his picket plank teeth made brilliant by xenon headlights behind me, and buzzes off. I turn around to see the squat forward profile of a pearlescent Bentley Continental GT oozing towards me.

A typical Masters moment: from teetering scooter ride to Bentley in seconds. But, despite being the ringleader, I am not in control of the circus.

She sidles up to me and I obediently tug on the door handle before me.

Attached to a long lithe leg probing the accelerator is Astrid. I swing low into the sweet chariot and turn to face her. She leans over and kisses my cheek in greeting. There’s a honey jangle of gold coins in the pocket of my soul.    

‘Hello, Vespa.’

‘Astrid.’ is all I can muster.

‘You look a little lost. Like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I dive into her cobalt eyes.

‘I’ve just seen the ghost of Christmases to come.’

I pray that the rosy tone ripening over her cheekbones might be a blush.

‘Shall we?’ she asks.

Astrid teases the throttle and the Bentley answers for us both. She gives me arched eyebrows and puts her foot down, catapulting us forward in a roar of gargling lava.

I’m grappling with the hold this woman has on me. She turns my guts to goo every time. I can no more fight it than fathom it. Yes, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, so there is that, but it’s more than that too. There’s a deeper magnificence to her, a warm soul flickers through her windows.

‘How was the interview?’

‘I’m not sure. Amusing for some, offensive for others, I guess.’

‘The way of Vespa Draykes.’ Cut adrift as I am in the greedy streets of Manhattan, her neutral London accent is comforting.

‘It appears so.’

‘I look forward to seeing it. I was in a bar in the Meatpacking District and couldn’t convince them to put it on one of their screens.’

‘I’m flattered you tried.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘Ok. But maybe just a little.’

She smiles, gears down and Velcro-slings us around a corner.

‘Are we going to Masters’?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

I hope we never get there. Seal me in aspic now.

‘You ok?’ She glances over at me.

‘I don’t feel ready to face him now. I’m all at sea.’

‘You’ll be just fine, sailor.’

I don’t feel fine. I’m anxious and shallow-tight of breath. Simply being stings. I’m totally unprepared to meet my maker, and to make matters worse, I’m irredeemably in love with his woman.

‘I hate to put you in this position,’ I begin meekly, ‘but can you give me a steer on how Masters thinks I’ve been doing? Should I be worried?’

‘Vespa, I don’t know. He doesn’t discuss business with me. And although your job is entertainment, you’re still business.’

She suddenly stops the car and momentum has me mounting the dashboard. She looks deep into my eyes; hers are starting to well up.

‘He doesn’t really talk to me. Although I might like to think so, I don’t think we’ve ever really been in a relationship.’ She turns away and gazes somewhere over the steering wheel. ‘He’s not one for such primitive arrangements. I fear my days with him are numbered.’

‘I’m sorry, Astrid.’

Her unexpected confession fills me with roughly equal doses of sympathy and hope. A tear that glimmers green slithers down her silver cheek. She drives on.

‘Perhaps,’ I venture, ‘you’re reading too much into his eccentricities…’

What a stupid thing to say when living on planet Masters. We are united in insecurity in the face of his eccentricities. She doesn’t have the energy to contradict me, just gives me a wan smile. Even the Bentley seems lethargic now. For a moment or two I allow myself to be distracted by the spectral dance of our bluewhite beams across the onyx windows of Midtown. All is quiet. Almost meditatively so. As I would an injured butterfly flailing in water, I rescue with a finger the tear that is dangling on the edge of her chin. I can’t resist putting it to my lips.