Part 33 (1/2)
”But that's just it,” I persist. ”If I write this thing, you'll be able to apologise and explain it to everyone... everyone...”
”No,” he frowns. ”Not in the way you're hoping. Oh, a few people might say, All right, well, fair enough, then'-and instantly forget about it. But it'll just mean more embarra.s.sment for me, and the whole thing'll rise to the surface again.”
”But ...”
”And there are others involved.”
It's this last bit that shuts me up. Call me slow on the uptake, but for the first time I have the slightest idea where he's going after all this.
”But you,” he states, pointing at me, ”are probably one of the only people left who it genuinely means means something to.” something to.”
He opens his chequebook again, and starts to write.
”Look, Lance-”
”Geoff,” he corrects me again, not looking up.
”Sorry, Geoff ... I don't think I can-”
”Clive, listen to me. One of the old songs just got licensed for a big advert in America. Ten grand is roughly what I'll get, and it may sound insane, but that's ten grand I don't want want. It'll be a reminder of a past life, hanging around like a bad smell. And also ... well, there are other reasons why I don't want it. It's a single R in Beresford, isn't it?”
”Um ... yeah, but ...”
”Plus, you have have earned it,” he nods, ”running around like a t.w.a.t for the last few months, listening to me prattle on today. Oh, and the work you did on earned it,” he nods, ”running around like a t.w.a.t for the last few months, listening to me prattle on today. Oh, and the work you did on Sainsbury Sid Sainsbury Sid, and who knows what'll happen with that?”
b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Sid the fly. I'd almost completely forgotten.
”So ... you take this,” he breezes, flinging over the mammoth cheque, ”and you b.l.o.o.d.y well sort yourself out sort yourself out. You're a f.u.c.king good writer. You should be doing something with it ... other than hankering after ex-indie pop stars.”
I gaze down at the row of zeros in the box, and look back up at him.
”I still don't understand why you're giving me this.”
”For f.u.c.k's sake, Clive, don't make me spell it out to you-I'll miss my b.l.o.o.d.y plane.”
I can't help but continue to wordlessly gape at him.
”You don't get it, do you? Cast your mind back. I was at my f.u.c.king wits' end in ninety-six. My career was f.u.c.ked, my girl was thousands of miles away with a child I hadn't even met ... didn't even know what gender gender it was ... my b.l.o.o.d.y dad was dying of cancer and I was surrounded by people laughing at me and calling me a c.o.c.k. It often felt like you were the it was ... my b.l.o.o.d.y dad was dying of cancer and I was surrounded by people laughing at me and calling me a c.o.c.k. It often felt like you were the only person on my side.” only person on my side.”
I try to respond, but only a feeble croak emerges.
”Gloria started to send me cuttings. Bits and pieces you were doing, a word of encouragement, a letter of support. The way you asked people to write in with their thoughts, gig memories, favourite B-sides ... it all reached me. Yours was the only British review of Commercial Suicide Commercial Suicide that understood what I was trying to do, and appreciated the f.u.c.king state I was in ... I was almost ready to give up songwriting that understood what I was trying to do, and appreciated the f.u.c.king state I was in ... I was almost ready to give up songwriting entirely entirely before I saw that. Then when things before I saw that. Then when things really really started to deteriorate ... well, man, you practically pulled me in from the edge of a building. The things you shouted to me at BFM ... this may sound unbelievable, but ... f.u.c.k it, they actually started to deteriorate ... well, man, you practically pulled me in from the edge of a building. The things you shouted to me at BFM ... this may sound unbelievable, but ... f.u.c.k it, they actually calmed calmed me. No me. No way way was I going quietly into that police van before you appeared!” was I going quietly into that police van before you appeared!”
If I wasn't sitting down I probably would've fallen over. I'm waiting for the moment when he says, ”Nah, only winding you up,” and rips the cheque in two.
”But how did you know that was me me?” is all I manage to ask.
”Well ... that's the strange thing. I didn't didn't actually know it was Clive Beresford for years, until your note came through the door. That line you wrote at the bottom,” he says, opening the sc.r.a.p of paper again, ”'You've done so much.'” actually know it was Clive Beresford for years, until your note came through the door. That line you wrote at the bottom,” he says, opening the sc.r.a.p of paper again, ”'You've done so much.'”
”Ugh. Cheesy.”
”Maybe,” he concedes. ”But distinctive.”
I look back at him, a c.o.c.ktail of nausea and b.u.t.terflies careering around within my torso. I need an extra hour with him, plus a secretary to transcribe all this hair-raising stuff just in case I convince myself I've dreamed it. And I need a drink. A waitress pa.s.ses with a couple of beers and I seriously consider lunging for one of them.
”So then this note shows up,” Webster continues, ”at a time like this ...”
”A time like what?”
”A time when I'm making some major changes to my life,” he responds, in a manner that forbids further prying. ”The note comes through the door, and I realise there's some unfinished business.”
”Are you seriously telling me,” I frown, ”that if I'd simply walked up to you on the high street and said, 'Hi, I'm Clive Beresford. Can we talk?'-you would have said yes?”
He sighs.
”Probably.”
I let out a little moan and bury my face in my hands, marvelling at the untold pointlessness of everything that's happened to me since that Sat.u.r.day in April. The time, the expense, the job, the stress, the lies. Some of which aren't directly connected to Webster, of course, but it certainly feels like it's all part of the same sorry spiral. I look up after a minute, and to my amazement he's actually laughing.
”But hey,” he grins. ”It was so much more fun more fun doing it this way ... wasn't it?” doing it this way ... wasn't it?”
Once again, words have deserted me.
We sit there for a while longer, batting the various absurdities of the last couple of months to and fro. I'd be quite content to remain here for the rest of the day, but I'm suddenly all too aware that my final seconds with Lance Webster are approaching. That age-old ”if you were stuck in a lift with anyone” rubbish pops into my head, and I rack my brains for something I might spend the next few years regretting I'd missed my chance to ask. Finally, he stands to go.
”One last question,” I demand.
”You're getting your money's worth, aren't you? Okay, hurry.”
”Why d'you think they all turned on you?”
He looks up at the ceiling, gives a quick hoot of laughter and claps his hands.
”Oh, f.u.c.k it, Clive, I dunno. It was our time. We were stubborn, we weren't going away. I think every journo and industry k.n.o.b expected The Social Trap The Social Trap to bomb, and when it didn't ... they all just thought enough was enough. We simply didn't fit with what was going on. And also ... oh, I suppose I'd made some enemies over the years. Said the wrong thing, slagged the wrong band, insulted the wrong writer, f.u.c.ked the wrong girl. So I guess it was a mult.i.tude of revenges. But I'm over it.” to bomb, and when it didn't ... they all just thought enough was enough. We simply didn't fit with what was going on. And also ... oh, I suppose I'd made some enemies over the years. Said the wrong thing, slagged the wrong band, insulted the wrong writer, f.u.c.ked the wrong girl. So I guess it was a mult.i.tude of revenges. But I'm over it.”
”Really?”
”Yeah ... just. Listen, man, gotta go.”
I wave the cheque at him feebly.
”You know, I'm really not sure I can take this.”
”Don't be a pillock,” he snaps. ”Take it. To be frank, it's either you or the Inland f.u.c.king Revenue. But remember-exclusive rights. Not a soul.”
”Okay,” I respond, feeling that only a total moron would argue with a deal like this. ”Thanks,” I add unsteadily.