I pull myself together to leave the hotel again. It’s the day of my big date with Uncle Stephen, and I decide to go for a light, salad-based brunch, after bringing up what I can of yesterday’s carbs. My throat is raw. I don’t want to eat on my own, so I go to text a friend then realise I don’t have any of those. Sera is busy when I ask, so I’m just like… great.
I eat alone at the Breakfast Club, where I accidentally order a full English. I drown it in ketchup and brown sauce, and my stomach screams at me for filling it with carbs and grease and other hard-to-digest things, which I know are going to rip through my colon like a bullet. I feel like there’s something sharp, and crunchy, in my mouth. Something sharp; I spit it into my palm, but all I get is a chewed lump of white bacon fat.
The waiter asks me if I’m alright.
‘Never better,’ I say. ‘Just caught my breath.’ He gets me a napkin, and I’m surprised he can work with that glass in his eye. I call Flo. I call her to ask her, when I do things, do they stay? Do they happen, and do they last?
She says she’s a little worried about me.
‘I’m serious,’ I say, chewing my toast. ‘It’s like I do shit, and nothing… like, I do this awful shit, and I just want someone to… properly fuck me off because of it? Like, no texts, no emails, no crawling back, like… good-fucking-night Vienna, yeah?’
‘Where did you get that dress from, on Insta? It looks expensive.’
‘Are you fucking listening to me?’
‘Yeah, you just sound mental. Are you on coke? Have you been on one since the PV or something? You sound cokey as fuck.’
‘No,’ I lie.
‘Drink some water,’ says Flo. ‘I’m at work. I can’t talk. And I’m back with Michael, by the way.’ She hangs up. I knock over my coffee to see if the waiter will come and clean it, but he doesn’t. I leave the cafe without paying. No one chases me.
That evening, I arrange to meet Uncle Stephen outside the hotel. I’ve got my coat on, and my red scarf, which is splattered with dry blood, but it’s cold, and I haven’t brought another. Uncle Stephen picks me up in a cab, and we drive to the Sakurai.
The basic makeup of his face is like Remy’s, but redder, and flabbier. His hair is thick and silver, and his suit is sharp, tailored and extremely expensive.
‘Did you make a pass at Laurie Hirsch?’ he asks.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Laurie said you made a pass at her. She’s married to my cousin’s daughter – it came down the grapevine.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘She’s not exactly my type.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘She’s such an attention-seeker.’
‘Performance artists,’ I say, with a shrug. We laugh together, at Laurie, at performance art. I kick the back of the driver’s seat, and the cabby doesn’t say anything. I kick it hard, as well. He just takes it. Uncle Stephen doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Cam Peters really came around to your work, in the end,’ says Uncle Stephen. ‘I’m sorry if he was a little sharp with you. He was very upset that he was sharing at first. I hardly blame him. No offence intended, darling, but he was the name there, wasn’t he? Anyway, he loved your work. We’ve both agreed to pass your name on to our various friends at Tate Modern, the Serpentine Sackler, Whitechapel, et cetera.’
‘I took Remy home with me, and I nearly cut his nipples off, and he literally texted me yesterday like we’d had a normal one-night stand,’ I say.
‘Oh, absolutely! I’d be excited too,’ he says, smiling at me, like he hasn’t heard what I said. ‘You are a real discovery, aren’t you? A little diamond in the rough,’ he says.
‘There’s nothing little about me.’
‘Of course, it’s not a problem at all, really. I thought the business cards were funny, and anyone who didn’t think they were just… They’re of no interest to you, I promise. That Marnie.’ Uncle Stephen shakes his head. ‘She has wonderful taste – obviously – but what a dour bitch she is.’ He pats my knee. His hands are huge and white, like underground spiders.
His hands are white, but his face is red.
The cab is expensive. The restaurant is in Chelsea. I lived in London for five years and never really went to Chelsea – like, I passed through it, obviously; I lived in Battersea. But only on buses, on foot. I never ate or drank there. I never went to a house there. I remember walking past a shop on the high street that only sold huge, ornate mirrors. They all cost thousands of pounds. I remember stopping, and pressing my face to the window, and seeing myself staring back over and over again, thinking I want one, but this city is fucked, isn’t it?
‘What would I do with a big mirror like that, anyway?’
‘Hmm?’ Uncle Stephen says.
We pull up at the restaurant: a white, neoclassical building. The sign is gold, and in kanji. Uncle Stephen takes my hand and helps me out of the cab.
The carpet in the restaurant is plush; it’s hard to keep my balance in heels. The host wears a waistcoat, a shirt and a bowtie. His English is good, but his accent is thick. Uncle Stephen gives his name, and we’re taken to a booth in the corner – his usual. The host takes my coat, and makes an O with his mouth, a tiny twitch of his eyebrows, before departing for the cloakroom.
‘What are you wearing?’ says Uncle Stephen. He sounds amused. He peers around me, at my back. I twig for the first time that he’s taller than me, even with heels on. He’s huge.
‘It’s expensive,’ I say.
‘I’m sure it was.’ He guides me to the seat, with his hand in the small of my back again. ‘It’s stunning. But… well, the crowd is a little conservative in here.’ He points out an older couple, who are looking at me. They look away when we look at them. ‘This isn’t a nightclub, you know?’
‘I don’t really care,’ I say. I think.
He orders me a cocktail before I can order for myself, and a bottle of plum wine for the table. He talks about my dress more, with this tone like he doesn’t mind, but I can tell he does. He just doesn’t want people to think he’s out with a call girl. I tell him I don’t think he could afford me.
‘I can,’ he says. He laughs. I hate this. I’m just here for a free meal – he mentioned the Tate earlier. If I can just behave myself, for like an hour. He asks me to tell him about The North because he’s never been any further up than Manchester. He’s been to Edinburgh once or twice, but that hardly counts, does it? Because it’s really just the London of Scotland, isn’t it? How does it compare to London? Don’t you feel hemmed in? Don’t you feel like there are no opportunities? No jobs? No arts funding? No money? Do you have any restaurants like this? Isn’t it worth taking a risk and living down here? Don’t you miss the hustle and bustle? Sure, the rent is cheaper, but has your quality of life really improved? Did you move back for your parents? A boyfriend? Do you just like being a big fish in a small pond?
‘Ah, well,’ I say. ‘You know. I hated it here, I hate it there. Whole country’s fucked. Brexit, Tories, ’n’ that. Fucking service-based economy. There’s the post-Thatcher government ghettoisation of the North but at least the wealth gap isn’t rubbed in your face everywhere you go. I don’t know what you want me to tell you. The rent is cheaper. There aren’t any restaurants like this.’