The egregious Nigel had left a gaping hole in Al’s understanding of the mess at the US end. Meanwhile, domestic bliss tries to navigate a few turns. Al is replying to the bemused Stan, who’s trying to figure out why a guy in custody is making such a disaster area out of himself.
“Oh, I can answer that, said Al. “You see it a lot in celebrities. The self-image replaces the real person. Then they think they have to act like that to be themselves. Classic inferiority complex, but it only happens like this in people who really think they have to do something about it. They don’t measure up to their own image of themselves, so they try to compensate. Usually it’s people who are a long way below their own minimum level of self esteem. So Nigel, who is fundamentally an old boozer, has to be someone else, to compensate for being an old boozer.”
“His friends seemed pretty supportive. You mean he’s personally insecure, not socially?” asked Stan, interested.
“Probably too supportive. Both of them fuss over him like broody hens. You might not have seen; he didn’t get a word in while they were here. He’s a permanently repressed adolescent.”
“Be that as it might, there’s a bit more repressing to be done here. Some of that mountain of verbiage was highly incriminating to some people you know. See you later, Al; we’ve got to get some quotes from Britannica about an edit of this interview.”
Al left and walked back to the office through the city looking retrospectively at a world full of people who had flickered though his life. He thought it was interesting, if unnerving, that some of them, like Nigel, in whose company he’d spent a total of about 45 minutes, had that sort of impact. It occurred to him he’d spent a lot more time in Harvey White’s company.
REVELATIONS OF A GRAPHIC ARTIST
There were other things happening. Joe and Carla had a sudden awkwardness. This wasn’t because of some trivial fight, or even disagreement. It was because Joe’s terrible shyness had decided to stage an encore. They were seriously thinking about marriage at this point, and there was no lack of commitment from either. They were also both nervous about it, and Joe, who’d been in a sort of happy Nirvana suddenly saw a huge unidentifiable thing on the horizon. He loved Carla, and there was no question of his feelings, but all this had happened in six months.
It couldn’t have been any more complex, emotionally. Joe was an artist at heart, and anyone who’s ever known an artist can tell you that artists need both a shoulder to cry on and a regular kick in the backside, usually simultaneously. Fortunately for him, he reverted to his tongue-tied former self, which Carla recognized. She was more worried than anything else, and knew from experience that it would have to sort itself out, hopefully soon. The trouble was that he was actually speechless. At least it was in character. They drifted slightly apart, Carla waiting patiently, Joe finding excuses to be elsewhere. That went on for a month.
The others meticulously avoided taking sides. Al was more direct. Joe eventually angled his way on to the topic, saying that he was in love, but terrified. He didn’t know what he thought or what he was doing. It seemed such a huge step. For him, that was a degree of discretion. Al, who was now thinking very much about marrying Dorothy, if they ever got a chance, was almost sympathetic.
“Joe, people are people. They’re all different. There’s only one of anybody. You marry a person, not a demographic. This isn’t a raffle, either way.”
Joe gave him a wistful, but so deep, an expression that Al couldn’t quite read it.
“Anyway, I need both of you to be present at a party Hard Women are giving. You up to that?”
Joe nodded. Al felt a real surge of sympathy then, for both of them. Joe must be very much in love, he thought, if it’s that tough. He mentioned it to Dorothy, who agreed. She’d accidentally been drawn in to the issue by a conversation with Jane. They thought Carla hadn’t realized that men get as scared as women of marriage, and that even if they deal with it differently, the big jump is scary. She said that in almost total ignorance of Al’s musings on the subject, although she’d been thinking about it a lot herself.
“Yeah, well, it means a lot,” said Al, which was exactly what she wanted to hear, and was made better by the fact he didn’t know that.
“It does,” she agreed, returning the favor unknowingly. They decided to keep a covert eye on Joe and Carla at the party.
It was a very upmarket party, with far too many social pages photographers, and both Joe and Carla arrived alone. The noise was excruciating. Joe sidled through the herds to the drinks table and then found something edible, which was a surprise. Carla tried bravely to dodge the large number of people she knew and find Al and Dorothy or Bill and Jane. She never felt at home in this sort of gathering. Felicity grabbed her and shepherded her through. Felicity noticed that for a naturally-glamorous woman Carla looked about as socially awkward and inept as Joe normally did. That was a new benchmark. Having safely deposited Carla, she went for a refill to find Joe knee deep in very underdressed models, looking quite at home. Cleavage and thigh abounded, as did a dangerous amount of makeup. He was cracking jokes and generally looked like part of the upper crust.
Felicity hadn’t known Joe long enough to know how much Joe hated these parties, or how long he’d endured high society, and all that it isn’t. She was thinking that perhaps Joe was playing the field, and had escaped Carla, when he saw her. As it happened, Carla, slightly returned to normal by Dorothy and Jane, was approaching from another direction, and had been watching Joe with some interest. Joe called to Felicity to come over, please, and meet everyone, and have a drink, etc., like a good non-host.
For once in his life Joe was grateful for some noise. He had an excuse to speak directly into Felicity’s ear:
“For God’s sake, get me out of this! I feel sick! If I have to look at this lot another second I’ll throw up!”
Perhaps it was just as well that Felicity, no minor event herself, was getting a lot of very obvious attention from the residual supply of males that models usually have dangling about. Her presence wasn’t all that welcome, and Joe was apparently dragged off unwillingly on business without too much complaint. Felicity deposited him with the other four, and remembered she still hadn’t got her drink. Carla emerged like a shark.
“What was all that about?” she asked, looking at Felicity with an intensity which was actually frightening.
Felicity, rewinding, explained, verbatim. Carla returned to normal, and Felicity’s heart condition improved accordingly. Carla now looked relatively human. They headed back to the others, when Carla met an ex-boyfriend, a former male model, who unfortunately looked like it. They’d broken up largely because Carla didn’t think there was enough room in the relationship for both her and his ego. He was “working the room”, which from some women’s perspective is roughly on a par with picking car keys out of a punch bowl, and about as sanitary. Carla was one of those women, and he’d never realized it. He apparently still didn’t. Joe happened to see this meeting, and noticed that Carla was getting rather homicidal very quickly. He wandered a little closer. He was standing behind the guy, out of sight, and despite the noise could hear everything. It was a pretty banal conversation.
“Hello, Carla, you’re looking radiant.”
“Yes.”
The guy either thought that was a question, or just wasn’t aware of any other possible applications of the word “yes” in a conversation.
“Really. You’re one of the most attractive women I’ve ever dated. We really should get together again some time.”
Felicity watched in horror. Carla’s temper, never mild, and under stress, was obviously about to hit overdrive, and this fool clearly had no idea. Joe reached the same conclusion a bit quicker and dove in ahead of any possible bloodshed. Carla blinked, which was a good sign.
“Joe…. This is Tony Whitbread, an ex of mine. Tony, Joe Arthurson.”
“Not Ian Arthurson’s son? The Ian Arthurson?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Carla, who knew Joe’s frame of reference, and Felicity, who’d managed to guess, could hear in that statement that admitting his paternity wasn’t all Joe was saying. There was a degree of unmistakable disgust, and it was very obvious to them, if not his listener. Joe hated crawlers as much as his father did. A terse silence filled the space.
“I’ve always admired…..” said Tony.
Sickening, thought Carla. This time she really knew what Joe meant.
“I’m sorry, we really must go, we have some people waiting. Nice to meet you,” said Joe, dismissively.
They escaped and looked at each other.