Starter for Ten

  “… What?”

  “… I just think she seems nice, that's all.…”

  “… Because I don't want to! …”

  “… But you just said she was nice …”

  “… Lots of people are nice …”

  “… Not beautiful enough for you, is that it? …”

  “… I didn't say that, did I? …”

  “… Not sexy enough? …”

  “… Rebecca …”

  “… Because, let me tell you, you're no oil painting yourself, pal …”

  “… No, I know …”

  “… Sitting there in your bloodstained vest …”

  “… All right …”

  “… Which is none too fresh, I might add, even from here …”

  “… Thank you, Rebecca …”

  “… So why not, then? …”

  “… Because she probably doesn't like me! …”

  “… How d'you know? If you haven't asked? You didn't see the way she was looking at you while you were in your coma …”

  “… Rubbish …”

  “… Brushing your hair out of your eyes and everything, it was a very touching scene …”

  “… Rubbish! …”

  “… Lovingly sticking toilet roll up your nostril, it was actually quite erotic …”

  “… Rebecca! …”

  “… It's true! If I hadn't been here she'd've probably had your trousers off too, and you none the wiser …”

  “… Rubbish! …”

  “… So why are you blushing, then? …”

  “… I'm not! …”

  “… So why don't you ask her? …”

  “… Ask her what? …”

  “… Ask her out …”

  “… Because I don't …”

  “… What? …”

  “… I'm not …”

  “… Go on …”

  “… in … love with her …”

  “… Same as you're not with me?”

  “… What?”

  “… You heard …”

  “… Rebecca, can we? …”

  “… What?”

  “… Talk about this later?”

  “… Why not now?”

  “Because!” and I take a deep breath, the first for some time. “Because I've got other things on my mind. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she says. “Okay, point taken,” and she slips down off the high desk, tugging her long dress, as if she's not quite got the hang of it, crosses the office and sits next to me on the edge of the table.

  “Is that a frock you're wearing?” I say.

  “Fuck-off it's a frock. It's a dress. How's your head?”

  “Oh, you know. A bit sore.”

  She reaches into the inside pocket of her coat and pulls out a quarter- bottle of whisky.

  “Care for some medicine?”

  “Better not.”

  “Go on, hair of the dog?”

  “It was a different dog. Gin.”

  “Och, that's just plain nasty. You do know gin's a depressant, don't you?”

  “I think that's why I was drinking it.”

  “Hmmmmmmm, self-pity and self-loathing—a winning combina tion. No wonder women find you irresistible. You're quite the Travis Bickle.” And she takes a swig from the bottle, offers it to me again. “Trust me, Scotch is definitely the way to go.”

  “They'll smell it on my breath,” I say, but she reaches deep into her other pocket, and pulls out a packet of extra-strong mints. “Go on, then,” I say. She passes me the bottle and I take a long swig, then pop a mint in my mouth, letting the tastes combine, and we look at each other and smile, and sit there, like schoolkids, feet dangling off the edge of the desk.

  “Of course, you know Alice has been seeing someone else?” I say.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That guy Neil, the one who played Richard III last term, always hob- bling around in the student bar …”

  “The cunt on crutches …”

  “That's the one. I suppose you knew.”

  “Well, I saw him scuttling out of her room a couple of times, so let's just say I had an inkling …”

  “Or a hunch?” She looks at me quizzically. “You know, like a hump, like

  Richard III … ? So why didn't you tell me then?”

  “Not really any of my business, is it? Your love life.”

  “No. Maybe not,” and I have to confess that, even with all that's hap pened, and Alice and the knock on the head and everything, I think about kissing her, tucking the mint to a back corner of my mouth with my tongue, and leaning over and kissing her right now, just to see what would happen.

  But the moment passes and instead I look at my watch.

  “They're taking their time.”

  “Who?”

  “The jury.”

  “Want me to go and check?”

  “Yeah, that would be great,” and she pushes herself off the edge of the desk, and heads for the door. “Put a good word in for me,” I say.

  “I'll see if I can think of one,” she says, adjusts her dress, and goes, and I'm left alone.

  I always get a bit fidgety by myself with nothing to read, especially sitting in a vest, but thankfully this office is crammed with books—mostly reference books, but still books—so I pick up the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, which they'd been using as a pillow, and that's when I see it.

  On the desk.

  A blue clipboard.

  On the clipboard are some photocopied sheets of paper. It has Julian the researcher's name handwritten at the top, so I assume it's just his production notes. He must have brought it with him when they carried me up here, and just left it on the desk. The sheets of paper aren't particularly interesting—just the names of the team members, a seating plan, list of crew names, all that kind of stuff. But in front of this is an envelope, a thick manila envelope that feels as if it contains two packs of playing cards. I unclip the envelope from the clipboard.

  The envelope isn't sealed. Or it is, but barely, just a half-inch of glue holding it closed. All I'd need to do is slide my thumb along the …

  I throw the envelope down on the desk, as if it had just become blisteringly hot.

  Then I nudge it, pushing it away across the desk with the tip of a fingernail.

  Then I nudge it again, the way you nudge something to check that it's dead.

  Then I grab one corner, pull it back toward me.

  Then I pick it up in two hands, hold it on my lap, look at it.

  Then I slide it back down the desk again, as far out of my reach as possible.

  And then I think, Oh, bollocks to this and I reach over and open it.

  41

  QUESTION: James Hogg, Saint Augustine, Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Thomas De Quincey all have what literary genre in common?

  ANSWER: They all wrote “confessions.”

  When I was doing my O-levels, just before the chemistry multiple-choice paper, I had a mild case of gastric flu. That was what I was calling it anyway, and because it's contagious and I had a fever—well, not a fever, just a very slight temperature—I was allowed to take the exam uninvigilated in a tiny little office next to the staff room, because that's the kind of schoolkid I was: absolutely and entirely trustworthy.

  And I cheated.

  Not in any major way, you understand. I just checked that no one was coming, got my revision guide out and very quickly looked up the periodic table to check the valency of potassium or magnesium or something, then put it back again, and that was it.

  Also, incidentally, when I played Scrabble by candlelight with Alice in Suffolk just after Christmas, I pulled out an E and an S and swapped them both surreptitiously for Z and X, hence “Amazed” and “Foxed” on triple word scores.

  And that's about it, cheating-wise. I'm not proud of myself in either instance, but apart from the shame and what I believe Sartre would call the “bad faith” involved, the worst thing is the nagging sense that the cheating was unneces
sary. I'd have won anyway, and all the cheating did was taint that sense of victory. As Mum, and Sartre, would probably say, “You're only cheating yourself.”

  But this isn't Scrabble or O-level chemistry, this is much more important. This is The Challenge, and there are at least eight good reasons why it seems a perfectly reasonable idea for me to cheat: (1) It's on telly, for a start. Everyone I know will see it, Spence, and Tone and Janet Parks, all my old teachers, and Professor Morrison, and that bastard Neil Mac-Intyre, and then of course there's (2) the studio audience; Mum's out there, and Des, my stepdad-to-be, and Rebecca, and Chris the Hippie, and that cow Erin. And then there's (3) my teammates Patrick and Lucy, especially Lucy, who I've been letting down, and who deserves so much to win, and (4) Alice, of course, who thinks I'm an idiot and a drunk and a liability and a fool, and who I think I might still be in love with, and besides (5) I might not even be on the team, so all this ethical wrestling could be academic anyway, and (6) in a way, this situation isn't even my fault, it's Julian's fault, for putting temptation in my way, and (7) everyone would do the same in the circumstances, everyone, and besides (8) I'm only human.

  And that's why I decide to do what I do, which is technically cheating, but into which I introduce a strong element of chance; I will allow myself to look at one card, and one card only, that's all, I swear. But I'll have to be quick. I run over to the door, open it a crack, look both ways, don't see anyone, run back to the desk, take the cards out of the envelope.

  They're divided with elastic bands into two piles, one of starter questions, another of bonus questions. I cut the pile of starter questions, about two-thirds of the way through, place the two cut piles carefully on the desk facedown, so that I can put everything back precisely in the right place, close my eyes tightly and pick a card from the top of the exposed pile, holding it about three feet away from my closed eyes.

  I can feel the blood beating in my eyelids.

  I open my eyes and see, neatly typed …

  QUESTION: How is the Dickensian character Philip Pirrip better known?

  … And I feel a little flush of irritation because I know this one, it's easy, it's Pip in Great Expectations. What's the point in wrestling with this kind of ethical dilemma if I know the answer already? And even though I'd made a strict deal between myself and God, or whoever, that I would only look at one card and one card only, I grab another, the next in the pile, and turn it over.

  Now that's better …

  QUESTION: The state of California is bordered by three states of the USA and one Mexican state; what are they?

  ANSWER: Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and the Mexican state of Baja (“Lower”) California.

  Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, Baja California. Perfect—just hard enough to look impressive, but not so hard as to make me appear freakish. Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, Baja California. But is that pronounced Baja, or Baya? Doesn't matter, I'll make that part of my answer; I practice saying it aloud, acting naturalistically: “Oregon, eh, Nevada, um, Arizona? And Baja …” (little smile, because my Spanish is a little rusty) “… or is that perhaps Baya California?”

  But what if Lucy knows the answer, too? I bet she does. Doesn't matter, as long as one of us gets there before the other team. In fact, it would actually be better for Lucy to answer, because then my conscience will be clear. Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and Baja California. Quickly now, put them back in the right place in the pile, tap the edges together against the desk, wrap the elastic band round, once, twice, put both piles in the envelope and lick it, but not too much, just either side of where I broke the seal, reattach it to the clipboard, put the clipboard back exactly where I found it, practice again, aloud. “Oregon, eh, Nevada, um, Arizona and is it Baja California? …”

  I go to the window, look out over the rooftops and chimneys of Manchester, and think about what I've got to do now. An apology to Patrick first, sincere, humble but not groveling, acknowledging that we both got a little carried away, but still maintaining Pride and Dignity. Then make some kind of temporary peace with Alice, show that, yes, I'm upset with her, but that she's making a terrible mistake with this Neil guy, it's her loss.

  And then I just have to prove to her what she's been missing; with style and grace and modesty and with Alice by my side, I'm going to win this game.

  Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and Baja California …

  There's a knock at the door, and Patrick enters looking somber, but flanked by Alice and Lucy, both of whom are trying to conceal their smiles. “Patrick.”

  “Brian.”

  “Apologies for earlier.”

  “Apology accepted.” Then he clears his throat, and Lucy gives him a lit tle encouraging poke in the ribs. “Well, um, look, I've been talking with Lucy and Alice here, and we've decided that maybe we've all been getting a little carried away, a little overexcited, what with the studio lights and everything, and … anyway, we've all decided that we'd very much like you to stay on the team.”

  “Thanks, Patrick,” I say, giving a solemn little nodding bow.

  “Thank you, Brian,” bowing back.

  And Lucy is winking at me and laughing, and giving me the thumbs- up discreetly at waist level, and Alice is holding out my clean, newly ironed shirt and Dad's brown corduroy jacket. “Okay, then,” I say. “Let's go and kick some ass!”

  42

  QUESTION: In E. M. Forster's novel Howards End, how does Leonard Bast meet his unfortunate end?

  ANSWER: A bookcase falls on top of him, and his heart gives way.

  But before we go and kick some ass, we have a cup of tea and some plain biscuits, then I go to the gents' and wash my armpits with liquid soap and start to feel a little better. Then we go to separate dressing rooms to have a little bit of makeup applied. When your skin is as bad as mine, this is potentially a pretty embarrassing experience, but a nice girl called Janet does me, and it's really just a case of damage limitation; a little spot of cover-up and just enough powder to stop the oily droplets from my sebaceous glands glistening under the studio lights. Three of us don't take long; Patrick's had his university sweatshirt ironed, and his hair sealed safely beneath a solid transparent carapace of hairspray, and Lucy's changed into a very clean, neat, buttoned-up shirt, and has put on a little lipstick and pinned her hair back with a butterfly hair grip. We stand around in the corridor, chatting amiably, and it strikes me how nice she looks, and I'm trying to work out a way of telling her this without sounding creepy, when Alice steps out of her dressing room.

  She's wearing a long, tight black sheath of a dress, high at the neck, and tapered toward her ankles, some form of fishnet hosiery, and strappy black high-heeled shoes, despite the fact that her legs will never appear in front of the desk. She looks like a film star, glowing, luminescent, and I suddenly feel sick again.

  “You think it's too much?” she says.

  “Not at all. Alice, you look wonderful,” says Lucy. Julian comes to fetch us, clutching the infamous clipboard, and gives a little double-take when he sees Alice. “Okay, then, ladies and gentlemen, when you're ready?” and we follow him down the corridors to the studio. I stand behind Alice so that I can watch her walk.

  The other team are taking their seats when we arrive at the studio, and we can hear the applause and shouts of their supporters as we stand in the wings. Then Julian gives us a nod, and it's time to make our entrance into the gladiatorial arena. I follow Alice as we cross to take our places, and hear a collective intake of breath from the audience, stage crew and cameramen stopping and staring, whispering into their mouthpieces, and an audible hum of admiration beneath the applause and whoops and cheers. She hitches up her dress slightly as she slides behind our desk, as if sliding into a limousine, and someone in the audience actually wolf whistles, which from a sexual-political point of view I don't really approve of, but which causes a roll of laughter through the studio. Alice laughs and holds our mascot, Eddie the Teddy, in front of her face, and it's just like Mum always says: “beautiful and knows it …
”

  We settle in our seats, and smile at each other as the excitement dies down.

  “Peace?” she says.

  “Peace,” I say, and then we peer out into the audience. Rose and Michael Harbinson are there, and Rose gives a proud little wave.

  “Nice to see them with their clothes on!” I say, and Alice gives me a reprimanding slap on the wrist. Mum, who's in the second row just behind Rebecca, gives me a little fingers-only wave, and two thumbs up, and I wave back.

  “Is that your mum?” asks Alice.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She looks nice. I'd like to meet her.”

  “I'm sure you will. One day.”

  “Who's the man with the Tom Selleck mustache?”

  “Uncle Des. Not a real uncle, we just call him that. As a matter of fact, he's marrying Mum.”

  “Your mum's getting married again?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That's brilliant news! You didn't tell me that!”

  “Well, I was going to, yesterday night, but …”

  “Yes. Oh. Yes, of course. Listen, Brian, that thing with Neil, it isn't really going anywhere.…”

  “Alice …”

  “It was just a fling, it doesn't mean that you and me …” But she doesn't get to finish, because Bamber's making his entrance now. The crowd's applauding and cheering, and Alice takes my hand, and squeezes it tight, and my heart starts to beat faster, and it's time to finish this thing, once and for all.

  And of course eighteen minutes later we've lost.

  Or as good as, anyway. It's 45 points to 90, but Partridge, the peach-fluff-faced balding child, is clearly some incredible genetically enhanced mutant freak who's been created in a secret laboratory somewhere, because he just keeps firing out correct answers, on every conceivable subject, one after another—“… Pope Pius XIII, the San Andreas Fault, Herodotus, 2n -1(2n -1) where both n and 2n -1 are prime numbers, potassium nitrate, potassium chromate, potassium sulfate …”—and all this from someone who's meant to be doing modern history and who looks about six years old. It isn't even fair to call it general knowledge, it's just knowledge, pure concentrated knowledge, and I decide that, at the back of Partridge's head somewhere, there's a small concealed button, and if you press it his face pops open revealing banks of diodes and microchips and flashing LEDs. Meanwhile their captain, Norton, from Canterbury reading classics, barely needs to do a thing, just pass on the correct answers to Bamber in his lovely, low, well-modulated voice, then lean back and stretch and play with his lovely, lustrous hair and shoot meaningful, see-you-afterwards looks at Alice.