The Other Lives Read online

  ‘Elliot.’

  I look up and see Patti beckoning me over. I steel myself, shaking off the moment as if it were a left hook. By the time I reach the table, it’s gone and I’m back. I’m Elliot Childs, albeit wondering vaguely what the hell has just happened.

  Patti’s voice is bright, but her look is venom. She’s is in her fifties, arctic eyes and an ice-white bob. Her body is well maintained, a little on the wrong side of slim. Too much exercise or too many cigarettes — she smokes more than she eats.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, plonking myself down. ‘Meet-and-greet.’

  She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Got to keep the punters happy, Pats,’ I whisper.

  She gives me a look of disinterest, but there is hurt in it too. It’s nice that she’s jealous. Patti and me, you see, we have kind of a thing. We fuck. Occasionally. And it’s good, it really is, and in a funny way I could see it leading somewhere, but —

  She never pushes it, but I’m pretty sure she wants more, and that might be nice, you know, filthy weekends in the Cotswolds, a slinky dress on my arm for the paparazzi at the awards ceremonies, shared wardrobe space, cooking dinner for two, lunch with her mother on Sundays…ugh, I mean Christ, no, what’s the point?

  A skinny waitress hands me a menu, which I ignore.

  ‘Vodka, neat.’

  I scan the restaurant. It’s the kind of rabble you might expect: easy swagger, well-dressed extroverts with plenty of money and a growing pile of successes to talk about. Cocaine is almost certainly a casual staple of every weekend dinner party; in fact there are probably a large number of neat paper rectangles sitting in their suit pockets and handbags right now. Most of them have kids, privately educated and approaching teenage years during which the real measure of Mummy and Daddy’s excesses and passive neglect will become apparent.

  The loudest table by far are a party of men in the sleek suits, watches, cuffs and haircuts of city traders out on a jolly. They boom and guffaw with two bottles of Dom Perignon in buckets between them, and their expedition will darken with the night, when they spill out into Soho and crawl down its side streets in search of rank skirt.

  Our waitress passes their table. They follow her bony backside as she scissors past to serve me my vodka.

  ‘See the show?’ I ask Patti.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Didn’t like it?’

  ‘You know I wasn’t on board with it.’

  I snort and take a drink.

  ‘You need to grow a set, Pats.’

  She narrows her eyes in a seethe.

  ‘It was too much.’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘Too much? I just exposed a paedophile. What passes for enough these days?’

  ‘You stirred up something that was never meant to be heard.’

  ‘Exactly. Allegations of child abuse that were buried.’

  ‘Allegations that were retracted. It was her father that abused her, not Cooper-Wright. He was the one that worked them through it. Got her dad to seek help.’

  ‘Sounds very convenient to me.’

  ‘He risked his reputation to help a family through an incredibly painful time. And he successfully managed to keep any of this from getting into the public’s hands. Until now, Elliot. Until you.’

  ‘I’m not the one fiddling kiddies here, love!’

  There are voices nearby. Patti’s glum face brightens and she springs up from the table.

  ‘Nicole, Earl, Austin, good to see you!’

  There’s a flurry of smiles, handshakes and kisses as our guests arrive.

  ‘So sorry we’re late,’ says the tall woman, Nicole, as she unwraps a scarf from her neck. She finds me. ‘Elliot, Nicole Brady, super happy to meet you, huge fan.’

  We shake hands, me half out of my seat. She is tanned and gleaming. Her accent is East Coast American, north, I guess.

  ‘This British rain!’ says Earl or Austin — one of the two — who has shining black hair. Patti squawks with laughter as she air kisses him and hands him to me for introductions, and then the other one, whoever he is — Austin or Earl, a heavier chap who I can already see searching the other tables and inspecting the food — and then they all laugh at something else and find their seats, still blustering from the rain and all that meeting people and air kissing and laughing and what have you.

  The waitress hands out menus. I order another vodka.

  Earl or Austin with the gleaming black hair raises a finger. ‘I’ll have one of those,’ he says.

  ‘Sure, me too, why not,’ says Austin or Earl, still gawping at the food.

  ‘Scotch on the rocks,’ says Nicole, looking at me. ‘Elliot, we’re so pleased to be here, thank you for seeing us.’

  ‘Not a problem. Thank you for coming all this way.’

  ‘Oh, man, seriously?’ says Earl or Austin. His voice is unnaturally loud, southern, maybe Florida. ‘Meeting Elliot Childs face-to-face?’

  The sound of my name rings out above the restaurant murmurs. The place is filling up. Something in Patti’s look makes Earl or Austin stop.

  ‘Whoa, sorry,’ he says, trying but failing to speak more quietly. ‘Anyway, super excited, big day, great to be here, wouldn’t have missed it.’

  Nicole smiles and leans forward, tempering her voice.

  ‘We have huge plans for the show, Elliot. The studio is very excited.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I reply.

  Our vodkas arrive and there’s a toast to something or other. The waitress takes our order and I choose steak; then Patti engages the others in small talk. The food arrives, and at some point Nicole directs her attention to me.

  ‘You know, Elliot, I honestly cannot wait to see Truth be Told on our network. The American people are not going to know what hit them. We’re struggling with honesty across the pond, you know? I mean, like, real honesty. People who tell it like it is.’

  She waves a hand.

  ‘Not these liberal save-the-world armchair activists. The real, honest, hardworking people who have underpinned the entire fabric of American society since the Constitution was written.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more…’ I say. ‘We struggle with it over here too, you know? People don’t want to face the honest facts of our society and the way it’s going. Or the way it’s gone, really, truth be told.’

  This draws a laugh.

  ‘Everyone’s too busy trying to look like Gandhi to admit that our society has gone to the dogs.’

  Earl or Austin puts down his fork and shakes his head, taking his time with every word.

  ‘I am with you, buddy.’

  He calls me ‘buddy’.

  ‘People don’t want to admit that people are to blame for our problems. Nobody wants to take responsibility for them. They think it’s society’s fault, or the government’s, or big pharma or capitalism or…’

  ‘Newspapers, television, CEOs.’

  We both swing our eyes to Austin or Earl. These are the first words he has contributed to the conversation. His mouth is processing a huge amount of meat torn from his steak, and his tie is spattered with its slick juice. I am transfixed.

  ‘Exactly, Austin’ says Earl. ‘Anyone who’s actually got off their fuckin’ asses and worked for a living. They’ll blame them for everything — gun laws, migrants, terrorism, the economy, hunger…’

  ‘Hunger.’

  I slap my hand on the table — not too hard, but hard enough to make it clear I am interjecting. And I cannot help but interject, because hunger is a particular bugbear of mine. The three investors look up, Patti too. I look around for our waitress. The place is full now, every table emitting its own murmur of drawls and titters and guffaws.

  ‘Don’t get me started on hunger. Everyone’s going on about food banks. Food banks? Food banks? We have plenty of food and it’s cheaper than it’s always been. Why do we need food banks? A family of five could eat on…I don’t know…’

  I really don’t.


  Still no waitress. I crane my neck the other way.

  ‘…Twenty pounds a week probably. Now are you saying your typical benefit-cheating council-estate breeder can’t get their hands on twenty pounds a week? Where is that bloody girl…’

  All three investors are nodding emphatically. Even Austin has taken a break from his trough to listen.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘The reason they can’t get their hands on twenty pounds a week is because it all goes on fags and booze and magazines and bloody flat-screen televisions. Wasn’t like that when I was a lad, I can tell you. We had no money and a shitty little black-and-white that went on for an hour after teatime.’

  This is a lie, of course. I had no television.

  ‘You should see the size of the things these bastards have these days. Fifty-two inches.’

  I stretch my arms out, like a gloating angler.

  Fifty-two fucking inches in a fucking council house. No. Do you want to know the reason we have food banks? Because everybody wants a free meal. They’re just another handout to a society that can’t be bothered.’

  They laugh, Nicole’s an eagle’s hoot. I smooth my tie and resume my search for the waitress.

  I notice that Patti is watching me, chin resting on her folded hands. She might be displaying appreciation for what I have just said, or it could be nerves. Her face is impossible to read, and it has been this way ever since I met her, five years ago at Skyline. She was the assistant producer on the radio show I used to host. It got messy — I was, well, me and the producer wanted to focus more on sport and whatever jumped-up talent show was polluting the airwaves that week. I did not. We argued after every show and eventually it got pulled. But Patti was on the up, and she saw something in me (her words) that she thought might make good television.

  Six months later we had the bones of our first show, and the rest, as they say, is history. But for the life of me I cannot work out where she stands on this stuff. She never talks about it. Now and again there is a little glint in her eye as if something I have said has resonated with her, and she repeats it back to me later, suggesting it for a show. I don’t know if she likes it because she agrees with it or just because she thinks it will rattle or rouse the populace. I suppose I could dive, but…no. Not Patti.

  Finally I catch sight of our bone-bag waitress collecting a bill near the window. She spots my clipping fingers and her eyes flit; she looks distracted. Finally she pincers her way through the other tables towards us, holding on tight to her silver tray of bank notes.

  ‘Yes, please?’ she asks.

  ‘Another round, love,’ I say. She nods and I watch her slide through the gaps between chairs to the bar. Her buttocks are barely fleshed at all.

  I lean forward.

  ‘Talking of food banks, eh?’ I say, drawing another laugh. I think I have spoken for long enough, so I pick up my fork and eat a bit of the overpriced and rapidly cooling gristle on my plate.

  Just then, a heavy palm slams down upon my shoulder and slides off with the grace of a baboon. A large male face looms over me. It is one of the city traders.

  ‘You’re Elliot Childs,’ he says.

  THE TRUTH

  THE RESTAURANT CHATTER DIES like a concert hall at a raised baton.

  I look up at my new friend, although I am not yet sure whether I can call him that. I have a somewhat, ah, polarising effect upon the populace you see. I receive adoration and abhorrence in equal measure, which is really the only way to be. If you don’t then you’re really not trying hard enough.

  But you have to be careful.

  The trader lifts his brow, as if he has just solved a particularly tricky riddle. He sniffs and sways. He is waiting, and his friends are watching us across their upturned champagne bottles.

  I beam.

  ‘Top marks,’ I say. ‘And who might you be?’

  I hold out my hand, which overwhelms him. He stares at it, then grasps it and pumps it three times.

  ‘Tony,’ he says. His face is full of pride. ‘Tony Fa…’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Tone,’ I say, withdrawing my hand from the hot, wet vice of his.

  He stands there, breathless, looking at the flesh that has just touched mine as if wondering how to preserve it for posterity. I know he is a friend now, and relax.

  ‘Out for a few, are you?’ I say, miming a glass.

  Tony ignores me. His face crumples into a serious frown. I can tell there is some exertion going on here and for a moment I wonder whether I have him wrong. Perhaps this is about to get messy.

  ‘You,’ he says, curling a thick forefinger at me. ‘You speak the truth, mate. You’re the only bastard on telly who does.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Just doing my job, Tone,’ I say, but he ignores me again and swings to the rest of the table.

  ‘Him, this one.’ His is voice is loud, cultivated in rugby dressing rooms. He grasps my shoulder. ‘You should listen to him. He knows what he’s on about.’

  ‘Now, now, Tone, don’t embarrass me.’

  I catch the looks from the other punters, who have now stopped eating and are enjoying the spectacle, either because they agree with him or don’t.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  Child-like eyes search my features. The smell of sweet alcohol and scorched cattle swims before my nostrils.

  ‘If more people were like you then this country would be back on its feet in no time.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, Tone, I…’

  ‘You…you should be…be fucking Prime Minister or summink…’

  The emotion he is clearly enduring makes him more and more unsteady. I grip his arm.

  ‘Easy there, big fella.’

  He takes a deep breath and surveys our table.

  ‘What are you…what you…are you investors or what?’

  I am impressed by Tony’s intuition. He obviously knows his way around a suit and haircut.

  Earl speaks.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, buddy. We’re just talking about…’

  ‘Americans?’

  He looks at me, then at Earl, then back at me. A calculation is performed.

  ‘You going to be on in America, Elliot?’

  ‘Weeell, we don’t…’

  ‘That’s brilliant, that’s fucking brilliant, do it.’

  ‘We’re just discussing…’

  ‘No, just put him on, yeah? Just put him on, your fucking ratings’ll go through the fucking roof, I’m telling you.’

  He sniffs again and a mischievous glint appears in his eye.

  ‘Ay,’ he says, knocking me with his elbow. ‘Do it, will ya?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  He grins.

  ‘Do it, go on.’

  ‘Do what?’ I say, all innocent.

  ‘You know,’ he says.

  I sigh and wave him off.

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think I should, Tone. I’m just here for dinner.’

  ‘Go on, please! Do it for me, you’ve got to.’

  Tony’s mates jeer in agreement from their Dom Perignon fortress. There are titters from the other tables.

  I sigh again.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  I nod, take a breath and stand up. Happily, we are the same height so I can fix his eyes without looking up. I narrow mine and see his brow tremble. Then I speak slowly.

  ‘Tony, this is the part,’ I say, with kindness. The words make him bristle with excitement. Then I put a hand on his shoulder and move in.

  ‘This is the part where you fuck off back to your table and leave me the fuck alone.’

  The tables hush and Tony stares back at me, dumbstruck. I keep my hand on his shoulder and do not release his stare. Moments of paralysis pass. Then, at last, Tony throws back his head in laughter. His mates, my table and the rest follow suit. The air is clear.

  I give him a hearty slap on the back and send him staggering to his mates, where he huddles in to tell them about what they have jus
t witnessed.

  I take my seat. Nicole has been watching me.

  ‘Common touch, Elliot. That’s what we want. That’s what we’re going to pay you for. Your brand.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your brand. Your brand is your honesty. Your brand is the truth.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ I say.

  ‘And Jesus knows the truth sells, right?’

  She opens her hands to the other two.

  ‘Am I right, guys?’

  Earl and Austin agree that she is.

  ‘But…’ says Earl.

  Sparks on my neck now. My hackles rise.

  ‘…The way it’s conveyed to people is the key. Don’t you think, Elliot?’

  I clear my throat and turn to face him.

  ‘Not sure I follow.’

  ‘It’s very simple, Elly…’ Elly…He holds out both hands and pushes them together in a single fist. ‘We have the truth here.’ Then he releases them, bird-like, across the table. ‘And the way we release that truth.’

  I grit my teeth, fighting back very sudden urges to laugh, vomit and punch this man in the face. Earl points a finger at me, looking down its length as if it were a gun barrel.

  ‘You have that truth, Elly, and we know how to release it.’

  He settles back in his chair with a look of great calm.

  I sniff.

  ‘I see. And please do tell, Earl; how do you wish to release’ — my fingers fly after his bird, only mine are feathered black — ‘my truth.’

  ‘Elliot,’ warns Patti.

  Earl nods, acknowledging my discomfort.

  ‘We can’t escape the liberal audience,’ he explains. ‘People used to piss their pants for shock jock diatribes and trailer park freak shows…’

  ‘They still do.’

  ‘But Dylan was right, the days are changing. You alienate one chunk of the demographic and you watch yourself fall down the ratings. It’s a war out there, Elly, and KTM are going to win it.’

  He slices a hand through the air.

  ‘KTM are going to dominate the middle ground. That’s what we’re about. We find a way to appeal to the whole audience. That thing about not making all the folks happy all the time? Doesn’t apply anymore, man. There aren’t any jagged edges for people to get caught on. It’s just soup. And we make good soup.’