not up to anything and I haven’t got the wine: I stowed it inside Lucy’s bag, which is now safely inside a cloakroom locker.’ I feigned interest in the mangled wire that we were facing.
‘You didn’t. My God. Well, we must mount a rescue. We must spring the noble prisoner from its vile cell straightaway! The Americans put their cream sodas in those lockers – I’ve seen them do it – and their … their bum bags. And God only knows what’s in Lucy’s bag: women’s products probably. And cheap Hungarian biros. You realize –’
‘Will you please keep your voice down?’ I frowned. An elderly couple wearing ‘I love Houston’ T-shirts seemed to be choking to death on the far side of the installation. ‘Anyway, Lucy uses an ink pen.’
But William was undeterred. ‘You realize that you may have ruined that great Burgundy’s life. One of the most elegant vintages of the last millennium traumatized beyond recovery within minutes of your having taken possession. It’s barbarous. I am holding you personally resp—’
‘William, for fuck’s sake. If you must talk so bloody loudly, then can you at least try to sound more like a human being from the present century? And less like a fucking ponce.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Besides, you’re not allowed to wander around Tate Modern swigging booze. It’s against the rules.’
‘Balls. What rules? That’s a 1990 Chambertin Clos de Bèze you’ve got locked up in there like a … like a common Chianti. Bought by me – especially for you, my dear Jasper, on this, the occasion of your twenty-ninth birthday. How could they stop us drinking it? They wouldn’t dare.’
I mimicked his ridiculous manner: ‘As well you know, my dear William, that bottle needs opening for at least two hours before we could even go near it. It’s my wine now and I forbid you to molest it before it’s had a chance to develop. Look at you, you’re slathering like a paedophile.’
‘Well, I think you’re being very unfair. You drag your friends out to look at all this – all this bric-à-brac and mutilated genitalia and then you deny us essential refreshment. Of course I am desperate. Of course I need a drink. This isn’t art, this is wreckage.’
I took a few steps away from him and turned to face a large canvas covered in heavy ridges of dun brown paint. William followed and did the same, tilting his head to one side in a parody of viewers of modern art the world over.
‘Actually,’ he said, a little less audibly, ‘I was meaning the small bottle of speciality vodka that Nathalie bought you. I thought you might have stashed it in your coat or something. I only need a painkiller to get me through the next room.’ Mock grievance now yielded to genuine curiosity: ‘Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.’
‘That’s because you are a complete penis, William.’
‘Why are you in such a hurry to leave us? What’s so special about “Nude Action Body”?’ He looked sideways at me but I kept my attention on the painting. ‘Is it that girl you were staring at?’
‘No.’
‘Yes, it is. It’s that girl from upstairs.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘The one you were pretending not to follow before we came down here.’ He paused. ‘I knew it. I knew it.’
‘OK. Yes. It is.’
He gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I thought you were supposed to be stopping all that. What was it you said?’ He composed his face as if to deliver Hamlet’s saddest soliloquy. ‘ “I can’t go on like this, Will, I am going mad. Oh Will, save me from the quagmire of womankind. No more of this relentless sex. Oh handsome Will, I have to stop. I must stop. I will be true.”’
I ignored him. ‘William, I need you to buy me some time and stop fucking around. Lucy and Nathalie will be back in here looking for us any second. Go and distract them. Be nice. Be selfless. Help me.’
He ignored me. ‘OK, maybe not the “handsome Will” bit – but those were more or less your words. And now look at you: you’re right back to where you were a year ago. You can’t leave your flat without trying to sleep with half of London. And never a moment’s cease to consider what the fuck you are doing or – heaven forbid – why.’
I walked towards the exit on the far side of the room and considered a collection of icons made to evoke the Russian Orthodox style. The figures were blurred and distorted and appeared to recede into their frames, so that it was impossible to tell whether they were indeed hallowed saints or grotesque contorted animals or merely half-smudged lines signifying nothing.
‘Look, Will, I need fifteen minutes. Will you keep an eye on the others for me – please? Don’t let them leave this floor. If they look like they’re moving, set off the fire alarm or something. I don’t want to fuck up and have to concoct some stupid bullshit. Not tonight. It would be awful. Lucy gets so uptight. I just want everyone to have as relaxed and pleasant a dinner as possible this evening.’
‘The fire alarm?’
‘Yes, it stops the escalators working.’
He shook his head, but there was amusement in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry. Will. But I swear to you: that girl winked at me and she is far too pretty for me to ignore. Admit it, she is. What am I supposed to do? I can’t just let it go. Come on. Millions of men would pay to be winked at by girls like her. I have a responsibility to act. Fifteen minutes max.’
He smiled. ‘Well, go on then: get on with it. But if the authorities arrest me for false alarms I shall instantly confess that you made me do it. I shall explain that you are dangerously persuasive and the worst sort of unscrupulous libertine –’
‘I’m exceptionally scrupulous.’
‘And I shall tell them that you are incapable of behaving in a decent manner towards friends – or even your own girlfriend – and that you deserve to be taught a serious lesson. See you in fifteen.’
‘Thank you, William.’
‘And don’t forget to check for sisters.’
Now, I don’t want to start blaming Cécile for the first wave of demoralizing set-backs that followed hard on the heels of this, the otherwise inauspicious evening of my twenty-ninth birthday, but as far as immediate causes of disaster go, then she has to shoulder full responsibility: J’accuse Cécile, la fille française. Had she not winked at me, I probably wouldn’t have risked it. But what could be the purpose of such fetching Mediterranean looks as hers, if not to fetch?
All the same, the fire alarm surprised everybody.
Chaos followed fast, rushing through ‘Nude Action Body’ like a messenger from the Front with news of approaching armies. From hidden antechambers and doors marked ‘private’ dozens of orange-clad ushers emerged and began urgently to usher; the lifts stopped; small blue lights flashed from odd places high on the walls; and (as if all this were not encouragement enough) an unnervingly measured female voice interrupted the revels every thirty seconds to spell the situation out in an exciting variety of languages. ‘This is a routine emergency. Please leave the building by the nearest fire exit and follow the advice of the officials. Thank you.’
I had only just returned to the fifth floor and had taken no more than three steps into the gallery proper. But now I doubled back and stood to one side by the wide emergency exit doors at the top of the escalators, waiting for Cécile. Along with everyone else, she was sure to leave this way. There was no longer any need to seek her. And I was rather enjoying all the panic.
Parents issued taut-voiced instructions to their charges. Scandinavians strode calmly towards the emergency stairs. Italian men put their arms around Italian women. A litter of art-college day-outers roused themselves reluctantly from their beanbags. Two children came careering out of ‘Staging Discord’ opposite. And an American