Dead Famous

DAY EIGHTEEN. 8.15 p.m.

Moon walked out of the confession box, having made her little speech about Sally, and announced her intention of getting immediately “shitfaced”.

“I’m going to go large,” she said, pulling the ring on a can of Special Brew. “I’m mad for it. I’m going to get shitfaced and rat-arsed!”

“Funny that, isn’t it?” Jazz said. “How we choose to describe having a good night.”

“You what?” said Moon.

“Funny way of describing a party, Moon,” he said.

“You what, Jazz?”

Jazz, ever watchful for opportunities whereby he could work on his patter and continue what he saw as his ongoing public audition for a career in comedy, had spotted what he thought was a fruitful opening. “Well, the English language is the most extensive in the world, but that’s the best you can do to describe having a good time. Tonight I’m going to have such a good time that it will be as if my face was covered in shit! My mood will resemble that of a rat’s arse! What’s all that about, then?”

“Eh?” said Moon.

Dervla tried to be supportive. “Very amusing, Jazz,” she said, opening a bottle of wine. “I’d laugh but I’m not yet sufficiently shitfaced.” And she smiled, hugging herself as if she had a special secret.

“Kelly 1. Dervla 2.” The secret hand had written in the condensation. “Hang in there, Gorgeous. XXX.”

The recipient of this little love note grinned broadly through the toothpaste foam.

So now she had risen to second place in the affections of the public. Not bad at all after only two and a half weeks. Only Kelly was ahead of her and Dervla felt far better equipped to stay the course than she believed Kelly was. After all, it was going to be a long, long game for those who survived, and Dervla was confident in her reserves of inner strength. Kelly, she felt, was not so well equipped for the struggle. She was too open, too sweet, too vulnerable, not so mentally attuned to stay the distance. Dervla felt that all she had to do was hang on. If she could just survive the process, she would win the game.

That was all she had to do.

Survive.

Jazz broke in on Dervla’s reverie. “So’re you going to get shitfaced too, then, Dervo?” he said, throwing a friendly arm around her. “Can I join you?”

“I’d be delighted, kind sir,” she replied.

Jazz’s smooth, beautiful, scented face smelt sweet close to hers, his arm was strong.

“I never heard you swear before, Dervs,” he laughed. “You’re loosening up, my darling.”

“Ah, to be sure, even us nuns like to let our wimples down occasionally.”

Jazz had been working up a little idea and, encouraged by Dervla’s friendly attitude, he decided to give it a trial run. “You know what?” he said. “You give so much away about yourself when you brush your teeth.”

Dervla almost leapt away from him. In fact, she jumped so suddenly that she caused them both to spill their drinks. Everybody turned in surprise.

“What the fuck do you know about me brushing my teeth?” she snapped angrily. It was rare that anybody heard Dervla say “fuck”.

“Here, steady on, girl,” said Garry. “Mind the language. I ain’t as rough as you, you know.”

Dervla appeared shattered. She tried to collect herself. “I mean, what do you mean, Jazz? What about me brushing my teeth?”

Jazz struggled for words, confused by her defensive reaction. “Well, not just you, Dervs,” he said. “I mean anybody, what I’m saying is people’s toothbrushes give a lot away about them.”

“Oh, anybody,” Dervla said. “So it’s not like you’ve been watching me brush my teeth or anything?”

Now it was Jazz’s turn to react. “What you saying, girl? That I’m some sort of tooth pervert? I never seen none of you brushing your teeth, right? On account of the fact that when I ablute, girl, I ablute alone, it’s a personal thing, OK? Because my body is a temple and I go there to worship.”

They all laughed and Dervla apologized. The moment passed, and Jazz pressed on with his comic material.

“What I’m saying, right, is that I ain’t never seen none of you brush your teeth. But I bet I know who everybody’s brush belongs to.”

This caused a moment of semi-drunken attention. From everyone, that is, except Hamish and Kelly. Kelly was already too far gone to take much interest in the conversation, and Hamish was too busy taking an interest in Kelly. Hamish had come into the house with the intention of having sex on television and in Kelly he was scenting a possible opportunity. He had put his hand on Kelly’s knee and she was giggling.

Meanwhile, Jazz expanded on his theme. “Like there was a time,” he continued, “when a toothbrush was a functional item, they was all the same, man, there was different colours, but that was it. Now your toothbrush is a fashion statement, man! We are talking a designer commodity here!”

“Stop waffling and get on with it,” said David. “Whose brush is whose?”

“Just setting the scene, guy, just setting the scene.”

“Whose brush is whose?”

“Well, Gazzer’s has gotta be the one like mine. It’s hip, it’s flash, it’s well hard and it’s the business! It’s got shock absorbers, man! It’s got a big soft round aerodynamically palm-friendly handle, rear suspension and a detachable head. It’s got a spring-loaded crumple zone at the front, it looks like a ray gun, and it’s in Chelsea’s away colours. Am I right, Gazz?”

“Fuck me, you’re Sherlock fucking Holmes, Jazz.”

“Yes, I am, guy, because it is el-e-fucking-mentary. Now, Dervo, you got the one with the age-fading stripe, that’s what I reckon.”

Dervla attempted to maintain a poker face. “Why’s that, Jazz?”

“’Cos you are one fastidious lady, OK? You are sweet and clean and you don’t want no dirty old worn-out thing stuck in your mouth.”

“Shame!” shouted Gazzer, at which Dervla blushed.

“Shut up, Gazz,” Jazz admonished. “Dervo is a fucking lady, so don’t you go making no off-colour comments implying no blow jobs, all right? Anyway, the point is, am I right, girl? When you was in the chemist and you was buying a brush for your perfect pearly toothypegs, did you choose a basic bristle or did you choose the one what tells you when it’s time to buy a new one?”

Dervla blushed again. “All right, I did, you swine!” Dervla laughed, perhaps a little too loudly.

“All right then, Jason.” David still insisted on referring to Jazz by his full name. “Which one’s mine?”

“Easy, man, piece of piss. You’re the blue one, the one without nothing on it at all, no spring-loaded bit in the middle, no go-faster stripe, just a plain basic brush.”

“Well, as it happens, you’re right,” said David, slightly resentfully. “I must say that I’m rather flattered that you understood that I was the sort of person who was unlikely to fall for all that marketing rubbish. I want a brush that gets the job done and shuts up about it. A toothbrush is a toothbrush, not a pair of trainers or a sports car.”

“But you’re wrong, guy,” said Jazz. “I didn’t pick you for being no down-to-earth geezer, no way. I got you right because you’re a bigger wanker than any of us.” Jazz was laughing, but David wasn’t.

“Oh, and how is that, then?” he asked, attempting to maintain his rapidly evaporating air of superiority.

“Because you chose the classic, man! That’s what they call that sort of brush these days. You ain’t got no bog-standard brush in your toothmug, David, no way, guy, what you got’s a Wisdom classic. And they’re not easy to find these days either, not every chemist stocks them, and you got to search your way through all the pink spongy ones and the transparent bendy ones to find them. Because you see, David, it’s the flash gimmicky brushes that are the norm these days. They’re the bog-standard brushes, the ones ordinary people buy. What you got is the designer item, the retro classic, which you have to seek out, like you obviously did. Just like you must have looked high and low to get that retro-looking pair of old-style trainers you got on, and they’re called ‘classics’ too. Made just for that bit of the market that reckons it’s got style and class and would never be a part of a trend, oh no, not them, they favour classic styles, or to put it another way, David, they’re wankers.”

It was a good performance and everybody laughed loudly. David obviously felt he had better laugh along too, but he did not do a very convincing job of it. In fact he looked furious. Livid. And also astonished. Jazz had caught him out. David had obviously never expected any intellectual threat from Jazz’s direction and yet this loudmouthed, conceited trainee chef had made him look a fool. What was more, it would probably be broadcast on national television.

In the back of his mind David kept a little book into which he would put the names of people with whom he intended to get even. Jazz had just reserved himself an entire page.