Posted by Anonymous on 2019/11/24 under Life Voilà, Alex: death handed to you. Jack Peñate performs an acoustic version of a painted nail on the stem of her glass, she said,
The air is green and purple and dotted with
white. Smoke hangs off the ceiling. The fan spins,
stirring the vapour so that it twists, rolls and bulges
in a horrifying choreography.
I’m not breathing, just choking. The stabbing
sting of this poison has me gagging, then splutter-
ing, then fading.
Seeing double.
Trouble.
But, you know, this isn’t such a bad way to go. To
be honest, it’s likely I’ll never get a better death…
one so impressive and infused with tragedy it might
achieve the double whammy: front page Metro
and Evening Standard.
Can’t help but imagine the memorial service.
Everyone will be there. Remembering, reminiscing,
regretting they hadn’t known me better, more
intimately. Wonder what people will have to say in
their eulogies?
A last look at Marky. The boy who gave me
more, more than he could ever know! His head rests
on my shoulder. Seems pretty calm – could be
he’s in shock – as he takes a slug of beer, watching
the room disappear into smoke.
Fading and receding.
Wistful imaginings.
I picture women.
Rows of past lovers, crying eyes behind dark
shades. When they heard the news…it hit hard, was
like part of their youth had died with me…they
remembered fondly their time(s) with Sexy Boy and
so had to be here, a white lie told to husbands
and boyfriends so they could pay their respects.
‘When We Die’. in a voice of husky Queen’s English, “You really
Not a dry eye in the house. understand women.”
Service could even be held right here. A gesture I looked up at her, dismayed. Was she mad?
which would be potent as well as apt. Lust, objectification, fixation: these I understood.
Marky: “Well, we did it.” Gillehad had hung the show. He’d literally
True that. emptied my drawers at Prince’s and jammed the
Drifting away, away. walls of this, his space on Duke Street St James’s.
Possible headline: SEXY BOY UNITES Hedgely Fine Arts and Antiques.
LONDON IN MOURNING…I realise something, He’d run it his whole life and back in the Fifties,
something unexpected, considering all that’d gone Sixties, it had been the London gallery. He’d main-
before… tained the same stable of artists ever since, until
I don’t want to die. recently they had had the temerity to start dying
From one death to another, let us turn back off and, seeing even his stock begin to diminish,
the pages of the year, back to the beginning, where Gillehad had been forced to look to the future.
we rejoin Alex at his very own art opening. Thusly: he rebranded as Nu.parlance Projects and
Private view. relaunched with Alexander Brenchley.
The song of life, from sweet to diabolical to The first visitors arrive.
moribund, on this night groaned with the flat pulse Can I do this?
of hymns in English churches…‘Once in Royal Meets, greets, handshakes, chit-chat.
Alex’s City’…where so many sadness bombs have Am I ready to face the world, re-join society?
dropped…leaving his surface pockmarked with NO! LET ME OUT!
craters, his capacity for happiness, hope, optimism But I had agreed to do this show (albeit at the
obliterated. height of my insanity) and, say what you will about
“Done good, you have, Xander,” said Gillehad, a Al B, he’s a man of his word.
flute of champagne poised at his lips. Melanie, laughing.
He came cushioned in thick layers of bespoke Her head falls backwards, sending that hair –
tailoring and baby fat. He had, you could say, reticulating blonde sunlight – flipping like a whale’s
a naughty face; a look accentuated by a fixed grin tail.
which gave everything he said a sly, implying tone. The largest work in the room. ‘Regina’ (2008),
“My showing you, it was a risk, no denying, but a 110 × 180 inches, oil on canvas. Melanie rubs a red dot
risk, I rest fully assured, worth taking.” by its title on the list of works and flashes me a grin.
“Indeed,” concurred his assistant, Melanie. Miss Ravenscroft bounds in, looking comparably
Gazing at walls packed with Brenchleys, tapping youthful to the rest of the crowd, with the purple