Namedropper Read Online Free Page B

revised for that French exam?” In class I pretend I can’t be bothered with the language, I am above it. In fact the knowledge that I’m bad at it upsets me because I associate French with beautiful people. The other day I scribbled, with lipstick, on a photograph of Catherine Deneuve.
    Treena began to bite around the edges of another finger of chocolate. She looked up from her dark, velvety lashes. She knew, from her mother’s experience, that blond eyelashes are ineffectual, and dyed them brown. “I ain’t revised.”
    â€œThat’s great, Treena. Because not only have I not revised, I haven’t learnt. I have sat in French class for five years, watching Madame turn grey and die in front of my eyes. I have learnt nothing. I can ask myself my date of birth, but I can’t reply. I can issue myself with a return train ticket to Dieppe. I can ask at what time the swimming pool opens, and that’s it. I’m fucked and I don’t want to talk about it.”
    â€œThat’s funny, man. Because I was, like, totally fucked last night. Me and Marcus was out of our fucking heads, man.”
    â€œMarcus and I,” I corrected her, and went to bang my head on the door of a toilet stall.

    On my way home from school I bought a copy of the
NME
because Ray was on the cover in an article by Tommy Belucci.
    I read the opening paragraph of Tommy’s interview:
    RCA’s A and R man only went to see Ray play because he fancied the female drummer in the support band. He failed to pull her, stayed to watch Ray, and the rest is history. It is incredible to think that Ray Devlin’s astonishing success story hinges on a girl. A girl!
    Tommy Belucci, Ray’s best mate and a “crackerjack” music journalist, has a chemical reaction to women. The minute a girl walks into a room, he bristles and sits up dead straight, like he forgot to take the coat hanger out of his suit before putting it on. That’s how comfortable the female presence makes him.
    The way he deals with his discomfort is to take them to bed. He will say anything to get them there. If they are brunette, he’ll say he hates blondes. If they’re a blonde, he hates brunettes. If they are studying fashion, then fashion is his single greatest interest in life. His intent is so great that for the next hour, as if by magic, he truly does know everything about the world of couture. If they loathe football, then so does he. If they will only date black men, his skin gets darker. If they like Mel Gibson, his accent becomes Australian. If they fancy Hugh Grant, it turns out Tommy was educated at Eton. Tommy is the Zelig of playboys. I get the feeling he doesn’t especially enjoy the sex. The point is that, once he has slept with them, the enemy has been confronted and defusedand he will never have to acknowledge their presence again. I’d hate to be him. Life must be one big game of Alien Invaders. Every time he blows up, another comes along.
    His eyes are his best feature, brown flecked with green and so heavy lidded there is no crease at all—they are almost Oriental. But instead of deflecting attention from the rest of him, his beautiful eyes just make it worse. Immediately under his eyes are deep, deep bags, the colour of school uniforms. His tiny snout of a nose is much too little for his big face. His eyebrows don’t so much meet in the middle as have elaborate and well-catered functions in the centre of his forehead.
    Tommy is a mod. He has an extensive collection of Motown 45s and Small Faces rarities. He owns an astonishing array of Savile Row suits and Fred Perry suits. They would be a wiser investment if he just dotted them around his room for everyone to admire because, no matter how well they are cut, they hang badly on him, like clingfilm around a bowl of day-old dog food. He is concurrently thin and lumpy, and elegant suits accentuate this.
    Over his suit, he wears a camel-coloured