"Any plans for today, then?" I ask.
"Jamie's coming round in an hour, there's a bottle of Stoli in the freezer and my legs need waxing," she shrugs.
"Sounds like fun. Thanks, Polly."
"Go on," she nods. "Fuck off."
Of course, going to Heathrow on the tube is a journey longer than most flights, so there's plenty of time to review this incredibly odd place at which I've arrived. Exactly what's come over the man, I really cannot guess. As the train trundles past the familiar stops-King's Cross, Green Park, South Kensington, Earl's Court, Hammersmith, Acton Town-I become more confused and more nervous. It's pretty far from how I imagined I'd feel, on the way to receive this most precious of explanations. At Northfields I start worrying it'll be the anticlimax Billy Flushing suspected: simply a bad day, too much booze and the distinct impression his career was heading toilet-wards. I require nothing short of Armageddon: at least four deaths of close family members, perhaps the revelation that Gloria Feathers had been male all along, and an alien visiting him in his dressing room before the show. Deep inside, I know I'm going to be disappointed. I'm also wondering how much of this "burying the past" I'm obliged to help him with in return, and what it could possibly entail in a Heathrow departure lounge. As the train halts between Boston Manor and Osterley I look at my watch and realise that, whatever it is, we haven't got long to do it: a little less than two and a half hours. At Hounslow East I'm starting to sweat, and another text arrives.
Are you fucking coming or not?
It's funny, his swear count has gone zooming up since he's become Lance again. I fire an optimistic one back ("Yes, am ten minutes away") and wonder what sort of moody ex-rock star awaits at the other end. As we creep through Hatton Cross I find myself worrying that perhaps this is all an elaborate and expensive windup (which I may well deserve), a punishment for stringing him along with the whole "Alan the writing coach" charade. At the very least, I suspect he'll be a little cold and uncooperative. Finally we roll up at Heathrow 123. I pelt down the long corridor (the travolator is conveniently broken), sprint into the packed departure hall, a nice lady checks me in ... and then I discover the most likely reason for Webster's reluctance to come back out to the public area.
The queue for security is of biblical biblical proportions. It's an epic. They've made entire Hollywood films about it. First I think it's a joke, or they're actually waiting for Richard Branson's autograph, or something. But no. It starts from a point irritatingly close to the barriers, then loops around the entire building, presided over by incongruously smiley airport staff, until it returns to its original source. It winds past three airport information desks, several bureaux de change, countless check-in areas, umpteen shops and no less than twenty-five branches of Costa. Occasionally an announcement is made, along the lines of "If you're on such-and-such a shortly departing flight, go to the front of the queue," but as it's only ten past ten and my flight doesn't leave until after one, I'm not going proportions. It's an epic. They've made entire Hollywood films about it. First I think it's a joke, or they're actually waiting for Richard Branson's autograph, or something. But no. It starts from a point irritatingly close to the barriers, then loops around the entire building, presided over by incongruously smiley airport staff, until it returns to its original source. It winds past three airport information desks, several bureaux de change, countless check-in areas, umpteen shops and no less than twenty-five branches of Costa. Occasionally an announcement is made, along the lines of "If you're on such-and-such a shortly departing flight, go to the front of the queue," but as it's only ten past ten and my flight doesn't leave until after one, I'm not going anywhere anywhere. Once again my woollen suit is providing me with my own private sauna, and I'd kill for a coffee. Something must be done.
I leave the queue (I've moved a whole two feet since joining it) and wander over to the barriers. It's the usual bedlam of various airline employees ordering people about, arguments over the rules about carrying liquid, folks trying to push in and then being told to sod off by fluorescent-yellow-waistcoat-wearing Heathrow bods. I stick around for a moment to see exactly what occurs when passengers are legitimately allowed to barge through. A soon-to-leave Dubai flight is called, prompting a flurry of people flocking to the barrier from whatever distant corner of the terminal they'd reached. I watch carefully: a female airport official looks at the boarding pass of the first person, then unhooks part of the metal fence which holds the line of punters together, allowing the lucky few to walk down the side and straight past the hundreds of passengers shuffling along in the amusement-park-style internal queuing system until they reach the short line of people waiting their turn to put bags and jackets on the X-ray belt. The official at the gate only bothers to look at about one in three passes, whereas the bloke by the X-ray belt itself will look at every one of them, but by that stage in the process all he'll care about is that your boarding pass is valid, not how soon your flight leaves. I glance at my watch, then at the terminal-straddling queue. By the time I reach the front, it's certain that Lance Webster will be gone, up in the sky, off to wherever the hell he's going, leaving me with no story, no two hundred pounds and, as Alan would probably say, no closure closure. It's blatantly obvious what I should do.
I nonchalantly amble away from the gate, pretending to be on the phone. The further away I get, the slower I walk. I've travelled fifty metres or so when a new announcement is made.
A Virgin flight. To JFK.
One out of two ain't bad.
I turn around. All along the queue, people are ducking out and marching up to the barrier. I dash up the outside and spy a suitably chaotic family by the gate: a dad, a mum, a teenage boy, a nine- or ten-year-old girl and a toddler of indeterminate gender. I take a deep breath and sandwich myself between the woman and the teenager, smiling cheerily.
"Thank God for that, eh? Thought we were gonna miss it."
"Oh, it's just madness," replies the mum. "Daniel, look after your sister. Jason, stop pulling on that gentleman's jacket!"
"Flying with kids, eh?" I smile at the dad. "Nightmare."
"We tried to leave 'em at home." He winks. "Rumbled at the last minute."
"Been to New York before?"
And so, chatting away, we push our way along. As regular as clockwork, the airport official looks at mum and dad's boarding passes. Then everyone gets distracted by the toddler. The mum rushes back to fetch him. The teenager shows his own pass, then the girl and I walk through together. Finally the mum returns carrying the toddler, apologising profusely to the official. I'm just a slightly older cousin, or maybe the mum's much younger brother. But suddenly: "Sorry, where are you going?" the official asks, pointing at me.
The whole terminal seems to screech to a halt.
"New York!" I beam, waving my boarding pass and risking a familial hand on the toddler's head. "With this lot!"
"Okay," she smiles.
Phew! Good old Uncle Clive. We're all one big, crazy holidaying family. We rush past the poor bastards snaking round the queuing fences and reach the X-ray belt in no time, where the nice man studies my passport and boarding pass and rods me through. My shoulder bag goes onto the belt, jacket goes in the tray. I skip through the metal detector and ... I've done it. Three minutes. Fuck. It worked. I can breathe again.
And not before bloody time, because my phone is ringing. It's him.
"All right, all right, I'm here," I puff. "Where are you?"
"The Bistro, at the back."
"Do they serve coffee?"
"Of course. Get your arse over here-I'm leaving in an hour."
"An hour!" I yell, but he's hung up already.
Okay. So he's an impatient rock star again. Fun lies ahead.
I worm my way through the quagmire of shops, overpriced fooderies, tables, chairs and people, finally spotting the place he's at. I can see him in there, face wrapped in his damn shades, sitting at a table next to a frosted window. I'm sure he's seen me, but he's not smiling. I clear my throat, put my phone on silent and stride over.
"That was a very long ten minutes," he begins.
"Have you seen the bloody queue?"
"No," he says. "I'm in first class."
"Of course you are."
"Hey. That doesn't stop my flight from being delayed by five fucking hours."
"Five hours? Who the hell are you flying with?"
"Don't ask."
He puts his newspaper away while I order my coffee. Once the waitress has departed he sits back, folding his arms.
"So."
"So," I reply, in a slightly more hesitant, questioning tone. His next statement is a curveball.
"You've been dreaming about me."
"I'm sorry?"
"That's what it says here," he explains, extracting a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. "'Dear Lance, I've been dreaming about you.'"
"Oh, God," I gasp, the penny dropping.
"'I feel you are looking for vindication,'" he continues, one of his crafty smiles forming, "'and I can help you.'"
"Just give me that bloody thing, will you?"
"Ah, na-na-na-na ... not so fast, writer boy," he commands, whipping the note out of my reach as I try to grab it. Bastard. He is is enjoying this. enjoying this.
"So you kept it, then," I blush.
"Course I kept it. I keep everything. What do you think 'Disposal' is all about?"
"Hmm, yeah," I nod, trawling through the lyric section of the old cranium. "'I've got expanding cupboard space, for every word, every kiss, every punch in the face...'"
"Well done," he says, either impressed or being sarcastic, I can't really tell with his shades on.
"I'm afraid I'm a bit of a fan," I venture, rather pitifully.
"Oh, I know that that," he smiles, looking at the wretched letter again. "'Thieving Magpies ruled my life and I hung on your every note but then you left. I need to know why, then I can move on.' I've got to say, Mr. Clive, after all your harping about grammar and sentence structure, yours is simply appalling appalling in this letter." in this letter."
"I was very drunk."
"I should hope so. You've even misspelled Thieving Magpies. Didn't they teach you, I I before before E?" E?"
"Sorry."
"Oh, please. The one thing I will not tolerate from you today is pathetic apology. You did what you did, and it got you here."
"Uh, yes. Via two hundred quid for a single to New York."
"New York? Bloody hell, was that the cheapest ticket you could get?"
"Yeah, but don't worry. I'm assuming it's all going to be worth it."
"Dunno," he muses, playing with the saltcellar. "It's my life, so I've never found any of it particularly enthralling."
"Right," I consider, dredging up another lyric. "'When the blinds are drawn and you can't see me, secretly engaged in some boring activity.'" "'When the blinds are drawn and you can't see me, secretly engaged in some boring activity.'"
"Aw, man ... stop it! You're freaking me out now."
"Sorry."
"You know the bloody solo album well, don't you?"
"Yeah. Underrated."
"Underrated, overrated?"
I prick up my ears at the title of a feature from Definitely Not Definitely Not. He can't know about that, surely? Must be a coincidence. I study his face, but I can't interpret anything with those stupid glasses he's got on.
"Sorry, could you take your shades off, please?"
"No."
"Ah."
"You never know," he deadpans, leaning in, "I might get recognised. Come on, time's ticking by. We'd better get on with it."
"Yep. Well, I'm ready to listen."
"Oh, are you, indeed? Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Beresford. Before I tell you a damn thing, I want you to tell me me something." something."
"Uh?"
He brandishes my letter again.
"What on earth do you mean by this? 'I know of the unspoken love between you and Gloria. It's there-' spelt T-H-E-I-R, by the way-'in your lyrics.'"
"I wrote that?"
"You did."
Holy poo. I buy myself a few seconds by glancing around the restaurant.
"Please take note," he comments politely, peering above his sunglasses for a moment, "a response along the lines of 'Dunno, I was pissed' will result in immediate termination of this interview."
"Which one, mine or yours?"
"Ha!" he laughs, genuinely. "Both."
With majestically good timing, my coffee arrives. Lance gazes up at the waitress while she pours, grinning at her in a slightly peculiar manner. She leaves without looking at him.
"No, she doesn't know I was a rock star," he sighs. "This country has gone to ruin, eh, Clive? Oh, sorry ... you were telling me about Gloria."
"Uh, yeah. Well ... I always had a theory about you and Gloria. Everyone always said that you were shagging. Or, I mean, that you were romantically ..."
"Romantically shagging. Yeah, I get it."
"Yeah. But me and Alan ... that's Alan my friend, the one I sort of named myself after ... we knew you weren't. Dunno how. Just a feeling. But we also knew you wanted to, or at least, that one one of you wanted to." of you wanted to."
"Hmm ... right?"
"But that for whatever reason, it never happened. You had ... um ... other girlfriends, and she, well ... she did whatever."
He's frowning. I can tell that much, through the thick black plastic.
"It's funny," he says, "I always had a theory that you'd be more eloquent than this, in person." always had a theory that you'd be more eloquent than this, in person."
"Sorry. I get a bit tongue-tied when I'm talking ... you you know this." know this."
"I meant you as Clive."