Next morning, after I'd been chauffeured (just round the corner) to the recording studio, David nearly toppled me with an effusive bear hug, which was some surprise, since neither he nor I were in essence touchy feely people. I was surprised, too, to see him wearing a beard, which inexplicably put me in mind of a drug dealer, or diamond smuggler from Amsterdam (not that I had ever met many). I decided not to tell him.
After introducing me to the band (hip local boys, brothers Hunt and Tony Sales; and Reeves Gabrel, more brains than hip) and having played some of the new album, David asked if I had ever heard of Narcotics Anonymous? If so, what did I think of it?
Here was an easy chance to give flight to a current bee in my bonnet. I didn't, as I might today say something like, 'Brilliant for those it suits'. Instead I replied, 'Oh, it's simply a venue for 'moaning minnies' to get on stage and parade their woes: not my cup of tea.'
A pause. 'All right,' said David. 'Please yourself, but me and a couple of the boys are going later on to the Hollywood meeting, and you're welcome to come along.'
So I went.
At the meeting new members were expected each in turn to introduce themselves. 'Hi, my name is... and I am a... (something) addict', even if they'd been 'clean' for half a lifetime.
Negative thinking in my book, so when my turn came, I stood up. 'Hi, my name's Edward and I used to be a heroin addict.'
Tremor of hush: necks craned in my direction. Scowl from David. He brightened up towards the end though, because it was his turn to put the kettle on and pour the tea, which he seemed to thoroughly enjoy doing.
Black and White – p. 67
I will admit, there were other occasions where I could have displayed more delicate tact. We were chatting at a record company bash; David was reminiscing about a drinks party he had given in Mustique: he'd had to have Princess Margaret thrown out because she was so drunk.
'Blimey!' I expostulated. 'She sounds as bad as some of those pop stars one hears about.'
Black look. Straight to his pedestal and I longer existed. We were, though, in agreement over Levi jeans, straight leg, button-fly 501s. They were something American that I did like, currently preferring the white ones, as opposed to the black that he had and the band routinely wore. The very next day David appeared immaculate in a white shirt, gleaming white loafers and white Levis. I couldn't help myself and exclaimed, 'Hey, it's the Milky Bar Kid.'
If looks could kill, well, I just died.
Big Fight – p. 69
Another evening, another works outing. This time, David took us to his apartment to watch a heavyweight boxing match, a 'big fight', live on TV. Glasses of Coke or water were dispensed. He lay propped full-length on his emperor-sized bed while we crouched on the edge or sat on the floor cushions.
There was a big build up and ritual pumping of anticipation; the king and his courtiers were in for a treat. The bell rang, adrenaline levels soared and a ropey first round ended with an unconvincing knock-out.
This disappointing anti-climax brought our evening to a premature close in a similar way. A thoroughly disquieted David knocked our small party on the head and unceremoniously ushered his acolytes out of the flat and into the elevator.
I came away musing not so much on the unsatisfactory combat, as on the apartment and its furnishings - generous folds of heavily swagged velvet curtaining, ornate gilded mirrors, elaborate chandeliers and clusters of free standing church candelabra. Evidently, although the Venetian interlude had left him romantically unfulfilled, he had not come away entirely empty handed.
Iman – p. 75
The circumstances in David's life, since I'd last seen him in Venice, had changed considerably.
He was learning to drive and planning to buy a silver-blue E' type Jaguar (Tin Machine?). He often disappeared in the evenings, not to rock 'n' roll, but to sit at a computer screen for hours on end. These were relatively early days of such an preoccupation, but he took to it like a duck to water, or rather perhaps a spider from Mars extending its web. And Melissa was a thing of the past, never again mentioned. He was now dating, indeed seriously so, someone quite else: Iman. He brought her to the studio to meet us. This tall model was simply mesmerising: quietly dignified and very beautiful, but her most arresting feature was a skin that seemed to glow and radiate light.
We were in the presence, had we but known it, of David's 'Dark Star'. The woman he was to marry, who would have his child, and stay with him until the end.
