THE NEW YEAR'S PARTY

THE NEW YEAR'S PARTY

By Richard Banks              

Zlatan's New Year parties aren't just good, they're stellar, the best. The last one cost five mil but what's that to a man who often makes more before brunch. When you have that much money you can afford to be generous and generous he is to the hundred or so lucky people who assemble at his bidding in central London. Not that anyone needs much bidding; his invitations are the equivalent of gold dust and no one goes back home without gifts totalling several grand.

         Some of us who have known Zlatan since the early days get their invites as a matter of course; the rest, chosen from the rich and famous, have to wait their turn. Even Mick Jagger’s still waiting. This is a night to remember, but to get to the party you first have to find it. To do this you look at the invite but if you're expecting to see an address you're going to be disappointed because where the address should be is a riddle. Solve the riddle and you find the venue. This is what everyone tries to do because the first guest to arrive before 9pm wins a gold plated Cadillac. After that everyone else is sent the address and the party kicks-off at ten.

         So that's what happens, it's a sort of tradition; only the venue and riddle change. This year I'm prepared like never before. I've got dictionaries, encyclopedias, gazetteers and every other reference book known to man, plus the web and a list of sites. At 5pm Tommo arrives with this posh bird from Chelsea called Cressida who works in his office. She's a member of MENSA which makes her a valuable addition to our team. Like me, Tommo is an old friend of Zlatan and a party vet. He sets up his laptop while his date sits down on the sofa, hiccups and keels over onto her side. She falls asleep. This is not what I'm expecting.

         Tommo shrugs his shoulders and looks embarrassed. “Sorry Pete, it was just six shots. I swear it. I mean, who falls over after just six shots?”

         “Someone not use to alcohol?”

         “Not use to alcohol,” repeats Tommo. The expression on his face tells me this is a concept he is struggling to grasp.

         Fortunately the conversation is cut short by Tracy who having pressed the doorbell seems unable to stop. I let her in. Tracy's my girl. We're kind of engaged except that I haven't got round to buying a ring. She's a real sweetie who wants nothing more than to help me solve the riddle. If only she could. Tracy's from Pitsea. She's blond, drop-dead gorgeous and the life and soul of every party.   All this she does well. Thinking she does not.  Nevertheless, she can be helpful in other ways so we send her off to the kitchen to make coffee and then pour it down the throat of the sleeping genius who's our main hope of winning the Cadillac.

         Meanwhile Tommo and me are poised over our laptops waiting for the emails that contain our invites. At 5.30 they arrive and we print them out. Tracy gets overexcited and inadvertently pours coffee down Cessida's blouse which causes her to leap up off the sofa before collapsing onto the floor. Tracy abandons her and snatches my invite from the printer.

         Ignoring my outstretched hand she insists on reading the riddle-like she's an actress addressing the back row of the stalls. “Why Might He End Era?”

         “Near her?” I say.

         “No, era!” she shrieks.

         I'm still not sure I'm hearing her right so I prise the invite from her grasp and read it out for myself.

         “That's what I said,” she says, hands on hips, her face an indignant pink.

         Tommo says we should both calm down because, “a mind filled with anger has no room for wise thoughts.”

         Tommo was once given a book of quotations. In the opinion of his friends he not so much read it as swallowed it whole. Within him is a quote for every situation and a capacity for selecting the most appropriate lines and reciting them like he's on the end of a message from up high. Not for the first time he's stunned us into silence which gives him time and space for another quote:

“Remember anger is one letter short of danger.”

         Tracy decides to join in and says, “Give peace a chance.”

         By now we should be having a 'love in' but that would be wasting time. Instead, it's time to focus. This I tell them in a non-angry voice.

         “Read it again,” says Tommo, so I do.

         “'Why Might He End Era?”

         While the anger's definitely gone there's no sign that it's been replaced by wise thoughts. The only person to speak is Cressida who, in a rare moment of consciousness, says she's going to be sick. This is wasting still more time so Tommy and me open up a window and lean her out over the windowsill. We return to Tracy who's looking up 'era' in the dictionary.

         “It's time,” she says.

         “For what?” we ask.

         Tracy bounces up and down like she's on a trampoline. “An era is time. Don't you get it? The era is a year, this year and he's ending it tonight.”

         While this hardly qualifies as a breakthrough it has a logic that is difficult to refute.

         “So, who is he?” I ask.

         Tracy gets even more excited and finds the answer in the question. “You’ve got it the wrong way around. It’s not the he we should be looking it’s the who. Don’t you see? It’s Doctor Who. It must be, he’s a Time Lord.”

         This is not going well.

         Tommo advances the alternative theory that 'might he' is close to almighty which means that the 'he' we are looking for is the big ‘He’ on the other side of the Pearly Gates.

         So what does all this tell us about where the party is. The answer is nothing at all unless we're looking for police boxes that don't exist any more or a church, which seems equally unlikely given what goes on at Zlatan's parties.

         “What do you think?” Says Tommo, “after all you're the swat.”

         Sometimes I think my four GCSE's are a pressure I can do without. My mind's whizzing around like a spin drier that someone’s forgot to load. In desperation, I latch on to Tommo's theory and suggest that we should be looking for somewhere that's named after someone religious.

         “Like who?” says Tommo.

         I should be saying Saint Pancras or Saint Giles instead I blurt out, “Saint Joan.” This I regret almost before I hear myself saying it.

         Tommo gives me his 'can't believe it' look but Tracy's face lights up like a beacon. There is, she says, a club called 'All Saints' that's just opened in Piccadilly. We look it up on the Net and discover that they're closed for a private party. For a moment we think we're on to something only for our hopes to be dashed by the additional information that the hosts are an American film company.

         Tommo says this is getting us nowhere and that we should concentrate on the why. “Why did the chicken cross the road?” he asks. The 'he' man, he continues, “is ending the era because he's off somewhere else. Find the somewhere and that's the place we're looking for.”

         So what happens after an era, I'm thinking. Then it comes to me: another era, a new age, the New Age Tavern in Soho! What's more, it's in Eram Street which is era with the addition of an ‘m’. And if that ain't enough the New Age is at number 1b which looks like a 16 which is the number of letters in the riddle.

         I tell this to Tommo and Tracy and they can't get there quick enough. We leave in my car and drive like the clappers through the City and into High Holborn. From there it's first left past the Charing Cross Road and into Soho Square. A BMW behind us also turns left and we're thinking we got competition, but when we stop it keeps going. We all take a deep breath. I turn off the engine and we get out. We want to run but that wouldn't be cool so we walk as briskly as cool will allow until we turn the corner into Eram Street. The New Age is on the other side of the road. We cross over, Tommo pushes open the door and we're in. By now it should all be happening: Tommo and me waving our invitations at the bouncers and Zlatan advancing towards us hands outstretched in readiness for his customary bear hug. But he ain't here and neither is anyone else we know.

         Tracy says there's a big room out back where a jazz band plays; the party must be there. We go to the bar and, when the girl behind it gets round to serving us, Tommo shows her his invite.

         “Where do we go?” he asks.  

         The girl studies the invitation with an expression that suggests she heartily disapproves of it.

         “A party?” she says.

         “Yes,” we say.

         “What here?” she says.

         “Yes,” we chorus.

         “There ain't no party here?”

         Tracy tries to explain that there must be because the pub is the answer to the riddle but the girl ain't got time to listen on account of the half dozen punters agitating to be served.

         If we don't want a drink, she says, we “should get out of the way of those who do.”

         We're too shell-shocked to argue so we troop outside onto the pavement where Tommo kicks a lamppost and immediately regrets it. Once he's finished hopping up and down and cursing the lamppost we hold a counsel of war.

         “Plan B,” I say. “It's time for plan B”.

         “What's that?” Asks Tracy.

         Tommo says we should go back to my flat and use the journey time to figure out our next move. Even if we don't think of one we will be, at least, be by our laptops when the email arrives telling all the losers where the party is. We return to the car and head back to Hackney.

         Tommo swallows some pills and quickly forgets his animosity towards the lamppost. He's in the mood for a quotation and it's not long in coming. “Be disappointed if you fail, be doomed if you don't try.”     

         “Yeah,” we say, but we're not saying it like we believe it, so he comes back with something he hopes will have us headbanging the roof of the car: “Success is like wrestling a gorilla. Don't quit when you're tired, quit when the gorilla is tired.”

         We yeah more loudly in the hope that he will consider further pearls of wisdom unnecessary. To our relief, he settles back into his seat and mumbles incoherently to someone called Eva who's apparently sharing the back seat with him.

         We arrive back and go up to the flat where Cressida is still hanging out of the window. She's as stiff as a board so we haul her back in and lay her down on the floor next to a radiator. I check my emails but nothing’s arrived about the party. It's 7.30 and the riddle's not been solved by us or anyone else. We still have a chance but with two of our number, the worse for wear that chance is slimmer than a self respecting chance ought to be.

         Tommo, who's staggering about like Bambi on ice, wanders aimlessly into the bathroom where Tracy persuades him to put his head under the shower. She says we should do the same with Cressida but Cressida hears this and threatens violence to anyone who tries it. This is the most animated she has been since her arrival so we show her the riddle and ask her what she thinks of it. What she thinks is that we should all go to hell. She has never felt so unwell and she's putting the blame firmly on us. “Why the fuck should I help you?”

         “Don't you want to go to the party?” Says Tracy.

         Cressida replies by saying there is nothing she wants less. What she wants is to go home, and if we don't call her a taxi she will report us to the police for torture and false imprisonment.

         It's time to talk turkey, so I explain to her what we have previously been keeping quiet about which is that the first person to solve the riddle wins a car. It's not a very expensive car, I explain, but if she can help us win it we will make it worth her while.

         “How much?” She growls.

         “A grand,” I say.

         “Three,” she says.

         I pretend to laugh like this is too ridiculous to contemplate. For a moment our eyes meet and neither of us blink. We settle on two.

         “So, what's the answer then?”

         She takes my invitation from Tracy and studies it with an intensity which suggests that on the other side of her forehead a complex mechanism is up and running. “It's an anagram,” she says.

         “Anna who,” says Tracy.

         “It's an anagram,” repeats Cressida. “You move the letters around so they form different words.”

         “So, what does it say?” I press.

         At this point she refuses to tell me unless I send her the money by Pay Pal and phone for a taxi. This is more time wasted but I do what she wants and her attention again focusses on the riddle. She's nearly there, I can sense it, then she says “highway”, a second later “the” and after a short silence that seems like a lifetime, “men”. For a moment she looks puzzled, then she smiles in triumph, “The Highway Mender”.

         The what? I'm about to say, but Tracy knows the 'what' only too well. “It's that new club on The Highway, just past the Tower of London.”

         Cressida says she needs to freshen up and walks stiffly, but steadily, to the bathroom. She re-emerges several minutes later as a car horn announces the arrival of the taxi. She lets herself out without so much as a goodbye. Not that we're caring, our only concern is to get down to the club before anyone else does. There's no taking Tommo, who having removed his head from the shower, is sound asleep on the bathroom floor. So, Tracy and me set off by ourselves. Ten minutes later we're parked up outside the club on a red line. It may not be cool but we're running towards the front door like it's the finishing line in a hundred meter foot race. In we go and the first thing I see is the ugly mug of one of Zlatan's bodyguards. If ugly is the new beautiful this is the moment. He recognises me and points across the lobby towards a double door which swings open as we approach. It's Zlatan. He looks surprised but kind of pleased at the same time.

         “Peter, so wonderful to see you, and once again you bring me the adorable Tracy.” He engulfs her in a playful bear hug that somehow pops several buttons on her dress. He hugs me too, but with less enthusiasm. His jovial expression changes to one of regret. “What a shame about Tommo. Those pills, I warned him, they are not to be trusted. But at least his little Cressida has come to claim their reward.”

         “Cressida!”

         “Yes, Cressida. Have you not met her? They work together and now they play also. To tell you the truth I think she is the reason they won. And you, my friends, are second. What a pity there is no prize for coming second. But as they say in the song, 'the winner takes all'.”

         I feel like a gambler who's onto his last throw of the dice. “Did she bring their invitation? I mean, she can't win without one.”

         Zlatan puts a consoling hand on my shoulder. “What do you take me for, Peter, of course she had an invitation. It was rather wet from the rain that's been pouring down in Hackney but it is the invitation we sent. We have special ways of checking you know. Come now, enough of this. Let me show you our party room; we have caviare, champaign, fine wines and all the usual side room attractions. Enjoy, and when Cressida returns from inspecting her car you can congratulate her, as I'm sure you will.”

         Coming from Zlatan this is a warning not to be ignored. To do so is to risk becoming an ex friend and ex friends sometimes become ex people. We follow him into the inappropriately named 'Euphoria Suite' and take consolation in getting hideously drunk. We never did see Cressida. After inspecting the Cadillac she departed in it for a test drive that somehow went on longer than the party.

                                                        

************

So, that's the story of how Tracy and me came within two minutes of winning a gold plated Cadillac. Our big mistake, of course, was in letting Cressida into the bathroom. Up until then, she had been content to extract a few grand from me and make herself scarce. Then she saw Tommo lying there and remembered he had Zlatan's invitation in the inside pocket of his jacket. Suddenly, all her lucky stars were shining at once, the invitation there for the taking and a taxi about to arrive that could be used to take her to Zlatan’s party. By the time Tracy and me were halfway there, she had arrived.

         What happened at the party you already know. What happened after, you don't. Having parked her prize in her father's garage Cressida soon realises that any attempt to keep it for herself is never going to work. She might have been first past the finishing post but it’s Tommo’s name on the invite. Arguably this gives him at least a 50% share in the car which he, almost certainly, is going to claim. What's more, Tommo's a friend of Zlatan who's bound to side with him and make sure he gets everything that's due. To cut a not so long story even shorter she arrives on Tommo's doorstep two days later with a lawyer and a legal agreement splitting the value of the car between them. Zlatan calls off the heavy who's been told to find her and ends up offering Cressida a job in his business empire – she's one smart cookie he can make good use of.

         So, it's all ended well for those who win and for those who don't there's always next year. At least I'm not out of pocket. Tommo’s sent me a cheque from Cressida returning the two grand I gave her, along with a quotation: 'Disappointment to a noble soul is what cold water is to burning metal; it strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys'.

         In return Tracy and me sent him the following message: 'Your Team's Up'. It's an anagram. Work it out for yourself.   

Copyright Richard Banks