Duran Duran was my band of teenage infatuation at thirteen/fourteen.
Fourteen years later he is sitting in front of me. I never would have thought
I’d see him in person.
“At the same
time it’s purely personable, I’m not awestruck or intimidated at all. My
interest is passing. He was very personable, had an almost Puckish mischief to
him. He’d aged well. What was really striking was how directly he looked at you
with his enormous deep blue eyes. They flared beautifully when his face lit
with a smile. He looked at me while I worked around him clearing tables, so I
smiled back. Service was particular but he was so polite and deprecating that
you didn’t really mind. He came in late. The figs were done in alcohol so he
asked me to change it to prunes confessing he’d drank a lot last night and had
this TV interview this morning and it would not be good for him to have any
more alcohol. All this with completely absorbed eye contact. He had the rest of
his breakfast sent to his room instead of wasting it. When he was finished he
asked me if I needed him to sign anything before he left. I told him the room
number was sufficient.
“415, under Mr. Soft,” he
replied with emphasis and a grin. I turned away to conceal my smirk and
continued setting tables. “Do you think my name is funny? What’s so funny about
my name?” Mock indignant, but had you not known, it would have come off as
fully serious and seriously pissed. There was no way I was going to delve into
that amusing innuendo (alcohol probably would have had something to do with it),
so I retorted, “Your pseudonym is.” He actually threw back his head and
laughed. So he asked if I’d ever seen Monty Python. Yes, parts of it.
“Well, there’s this scene with
Pontious Pilot (you’ve probably seen this), where he’s referring to his
assistant,” (Simon then reprised the slurred line perfectly), “What’s so funny
about “Biggus Dickus”?” Like I said, I didn’t want to go into “Soft”. I
deliberately cracked a smile that was just barely, just enough. He’d probably
just been waiting for the moment to play that; I suspect he enjoyed it more
than I did. The next day I got to redeem myself with Anthony the drummer, and
then again it was Mr. Soft calling down to pre-order white omelets. Sweet as punch, but his order’s as bad as the
drummer’s and late, and I was forced to relay by memory and commiserate with
the chef, piquing the head waitress who did not know who’d called. Mr. Soft
arrived at 10:20 and had to leave by 10:30, causing a total juggle between the
chef and his party who wanted to leave. Actually Sharon detests white omelets,
told me when I personally thanked her afterwards. Mr. Soft’s manager came in
twice, so did Nick Rhodes, flipping his shades at me as if he thinks that will
make white omelets appear any faster. “He has to leave in three minutes.”
“I’m aware of that.” It’s not
like I hadn’t asked the chef, politely. She was totally agitated. She was like
“What does he expect! He just got here! How am I supposed…”
“Look it’s his fault. He knows
that.” In the meantime Mr. Soft left to talk to his party. The meal was there
when he came back, and he complimented it enormously, ate with slow casualness.
Requesting tabasco sauce he said his mom had told him it had to be kept in the
fridge; I retorted my mom never had. Then asked for an English paper; without
having taken it home the week before by accident, I wouldn’t have known I was
off to find The Times in the Study, where the whole band and crew is waiting.
Finally Nick arrives in The Tearoom to pull him out by his ears; the whole crew
is on the bus.
“I hate
to leave like this.” As Simon rushes out, walking backwards, he actually calls
back, “I’m Sorry!” Though he’d finished nearly all of the omelet. I smiled back
at him, it didn’t matter to me, but for some reason I gave him only a half wave with two fingers, for half a
conversation perhaps, half a good-bye.
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