An extract from Episode Twelve of my new novel,"Everything Must Go".
Returning from the patio, with a little bit of a suntan, Candy Bar tip-toed in and sat besides me.
“You should see the garden, it’s full of flamingos, hundreds of pink flamingos.”
I had often dreamt of flamingos, which in sleep symbolize the beginning of a new community or conversely an overdependence on one’s looks. Shortly after pushing out Baby, I dreamt that I gave birth to a flamingo and then promptly devoured it, devoured my own good looks by proxy ("Eat Yourself", that’s always been my mantra). I’d do very well as a cannibal, if only I weren’t one of a kind. If you go killing other species it’s merely murder, and that has been done to death; I thought, briefly, back again to the walk of fame dedicated in its entirety to Elizabeth de Bathory, in cold blood, and I mused on Truman Capote, such a faggot.
I imagined Capote, always a gentleman, entertaining the Countess for a weekend and then fiendishly, immediately scribbling down all of her mannerisms, anecdotes and peculiarities at the typewriter, the moment she left. Capote, waving the Countess off, Capote in his silk dressing gown breaking the top off a boiled egg and giggling to himself, Capote in a sport’s jacket, cravat and an open shirt hammering it out, Capote with a mid-morning scotch fretting over his hairline and his deadlines, Capote screwing up the typewriter roll and starting all over again, and somewhere in Forest City Andy Warhol dreamed up this entire scene.