No big deal, he joked. He supposed he’d get over it eventually.
At least, I hope he was joking, Viv tells Joy. With Julia’s bracing society temporarily unavailable, Joy is Viv’s confidante of choice. But she is proving less willing than usual to take up the slack. It might be her imagination, but Viv feels the atmosphere at Joy’s to be constrained. Bursts of laughter that generally punctuate the afternoon are absent. Today the vibe is subdued.
Joy has been noticeably introspective all afternoon. She’s wearing one of her swirling skirts with Cuban-heeled boots, their first outing for a while. When Viv said she thought Mr Jackson didn’t like country, Joy shrugged indifferently. Viv has raised the subject of Leary, a fellow American, in the hope of bringing her out of herself.
It only works to a limited extent. New Yorkers aren’t like other Americans, Joy responds without enthusiasm, as Viv ought to know. They should secede from the rest of the country, like Scotland’s trying to do, and Catalonia. They’re way more pushy and they’re into wisecracking the entire time.
‘Even to think about them tires me right out,’ she says. ‘They spend all their money on being analysed. They want to analyse every little thing. Blah blah blah. Yada yada yada.’ That does sound a bit like Leary, Viv agrees.
A search of Leary’s name had brought up lists of TV programs he had directed, going back years. Episodes of familiar series and soaps, and others she’d never heard of. It also yielded his blog, Celluloid Antihero. Viv was now one of his five thousand-plus followers, though she doubted if she’d turn into a regular.
Towards the end of her time in publishing, authors had been urged to self-publicise with blogs and Twitter. Other than their efforts, this might be the first blog she had ever looked at. She’d speed-read a few sections. It was written in punchy grabs often unencumbered with a verb or traditional structure, like some airport bestsellers. Viv had edited the books of a popular crime writer with a similar style.
Still, Leary’s blog was quite a fun read. He lampooned academic film critics for their lazy refusal to re-evaluate sacred cows, such as crap like Vertigo. He sent up other movie buffs, a tribe of bearded loonies who emerged from the underworld to infiltrate the NFT and more obscure film venues. Viv imagined them as resembling, in some respects, Geoff’s sci-fi cronies.
Did Martin Glover know about Leary’s blog? Woven into the narrative were references to some (largely fruitless) internet dating. His increasingly hopeless dates were likened to dysfunctional characters in Ealing comedies. Leary’s work, as well as his ongoing therapy, bore ingenious comparison to the plots of disaster movies.
‘He sees connections between films and everyday life that escape many people,’ Viv tells Joy later, in the sewing room. ‘He sees his life as a slow-motion train wreck with horrible special effects.’
She thought Joy had been listening with half an ear. But Joy surprises her by saying that she thinks Viv ought to try him out. All that surplus energy New Yorkers have, it’s better for it to have an outlet or it can go crazy and cause trouble. All men are wacko, right? It just depends what his brand of wacko is. And if Viv can put up with it.
She is looking over at Mr Jackson with a frown as she makes this remark. He is sitting by himself at the far end with his broad shoulders hunched, working away quietly. Viv wouldn’t say Joy’s expression is hostile; nor would she say it is fond. All Viv can get out of her today on the subject is that he’s only here on appro. It’s shape up or ship out.
Viv wonders how Mr Jackson’s wackiness evinces itself. Is it his conduct in the house? The bedroom? Joy’s demeanour tells her it would be counterproductive to pursue this now. But Viv is not the only one who senses something is out of kilter. She has seen unreadable glances passing between Ondine and Joy. Ondine, she recalls, was the one who introduced Mr Jackson.
His grey head of tight curly hair is bent over his work, a simple border of red and white triangles. This will be added to the quilt being made by Ondine and Yasmin, from Yasmin’s appliquéd design of the local high street. Yasmin from Somalia has had no formal education, and Viv thinks she is far and away the most talented person in the room.
She watches as Mr Jackson approaches Ondine for help with the sewing machine. He is masculine without being intrusively macho, she thinks. He blends in with the group almost as if he’s one of them. And a little later he takes Riley’s crying baby, Reuben, and plays with him.
On her way out Viv contrives a small fishing experiment. Riley has just settled Reuben down for his nap in the crowded hall. Viv has never found Riley, the youngest member of the household, to be unduly hampered by discretion. ‘Miss Joy seems a bit down today, Riley,’ she says in a low voice, since the door to the hall is always left open. ‘Is something troubling her? Has anything happened?’
Riley, whose beauty, Viv believes, is comparatively rare in that it is free of artifice, opens up right away. She too keeps her voice confidential. ‘No, but it’s been really weird the last few days. They’re being sort of too polite, you know? Like they don’t know each other.’
That is weird, Viv says.
‘Yeah, everyone’s noticed it. It’s like they’ve had a terrible fight but they haven’t? He’s such a sweet guy too, he’s so sweet to Reuben and all the kids. And so nice to her, you know?’ Riley looks wistful. What more could you want, is the subtext, than someone who’s nice to you? She shakes her long braids, which rattle against each other. Viv admires what she does with her hair, and has had conversations about how she achieves it. Today it’s styled in cornrows and threaded with colourful beads.
‘It must be a private thing,’ Viv concludes. But something makes her persist. ‘There’s been nothing out of the ordinary? Nothing like, wacko? That you can think of?’
No, nothing. Everyone’s been talking about it. Well, everyone except Ondine.
Ondine hasn’t said anything?
Not a thing. But she’s her best friend, isn’t she? She knows what’s going on, Riley’s sure of that. Viv glances back through the open door. Her sightline allows a partial view of Ondine, diagonally opposite. Ondine is serious, almost studious. Nice-looking, gay but never been particularly interested in following it up, according to Joy. She’s talking to Yasmin, whose English is slowly improving. Both are bent over the outspread quilt. They exude collaborative concentration.
‘Well,’ Viv says, ‘it’s early days, isn’t it? I suppose it’ll straighten itself out. Let’s hope so, anyway.’
‘Yeah, that’s what we all hope.’
Another text from Leary. Viv peruses it cautiously. Grovelling apols Bea but date night on hold for a bit, hopefully not forever. Convent series switching focus to enable more creative opps (producer-speak) eg lead nun now transgender.
The previous helmer being holed up in rehab, Leary’s been landed with the whole enchilada. Prev locations junked & he’s been dragged outta town for intensive rewrite recce. Then it’s back to the real (??) world, so she mustn’t think she’s off-leash.
‘I’m off-leash and on the loose,’ Viv tells Martin Glover. With a glimmer of relief, it can’t be denied.
His response is prompt. In that case, they can keep the pot on a rolling boil as there’s another rabbit he’d set aside for a rainy day. Viv says she’s shocked. Wouldn’t that be tantamount to two-timing? Martin doesn’t think it would be tantamount to anything of that nature. She claims to be raring to go, doesn’t she? And she and Mr Davidson haven’t actually managed to make contact yet. Not face to face.
‘Well, it’s hard to find time for a social whirl in his walk of life, I gather. You may be unfamiliar with the TV business, Martin? I can reveal that they’re all on drugs. Everything happens last-minute. It’s madly full-on and worryingly crisis-ridden.’
Geoff is out again. He left the house after breakfast. Back on the real-estate treadmill, he explained with a grin. Damsel in distress and all that. Viv is about to leave for her volunteering work at Tower Hamlets. She slings a bag over her shoulder and
descends the stairs, while holding the phone to her ear and winding a thick woollen scarf round her neck with her free hand.
The new rabbit calls himself Thomas Daunt, although Martin doubts whether that name is an exact match with the one on his birth certificate. ‘He’s a minister, so he’s quite likely to be covering his tracks.’
‘He’s in the Cabinet?’
‘No, no, just a minister of religion. Anglican, of course.’
‘Of course. The other side wouldn’t be sympathetic to this sort of caper, would they? You’re having me on.’
‘No, it’s God’s truth. He says he’s a vicar, in point of fact.’
‘A vicar? Isn’t that verging on the – burlesque?’
Martin says he’s not the first such specimen to cross his path. ‘He’s a struggling priest, as they mostly are these days, he tells me. And he keeps a low profile since his first divorce, so I think any risqués would be negligible—’
‘His first divorce? Am I hearing aright? And what sort of risqués can you possibly be thinking of?’
‘Well, I don’t think paparazzi would be an issue.’
‘You don’t, don’t you? I’m relieved to hear it.’ Viv shoves open the front door, which is sticking, and negotiates the steps. ‘What about the risqué of him being publicly defrocked?’
‘I think they abolished defrocking for adultery. These days it’s only resorted to for the more heinous crimes. In any case, I’m not sure frocks are worn much anymore.’
‘He can’t be struggling that much, to afford your fees.’
‘He led me to understand his wife is fairly cashed-up.’
‘His wife? He’s using her money? Has he told her?’
Martin says he shouldn’t have said that, and she should forget he ever said it. He might have dreamt it, anyway. He has always had an annoying tendency to dream little snatches of conversation, and it’s hard to know if they’re true or not.
Viv admits to having a similar tendency. ‘How on earth did he get on your books?’
‘He fits the Agency’s specifications, put it that way. His case is not as straightforward as it may sound on first hearing. You could say he’s a postmodern type of priest. Divorced with a second family – a younger wife and toddler.’
‘That sounds entirely straightforward to me, if you really want to know.’ By now, Viv is briskly on her way to the Tube, which will connect her to a bus. ‘I can’t think why you—’
‘And this has given rise to some unforeseen complications. I’m inclined to think you should give him a chance to explain for himself. Every case is different, you know. He doesn’t present as a rip-roaring sleaze. More as a hapless chump who’s dug a hole for himself, through a fairly standard combination of carelessness and moral turpitude.’
‘Martin, I’ve got zero interest in getting involved with a morally turpid vicar who has a wife and young child, and quite possibly causing a scan—’
‘Shall we say his status as a husband has been non-functional for some time.’
‘How old is he?’ Viv takes long strides, frowning into the wind.
‘Let me see. Your age. Fifty-seven.’
‘That’s not my age, Martin. It’s the age you gave me. Remember?’
‘Well, give or take. Be reasonable.’
Be reasonable? Viv gives vent to a laugh, prolonged and uninhibited, which has been building up over the past few minutes. She only just avoids a collision with an irate woman pushing twins in a double pram and taking up most of the pavement.
‘You’re sounding like my husband. He’s always telling me to be reasonable.’
A mere two days later, following an exchange of pleasantries, she is about to be furnished with an account of the hole that the Reverend Thomas Daunt – who has no truck with formality, just call me Tom – has dug for himself. They are in a smart cafe (a former greasy spoon given the bog-standard tourist-friendly half-timbered look in the early noughties, he explains, and rebranded a brasserie) in Westminster.
Tom had said he wouldn’t be wearing a dog collar, because he is off duty. But Viv identifies him without any trouble. Martin had described him as looking something like the late Bob Mitchum.
‘Robert Mitchum? The actor?’ Viv exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you say that before?’
A younger, more reptilian version.
‘More reptilian?’
Well, somewhat more.
‘But that’s absurd, Martin. Mitchum is not at all reptilian.’
Sorry, he thought the word he wanted might be saturnine. Saturnine yet also sensitive. A trifle over-sensitive? Perhaps a touch fleshy.
‘Does he have a cleft chin?’
Martin thought not. Perhaps a bit of double chin instead.
‘Younger than Bob Mitchum when he was what age?’’
Well, than when he was older. When he died. Martin said he’d never been a dab hand at describing people. Vivien should ditch the idea that the Rev Daunt looked like anyone, and meet him with no preconceptions.
So, in spite of considerable misgivings, Viv is keeping a resolutely open mind for the time being. She and Tom Daunt are sitting with a side view of the door, at his suggestion. So, they can keep the hoi polloi under surveillance, he says surprisingly, in a rich and deep baritone.
Viv pictures his sermons resonating under soaring arches. Although these days congregations are said to be thin on the ground, so perhaps the pews are sparsely populated. She is interested to hear that (as an Associate Rector, she thinks he said) he works in and around the East End. In that case he would know of the Tower Hamlets school where she volunteers? He gives an absent nod. Viv, whose ears are pricked, chalks this up as noteworthy.
Tom is an urbane, worldly man with an impressive head of dark hair and a firm handshake. A tall man whose primary drive, she would predict, is physical. Viv is aware of making this assumption in a non-evidence-based way, but thinks her mother would concur. Without her glasses she can see what Martin meant. A passing resemblance to Robert Mitchum: slight, but encouraging. He has a similar air of indolence, but with the beginnings of a double chin. His thick black hair curls over the (non-clerical) collar and cravat, and he has heavy sideburns.
She can see no grey around the temples. According to Joy, who claims to know about such things, any white male over fifty who’s not showing any grey is doing something about it. Joy also says long sideburns are a sign of a narcissism.
Viv is having difficulty ridding herself of the saurian image prompted by Martin Glover’s description. Tom Daunt has prominent, heavy-lidded eyes that, while resembling those of Bob Mitchum (and classically bedroom) do conjure up lizards or turtles, once the suggestion has been planted. The Reverend’s eyes, though, have pronounced bags under them. This does differentiate them from most reptiles, in her mind.
But if saturnine describes someone moodily mysterious who doesn’t give much away, Martin’s assessment is off-beam. Tom Daunt seems prepared to give quite a lot away, over coffee, and to do this unprompted and willingly.
‘The advantage of hiring a service provider,’ he says, ‘is that we already know each other’s motivating driver. We don’t have to hide the fact that we’re both trapped in a web of hideous circumstances.’
‘Well, hideous might be a little too—’
‘Well, I shouldn’t presume to speak for you. Or the specificity of your spouse.’ A curly smile. ‘Sketch in your situation for me. How would you describe it, if not hideous? Frustrating, oppressive, intractable? Suburban? Violent?’
Viv senses he would prefer to be drinking a good claret. Bowls of nuts and mixed olives are on the table at his instigation. They’re a bit at odds, in her view, with the coffee. Some olives are stuffed with anchovies, others with feta and chilli. She considers her situation.
‘All I think I need to explain is that it’s been a long-term relationship and—’
‘Explain no more,’ he interrupts. ‘Long-term relationships.’ It’s a phrase and a statement redolent of bitter ex
perience. He gives a derisive snort. ‘We all know about them. I think I can confidently say that I am not unfamiliar with some and probably most of the problems they pose.’
‘But your present one is fairly short-term, isn’t it? So far, at least.’ ‘Short, yes. Decidedly not sweet.’ The heavy lids droop. ‘But my first marriage endured for a quarter-century. Endured being the operative word. And produced four moderately acceptable children.’
He coughs. ‘Be on your guard against that chilli, won’t you? It’s lethal. Yes, I admit everything. The break-up, while not unprovoked, was all my own bloody work. I plummeted in lust, rent asunder the temple – aka the family home – and from that day forward all was rack and ruination.’
So far so straightforward, Viv is thinking. ‘The temptress with whom you plummeted was younger?’ She toys with saying, and rich, but refrains.
‘In a nutshell, affirmative. Male, stale and midlife is the cliché. Perhaps you are familiar with this nefarious beast?’
‘I do have a nodding acquaintance with it, yes.’ They exchange a grimace. His curved mouth, she thinks, is marginally like that of Mitchum’s, but more sardonic.
‘The temptress was in her mid-thirties. Lissom and alluring, at that stage. German. Her dulcet tones were a dead ringer for Dietrich’s.’
Viv nods. ‘Accents can be very potent, can’t they? Like cheap music. I’m a sucker for the French, myself. Like Charles Azna—’
‘Well, each to his own. Or hers. And I should add, as it’s of some import – she was up the duff.’
‘Do you mean before or after you met?’
Another grimace. ‘Funny you should say that. After, she claimed. But only just.’ She’d led him to believe it was safe to proceed. Tom looks rather wild-eyed. He’d had it with progeny and didn’t want any more. Or expect to have, he adds darkly. He was obliged to hurtle into his second stab at matrimony unwisely and with unseemly haste.
‘I’m at my wits’ end, frankly. Or beyond.’ He puts his head in his hands. Viv, who has a strong chilli tolerance, takes another couple of olives. She sees him gazing at the well-stocked bar. ‘I’m easy, but would you rather have something stronger? I expect re-living this is a bit on the harrowing—’
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