The Age of Discretion

by Virginia Duigan

  Leary’s back waiting for her, and on his feet again. He thought she’d stood him up, for a moment there. Written him off as a crap date. He was getting all geared up to skol her martini and stagger outta there. Then – phew! – he saw her coat.

  He smiles. ‘Hey, you fixed your hair.’ Rather a sweet smile, she has to admit.

  ‘Insofar as it’s fixable,’ she says. ‘My hair is …’ what was Ramona’s word? ‘It has a mind of its own.’

  ‘Don’t knock it when you’ve got it. I always wanted an afro. My feminine side. Shoulda been more of that, my wife used to say. When we were still speaking.’

  All the darting back and forth has prompted him to remove his jacket, revealing a check lumberjack shirt, flannel, with a rather stylish black wool waistcoat. He’s very fit-looking. One of those men with corded muscles whose slight build is deceptive. High metabolic rate. His canvas bag jogs Viv’s memory.

  ‘Oh, Leary – I had to tell the young woman on the door we were having a script meeting. Just in case she mentions it.’

  ‘Is that right? A script meeting, huh? Why, did she give you the third degree?’

  ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t – summon up your surname, in the heat of the moment. Well – in the bitterly cold moment. I had to bluff my way in.’

  He looks her up and down. ‘I’d pass you as a screenwriter, Bea. You could’ve said we were checking each other out for – what does Discretion Agency say? For discreet purposes.’

  ‘I didn’t want to shock her.’

  He laughs. ‘But she found your name in the end, right?’

  ‘Yes – she just couldn’t find it,’ a disingenuous smile, ‘initially.’

  ‘So, what’s the show we’re having a meeting about? In case she grills us separately. Let’s say it’s a Dangerous Liaisons remake. Easy to remember if we’re put on the spot. So, Bea – tell me about yourself, as they say in speed dating. Ever tried speed dating?’

  ‘Lordy, no.’

  ‘Good move. Sheesh, it’s crazy. So fast you’re moved on before you get to first base. First conversational base. But you read my ravings?’

  ‘Your …’

  ‘Blog. My blog.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘What do you say? Biggest crock of shit since Dianetics?’

  ‘I like all the skirmishes with the bearded nerds. But I didn’t read every word,’ Viv says. ‘I didn’t have enough of a clear week stretching ahead.’

  He shakes his head. ‘We’re crazy-busy people, right? Time-poor, rich in golden dreams. More on them later, if time. But you know a bit about me and I know nothing much about you, except you’re an ace quilter. See, I’m a glass-half-full kinda guy. They said you used to be in publishing, back in the day. How much fun was that?’

  They must mean Martin. She tells Leary some anecdotes, edited for a man who, it’s not hard to see, has a short attention span. Famous literary feuds. Authorial brushes with plagiarism and other iniquitous practices.

  This strikes a chord. Iniquitous practices? Tell him about it. Except whatever she can tell him about authors has nothing on producers. Insanity, it’s a lifestyle choice. Like when they’re also financing the show and want to direct it instead of you. And rewrite the story and change the ending. More of that later, time permitting. He’s got a mountain of script notes to do tonight.

  On cue, his mobile rings. It’s in a leather case hanging off his belt. He listens, raps out a reply Viv can’t follow.

  ‘Sorry, Bea. I should be good and turn it off, right?’ He doesn’t, however. So, he says, don’t they say the books biz is in deep shit? Self-publishing’s the way to go. Bypass the middlemen, ditch those ruthless exploiters of struggling writers. A grin. He’s sure she wasn’t one of those jerks.

  He leans forward and clinks her glass. ‘Enough shop talk already. Time to put our cards on the table. What’s it all about, Bea? What are we doing here?’

  ‘You mean, besides talking shop and enjoying these ace martinis? Is there something more pressing we ought to be doing?’ She’s nearly halfway through her drink and feeling more kindly disposed to a situation that is not too onerous, aside from being something of a conversational battery.

  Leary has pale eyebrows, pale reddish skin and sharp features. If she had to pick an animal it would be a fox. Yasmin’s jumpy red fox in Joy’s stories, with a pointed, questioning nose, sniffing the air. What would she remind him of? Jules once told her she was like a koala. A dazed and confused one, presumably. Up a gum tree.

  She is aware of being dissected by a pair of narrow, inquisitive eyes of a yellowy shade of green. Leary is saying, with a shake of the head, ‘I’m being up-front here because time’s not on our side. The old wingèd chariot’s hurrying by. Isn’t that right, Beatrice?’

  ‘Do you mean in terms of our lifespan?’ Or does he want to leave already? ‘Can’t we find time to finish our drinks?’ She sees he’s finished his. ‘But if it’s not on your side, there’s not much anyone can do about it. Please don’t let me keep you from—’

  He interrupts. ‘Sorry Bea, I’m a suitable case for treatment, you’re not the first to tell me that. I guess what I’m looking to get from you is a progress report. We’re here to size each other up, right?’

  No point in arguing with that.

  ‘The puppet-master at the agency thought we might get on. So, what do we think? Are we getting on yet?’

  Was that what Martin thought, that they would get on? ‘Must I answer that right now, Leary? Are there dire consequences if I need to mull it over?’

  ‘I’m too impatient, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Well, aren’t these questions a bit premature? I’m not sure you’re really –’ what was it Daisy used say about Marco? ‘in the moment, here—’

  He stalls her with a hand. ‘Yeah, yeah, okay. Moving actors around is what I do, Bea. I get people to do stuff. Solve problems, take shortcuts.’ The sweet smile again. ‘I guess I forget how to have a regular conversation and impersonate a halfway normal person. How about you ask the questions for a bit?’

  Viv moves her chair back a little. Unobtrusively, she hopes. Leary’s not a big man, but he takes up more personal space than most. Her own feels as if it’s being systematically – but not irresistibly – invaded.

  ‘We’ve only been here – what,’ she looks at her watch, ‘half an hour? Far too soon to have formulated a non-superficial decision. Can we put it on the back burner? You could tell me about this pilot you’re doing.’ That’s several sentences in succession, she thinks. Not bad going.

  He surprises her by springing from his chair, saying there’s one decision that does have to be made. They need refills. Two’s his limit. Guard the chair. He puts his bag on it. He’s wearing black trainers with a silver and blue trim.

  Viv gets up. ‘Please let me—’ But he’s on his way.

  The concept of impersonating a halfway normal person brings her husband to mind. In relation to Leary, Geoff’s familiarity is reassuring. I’ve known him for so long. And I still live with him …

  She pulls out her phone to text Geoff, then remembers the sci-fi gang are going to the original Blade Runner. At the NFT, coincidentally. The director’s cut, she thinks he said, which was longer than the released version.

  This might interest Leary. Take his mind off analysing whether or not they’re getting on, something on which she has no view right this minute. Or not one she can readily discern. No real interest either? She shelves this thought as he returns with two brimming martinis. Not a drop spilled, he says, how’s that for steady hands?

  Blade Runner? Brilliant movie. Seminal. He can’t believe she never saw it. He thought everyone ingested it with their mother’s milk, like The Sound of Music. Viv says she’s never seen that either. Leary puts his hands over his ears.

  ‘It’s not the director’s cut they’re showing tonight,’ he says, ‘it’s the final cut. Big difference, Bea. It’s the only version Ridley Scott had complete control over. Iss
ued fifteen years after the director’s cut, ten years after the international cut that followed the theatrical cut that came after the work print.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Uh-huh. You’ll be examined on this. If you don’t pass you’ll be kept in. See how dudes who need a life can make a lifetime study of this movie?’

  Up to a point, Viv says. She watches the couple nearest to them, two smartly dressed young people who can’t keep their hands off each other, while Leary tells her why Ridley hadn’t had complete control of the director’s cut in spite of being the director.

  Leary is drumming his fingers on the table. She realises a little late that his recital has come to an end. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I think I must have gone into a bit of a dream.’

  Leary draws a cartoon face on the table with his index finger. His nails are blunt and bitten, unlike those of the receptionist. The face has a downcast mouth.

  ‘My apology emoji, Bea. I’ve been known to hypnotise people into submission. An involuntary reflex. My therapist’s always telling me it can drive people nuts. Women in particular it can drive really nuts. The upside is, it can be treated, she says.’

  ‘No, I’m sure it’s a healthy reaction to str—’

  ‘To multi-tasking’s what you were going to say, right?’ A grin. ‘Like watching Network to recover from off-their-faces who want to helm your show for you. Instead of shooting yourself dead on camera like Peter Finch.’ She did see Network?

  Yes, and she can see how watching it might work to sublimate fury and frustration.

  ‘Good one.’ Leary is wearing a watch that may be the biggest (and ugliest) she has ever seen. He glances at it. ‘Well, at least you’ll be able to set George straight.’

  George? She casts around.

  ‘Your husband, Bea. Remember him? Set him straight about the movie. That’s if you’re still speaking. Do you still speak?’

  George Orwell, of course. Leary doesn’t need to know his surname, does he? Should it be George Taylor? ‘Well, we do, but we’re not – not close.’

  ‘Still sleeping in the same bed?’

  Where this might once have been considered private, she supposes it’s not anymore. Not under these circumstances. ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No sex, right?’

  Unquestionably, she would once have considered this privileged information. She shakes her head.

  ‘Sorry to be nosy. Need-to-know basis, I guess. You’re looking for a physical relationship, sex with no strings, right? Like, how often do you envision? Once a week?’

  ‘Well, uh – I hadn’t really thought …’ Is it refreshing, Leary’s directness? It’s not entirely off-putting, in a strange sort of way.

  ‘You hadn’t?’ A look of disbelief.

  ‘Not quite that far, no.’ Better think now. ‘Once a week sounds about right.’

  She’s reminded of her interview with Martin. How it removed the burden of the intimate from the personal. But shouldn’t this conversation be on a more intimate basis, since I’m having it with someone I might actually—

  ‘And where do you envision it?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘If it was with me, say.’ The amused look again. ‘Would you want to go to a hotel, or is my place okay? Assuming yours is out of bounds. George is likely to show up, right? I’m guessing he wouldn’t be too thrilled to meet me. Or am I wrong there?’ He regards her with his head tilted and a pixie-like expression.

  ‘No, you’re right there, he wouldn’t.’ Viv feels the conversation getting away from her. Leaving her behind, leaving her somewhere else entirely. ‘Where do you live, Leary?’

  ‘Bachelor pad in Clerkenwell. My wife couldn’t care less if she saw five women in bed with me, but the family’s in Dover so it’s quite safe.’

  Viv tries to catch up. ‘I see.’

  ‘You’ve met other guys from the agency, right? Does your husband know what you’re doing? Does he know you’re here?’

  This is something Viv has been thinking about lately, fairly long and hard. ‘He doesn’t, no. But I probably ought to tell him, soon …’ These are weighty matters.

  ‘Isn’t he gonna want to know how you’re so knowledgeable about Blade Runner all of a sudden?’ He laughs. She joins in, uneasily.

  Another sudden change of subject. Studies show it’s women who routinely make the decisions about dating, did she know that? It’s women who decide if there’s going to be a second date.

  Viv finds this dubious. She’d have thought it was a joint decision.

  ‘Nope. Wrong. Majority of young women decide within ten seconds of first meeting on the basis of chemistry and don’t change their minds.’

  ‘You’re talking about young women? That may well be different …’

  He grins. ‘Your call, Bea. Still too soon to formulate a non-superficial response? We could toss a coin?’

  ‘How about we just go away and think about it?’

  ‘Go away and think about it?’ The fingers are drumming again.

  That’s not what directors like to do, she can tell.

  ‘You think about it, and then decide if you want to follow it up. It’s not some arcane tribal ritual,’ Viv says. Reasonably, she thinks. ‘It may not be what you’re accustomed to doing, but it’s what centuries of cultural conditioning and ingrained Anglo-Saxon reserve have instilled.’

  ‘I’m all for the arcane tribal instinct, Bea. Beats dancing round each other with endless drinks and dinners, right?’

  Instinct. Do what it tells you. Even if Leary reminds me of a fox, he does have a sense of humour, a reasonably G one, and I suppose he’s not unattractive, in a way. Is that enough to—

  ‘Bea! Are you in a trance here? Have I done you in?’

  What is my best instinct telling me? ‘We’ve only had one meeting so far,’ she says. ‘That’s not much, is it? Drinks and dinners don’t have to be endless. Can’t we just – see what happens?’

  He throws up his hands. ‘We both know what we’re looking for, right? Someone we quite like the look of, not a lame brain, who’s available, no strings, who may turn out to be compatible. So, let’s make a decision here. Do we take things any further?’

  ‘Could we discuss it over a follow-up meeting?’

  ‘I thought we already did the discussing and the meeting.’ He shakes his head. ‘There’s a good script in here, Bea. We’re grown-ups, right?’

  Their expressions of good-humoured exasperation, Viv thinks, must be nearly identical. She sails in. ‘Since we’re being so up-front, Leary: why aren’t you looking for someone younger?’

  ‘Someone younger?’ A rueful look. ‘Why am I not like other guys, is that what you’re saying?’ Yeah, well. It hadn’t worked for him, okay? So, he told the agency he was more open. Same way she did, he guesses.

  Maybe not quite the same way.

  ‘Look, Bea,’ he says. ‘We’ve done Act One. Act Two, we risk a tryout. Act Three, worst scenario, you quit the disaster movie. Kinda like The Truman Show. Tell me you saw that.’

  That and The Purple Rose of Cairo, what’s more, where she steps out of the screen. See, I’m not a complete ignoramus, Viv says.

  ‘So, we head off into the sunset with no game plan under our belt, is that it?’

  At least he doesn’t seem resentful. He helps her into her coat. On their way out, the young woman on the door smiles and hopes they had a good meeting. Inconclusive, Leary tells her. The script may have potential. It just needs writing.

  We’re going away and thinking about it, Viv adds. Has she been a bit craven over this? As he holds the door open against the icy blast, Leary says, ‘Shall we road test a kiss?’

  Viv thinks she has never been asked that, or not in such a way. The kiss is more prolonged than casual, and they stand in the street pressed tightly against each other. It’s the first such kiss she can remember having for many years. Tom – Tim – Daunt wasn’t really into long kissing. And George and I – Geoffand I stopped sharing kisses of
that kind a very long time ago.

  Geoff won’t be back for hours, and Viv doesn’t feel like going home to an empty house. Instead, she ducks out of the cold into a welcoming little trattoria. Candles and pink tablecloths. A little too reminiscent of another restaurant in the Marais? She shrugs off this thought as she is led by a hospitable waiter to a small corner table.

  She orders a glass of vermentino from Sardinia, dons her reading glasses and studies the menu. She asks for a tricolore salad followed by penne Siciliano, places her book on the table with a candle on each side, and puts her phone next to it. Then she sits back to evaluate.

  What was missing from the encounter with Leary, she decides, was any element of excitement. Even before she’d met him, shouldn’t there have been something? A certain frisson at the prospect?

  And then, the kiss. It was – how was it? Experimental. Nice, but inconclusive. Nice, but not that nice. Not an immune-system booster. There was no romance about the whole process. But then, she tells herself, romance is a notoriously woolly concept. When it’s absent it’s just that: formless. Whereas when it’s there you know all about it, rather like love. You can identify and describe it with delight.

  Am I wanting the impossible from an arrangement such as this, which by its nature is the antithesis of romantic? Could romance ever develop from such a negative base? Or is that what it does all the time?

  It’s quite unreasonable even to be thinking in such a fashion, under the circumstances. She’s certain that Leary, for example, would not be thinking along anything like these lines. The first course has arrived, and Viv opens her book. Instead of turning the page she eyes her phone. Should she send a short bulletin?

  Without giving this impulse time to cohere into an objection, she texts: Had two large drinks. Want interim report? She’s not expecting an answer necessarily, but one flies right back. Do you want a chat?