The Yellow Villa

by Amanda Hampson

  Lana gives a huff of disapproval. ‘This is too much, you’re looking over his shoulder now?’

  ‘Worse than that,’ admits Thomas without remorse. ‘Susannah was supposed to be a “well-known” actress but on the internet she doesn’t exist anywhere. Neither of them do.’

  I laugh. ‘So you’ve been stalking them! She might be under her maiden name, or … wasn’t she married before?’

  Ben is shaking his head in disbelief. Lana agrees. ‘No, this is going too far. I think we should leave it and forget we had this conversation. It’s not nice. It’s not friendly.’

  Thomas shrugs. ‘So there it is. Ask me no more questions. We will leave the matter there and prepare ourselves for a delicious appeltaart. Mates.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Having now applied every possible austerity measure, Susannah is exhausted from sleepless nights and constant fretting. Apart from the phone in her room, all extensions have been unplugged to prevent Dominic making overseas calls. The heating is turned off and, sooner or later, the power will be disconnected, the phone cut off and the bank will call in the loan. She has run out of ideas and lacks the energy to implement them anyway. She sits in her room all day long, tucked up with the dogs, watching her favourite DVDs: Casablanca, Rear Window, Sunset Boulevard. She must have watched Blow­Up a dozen times. It’s as though she has been diagnosed with a terminal illness and now fills her last days with nostalgia and old pleasures. Actually, something terminal, preferably dignified and painless, wouldn’t be so bad – at least there would be an end in sight to this misery. The knowledge that her days are numbered might reawaken her to the beauty of the world. If she had a terminal disease, she would not be spending her last days here.

  Occasionally she gets up to let the dogs out and wanders the house like an invalid, dressed in her woollen dressing-gown and slippers. Dominic has been locked in his study working on his new money-making scheme: his memoirs. Obviously Ben didn’t think much of his previous idea – whatever that was – since it’s been jettisoned. Now he talks grandly of agents and publishing deals, speculating on the inevitability of a bidding war. She dreads to think what he’s putting in it. He has the ability to shovel fiction on to the page and tweezer in the tiniest details to make it believable. What tales is he spinning about the past – and especially about her? How will he whitewash himself and justify his despicable behaviour? The press will tear him to shreds. But what can she do, given he seems determined to hang himself out to dry? It’s not just for money – he craves the attention, not seeming to concern himself about whether it’s good or bad. Hopefully it won’t get published at all. And if it does, she can only pray that it ends up in a discount bin before anyone reads it.

  Susannah will not be reading it; she has no desire to revisit her history with Dominic. The infamous ‘good times’ are long forgotten and she wonders how much pleasure she really derived from them. Dominic remembers the detail of virtually every decent meal he ever ate, every bottle of expensive wine he consumed and every celebrity he met – regardless of how inebriated he was at the time. She remembers none of that. She does remember the time before Dominic.

  Through the rosy prism of nostalgia, her marriage to Maxwell now appears as a sanctuary, a tropical island where the sun always shone. Unfortunately tropical islands become boring. A quiet affair with another actor might have taken the edge off it for her. Maxwell probably could have borne that, had she been discreet. Ten years her senior, he was the more mature one and faithful to her partly because he wasn’t particularly interested in sex, let alone conquests. Initially she worried that he was gay but later realised that he simply wasn’t driven in that department. He would oblige her and was a tender, considerate lover, but he was besotted with nothing in the world so much as his work. That he adored, rejoicing in every aspect of it.

  In the long run, Max’s love affair with the theatre had served him better than any relationship could. Two decades later, he is still working, having enjoyed a string of successes on both sides of the Atlantic. It’s devastating to realise that with a little restraint, or at the very least, discretion, she could have been enjoying the fruits of his labours. These days he has an apartment in the Upper West Side, a house in Chelsea and a villa on Capri where he entertains celebrities and patrons of the arts in the summer months. All this thrown away as a result of her impulsive, capricious nature.

  Maxwell had been endlessly kind. It wasn’t just that she was bored – she wasn’t entirely superficial – but those years in her early thirties had been difficult. Career prospects were already withering, roles being snatched up by younger and more talented actresses. Her social life was frenetic, but everyone seemed brighter, wittier and more ambitious than her. She wasn’t really sure who she was back then. Dominic saw a version of her that she found appealing. He was the polar opposite of Maxwell. Although he was sometimes cruel, ridiculing her ideas, flirting with her friends and making her the butt of his humour, he was impulsively romantic. There were passionate love notes, gorgeous bouquets of roses, feverish afternoons in grand hotel rooms. He adored sex and was insatiable in that regard. If Maxwell had made her feel less than desirable, Dominic made her feel irresistible. And she didn’t resist. The fact that Dominic had a wife somehow escaped their attention. Until his wife found out. Then it came to everyone’s attention. Cars were coined. Windows smashed. Michelle hectored Maxwell, who may have taken a more measured approach, left to his own devices. Determined to create maximum embarrassment, Michelle contacted all the tabloids and told the story of the director, the critic, the actress and the wronged wife. The papers, as they say, had a field day. It was only later, realising Michelle was pregnant at the time, that Susannah could understand the scale of her reaction. Dominic had been desperate to keep the combination of his face and his profession out of the press. Every photograph showed him shielding his face with anything that came to hand. Within a day or two, the press had tired of the story, but both marriages were over.

  Susannah and Dominic settled down together among the ruins; both had fared badly financially. No one in theatre dared cast Susannah but she got some small roles in films as a result of the exposure. Dominic funnelled his bitterness into incisive reviews, decimating several bistros whose food had obviously offended many readers because his column became more popular than ever and he was poached by a rival publication offering more money. The divorces had been exhausting for both of them and, to some extent, their interest in each other had waned. It seemed that half the attraction had been the covert nature of their trysts. Secrecy, intrigue and paucity had fuelled desire but once they were living together the law of diminishing return came into play. They had to adjust to each other, to compromise. In the end, Susannah felt they got married to prove something. It’s very difficult now to remember exactly what that was.

  So much time has passed since her last acting role, but perhaps she has reached an age when she might be considered for character roles. Lady Macbeth? These days she could do madness quite convincingly. She tries out a couple of half-remembered lines and sounds every bit as broken as a woman who has ordered the murders of innocent people. Her voice has taken on a different quality, her suffering evident in its timbre.

  She picks up the phone, longing to hear Maxwell’s voice – even his voicemail would be comforting – and is surprised when he answers straight away. ‘Max? Darling, it’s Susie,’ she says in a hushed voice.

  ‘Susie? You’ll have to speak up, I can hardly hear you.’

  She slides down in the bed and pulls the covers over her head. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Ah, much clearer. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Oh Max, don’t be like that. I just wondered how you were.’

  ‘You know I don’t have a cynical bone in my body, but you rarely call me to find out the state of my health. Anyway, I’m busy as usual. Two new shows opening in the new year.’

  ‘I haven’t been to the theatre for so long …’


  ‘Let me know next time you’re in town. I’ll get you a ticket and we can meet for supper.’

  ‘I’d love to. I would love that, Max. I was wondering, do you think there would be any new opportunities for me, parts in … older … character roles … I mean, older women are all the rage now. Look at Helen Mirren.’ There is a long silence on the other end and she adds quickly, ‘I’m not …’

  ‘Helen Mirren has spent her life becoming “Helen Mirren”. You haven’t really kept your hand in, have you, my dear?’

  ‘I know, I didn’t mean … I’m not comparing …’

  ‘Does this mean you’re coming back to London?’

  ‘I’m considering my options. Rebecca has offered me a flat …’

  ‘I still see Becky and Simon from time to time – they’re keen theatre-goers, as you know. So, I’m aware of your situation.’

  ‘It’s bad enough having a “situation” without all the world knowing about it,’ says Susannah.

  ‘I’m hardly all the world, am I? Becky is obviously concerned about you.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Max. I don’t know what to do … tell me what to do.’

  ‘Your acting skills may be a little rusty but that can be worked on. Some things are timeless, and you have a dignity – a natural gravitas – that will only be enhanced by maturity. I just wish you’d stuck with it when you were younger – you could be a Helen Mirren now. Anyway, we’re only a couple of weeks out from Christmas, so there’s nothing happening now. But I do have something casting in late January; there might be a walk-on for you … I can’t promise anything, but let’s be in touch after Christmas.’

  Susannah is tearful with gratitude. ‘Anything, anything … I would be so grateful …’

  ‘Chin up. Enjoy Christmas. It may be your last in exile.’

  Susannah feels a warm surge of relief. Life is looking up. She gets out of bed and dresses quickly. She catches sight of herself in the mirror, her unconscious self, without make-up, hair tied back, body encased in thick winter clothes. For a moment she glimpses something else: the beauty of age, perhaps even a touch of gravitas.

  Cheered, she lets the dogs out, makes tea and takes it outside to sit in her arbour in the watery sunshine while she tries to marshal her thoughts. She will take the dogs for a walk later and collect some firewood on the way. This evening she will cook something decent instead of cobbling bits and pieces together. She feels uplifted by a sense of hope she hasn’t experienced in months. Maxwell will look after her, she can depend on him.

  She looks around her, thinking how much she loves the shelter of the arbour and being surrounded by glorious roses in spring and summer – it’s like a secret place you have as a child. The brambles are bare now; they need a good hard prune. The thought brings a creeping sense of uncertainty. Will she have the courage to strike out on her own and leave? Or will she be sitting here when spring comes, still dithering?

  Her thoughts are interrupted by Dominic, calling from the patio. ‘What year did we meet? How old were you?’ He holds a pad and pen, ready to make a note.

  She wanders back to the patio reluctantly. ‘Have you finished your childhood already?’

  ‘I didn’t put all that much in about my childhood. Privileged and indulged. Brutalised at boarding school. Semi-comatose through university. Common story, no point in dwelling on that part. I always loathe having to read about people’s childhoods: self-indulgent twaddle.’

  ‘Why not leave me out of it, Dominic?’ She picks up the yard broom distractedly and begins to sweep the dead leaves into a pile.

  ‘Susannah, it’s a tell-all. Think of it as plundering the past to fund the future.’

  ‘It all seems rather sordid now – I don’t want to go through all that again. Please, haven’t I put up with enough?’

  ‘It’s not sordid, you silly woman, it’s colourful. You’re seeing it through the filter of your own dreary conventionality.’

  ‘It attracted enough attention from the so-called gutter press at the time, I think that says something.’

  ‘Well, that’s the point. Context. Besides, times have changed. All that’s all tame now, wouldn’t even make the papers.’

  ‘I’ll be curious as to how you contextualise this most recent episode, destroying innocent people’s lives.’

  ‘Don’t knock yourself out about that. It’s all raw clay to be shaped by an incisive writer.’ He pauses a moment and she senses his gaze on her. ‘At least I’m doing something, which is better than sitting around in a semi-coma dabbing up the odd stray tear. But since you are so curious, I’m calling it Confessions of a Critic. Everything goes in. Every last detail. The champagne-drenched years – actually, that’s not a bad chapter title. Lots of food … sex … in fact, you could help with some juicy bits. I can barely remember what goes where now. Who was that willowy blonde with the spider tattoo, our little playmate for a while there … did she become someone?’

  ‘I don’t remember, Dominic. And I don’t care to remember. What are you going to say about Mr Farash? You won’t get away with making up some nonsense that lets you off the hook …’

  ‘We all make our own decisions in life, Susannah. You can’t make someone else responsible for your life … or death.’ He gazes out into the middle distance, across the field to the bare woods. ‘Mr Farash made his decision and he took the cowardly way out.’

  There have been times in the past when she fantasised about waking up in the morning and finding Dominic gone, perhaps dead but not necessarily – permanently missing would be sufficient. She wouldn’t put up posters offering a reward, she would just stoically accept his disappearance. She could ask a few people if they’ve seen him, just to show some interest. But those fantasies were usually an overwrought response to a particular incident. Now she’s seized with the urge to take matters into her own hands, and damn the consequences.

  She has a vision of Mr Farash’s kind face, his mischievous smile. Always so courteous and friendly. And sweet Mrs Farash, and the children, so polite. The whole family worked so hard only to have their lives destroyed by a sweep of Dominic’s hand. She feels a blind rage, like a hot flush, like the mother of all hot flushes, surge through her body. Her vision is reduced to a tunnel, at the end of which she can only see Dominic and his insufferable smugness.

  Without conscious thought, she swings the broom wildly in his direction. She catches him by surprise but the first blow is awkward, lacking force, and he manages to deflect it with his elbow. He gives a surprised grunt, but before he has time to retaliate, she adjusts her grip. Using the broom as a stave, she executes a double-handed swing with her full force into his ribs where it lands with a satisfying crack and elicits a cry of pain from him. The next one is for Mrs Farash! In a single movement the broom loops upwards and slams down hard on his shoulder. Up again, as high as her reach allows, she imagines it splitting his skull in two like a melon but a moment of hesitation allows him to gather his wits. Clutching his ribs, he hobbles off inside the house towards the safety of his study and its locking door. Left behind, Susannah thrashes about ineffectually whacking at the furniture, sobbing with frustration and terrifying the pugs, until she runs out of steam.

  Drained by her exertions, she walks slowly back to the arbour seat and sits down. She tries to make sense of the last few minutes. Never in her life has she lashed out at anyone, verbally or physically. The idea of actually hurting someone is abhorrent to her. She’s terrified for her own mental state. She has to stop thinking and start acting. She has to make things happen. Stop fighting Dominic and fight her way out.

  Knowing he is not foolish enough to venture out of his study in the near future, she goes inside and quietly edges the Jacobean chair out of the living room into the kitchen. From there she hefts it out the kitchen door and down the side of the house. She flips down the rear seats of the car and, with much effort, manages to get it on its side in the back of the car, and covers it with a blanket. She slips back inside for
her coat, handbag and the dogs and sets off immediately for Toulouse.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Dominic sits at his desk, wrapped up in a duvet, his breath hanging in the air. The fire splutters fitfully, offering no relief from today’s bitter chill. He can hear Susannah outside, sweeping the path at the front of the house. She seems to have formed an unhealthy attachment to that yard broom. But he is hardly going to bring that to her attention given the wretched woman’s murderous behaviour yesterday.

  Post-assault, she disappeared off somewhere. Hopefully to seek medical help. Perhaps they gave her something because last night she seemed perfectly calm and cooked a decent meal for a change, which they ate in separate rooms. She had rearranged the living-room furniture, an activity most women seem to find soothing, and obviously did a decent job since the room felt somehow more spacious.

  Neither of them has mentioned her crazy behaviour or spoken a word to each other, for that matter. Clearly no apology is forthcoming. He is still in acute pain from the blows she inflicted on him, his shoulder sore and a nasty shade of purple. His ribs are either badly bruised or fractured if that cracking sound was anything to go by. It certainly hurts like hell when he breathes, which is painfully often. Nothing a few painkillers and the occasional Scotch can’t deal with – he isn’t going to be deterred from his quest by a few twinges. Thank God there is absolutely no risk of him laughing in the near future. That would be excruciating.

  Ten pages into his manuscript and he’s already cursing himself for not having a computer. This typing lark is ridiculous. Mechanically banging each letter onto each page when other people are able to dispatch their work around the world in seconds. It is simply the way he’s always done it. Computers had come into play while he was a food columnist but, because of his celebrity, the paper had indulged him and provided a copy taker. It wasn’t as though it was difficult for them to key in six hundred words. In the old days stringers and correspondents all called in their stories to the desk. News copy was one step up from stream of consciousness: who, what, why, when, where, add a cliché or two and a bit of actual news, if it existed at all. His column was far more exacting. Every word had to be precise, every sentence finessed; every paragraph a story in itself. His structure was always the same: a brazen or outrageous first paragraph to hook the reader, followed by a more exploratory even-handed one that set the scene, then a nuanced critique of the food, all tied together with a pithy summation. A complete dish in itself: engaging, amusing, a little spice and seasoning, garnished with a perfectly chosen adjective or two but without unnecessary embellishment.