You, Me and The Movies

by Fiona Collins

  ‘Goodbye, Marilyn.’

  Like we always have, we sound like we are in some terrible, tragic play. I leave the set. I close the door behind me and walk down the cloying peach corridor. With each step, I breathe away my threatening tears and will my identity to come back to me. My own life, apart from hers. I need to step into lightness again otherwise she will weigh me down, this woman I am attached to by invisible, viscous cords. I want to play loud music, watch a film I love. Dance like everyone’s watching. I will not be dragged down by her. I will not slip all the way back in time to when she was my mother.

  It’s still cold outside. I sit on the bench. I watch a robin, his bright red flashing at me amongst all this grey and dull muddy green like a tease. He is more cheerful than me; he has far more purpose. I see a tall woman in a fur hat take an elderly gentleman out to a car. He is shouting about someone called Tina; the woman bundles him in the car. That man once had a whole life, I think; a whole life that was fun and vital and rich and full. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was a sad life, like my dad’s. I’m still haunted by the image of him, on the dusty floor of the shed where lost nails and blades of grass congregated in webby corners, the bodybuilder’s resistance band that broke his neck still attached to the splintered beam that fell with him. I’m always haunted by it.

  James’s car pulls into the car park. He’s an hour early, thank God. I haven’t been sitting on this bench the whole time. I wandered up the road to nurse three cups of weak tea and a deflated piece of lemon meringue pie in a dingy café. Perused a mobile library. Stared at some graffiti. I get into the car; it’s warm and the radio is on.

  ‘You weren’t keen on sticking to the full four hours, then,’ he says. ‘How was it?’

  ‘Awful. I didn’t manage long. I’ve been wandering around.’

  ‘Is she well?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. How come you’re early? How was the expo?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ he says. I’m pleased to see him, I think. His friendly handsome face is a nice one to see after Marilyn’s bile-wizened one. ‘A lot of people but nothing breathing into a paper bag couldn’t help me deal with.’

  ‘Oh God, really?’

  ‘No,’ says James. ‘Not this time. I’m joking. It was OK. I was free to mooch around at my leisure, really. I left early because it was a bit boring.’ He reverses out of the same space we were in earlier. The pine tree air freshener rocks and a branch of the willow tree droopingly trails along the bonnet of the car, then flops free.

  I look at him. ‘Can we go somewhere nice on the way back?’ I ask. ‘Somewhere cheery. My treat.’

  ‘Of course.’

  James comes off the motorway after only three junctions. We cruise down an endless slip road, circuit about six mini roundabouts and soon we are on a country road, which ends at a low, one-storey building with a pitched roof and picnic tables out the front.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘It’s a butterfly farm and café,’ says James. ‘It’s called “Happy Hills”. Cheery enough?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely!’ I say, and I actually clap my hands together. ‘What could be more cheery than butterflies?’

  We get out of the car and go in. To get to the café you have to walk through the winding atrium of a butterfly farm; it has a gabled glass roof with netted canopies, bridges, brooks, clusters of tropical ferns and wooden walkways – I used to go somewhere similar with Julian when he was a child. Butterflies flick and flutter around us, and land prettily on laddered leaves to preen and be marvelled over.

  ‘There are fifty-nine species of butterfly in the UK, over twenty thousand in the world,’ offers James.

  ‘Thank you, geek boy,’ I say as a red admiral alights coquettishly on the back of my hand. It’s about the only one I would recognize. There’s tinny music in the background, unrelated to butterflies. Depeche Mode, currently. British electronic music from Basildon’s finest. I am reminded of that club I went to with Mac in Soho, all the colours and the lights there. It’s as hot in here, to be honest. It’s baking. I slip off my coat and put it over my arm.

  ‘Too warm for you?’ asks James.

  ‘No, I like it.’

  The café is as bright and cheery as it could be. Huge overlapping fabric butterflies in sapphire, ruby and topaz create a mural on three walls. The fourth wall is painted a rich emerald green – sponge effect, like something from a nineties makeover show. The strong jewel colours are far removed from the sickly pastels of The Cedars and I breathe a massive sigh of relief that comes out much louder than I intend.

  ‘I feel … rescued,’ I say, with a big smile, and I think of Paula being carried out of that factory by Richard Gere and laugh because I must be easily pleased – a slice of carrot cake and some butterflies and apparently I’ve been rescued! ‘I’m just so pleased to be away from The Cedars.’

  ‘You look it,’ he says. ‘You look like a burden has been lifted from your shoulders.’

  ‘It has,’ I reply. ‘The burden of another hideous duty visit.’

  James’s face is thoughtful. ‘If it’s that bad maybe you don’t have to go again,’ he says.

  ‘Of course I do!’ I say. ‘Let’s change the subject. Do you think Mac’s going to die?’

  James laughs. ‘Well, that’s a nice subject change!’ he says. ‘From the hideous to the downright depressing …’

  ‘I want to know what you think,’ I continue. ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says James, stirring the thick cream on the top of his hot chocolate. ‘What have they said to you?’

  ‘Not a lot. That it’s fifty-fifty; that they don’t really know.’

  ‘Fran said the same to me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can bear it, if something bad happens,’ I say. I’m not sure why I’ve shifted the conversation down this road. I have the horrible feeling again that I might start crying, and I really don’t want to do this in the Happy Hills café.

  ‘He’s really special to you, isn’t he?’ says James, not realizing he has a Charlie Chaplin moustache of cream above his top lip. ‘Not just then, but now.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Seeing him again is reminding me exactly how much. And he’s still special to me now because of how I felt about him then. Thirty years … God, I’m old! The whole thing is wrapped up in rose-tinted nostalgia, and because he can’t talk to me, I can’t tell the then and the now apart. Like if he was to actually speak to me today some kind of spell would be broken. Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying, really.’

  ‘I think I do,’ says James, wiping his mouth. ‘Seeing him has transported you back into the past and because he’s not able to talk to you in the present you’re kind of stuck there, feeling what you felt back then.’

  ‘Absolutely! That’s exactly it, James! There’s also the fact he saw something in me nobody else could see. Oh, that reminds me of a line from a movie!’ I say. It could be from anything, but I think it’s from a movie on The List … ‘I can’t remember which one – that’s going to bug me.’

  ‘Can’t help you on that one,’ says James. ‘My encyclopaedic memory only goes so far … Scarface?’

  I laugh, shaking my head. I know he is joking. ‘No, not Scarface.’

  ‘Do you think you’d start something up again if he gets better? Get back together?’

  That’s a very direct question, but James, I’ve noticed, is a very direct character. His eyes question mine, unblinking. ‘After all these years? No, I can’t see it,’ I say, ‘but sometimes I think about it.’

  We finish our drinks and our cake and walk out of the café. There’s a small aviary outside the rear entrance – it’s noisy with cheeping and chirping and claws scratching as birds alight on the tiny wire squares of the cage. Parakeets and canaries ribbon from top to bottom and blue budgies pivot like circus performers from swinging bamboo perches.

  ‘Oh, lovebirds!’ I cry. ‘My favourites!’ There’s a pair at the back, yellow and orange chest
s puffed out, wedged together on top of a square wooden bird box.

  ‘Everybody loves a lovebird,’ says James. ‘Did you know they not only mate for life but can live up to twenty-five years?’

  ‘Really? No, I didn’t know that.’

  James places his little fingers in one of the small wire squares and coos to the lovebirds. They refuse to come over and say ‘hi’. ‘Ever seen the Hitchcock movie The Birds?’

  I smile. An outfit of mine James didn’t pick up on was the green sleeveless Tippi-Hedren-in-The-Birds dress I wore to the hospital the first night I met him. It would have astonished me if he had, to be honest – that one was pretty obscure, although hopefully Mac noticed. ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘You know Hitchcock’s use of the lovebirds, then. My favourite is how they lean into the turns together in Tippi Hedren’s convertible as she drives to Bodega Bay. It’s very sweet and funny, considering the carnage that’s to come.’

  ‘Yes, I remember that,’ I say. I don’t think I’ve ever discussed the movie with anyone but Mac. I peek and coo at the lovebirds, on their perch at the back of the aviary. ‘They’re so cute,’ I say. ‘I love how Melanie brings them to Mitch’s door in that film. First to his house in the city, but he’s not there, then to his place by the lake. You’re right, the film is almost a romantic comedy at the beginning, before the claws come out … and I remember how the lovebirds stay calm throughout, when all the other birds are kicking off!’ I remember a lot about that film, I think, and most of it is tied up with Mac.

  ‘Has anyone ever brought lovebirds to your door?’ asks James. I realize he’s standing quite close to me now and as I look up at him I can see darting flecks in his grey eyes, picked out by the watery winter sun.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘they’ve brought them and then, like the movie, everything has gone horribly wrong!’

  James laughs, then gives a little frown and looks thoughtful. ‘Shall we go?’ he says, stepping back. ‘We should hit the road.’

  We walk to the car. ‘There’s always something to see in everyone,’ says James, almost to himself, as we put our seat belts on, ‘even people that think there’s nothing.’ And I suddenly remember where that line is from – prompted by the memory of Mac seeing something in me – and I’m cleverer than I thought, or perhaps my subconscious is just working on overdrive, because it’s something Judy Garland says about James Mason in the next film on The List.

  THEN

  Chapter 19: A Star Is Born

  The morning after the Lebanese restaurant and the tiny electronica club, Mac ordered room service. We had croissants and jams and toast and cold meats and I sat cross-legged on our pushed-together double bed in my Madonna True Blue T-shirt and simply thought, over and over again: He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

  Mac kept asking me, ‘What do you keep smiling at?’ in dour, delicious northern tones; I kept saying, ‘Nothing’, and hugged my delight to me like an enormous soft toy. I was giddy. I kept breaking into spontaneous, idiotic grins. If I was by myself I would have jumped up and down on that bed, screeching, and probably fallen straight down the middle again.

  Check-out was at twelve, which seemed far too draconian. We hadn’t woken up until half ten – student hours, natch – and until breakfast had lain in the fluffy white cloud of a bed playing with each other and dozing. At ten to twelve we jumped in the shower and threw our stuff into our bags. We laughed and kissed as we came down in the lift, watched by a po-faced middle-aged couple who looked like they hadn’t done either for years. We held hands and crossed the street, our bags bumping against our legs. I was giggling; Mac was smiling at me. I was as happy as I had ever been.

  ‘Mac!’

  There was a huge man standing in front of us, in the middle of the road. He had a massive beard, astonishingly bushy eyebrows and was wearing a voluminous brown overcoat. He was tall; my head only came up to his lapels. In short, he looked like a big brown bear.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Mac dropped my hand, like it was a cold stone.

  ‘Stewart,’ he said, shaking the bear’s paw. ‘Good to see you, I came down to do a talk at the BFI yesterday – Japanese cinema.’ He was effusive, pleased to have been apprehended; there was no suggestion in his voice he had been caught out in any way. Meanwhile, my heart was in my mouth, being chewed over.

  ‘Oh excellent, excellent. Let’s get out of the road, shall we?’

  A black cab was impatient behind Stewart, beeping its horn.

  Mac didn’t steer me to the side of the road. He walked over with Stewart and I had to trail behind. The three of us teetered at the edge of the busy pavement, me with one foot in the gutter.

  ‘How are you enjoying your retirement?’ Mac asked Stewart.

  ‘Oh, I decided not to call it a day, in the end,’ said the man, giving me a curious glance. He only looked about fifty. ‘You know how it is. It’s like a drug, film.’ He laughed a mighty laugh, clapped a grinning Mac on the back; I ventured a hesitant, joining-in giggle. ‘I’m lecturing at the London Film School now. How are things at Warwick?’

  ‘Oh, rolling on; you know how it goes,’ said Mac, all jolly and brimming with bonhomie. ‘This is Arden,’ he added reluctantly. ‘Arden Hall. A research student. I met her to talk her through a few notes.’ I cringed really badly, we’d just come skipping out of a hotel, for God’s sake! We had been holding hands. And what he said didn’t even make any kind of sense. ‘This is Stewart Whittaker,’ he said to me.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Arden,’ said Stewart Whittaker. He knew exactly what we had been doing, I thought. He could see it in my face. The flush at my neck. The shine in my eyes. He knew we were in love and we shouldn’t have been. ‘How’s Helen?’ he asked and he raised his eyebrows slightly at Mac, at the same time shaking my hand with a padded palm. I could feel the hairs on the back of his fingers as mine went loosely round them.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Mac, ‘brilliant as ever. Going great guns at Sheffield.’

  ‘Great, great, good to hear it. Yes. Well, good luck to you both,’ Stewart said and he meant Mac and I, not Mac and Helen, the way he was looking at me and he definitely knew what we were doing. ‘Great to see you, Mac. Nice to meet you, Arden.’

  ‘Likewise,’ I replied. Wasn’t that the sort of thing grown-ups were supposed to say? And Stewart lumbered back over the road, dodging cars and bicycles, and disappeared into the Soho crowd.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mac. He stood there, on the pavement, his arms at his sides, his leather bag dangling from one defeated hand. He looked agitated. Twitchy. He lifted his free hand and ran it through his fringe until it flopped back in his eyes. He blew his fringe skywards, his mouth a worried ‘O’. He glanced across the street as though more Stewarts might be coming. I realized he actually looked frightened.

  ‘You’re terrified of us being found out, aren’t you?’ I couldn’t help it, I was mocking, scathing. Last night he’d told me he loved me. This morning I wanted to tell the world Mac and I were together – not only shout it from the rooftops but string a banner between the earth and the sun, announcing it to the universe. Why didn’t he? What did it matter that some crusty old fart had seen us together? What would it matter if the Dean found out, or Helen, or the other students? I didn’t bloody well care. Let them all know! Let them all know; then Mac and I could be together for ever.

  ‘If we were found out, we would have to end it,’ said Mac. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘But it’s not against the rules,’ I protested. ‘Frowned upon, you said.’

  ‘If we were found out we would have to end it,’ Mac repeated, and he said it so quietly I became scared too. He meant it, didn’t he? He loved me but he wouldn’t risk everything for me, after all. Helen, his reputation …

  I pulled myself together. This had been a short false alarm; nothing had changed. ‘Well, we weren’t found out,’ I said with forced jollity. ‘We got away with it, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’
replied Mac. ‘Seeing Stewart did take me by surprise, though. He’s always been up north in some bloody garret, writing theses!’ He frowned, looked disconsolate, frowned again, but then slapped on a smile and said, in sunny tones, ‘Oh well, never mind, worse things happen at sea. Let’s go and get on the tube!’

  I could tell he was trying to be jolly but wasn’t feeling it. That was fine, I thought, I could feel it for both of us and I decided everything was going to be OK. I knew we had to be careful, but this accidental near-discovery shouldn’t derail us. The Dean hadn’t seen us that time, no one else but Becky knew about us and I knew she wouldn’t tell anyone as I said I’d give her a Chinese burn and eat all her Frosties if she did.

  On the Central Line, Mac was distracted. His hand went from the handrail to the overhead strap to the handrail behind him. His other hand was at his face, rubbing at his nose, his chin, his eyelids under his glasses. I couldn’t talk to him; I tried to say something bubbly about the heat, something flirty about having to take all my clothes off, but he just made a kind of grunting ‘huh’ sound, and kept staring at nothing.

  At Marble Arch, a boy of about seven or eight got on the tube. He surged in amongst a small sea of people but they all trickled away from him, to stand or to sit, and then he seemed to be on his own. Mac and I were at the end of a carriage, by the interconnecting door. The boy was to our left. There was a five-pound note half sticking out of the side pocket of his jeans, looking like it was about to fall. He had a little rucksack on his back. He was grinning to himself and tapping his feet on the floor, left right, left right. I kept looking at him, trying to see who he was with. So did Mac, but nobody else on the carriage bothered him with a glance. There was a woman, to our right, perched on a half-seat. She had orange Sony Walkman headphones on and was staring straight ahead. Was she with him? I kept looking at her, looking at the boy, wondering. Mac was doing the same. But he was sweating, really sweating. Rubbing the fingers of his right hand together like he was making pastry.