Tom, for some reason, still needed persuading.
‘Won’t baby be a problem?’ he asked. ‘Won’t that bring him back?’
‘It might,’ I conceded. ‘But I’m sure we’ll work something out.’
‘What kind of thing, my dear? Won’t it be terribly…’ he paused for emphasis,’… awkward?’
‘Not at all. Every baby has a father and I suppose fathers are allowed to take some kind of interest.’
‘You mean financial? Money?’
‘Yes, but other stuff, too. I shan’t lock him away.’
‘Who?’
‘The baby.’
‘You know it’s a him?’
‘No,’ I laughed. ‘I’m afraid that was Freudian.’
It was, too. I was always saying him, eyeing little tiny Arsenal kits in the local sports shops, planning the rig for his first sailboard, nagging my mother to dig out my brother’s old Dinky toys. Not once had it occurred to me that the baby would be anything but male and when the nurse at the clinic had offered me a confirmatory test, I’d turned it down.
‘No point,’ I’d told her. ‘It’s going to be a boy.’
Tom was inquiring about Gilbert. How was his dear brother getting on? I was still looking at the print that Gilbert had brought down. The pattern of twinkly little dots made absolutely no sense but I did my best to describe the shot to Tom. The fact that Gilbert had got as far as taking photos impressed him.
‘You know, I think it’s a good sign’, he said. ‘I truly do.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s always been crazy about the night sky, the stars, all that malarkey, but there was always something, I don’t know, not quite real about it. He’d talk about the dark a lot, the black wind, that kind of nonsense.’
‘The black wind?’
‘Yes, he’d carry on about what went on up there. It was as if he’d actually been, actually visited. He was quite proprietorial, I must say. His space. His planets. His moons.’ He paused. ‘Ring any bells?’
I was still inspecting the photo. The most that Gilbert had ever said to me about the night sky was that it was so cold, and formless, and empty. He liked that, he’d told me. He liked what he called ‘the bare interstellar spaces’.
I repeated the phrase to Tom, admitting that it had stuck with me at the time.
‘Exactly.’ I could visualise Tom nodding. ‘Absolutely spot on. I think he sees a logic there. You and me? We’d probably go for somewhere sunny and hot and nice to wake up to. Gillie? He’d be up there with the asteroids. He’s very austere, you know, personally. Gets by on practically nothing. Always has done. Maybe he should have been a monk. I did suggest it once, as a matter of fact.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He laughed at me. He was in his acting phase then. God’s gift to the theatre. Major talent in the making. All that moonshine.’
I thought of the sleeve notes on Gilbert’s LP, and the rather self- conscious pose on the front. Listening to Tom, it was the first time that I realised that the yearning to become an actor had been real, not the work of the Palisade copywriter.
‘How far did he get?’ I inquired. ‘As a matter of interest.’
‘Not that far, as I recall. I think he tried for RADA and one or two of those other places but none of them would have him. I knew he wanted to go into rep but there was some problem with the ticket. Equity, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I smiled, trying to imagine Gilbert treading the boards. The range of parts available to him wouldn’t have been vast. Too distinctive. Too idiosyncratic. Too Gilbert. ‘Did he give it all up in the end?’
‘He did, my dear, as we all said he would.’
We ended the conversation soon afterwards and I spent the rest of the evening tidying up in the kitchen, wondering where else Gilbert’s talents might have taken him. The better I got to know Tom, the warmer the glow that this strange, intermittent relationship shed on his brother. I’d been right not to lose patience with Gilbert, I knew I had. He’d been odd, and occasionally scary, but behind his occasional mumbles about the dark, I’d never once glimpsed anything truly evil. With his long, awkward body and his big, troubled face, he didn’t quite fit with the rest of the human race. But that was our fault as much as his, and if the last six months had taught me anything then it had taught me the importance of making space in my life for a little more than deadlines, and schedules, and million-dollar programme ideas.
Before I went to sleep, lying in bed, I heard Gilbert overhead again. He must have come down from the attic. He must have put his precious stars away for the night. The dark, I thought fondly, reaching for the light.
My birthday falls on November 5th. How Gary ever got to know is a mystery but he phoned that morning, telling me to get dressed and ready. A car would be at my door at ten o’clock. We were off to an undisclosed destination. As it happens, this was the first week of freedom after my stint at Metro. Though Gary, being Gary, probably knew that too.
He was, as ever, early. By now I was very visibly pregnant, much to Gary’s amusement. He’d borrowed a decent car from somewhere, a big, black Jaguar, and as we glided south through Putney he kept extending a reassuring hand. His years in the SAS had included an emergency childbirth course. Should our trip extend beyond a month, he’d be delighted to do the honours.
I told him he was welcome to have it himself but he said that didn’t appeal much. What interested him more was the identity of the father. Was it really Brendan’s? As everyone was saying? I said yes, partly because I saw no point in denying it, and partly because I was curious to know the latest at Doubleact. By now, Brendan and Sandra’s divorce had become the talk of the trade press and though there’d been no official word from Islington, it was an open secret that the company was on the verge of closure.
‘So where’s Brendan?’ I inquired, ‘in all this?’
The fact that I should even have to ask the question was obviously a shock to Gary. Once I’d confirmed who was the baby’s father, I think he’d automatically assumed that Brendan and I were, as they say, still an item.
‘You don’t know what he’s been up to?’
‘No idea.’
‘America? Australia? All that?’
‘Pass.’
We were on the A3. Gary slowed to 85 m.p.h. and brought me up to date. With Sandra serving divorce papers, and threatening to wind the company up, Brendan had been circling the globe, trying to secure Doubleact projects he could properly claim as his own. The crown jewels in this bundle of programme rights was undoubtedly Celebrity Home Run, and he’d spent the best part of a month commuting between Sydney and Los Angeles, making sure the money was rock solid. Gary wasn’t privy to all the details but word in the Celebrity Home Run production office suggested that this first series, at least, was safe.
‘But what’s he going to do?’ I insisted. ‘Start a new company?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Has he got a name? Premises?’
‘A name, yeah.’
‘What is it?’
Gary sniggered. Deep-down, I think he’d always regarded Brendan as a bit of a prat. Clever guy. Mega-talented. But a prat.
‘Solo Productions,’ he said at last. ‘It’s supposed to be a joke.’
Solo Productions. I gazed out at the blur that was Esher. If Gary was right about Brendan’s wanderings, then it certainly explained why he’d left me alone for so long. Not even Brendan would pop back from Oz to N17 for coffee. Not when he was in mogul-mode.
‘When’s he back?’
‘Next week, as far as I know.’
‘And the show? The programme?’
Gary patted my arm, a gesture of reassurance. Underneath the action man affectations - the thin-lipped smile, the unwavering gaze - I think he was infinitely more sensitive than I’d ever imagined.
<
br /> ‘It’s going fine,’ he said. ‘That’s all you need to know.’
‘But what about you? Are you enjoying it?’
‘Loving it.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
Gary said nothing for at least a mile. Then he yawned.
‘You might be right,’ he admitted. ‘But the money’s fucking wonderful.’
We were heading, of course, for Portsmouth. I gave my mum a little wave as we sped down the Petersfield by-pass. Fifteen minutes later, we were climbing Portsdown Hill. On the crest of the hill, beside one of the sprawling Victorian forts, there’s a pub called The Churchillian. Gary knew it because I’d taken him there a couple of times when we were working with the kids. It served decent beer, and the food was OK, and from the big picture windows at the front you could get a sensational view clear across the city to the Isle of Wight.
We parked the car. It was a blustery, rain-washed day, perfect after the drizzle and traffic fumes we’d left behind in London. I stood in the car park a moment, feeling the wind in my hair, remembering days like this that I’d spent on Hayling Island, way over to the left. Thanks to a friendly sandbank, Hayling offered some of the best windsurfing in the country, and it was there that I’d first sensed that I was good. Not just averagely good, but exceptionally good. That particular year - 1992 - was the summer I’d caught the eye of one of the national coaches but it had taken another couple of seasons, and some of the hardest physical work I’d ever known, before I made it into the British team.
I was still warming to the memories when I felt the touch of a hand on my arm. It was Gary. He was gesturing at one of the big picture windows in the pub. Behind it, looking out at us, were the kids he and I had chosen for Home Run.
We went inside. The kids cheered. One of them started singing ‘Happy Birthday’. Even the barmaid joined in.
I waddled across. A youth we’d always called Wrigleys couldn’t take his eyes off my stomach. I might have just landed from Mars.
‘You never,’ he said at last. ‘That’s well out of order.’
‘I did,’ I told him. ‘Does it upset you?’
‘Yeah,’ he offered me a stick of gum. ‘It does.’
I think the others felt pretty much the same way. They didn’t actually say so but they’d never been over-keen on spontaneous conversation and to begin with it was Gary and I who made most of the running. Gary had arranged food - eighteen variations on pastie and chips - and as the kids fought over the sachets of brown sauce, he told them how the new series was shaping.
Little bits and pieces had already been in the local press and the name on everyone’s lips was Brad Pitt. Had Gary met him? What was he like? For my part, I still didn’t believe he’d have anything to do with the series but that wasn’t the point. The point was the kids and their attitude to what we’d planned together. Not once was there any mention of the training session up north, or regrets that their own part in Gary’s little adventure was over. On the contrary, I got the impression that they were rather glad to be back in Portsmouth, basking in a limelight they hadn’t really earned. Gary was right. That one taste of the real thing, five wet nights on Skye, had convinced most of them that watching Brad Pitt on a Saturday night was infinitely preferable to dangling on a rope, scared witless, with nothing but the prospect of more terror to come. In a way, I suppose I didn’t really blame them. Pregnancy seemed to have robbed me of some of my own thirst for physical challenge. Maybe they were right, I thought. Maybe it’s better watching it, than doing it.
The serious baby gear arrived that same week. I stood in the front room, watching two men unloading a cot from the back of a van. With the cot came a playpen, a collapsible pram, a set of yellow plastic ducks, a changing mat, and sundry other goodies. I’d been planning to pick up most of these items over the next few weeks, taking my time, and the fact that someone had robbed me of this pleasure wasn’t an altogether wonderful surprise. There was no card with the delivery, no clue to the sender’s identity, and my suspicions fell at once on my mother. Forgetting to add a tag of any kind would have been completely typical but when I phoned her she denied all knowledge.
‘What did they send?’
I went through the list again. In all, as my mother pointed out, it would have cost hundreds.
‘Who could it have been?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Who’d do such a thing?’
My heart was already sinking. If my mum hadn’t sent the stuff then it had to be Brendan. He was the only other suspect, the only other interested party. He must have returned from Los Angeles, or Sydney, or wherever he’d been, and lifted the phone to Mothercare and told them to get on with it. Staying anonymous was his style, too. A gesture like that would earn him the right, at a time of his choosing, to spring another little surprise. Like appearing in person to claim the credit. That’s what he’d do. I was sure of it. He’d turn up tomorrow, or the day after, and invite himself in, just like the last time.
I’d piled the stuff in the front room. The big items were still boxed. I toyed briefly with sending them back, then decided against it. There was another option, altogether bolder. I’d go and find Brendan myself, seize the initiative, turn the tables. I’d be very polite, very cool. I’d say thank you and then bring the conversation to a rapid end.
I rang the Doubleact number. Brendan wasn’t there but I managed to talk to Andi. She confirmed that Brendan and Sandra had split for the second time and that everyone was prepared for the worst. Accountants had been crawling over the books for weeks and it now looked like a take-over was in the offing. As for Brendan, she thought he was back in the flat at De Beauvoir Square. He still had the tenancy and the flight schedule he’d left on the office computer indicated that he’d returned to the UK this very morning. That seemed a bit on the tight side for the Mothercare pressies but when I told Andi the story she said that he often snuck back on an earlier flight. Give him a ring, she suggested. Wake the bugger up.
I rang but there was no answer. When Brendan’s voice came up on the pre-recorded tape, inviting callers to say something witty, I hung up. By now I was convinced that the initiative really did - for once - lie with me. Hopefully, he’d be jet-lagged. After a month’s non-stop negotiations, he’d probably look a wreck. What better chance would I ever have for establishing that surprise gestures like the Mothercare delivery were strictly off-limits? Our relationship was well and truly over. Nothing would revive it.
It had started raining again and I took a cab to De Beauvoir Square.
The sight of Brendan’s Mercedes outside the flat made me wobble for a moment or two but I was well and truly psyched up and I didn’t falter on the steps down to the basement door. After the third ring, I’d concluded that no one was in. Then I heard footsteps and a hacking cough. Brendan, when he finally opened the door, was naked except for a pair of boxer shorts. The shorts were patterned with little black scorpions. Wholly appropriate.
The moment he saw me, Brendan scowled. It wasn’t, somehow, the reaction I’d anticipated.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve come to say thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘The presents. That’s all. Just thank you.’
He stepped back, inviting me in with a jerk of his head. The flat smelled of joss sticks. Brendan never used joss sticks.
‘I’m intruding,’ I said at once. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’
Brendan was halfway down the hall, fetching his dressing gown from the bedroom. He returned, belting it at the waist.
‘There’s no one here.’ He gestured at the sofa: ‘Make yourself at home.’
I was trying very hard to put my finger on this mood of his. It was something new, something I’d never seen in him before. He seemed preoccupied, serious, businesslike. Whatever his priorities just now, they certainly didn’t include me.
‘What are these presents?’ he s
aid.
I told him about the morning’s delivery. When he said it had nothing to do with him, I suspected he was probably telling the truth.
‘Why would I go to all that trouble,’ he asked, ‘when I’d only just got off the bloody plane?’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I lied. ‘I thought… I’m sorry.’
He shrugged, turning away. When I caught up with him in the kitchen, he was laying out two cups beside the kettle.
‘It’s instant, I’m afraid.’ He reached for a jar of Nescafe. ‘I haven’t been around too much.’
We sat next door, waiting for the kettle to boil. He told me a little about the bail-out he was organising from Doubleact. As Gary had described, he was making off with a programme or two, storing nuts, he said grimly, for the winter.
‘It’s hard out there,’ he scowled again. ‘Hard like you wouldn’t believe. You can’t afford to give an inch. He who bleeds last, wins.’
Brendan had always gathered a little moss in his journeyings, a trace of an accent here, a mannerism there, little personality tics he picked up en route from meeting to meeting. You could generally tell from the way he behaved exactly what kind of company he’d been keeping, and on this particular occasion, my money was on some pretty hard-nosed business types. He seemed impatient, dismissive, wound-up. It was nothing to do with me but I hoped, for his sake, that the change wasn’t permanent. Maybe Sandra was getting the better of the legal battles. Maybe Solo Productions wasn’t quite the gig he’d expected.
The kettle was boiling. I could hear it.
‘This baby,’ he said. ‘I still can’t believe you’re just getting on with it.’
‘What else do you suggest I do?’
‘Be reasonable, for a start. It’s our baby, Jules, yours and mine. We were both there. We both made it. You can’t just take it away and pretend I never happened.’
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