I Could Love You

by William Nicholson

  ‘Oh, you are here,’ she says. ‘I thought maybe I’d missed you.’

  ‘No,’ says Matt. ‘Come on in.’

  As she comes past him into the hall he glances at her again. She’s wearing a dark grey suit that gives her a business-like air, she moves with brisk economy, but the way she casts her eyes down, that he recognizes. She’s nervous.

  ‘I don’t like to interrupt your work.’

  ‘No, that’s okay. Alan said you’d be coming round.’

  They go into the living room, each aware of the incongruity, as if Matt is the host and she his guest.

  ‘I’m Meg,’ she says.

  ‘Right.’

  Now that they have reached a destination of sorts, neither sits down. Nor do they look at each other. Unlikely though it seems, Meg is clearly shy in his presence. She is the employer, he the employee. The servant, almost. But she seems not to believe she has the right to command his time.

  ‘I expect you’re too busy,’ she says.

  ‘That depends.’

  Matt too has his eyes on the floor.

  ‘It’s the shower,’ she says. ‘It was never much good. Now it doesn’t work at all.’

  ‘Where is this?’

  ‘Uckfield. I expect it’s out of your area.’

  ‘I don’t exactly have an area.’

  ‘It’s just so hard to find anyone to take on the small jobs. Which I do understand. It can’t really be worth your while. But Alan was telling me how good you are. So I just thought, well, I can ask.’

  Matt listens to her low hesitant voice with a growing sensation that is not familiar to him. He looks up and catches a glimpse of uncertainty in her eyes just as she’s looking at him. Both look down again at once, but not before Matt has registered the cause of his confusion.

  Meg is beautiful.

  Her beauty is not obvious. Not the current style at all, very understated, almost withdrawn. Hers is a severe face, solemn as a saint in a picture. It’s the tremor behind the severity, the modesty you could call it, that makes her beautiful.

  ‘I’ll be on this job till Christmas,’ he says. ‘Then I’ve got a boiler to put in. When would you be wanting the work done?’

  ‘Oh, any time, really. No hurry.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  He looks up at her again. She meets his gaze with that uncertain smile. She’s biting her lower lip.

  ‘I’d best come and take a look,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful.’

  She takes out a pen and a business card and writes her home address on the back, and her phone number. He watches the way she frowns as she writes.

  ‘When do you think you could come?’

  ‘I could look in tomorrow, end of the morning.’ Tomorrow is Saturday. ‘Twelvish.’

  ‘Are you sure? That would be perfect.’

  She gives him the card, and she goes.

  That’s all that happens.

  Matt turns the card over. Meg Strachan, Assistant Marketing Manager, Hartfield Surgical Centre.

  He washes up his coffee mug, then climbs the stairs once more to the top of the house. There he resumes work building the steading for the bath. As he works, he pictures Meg’s face.

  You can tell a lot from a face. Her face is a real face. When she looked at me she saw me.

  Matt works away steadily, forming a frame of two-by-fours, cutting the joins to fit neatly even though the structure will be concealed behind plywood panels.

  A new shower shouldn’t take too long to install. Alan won’t mind if he takes a day out to squeeze it in some time next week.

  6

  From where he sits in the basement conference room Alan Strachan can see the feet and ankles of the people passing by on the street outside. Before him on the black glass table is spread an array of pastries and muffins, two jugs of coffee, one of which is decaffeinated, and a teapot filled with hot water. Jane Langridge, his producer, drinks only hot water. She sits on his right hand side, simultaneously attentive to a copy of his screenplay, a thick wad of notes, and her BlackBerry. This is a script meeting and etiquette prevents her from sending out messages on her BlackBerry; but she feels it’s acceptable to receive.

  ‘The dog is brilliant, Alan,’ she says. ‘We all adore the dog.’

  Jane smiles as she speaks. She’s beginning the meeting as is traditional with a garnish of praise. She opens her eyes very wide and leans towards Alan, as if to imply that her enthusiasm borders on sexual desire. She’s a slender woman in her late forties, still very beautiful, but hollowed out by a combination of insincerity and dieting. Her close-cropped shiny black hair guards her like a helmet.

  ‘The dog is the star,’ echoes Ben Nokes. He sits facing Alan with a laptop open before him. Alan likes Ben Nokes, he’s intelligent and self-effacing. Unfortunately he’s entirely powerless in the process.

  ‘Is the business of brainwashing the dog true?’ says Jane. ‘I mean, does it really happen?’

  ‘Yes, it happens,’ says Alan. ‘A friend of mine had it done to stop her dog chasing sheep.’

  ‘They put the dog in a pen with a sheep?’

  ‘With a nursing ewe. The ewe will go for any dog, however big, to protect her lamb.’

  ‘Isn’t nature wonderful?’ says Jane, reading a message on her BlackBerry.

  ‘A sheepdog that’s frightened of sheep,’ says Ben Nokes. He chuckles encouragingly and taps a note into his laptop.

  On the fourth side of the table sits a very young, very pretty girl called Flora, writing rapidly in profound silence. At the end of the meeting Flora will type up this record of the meeting twice, in full form and in a brief digest. Both versions will be circulated to all concerned, none of whom will read a word. Beside her is a stack of screenplays, each with the same title written in black marker pen on the edge: SHEPHERD. The letters are formed on the paper-ends. If the screenplay were to be unclipped and the sheets separated, the title would fragment and cease to exist; a process that Alan feels is already taking place before his helpless gaze.

  ‘This time round you’ve really dealt with Hector’s passivity,’ says Jane. Hector is the hero of Shepherd. Jane has worried over Hector’s passivity through two earlier drafts. Alan can’t help feeling that this is a criticism of his own passivity. ‘You’ve transformed him.’

  ‘Firing on all barrels,’ says Ben Nokes.

  ‘My only question is …’ Jane wrinkles up her white face as if searching for the right words. Alan can see her glancing over the studio notes, where the right words are to be found. ‘My only question is – have we lost some of our sympathy for Hector? Do we like Hector?’

  ‘He is very angry,’ says Ben Nokes.

  Alan’s heart sinks.

  ‘I thought maybe the anger energized him,’ he says. ‘You did say he lacked energy.’

  ‘Just a question,’ says Jane, pouring herself a cup of hot water. ‘Just something to throw into the mix as we move forward.’

  Alan watches the shoes click by on the pavement outside and wants it all to be over. The only good page in the third draft is the outpouring of rage he put into his hero’s mouth. There was something from the heart. But who needs the writer’s heart?

  He first pitched the idea for Shepherd over a year ago, when high-fliers in the City were making obscene amounts of money. A simple story of an investment banker who gives up his millions to become a shepherd on the South Downs. He had meant it to be an exploration of the roots of happiness. In his first bittersweet draft, the draft that delivers his original idea, the banker’s experiment fails and he’s forced by financial need to return to the City. There his colleagues tease him with baa-ing noises, which he takes with good grace. He has emerged with a new hard-won equilibrium. Every weekend he goes back to the quiet of the Downs.

  This first draft, received with ecstasy, was considered a little too dark for a mainstream audience. In the second draft the hero leaves the City as before, and makes a success of being a she
pherd. This was said to lack conflict in the third act. To resolve this, and to meet a perceived lack of lighter moments, in the third draft the hero gets a sheepdog who is afraid of sheep. Now, as Alan faces work on a fourth draft, the context of his story has changed. Banks are failing. Bankers have become villains.

  Does any of this matter? Is any of it real? Somewhere round the third draft Alan lost all grip on the sense of the story he was writing. Now he responds to production notes and banks the cheques.

  What was that Jane Langridge just said? ‘The mix as we move forward.’ There’s a phrase worth deconstructing. The mix: my work of imaginative fiction reduced to ingredients that can be changed as thought necessary. We: the work is communal, no one to blame, no one to praise, no one’s individual voice. Move forward: the distant echo of revolutionary rhetoric is not accidental, bringing to mind as it does the virility of an armed uprising. Kick off the shackles of the past. Take no prisoners. There’s a new dawn breaking.

  Oh, hell. Can I bear it all over again?

  ‘Okay.’ Jane Langridge puts down her cup of hot water and squares the notes on the table before her. Now action is to be taken. ‘We love this project, Alan. We’re all passionate about it here.’

  ‘Passionate,’ echoes Ben Nokes.

  ‘We love the concept. We love the topicality. We love the humanity. We love the dog.’

  Alan runs his hands through his unruly hair and sighs. He feels like one of the followers of Kerensky who found their zeal for reform upstaged by Lenin. However profound his commitment, however dazzling his talent, the game has moved on.

  ‘But is it time to take a fresh look at our approach?’

  Apparently it is.

  ‘Obviously,’ says Alan, not wanting to appear pointlessly defensive, ‘times have changed.’

  Jane turns to Ben Nokes.

  ‘Why don’t you try Alan with your idea, Ben.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ says Ben. ‘I was just kicking it around to see what came loose. This is the bad version.’

  This is the bad version. A widely-used opening by production executives. Partly it’s a disclaimer: don’t judge me on this, I’m not a writer. Partly it’s an expression of respect: you’re the writer, you’ll do this so much better than me. And partly it’s the sugar on the pill: let’s all pretend we’re buddies sharing crazy ideas, but actually, pal, this is an order.

  ‘What we started with is Hector as a banker deciding to throw it all away for the simple life. He becomes a shepherd. Okay. Now we have bankers losing their jobs in their thousands, it doesn’t look noble any more. It looks like plain old failure.’

  ‘Double failure,’ says Jane. ‘He fails as a banker. Then he becomes a shepherd.’

  ‘Right. But we all love the shepherd idea.’

  Oh no, thinks Alan. Don’t let this go the way I think it’s going.

  He tries to recall the terms of his contract. There’s three more payments to come, good-sized payments: for the delivery of the first draft, and for commencement and delivery of the second draft. The last three drafts he has handed in have all been stages in the evolution of the first contractual draft. Everyone in London agrees that the screenplay should not be shown to the studio in Los Angeles until it’s in its best possible form, thus generating ‘momentum’. And until the studio receives a contractual draft, the next payment is not triggered.

  ‘So here’s my wild idea,’ says Ben Nokes. ‘How about we reverse the shift? We keep every single element, we keep the central concept, we just flip it.’

  ‘I did try this on Nancy,’ says Jane. ‘She loves it.’

  Nancy is the one person who has to love it. Nancy is in LA. So there’s a message.

  ‘Flip it?’ says Alan.

  ‘Right. We start with a shepherd. He becomes a banker. He turns out to be brilliant.’

  ‘All the shepherding skills translate into the world of the City,’ says Jane. ‘Maybe he even brings his dog with him.’

  ‘And,’ says Ben Nokes, patting Alan on the arm as if to imply that this is the bit that will please him most, ‘and we keep the whole dog brainwashing sequence you created. Which we all love.’

  ‘Great work there, Alan,’ says Jane.

  Alan says nothing. What is there to say? He’s caught in a trap of his own making. This is how the film business works, and he has chosen to offer his talents to the film business. No one ever pretended to him that they wanted his distinctive vision as a writer. They’re paying for a reservoir of ideas into which they can dip their little tin cups. When the reservoir runs dry there are others waiting, proffering their taps.

  ‘Can I think about that one?’ he says. ‘It’s a big change.’

  ‘Not as big as it seems at first glance,’ says Jane.

  ‘You think we should try this before Nancy sees anything?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Jane.

  So we’re still working on the first draft.

  Alan watches the shoes go by on the street. I have to get out of this business, he thinks. This can’t go on. I’d rather go back to teaching. Except that for this one screenplay they will one day pay him a sum that would take him five years of teaching to earn.

  Maybe none of it matters. Reality is not as straightforward as it seems. The plumber currently at work putting a new bathroom in their house has a shed at the bottom of his garden where he plays the violin. The Guardian has a story this morning about a teacher sacked for telling her class Santa Claus doesn’t exist. The head teacher reassures the nation: ‘The children are unscathed and back on the right track thanks to the professionalism of our resident staff and the lovely snow we experienced last week.’

  A shepherd goes to work in Canary Wharf. Super-modern high-rise glass-walled testosterone-fuelled trading floor. And a sheepdog.

  Is that hilarious? Is it insane? Can I tell the difference any more?

  7

  They sit facing him, side by side, husband and wife; he a leathery little man in his fifties, she at least ten years younger, hair dyed, face heavily made up. They are called Lazarus, a name that casts the consultation in a surreal light. The surgeon, neat in pinstripe suit and humorous tie, a design of flying toasters, gives them his full attention.

  The wife does the talking.

  ‘My husband is a saint, Mr Redknapp. He should be in heaven with the angels. He works like a dog all day. You can’t imagine the trouble I had to get him to come here. And he worries about me so. He’s a saint and a darling.’

  She throws her husband a fond smile. The saint sits silently studying his shoes.

  ‘He says it’s a waste of money and I’ll probably die under the knife.’ She laughs merrily at this notion. ‘He’s such a joker. But it is your money, darling’ – this to the husband – ‘and I do so want you to be happy about this too.’

  The surgeon does not intervene. His job at this early stage is to listen.

  ‘Harry thinks I don’t need any work done,’ says Mrs Lazarus, ‘but I tell him, You don’t come shopping with me, darling. You try finding clothes that fit top and bottom. And if you can do something about it, well, why not? We’d all like to stay a little younger a little longer.’

  Tom Redknapp nods and smiles. He’s not humouring Mrs Lazarus, his agreement is genuine. Just because she’s willing to subject herself to unnecessary surgical procedures to satisfy her vanity, the surgeon will not judge her. He has seen so many cases of this sort, and knows how subtle are the threads that link vanity and generosity, appearance and confidence, self-belief and self-love. For all he knows this is the way Mrs Lazarus seeks to show her husband how much she values him, and looks forward, beyond the transforming touch of the scalpel, to the renewed blessing of his love.

  ‘So what do you have in mind?’

  ‘Well, a little more here would be nice.’ Her hands move in the air before her breasts. ‘And I said to Harry, in for a penny, in for a pound.’ She pats her cheeks, her chin, her neck. ‘Why not go for this too?’

  The surgeon
nods, writing swift notes in a flowing longhand.

  ‘I’ve looked in your brochure,’ says Mrs Lazarus. ‘I believe it’s called Facial Rejuvenation Package. Breast Augmentation.’ She raises her voice, a little nervous at naming these professional terms. ‘And I’ve shown Harry what it costs.’

  The saint nods silent assent.

  ‘Guess what he said? He said, I don’t care about the money. I just don’t want you to be hurt. He never thinks of himself. But you do know, darling’ – she touches his knee - ‘I’m doing this for both of us.’ She turns back to the surgeon. ‘It’s our Christmas present to each other.’

  A gift. An act of love. Tom Redknapp thinks how little outsiders know of the profound emotions with which he engages daily. Sometimes at dinner parties he comes up against the old distaste for cosmetic surgery, offered up by decent people who are not stupid but have never thought seriously about the matter. Most times he smiles and lets it go, accepting that they see him as a mercenary, a traitor to the caring ethos of medicine, who disfigures helpless women for his gain. Sometimes he teases out the discussion a little further. Do you believe that you must accept the body you were born with, and do nothing to improve it? Would you operate on a face scarred by disfiguring burns? Do you allow the use of make-up? of hair dye? Do you diet and exercise to stay slim? Ah, so it is acceptable to want to manage our body shape so that we look our best. The only area of debate is where we draw the line, and why.

  Over the years he has learned humility. He respects his patients even when he thinks he understands their motives better than they do themselves. The relationship between body image and self-esteem is so profound. He’ll give Mrs Lazarus bigger breasts. She’ll feel more sexually confident. Mr Lazarus will be surprised and grateful. She’ll be proud and happy.

  We all long to be objects of desire.

  No, none of this causes the surgeon a moment’s doubt. And yet all is not well. In recent weeks questions of quite a different order have begun to torment him. Absurd to be kept awake at night by what amounts to philosophical imponderables, but certain concerns have lodged in his brain and will not be dismissed.