The rest of the festival we talked, drank, swam a little, and compared endless notes. That summer I’d been along the Côte d’Azur for a month already, holed up in Antibes waiting for a French production team to finish a rewrite before shooting extra scenes for a gangster movie in which I’d won a smallish but important role. The script work went far too slowly and at the very end of the shoot some of us had fallen into bad company aboard one of the grosser cruisers docked in the marina. This was nothing I especially regretted – in those days I could put anything down to research – but at Cannes a day later it was wonderful to be in the company of someone thoughtful, someone who knew how to listen, someone whose interest in yours truly extended beyond the taking of yet another scalp. Berndt had the kind of attentive curiosity I’ve yet to meet in any other man. It took me years to realize how predatory that can be, but by the time the festival came to an end I knew I was in love.
Berndt and I said our goodbyes at the airport. His flight to Stockholm was the first to leave. I remember standing in the hot sunshine on the balcony at the airport, watching his plane climb away into the blue and wondering whether I’d ever see him again. Eight days later, on the phone from Copenhagen, he proposed. We were married in London a week before Christmas. By then, I was well and truly pregnant.
My alarm is always set for 06.30, a habit I picked up on countless locations. For most of the night I’ve been dreaming about my father. He’s been dead for a long time now, a victim of throat cancer, but when I was a child he used to entrance me with puppet shadows on the wall. He’d make shapes with his hands, sometimes one, occasionally two. The shapes would be a barking dog, or an owl with flappy wings, or some nameless beast with three heads, and my world was all the richer for these sleights of hand. At the time he called them trompe l’oeils but it was a while before I realized they were simply optical illusions.
Now, a thin grey daylight washes across the big double bed. For the first time in weeks, I realize that I haven’t got a headache. I silence the alarm clock and think hard about the stillness inside my skull. Has the tumour taken fright and left me for someone else? Do I owe my life to Johnnie Walker Black Label? I get up, moving very carefully, the way you might carry an overloaded tray. Last night’s glasses are still where I left them in the sink. Gratitude smells of stale Scotch.
The phone rings at one minute past nine. I’m on my third cup of tea, still pain-free, still marvelling at this small moment of release. The voice on my mobile phone belongs to a stranger: northern accent, bit of a cold.
‘Enora Andressen?’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Mitch. Mitch Culligan. You’re OK to talk?’
Culligan. The name rings a bell but I can’t think why. ‘How did you get my number?’
‘Friend of a friend.’
‘Like who?’
‘Can’t say. Sorry.’
‘So why should I talk to you?’
‘No reason at all. I’m in a car outside your block. Red Fiat. Seen better days. If this sounds creepy, it isn’t. Fancy breakfast?’
I have to take the phone into the spare bedroom to check the street. A tallish guy, visibly overweight, gives me a wave. Grey anorak. Battered day sack. Baggy jeans. Terrible hair. I’m staring hard at his face. I saw him once on Newsnight. He’s a journalist. And he once did a couple of decent articles on the land mines issue.
‘Are you the guy who called on my neighbour yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what do you want?’
He won’t say, not unless we have a proper conversation. In my job, exchanges like these come with the territory. Normally I’d bring the exchange to an end rapido but the land mines issue was important to me, still is, and in any case yesterday has done something to my normal sense of caution. Time, for one thing, has become a commodity I can no longer take for granted. What the hell.
‘Breakfast,’ I tell him. ‘On you.’
We go to a wholefood cafe off the Bayswater Road where they know me. At my insistence, we walk. He’s much taller than I am. He has a strange gait, lumbering, flat-footed, body thrust forward, hands dug deep in the pockets of his anorak, as if he’s heading into a stiff wind. When I mention land mines he nods. Angola. The Balkans. Afghanistan. Any country touched by conflict has been left with a legacy of buried mines and a generation of kids who’ve stepped on them.
‘You know about this stuff?’ He seems surprised.
‘I do. Not first-hand but through someone close to me. There are charities who work in the field. I’ve always done my best to help.’
He nods in approval. We’re definitely on the same page here. Nice to know.
The cafe is comfortably full but there are generous spaces between the tables. Wealth has its own smell, in this case freshly brewed Java Pure.
My new friend studies the chalkboard in disbelief.
‘They do bacon?’
‘No.’
‘Sausages?’
‘Only soya.’
‘Anything edible?’
We order scrambled eggs on five-grain wholemeal toast. En route to a table at the back, I accept an air kiss from an Iranian art dealer who owns the gallery on the corner. Word on the street suggests that nothing costing less than $10,000 gets out of his door.
We settle at the table. Mitch, his day sack tucked under the table, is taking a lively interest in the cafe’s clientele. I’m beginning to be intrigued by this man. In my business you spend half your life pretending to be someone else and unconsciously or otherwise you’re forever on patrol, watching other people, making mental notes, tucking away their tiny idiosyncrasies – little giveaway tics – in case they might prove useful later.
Mitch, unusually, offers few clues. His lumberjack shirt, which is missing a button, could do with an iron. He badly needs a proper shave. His lace-up boots are caked with mud. But this air of neglect doesn’t appear to trouble him in the least. On the contrary, he seems to be a man thoroughly at ease with himself – not as common as you might think.
He wants to know what I thought about the recent election sprung on us by Theresa May. The question takes me by surprise.
‘Nothing,’ I tell him. ‘I was on location in the States.’
‘Trump?’
‘A buffoon. And allegedly a serial groper.’
‘You ever get to see him in the flesh? Meet him, maybe?’
‘Christ, no. That man puts his smell on people. He’s a dog. I’d be washing him off for a week.’
He grins at me, his big face suddenly younger. He says he spent the three weeks before the election touring parts of the UK, taking the pulse of the place, looking for clues.
‘And?’
‘This country’s a crime scene. Make that a plural – crime scenes. We’ve been screwed by neglect, by clever lies, and by a long list of politicians who should have been paying more attention. Behind them is an even longer list of names you’ve never heard of and they’re the ones you really need to watch.’
‘You write about all this stuff?’
‘Of course.’
‘So should I have recognized your name?’
‘Depends what you read.’
‘Very little, I’m afraid. I gave up on the press years ago. If a girl wants fiction she should stick to novels.’
He shoots me a look. I think I’ve offended him. Then he tells me he’s recently gone freelance after years with a major broadsheet. Facebook and the rest are killing the print business but there’s still money to be made.
‘Is that what this is about?’ I nod at the space between us. ‘You’re after some kind of exclusive?’
This time I know I’ve hurt him. Worse than that, he’s got me down as a spoiled celeb, tucked away in Holland Park, protected by a thicket of agents, publicity machines, and very big ideas about myself. He’s talking about the recent election again, how three weeks on the road talking to people about the kind of lives they lead should be compulsory for every politician.
�
�But it is. That’s what elections are about. No?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s a comedy show. These people are looking for votes but they have no time. Here’s a sticker. Nice dog you’ve got there. Lovely baby. Remember my name.’ He scowls, leaning forward over the table. ‘This country is dead on its feet. The ones with money might vote. The rest have nothing to protect. On some levels, believe me, it’s scary. And you know why? Because the system doesn’t work any more. Because the system is fucked. I could spend half a day in some run-down shopping centre and not meet anyone who had a clue what to do with his vote. Either that or they couldn’t be arsed. This country has become world class at giving up. Not here so much. Not in London. But up there. You ever been to Burnley?’
‘Once. I was playing in a Rattigan at Blackburn. You?’
‘Born and bred. My dad was a vicar. Can you believe that? Burnley was a proper place. Once.’
He makes space on the table and sighs while the waitress delivers the food. He watches her return with a carafe of mango juice, on the house. My new friend is impressed.
‘Are they always this nice to you?’
‘Always.’
‘Why?’
‘They like my films.’
‘Good. I’ve been meaning to tell you. That scene at the beginning of Arpeggio – you seriously underplayed it. The rest of the movie? Excellent. But you were nuts to kick it off that way.’
I take this as a compliment, partly because I’m warming to his bluntness but mainly because he’s right.
‘That was the director,’ I tell him. ‘I wanted to play it full-on. He thought we’d lose the audience.’
‘You nearly did. And I’m a fan.’
We talk movies while he demolishes the scrambled eggs. To my slight surprise, his knowledge of films is huge, his taste impeccable. Early Chris Nolan. Anything by Almodóvar. Sean Penn in 21 Grams. Perfect.
‘Not hungry?’ He’s looking at my brimming plate. I’ve barely touched it. His interest is obvious.
‘Help yourself.’ I reach for the mango juice. ‘And while you’re at it you might tell me why we’re here.’
He forks scrambled eggs on to his plate and then bends to the day sack. Moments later I’m looking at a thickish file. Handwritten on the front is a single word: Cassini.
Already I’m intrigued. I’ve come across the word recently but I can’t remember where. Cassini?
Mitch wolfs several mouthfuls of egg and then opens the file. Sheets of text hide a pile of photos. He’s about to show me one of them but then his hand pauses. Long fingers. Cared-for nails. No rings.
‘This is a long story,’ he says. ‘Which is rather the point.’
‘I like stories. But what’s this got to do with me?’
‘That’s my question, I’m afraid.’ He pauses, looking up, catching something in my voice. ‘You OK?’
I’m not. I have a sudden, blinding pain behind my left eye. I can see two versions of Mitch, both of them shading into grey, and the tables around us are blurred beyond recognition. Mitch is already on his feet. I’m clinging on to the edge of the table now and I’m dimly aware of throwing up on to my plate. Somebody – Mitch? – is holding me from behind. I try to lift my head. The pain is unbearable. Then everything goes black.
TWO
The next few days are lost to me. Time expands, condenses, wriggles around, expands again, and then snaps like some worn-out elastic band. My first moment of consciousness comes in the back of an ambulance. After that, I’m adrift again until a face swims into focus at my bedside. Only slowly do I associate the rimless glasses and the paleness of the face with my neurosurgeon. He’s wearing blue surgical scrubs and a white face mask dangles beneath his chin. Costume drama, I think dimly. Death-bed bye-bye scene. Not good.
The face fades, only to return later. It might have been a couple of minutes later, it might have been the following day, I’ve no idea, but this time we have a conversation.
‘It went well.’ He’s sitting on the bed. ‘Much better than we expected.’
I try to speak. Frame an answer. Make some kind of comment. Nothing. I start to panic. An exposed nerve in my poor failing brain? A parting billet-doux from the tumour? A slip of the scalpel cutting whatever goes to my vocal chords? I try to swallow. Find it nearly impossible. What kind of future awaits an actress who can’t speak? Can’t even breathe properly? Then comes a soft pressure on my lower arm and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. Reassurance. Comfort. Kindliness.
‘You’ve still got tubes down your throat,’ the face says. ‘Don’t try and talk. Just nod or shake your head.’ The face smiles. ‘Any pain?’
I shake my head.
‘Nothing? No discomfort?’
A tiny shake this time.
‘Just a bit?’
I nod.
‘Good girl.’ The hand on my arm, again. ‘Take it easy. No dancing. I’ll be back tomorrow.’
Bless him. Bless them all. My first visitor is Mitch. He lumbers into the High Dependency Unit, his big face invisible behind an explosion of blooms.
‘Lilies,’ he says. ‘My dad used to swear by them. Dark properties. Keeps the devil in his place.’
He disappears to find a nurse and a vase, and returns within moments. No anorak today. Apparently an Indian summer has descended on West London.
‘OK?’ His eyes are mapping the tangle of leads that keep my vital signs on track.
‘Fine.’ I can talk now. The tube has gone.
‘And?’ He wants an update, a prognosis. No messing.
‘They say I might get better.’
‘Might? That sounds a bit provisional.’
‘Might,’ I confirm. ‘All these conversations depend on where you start. They wrote me off the other day so I can definitely handle “might”. In fact “might” could become my very best friend.’ I lie back and close my eyes. My little speech has exhausted me.
When I come to again, Mitch is very close. He’s found a chair. He’s been eating garlic.
‘This has been going on a while? Only I feel a bit guilty.’
‘You mean the cafe?’
‘Yes. Dragging you out. Bothering you.’
‘It was good you were there. It would have happened anyway.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t. I’m just being nice.’
‘Appreciate it.’ His hand lingers briefly on my shoulder. Then he’s on his feet again. ‘Anything I can bring? Next time?’
My hand goes to the bareness of my scalp where they shaved me before the operation.
‘A beret?’ I suggest. ‘Maybe red?’
After Mitch, a succession of friends and relatives arrive. Evelyn is first, bearing a box of Belgian chocolates she knows I’ll kill for. Then my agent and the actor who played opposite me in Arpeggio. The news that our movie has been short-listed for a BAFTA sparks a big smile from the nurse who’s sorting my tablets. Next day, my parents arrive from Brittany. Evelyn has given them the key to my flat and my mum will be here for as long as I need her. She stays all afternoon and she can’t wait to tell me the news from Stockholm. Malo has been on the phone. He’s had a big row with his father. His love affair with Sweden is over. This is very good news indeed.
‘He’s coming back to London?’
‘He didn’t say that.’
‘What, then?’
‘He wants to travel a little.’ She’s frowning. ‘I told him he should still be at school.’
School has been a festering sore between the three of us – Berndt, myself and Malo – for some time. Malo bailed out of the local comprehensive last year. My marriage was in ruins and I admit to taking my eye off the ball, but it was months before either Berndt or I realized that on many days he simply wasn’t turning up. When I confronted him, he said that the teaching was crap and he was wasting his time, but I think the real reason was that he just couldn’t cope. Under the circumstances, our circumstances, I couldn’t really blame him. Then he w
ent to Sweden and what was left of his education became Berndt’s problem.
‘So what did he say on the phone?’
‘He wants to borrow five thousand euro. I told him to ask his father.’
My smile is unforced. I’ve learned recently from my stepdad that my Christian name was my mum’s choice. Enora is Breton in origin, homage to a saint of the same name. St Enora is celebrated for entering a convent on the day she got married. Maybe I should have listened harder and picked up the hint.
‘So where does Malo want to go?’
‘Polynesia. He says it will improve his French.’
‘His French is fine already.’
‘Bien sur. But he says that would make New Caledonia a kind of university. Pas stupide, notre Malo.’
She’s right. Despite his academic record, Malo has always been bright, as well as manipulative and feckless, but given the chance I’d write a cheque here and now for both of us. Two tickets for New Caledonia? Two glorious months in the sunshine with my lovely boy? Ten thousand euro for the pair of us? A steal.
Mum has had a word with the neurosurgeon.
‘He says you’re doing OK. Maybe you should come back to France with us.’
I do my best to smile up at her. There are worse prospects just now than an autumn in their manor house overlooking the beach at Perros-Guirec. My mum cooks like a French mother should and I’ve never had a problem with my stepdad. He used to be a consultant engineer in the oil business, which is where all the money came from. His career made him a perfect role model for my son but his occasional attempts to talk Malo into doing something useful with his life have so far come to nothing.
I say I’m grateful for the offer.
‘You mean no?’
I nod. For now, I tell her, I need to be in London.
‘For the doctors?’ Her eyes flick towards the nursing station. ‘Just in case?’
‘Of course. And maybe one or two other things.’
Mitch is back a couple of days later. He’s knocked at Evelyn’s door again and on her instructions he’s arrived with my iPad, plus a beret she’s found in my wardrobe. I seize the iPad greedily. I want to know where to find some of the stuff he’s been writing.
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