Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Worse. Two of them belonged in a museum. The other was borderline deceased. Marx never knew what he started. How are you?’

  ‘Terrible, if you want the truth.’

  ‘It’s come back? The headache? All the rest of it?’

  ‘No. Yes. Oh, shit …’ I’m staring at the video camera. There’s no one at the main entry door but where the gardens lap against the exterior wall I can make out a slim figure, bent over a cigarette, sheltering under a tree. It’s an image that makes my blood run cold. To me it speaks of something beyond pathos. It has to be Malo.

  ‘Enora? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re crying.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I can tell. It’s a man thing. A night with a bunch of Marxists tells you everything you want to know about grief. That’s a joke, by the way. You want me to come round?’

  I know the answer is yes. Just now, I’d like nothing better. But an evening with my only child, the only human being I’m ever likely to bring into the world, has taught me what a crap mother I must be.

  ‘No,’ I say as firmly as I can. ‘Give me a ring tomorrow.’

  Malo, when he finally returns, is soaking wet. I let him in at the main door downstairs and fetch a towel while he walks up to the fourth floor. His curls are plastered against the whiteness of his scalp, and his T-shirt and jeans are wet through, but he’s calmer, even talkative. He seems to have realized that I hold the keys to the flat, that I own the place, that I might conceivably have ideas of my own, and this – at last – prompts the beginnings of a conversation.

  ‘It must have been scary,’ he says. ‘Nearly dying like that.’

  He’s standing in the middle of the living room, naked except for his boxer shorts. I want to towel every inch of him dry. I want to make him hot chocolate and French toast just the way he used to like it. I want to have the two of us back together again and maybe have another go at getting it right. Instead I ask him to tell me more about Eva.

  ‘I met her through Dad. He says he went to her for advice on some character or other but that’s bullshit. When I turned up he was giving her this big line about a part he had in mind. You know the way he can be? Close but not too close? Hanging back? Pretending he isn’t interested?’

  I nod. I know exactly how Berndt plays scenes like these, artful, canny, seemingly disengaged. He once boasted to me that he could talk any woman into bed without laying a finger on her.

  ‘This was in the apartment? The penthouse?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So where was Annaliese?’

  ‘She’s been on location in Russia. Before that, she was doing some movie or other in Hamburg.’

  ‘So she’s away a lot?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘And is that a problem?’

  ‘Not for her. She’s got a brain in her head. A couple of weeks living with Dad and she couldn’t wait to get on the road again.’

  ‘But they’re going to get married. Have I got that right?’

  ‘No. That was the plan. They’d made the big announcement. Then Annaliese told Dad she’d prefer to wait a bit.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She never said. Not to me.’

  ‘So will they ever get married?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘He never mentions it. Eva calls it denial. You mind if I have a shower?’

  He disappears towards the bathroom without waiting for an answer, leaving me alone in the living room, gazing at the wet footprints on the carpet. I’m grinning. The news from Stockholm is excellent. Not just me, I think. Her, too.

  In the kitchen, I put the kettle on. The last face-to-face conversation I had with Berndt took place at a pub we occasionally used in Soho. He was days away from moving back to Stockholm and he wanted to settle what he quaintly called ‘our private affairs’. In terms of money and possessions this boiled down to a simple split. He’d keep his place in Stockholm, everything he owned personally, and the contents of his several bank accounts, while I would end up with Holland Park, my accumulated savings and investments, my three-year-old Peugeot, and anything else with my name on it.

  At the time, I didn’t believe him. I’m worth a great deal more than Berndt and I thought that this was a big, splashy gesture calculated to belittle me. In the world of Berndt Andressen, he seemed to be saying, money counted for nothing because only his work, that sequence of movies stretching from here to eternity, really mattered. That was why he was so glad to be shot of me. That was why he couldn’t wait for us to get formally divorced.

  Thinking about it that night, back in Holland Park, I tried to imagine what would happen next. Berndt would talk to his lawyers. They’d point out I was worth a bit and that a bit of pressure might entitle him to half the joint estate, maybe with some kind of adjustment for Malo. At that point he’d nod and agree, and we’d then settle into our respective trenches, hunker down, and await the opening bombardment.

  My lawyer said much the same thing. He seemed to have been dealing with divorces for most of his professional life and in his view my soon-to-be ex-husband was suffering from something my lawyer called ‘shaggers’ remorse’. This boils down to guilt at the break-up and there are some men who believe that a generous settlement will wash all that nastiness away. To be frank, I never thought Berndt was one of them. Deep down, as his darker plots might suggest, he’s a selfish, narcissistic, ruthless bastard, and as the weeks passed without any word from his lawyers, I began to wonder if I was fated to spend the rest of my life in this matrimonial twilight. When I discussed this with my own lawyer, he counselled patience. Early days, he said. Better to wait and see.

  Nothing happened. Neither then nor now. There’s still been chatter in the trade press about Berndt’s forthcoming nuptials but unless he’s planning on becoming a bigamist I can only believe that the journalists have got it wrong. Now, thanks to Malo, I know that yet another relationship in his busy, busy life has crashed and burned. Annaliese, bless her, has seen through the man. Soon enough, in her own interests, she’ll probably be gone. Either way, I’m very glad he’s out of my life. The only thing he had that mattered to me is my precious son and just now he’s within touching distance. Berndt, to be blunt, is history.

  Malo joins me in the kitchen. He’s wearing my dressing gown he must have found in the bathroom. The tea’s nearly brewed.

  ‘So what happened with Eva?’ I ask. ‘When your dad wanted this advice?’

  ‘She turned him down. She told him she didn’t believe in the character and neither did he. Dad’s not used to women answering back. Not these days. Not with his reputation.’

  I pour the tea. I can imagine this conversation in every detail. Malo’s right. Berndt always had the upper hand.

  ‘You think I was like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Compliant?’

  ‘Never. You fought back. If you want the truth it was horrible being around you both.’

  ‘But why did you go with him?’

  ‘Because he did the same number on me. And I was stupid enough to believe him. Talk to Eva. She’s the one who’s seen through all the bullshit.’

  I nod. Grin. I want to give my wayward boy a hug. By some miracle I don’t properly understand we seem to have become comrades in arms, refugees from the same dark presence I should never have let into my life. Looking for the sugar bowl I wonder whether I owe my son some kind of apology for the madness of the last couple of years, but when I begin to explain just how things got so bad so quickly he shakes his head and turns away.

  ‘Mum …’ he mutters.

  I feel a sudden blush of embarrassment. Playing mother is a tough gig. I’ve gone too far, too fast. I ask again about Eva. Does he have a photo? He fetches his phone from his sodden jeans next door. I find myself looking at an urchin face caught in bright sunshine as if someone’s just called her name. Wide smile. Perfect teet
h. Punk hair. There’s a tram in the background, and a priest on a bicycle.

  ‘Twenty-six, you say?’

  ‘I know. I couldn’t believe it either. Sometimes I think she could be my kid sister.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He couldn’t handle her. Or us, either. Once he knew we were screwing it got really ugly.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because you’ve got nowhere else to go?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But is it true?’

  ‘No.’ He blinks and looks away, embarrassed by this small admission. I want more. I want him to tell me he’s glad to be away from his father. I want to know he’s going to be around for a while. I want him to call this cave of mine home.

  At last, I pour the tea. Malo always had a special mug, a souvenir from a muddy weekend the two of us shared at Glastonbury, but he barely touches it. Instead, he begins to yawn. I do my best to reignite the conversation but it’s obvious he’s no longer in the mood.

  He’s looking round the kitchen as if he’s never lived here, never even seen it before, and then he notices one of the photos I’ve pinned to the corkboard. It comes from way back and it shows the pair of us, Malo and me, on the South Bank. He’d accompanied me to a rehearsal at the Old Vic and afterwards I’d taken him for coffee at the Festival Hall. These little get-togethers were much rarer than you might imagine, one of the reasons I’ve found space on the corkboard, and Malo seems fascinated by it.

  He was still a boy then, pre-adolescent, vocal, curious, prone to mischief and wonderment in equal parts, and I still treasure the memory of that afternoon. He’d sat in the stalls in the theatre while we went through a sequence of key scenes in the last act and he’d been fascinated by the play of light on the set when the director was experimenting with a couple of effects. I suspect this was the first time he’d properly grasped the idea of theatre and there was pride as well as curiosity in the questions he fired at me over the strudel. Who was Ibsen? How come I’d got the part of someone who kills herself? Was I really crying when I was crying?

  We were with another actress friend of mine at the time and she thought Malo was really sweet. She was older than me, with two grown-up sons, and when she produced her camera to take a shot of the pair of us she told Malo to cuddle close to me. Good as gold, he did exactly as he was told and next day, back at the theatre, she told me how envious she’d been. Seven’s a magic age, she said. You’ll spend the rest of your life trying to get back to that moment.

  At the time, I’d thought nothing of it. Malo had always been trusting, as well as tactile, and I’d somehow thought that would last forever. Now, in the kitchen, I ask him whether he remembers that afternoon in the empty stalls at the Old Vic.

  He’s still gazing at the photo. I think I catch the faintest nod though he won’t answer my question. Finally he steps back from the corkboard. For whatever reason, he won’t meet my eyes.

  ‘I’ll crash on the sofa.’ He turns towards the door. ‘Have you got a couple of blankets?’

  FOUR

  I phone Mitch Culligan two days later. After a second night of broken sleep, Malo has swapped the sofa for the privacy of my bedroom during the day and Mum is out scouring the local shops for goodies for my stepdad. Life without certain foodstuffs is a hanging offence in their house and she’s dangerously low on Marmite and decent marmalade.

  Mitch is on a bus, stuck in traffic somewhere near the Elephant and Castle.

  He tells me we need to meet.

  ‘Why?’

  He won’t say. When I mention Cassini, he just grunts. Whether the doomed little explorer has become code for something else I’ve no idea but the realization that Malo may be around for a while has given me a whole new take on my immediate future. I have responsibilities here. One of them is to get better. Another is to my wayward son. And the third is to find out exactly what Mitch Culligan might be after.

  We agree to meet. He has an appointment with his agent to discuss a first-draft submission. This is the first time I become aware that he writes books, as well as tub-thumping, bravura pieces for the left-wing press, and I’m back on the internet within seconds of ending the call. Two crime novels and a biography of an ex-Navy diver I’ve never heard of, a man called Joe Cassidy. A visit to the Amazon site reveals a four-star average reader score for the latter with sixty-three posted reviews. Impressive.

  We meet, as planned, at the office of his agent in Putney. I’m curious about the biography.

  ‘Why Joe Cassidy?’

  ‘I did an interview with him back in the day. He was involved in all kinds of mischief over the years and he fascinated me. I never believed in greatness until I met that man. He was still middle-aged but he’d been through a lot of stuff in the Falklands War and he was so wise. Fame had passed him by, not that he seemed to care a toss, and I thought that was a shame. When I suggested a book he wasn’t keen, but if you ask the same question often enough you’ll end up with the answer you want. I think he said yes just to get me off the phone. After that everything went like a dream.’

  ‘He didn’t disappoint?’

  ‘Not at all. And he even seemed to like what I made of him.’

  At this, he gets up and leaves the borrowed office. Seconds later he’s back with a copy of the book I recognize from Amazon. It’s slimmer than I expected and the photos include a shot of a cadaverous man in baggy shorts sitting on the edge of a harbour wall.

  ‘He’s only got one leg,’ I point out.

  ‘Exactly. Yet he still swam year round, every morning, without fail. He ran a dive business, too. Still does, as far as I know. Amazing bloke.’

  ‘A kind of homage, then?’ I’m still looking at the book.

  ‘Definitely. A privilege to meet the guy. He became a kind of friend.’

  I nod. Hand the book back.

  ‘You’d rather not?’

  ‘I’d like you to sign it. Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He’s looking pleased. He finds a pen and pauses a moment before scribbling a line and then adding his signature. When I get the book back, his handwriting is indecipherable.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It’s a quote from Joe. Never let the bastards have it all their own way. I think that’s what kept him going. That and Scotch.’

  ‘Bastards?’

  ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Plenty. He was a good hater, Joe. He liked to recruit an army of enemies and see them all off. It was a while before I realized he was a blunter version of what kept this country going. Stubborn as you like. Brave. Stoic. Difficult. Unforgiving. Brilliant man.’

  I nod, not altogether convinced.

  ‘Last of a breed?’

  Mitch nods, smiles, says nothing. I thank him for the Saturn photo.

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘I love it. September fifteenth? The final plunge? The death dive? Am I right?’ I want him to get the file out, the one with Cassini on the front. Once again, he seems to read my mind, stooping to his day bag.

  Then he pauses. I know exactly what’s coming next.

  ‘Last time we did this wasn’t good,’ he says carefully. ‘Are you sure you can handle it?’

  As a question, this has its drawbacks. Handle what? Mitch acknowledges the question with a frown. His fingers have already slipped inside the file. Moments later he produces a sheaf of photos.

  I’m looking at a shot of a middle-aged man in an expensive suit. He’s posed against a group of younger women who look like models. The setting, maybe a hotel, could be some kind of fashion event. He’s on the short side and he needs to cut down on the lunches but he has the look of someone unbothered by the opinions of others. He holds himself like a boxer, squat, nicely balanced, ready for anything. The grin is wide. There isn’t a thread of grey in his curly black hair and the three-day stubble is camera-perfect. He has his arm around the near
est of the women and the fact that she must be at least a couple of inches taller doesn’t bother him in the least. Confidence, I think. And maybe serious wealth.

  ‘Do you recognize him?’ Mitch asks.

  ‘No. Should I?’

  Mitch lets the question ride. The guy’s name, he says, is Hayden Prentice. He pauses, looking at me.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘His mates in the early days used to call him “Saucy”. Some still do.’ Another pause. ‘HP? Saucy?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I shake my head, still staring at the photo. ‘He’s in the rag trade? Some kind of businessman?’

  ‘Only as an investor. The guy’s a moving target. Think fingers. Think pies. He made his first fortune in the Alps. Affordable ski holidays for the nearly rich. Some say he got lucky with the exchange rate and perfect snow but if that’s true then he’s been lucky ever since. Just now he has a big fat portfolio of businesses. They range from a stake in a major entertainment complex to a couple of niche insurance companies, and every one of them makes him money. Luck, I’m afraid, doesn’t cover it.’

  I’m looking harder at the face in the photograph. Something is stirring deep in my poor brain. Maybe a long-ago conversation. Maybe more than that.

  ‘Alps, you say?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The French Alps?’

  ‘Courchevel. Chamonix. Les Houches. Combloux. Draw a circle round a decent airport. Talk to the locals about weather patterns. Get the chalet offer right. Suss the nightlife. Nothing’s fucking rocket science, not if you know what you’re about.’ He pauses, looking for another photo. ‘That’s him talking by the way, not me.’

  This time Prentice has been snapped on the deck of what looks like a sizeable yacht. It might be the south of France, Sardinia, Marbella, anywhere with that overwhelming blue of sky and sea. Prentice is squatting on the deck with a handful of sun cream. Lying full length on a turquoise mattress is a naked blonde with huge Guccis, and an all-over tan. Whoever took the photograph seems to have taken Prentice by surprise. He’s looking up at the camera, visibly annoyed. His own tan matches his companion’s and I’m right about the boxer bit. He’s carrying a couple of pounds he doesn’t need around his belly but his shoulders are broad, his chest lightly matted with black hair. This is someone who plainly works out, someone you’d be wiser not to upset.