Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  ‘So where shall I go?’ Berndt asks.

  ‘I’ve no idea. It’s often best to have a plan before you make a start on the first page. That’s what you always told me. So what’s happened to the plan?’

  ‘There is no plan. You want letters from the debt collectors? I can give you dozens. You want emails from my bank? My pleasure. You want a look at the message I had yesterday from Scantrax? About pulling out of the distribution deal on the Svalbard series? No problem. All of that I have in my little briefcase. But no plan.’

  This is pathetic, I tell myself. He knows me too well. He knows I’m prone to lending an ear, to listening hard, to sympathizing, to nodding in agreement, to understanding, to trying to find a way through other people’s problems. But what he doesn’t know is that things are different. Because I have Malo now and that has changed everything.

  ‘So why did you come?’ I ask him.

  ‘Because there’s so much to discuss.’

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss. We’re getting divorced. They’re called solicitors, or they are in this country. They talk to each other. Sometimes they lift the phone and talk to me, and maybe you. That’s what our money buys. That’s what’s so sweet about the deal. Arm’s length. Job done. Back to square one.’

  ‘I have no money.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

  ‘Is that your solicitor speaking or you?’

  ‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure I believe you because I know nothing about the small print. My accountant tells me life is a dry river bed. Under every stone is a hidden cache of money. It’s like that everywhere in the world. Business deals, tax evasion, divorces, everywhere you look. You tell me you’re broke, bankrupt, whatever. How do I know you haven’t hidden money away? How do I know you haven’t been down to the river bed? That’s why I need my accountant. Because he’ll know.’

  This has the makings of a speech. Malo’s visibly impressed. Soon I might expect applause, but for now all I can see is Berndt shaking his head.

  ‘More money,’ he says, ‘wasted on accountants. These people cost a fortune and you know something else? When the end comes, and you’re through, their fees are even bigger. I hate accountants. I loathe accountants. The only good accountant is a dead accountant.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Worse. You know something? I had a meeting yesterday in Stockholm. My accountant was there, in the flesh. I’d asked him along to vouch for me, to fend off a particular creditor, but he did exactly the opposite. He said I’d exhausted my assets. That was his exact phrase. He came into that room as an accountant. He left it as an undertaker. Turns out he’d come to bury me. So here I am.’

  This is better, I think. This is near-vintage Berndt. There’s life in the old bastard yet.

  ‘You have to go,’ I say, ‘because I’m not having any kind of discussion. You want to do that, then talk to my solicitor. He charges three hundred pounds an hour so you might have to keep it brief.’

  I’m tempted to offer him a drink, purely out of charity, but Malo beats me to it. He offers Berndt one of the Kronenbourgs in the fridge. Watching him fetch a glass from the kitchen I feel a tiny tremor of apprehension.

  Berndt opens the can and takes care to tilt the glass at exactly the right angle. This is a trick he taught me years back and I’ve used it ever since. Perfect head. Perfect presentation.

  ‘Skål.’ Berndt raises his glass to Malo. Ignores me.

  Malo wants to know about Annaliese.

  ‘There’s nothing to know. The last time we talked she was on location in Copenhagen. I gather she’s found herself a Danish boyfriend.’

  ‘She’s not coming back?’

  ‘To Sweden, yes. But not to me.’

  ‘And the apartment?’

  ‘Gone. Repossessed.’

  ‘So where have you been living?’

  ‘With my sister in Norrköping. I stayed three days. By the end I couldn’t work out which of us was the more depressed. It kills you, Malo.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Staking everything. Losing everything. Failing. I used to write movies about situations like these. Not for a second did I ever …’ He turns away, burying his head in his hands. His shoulders are heaving. Small animal noises are coming from somewhere deep inside him. Impressive, I think.

  Malo’s face is a mask. He’s totally impassive, totally unmoved. Like mother, like son.

  The broken figure on the sofa seems to have regained some kind of control. He has the grace to apologize. I say that’s unnecessary. Malo wants to know why he hasn’t arrived with more baggage.

  ‘Light,’ he says. ‘I travel light.’

  ‘Just the one bag?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No change of clothes? No spare jeans?’

  ‘No.’

  Malo and I exchange glances. Then Malo goes to his bedroom and reappears with one of the pairs of 501s I’d bought him on our shopping trip. Berndt looks up at him, uncomprehending. Malo asks him to stand up.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just need to check something.’

  ‘OK.’

  Berndt stands up. The carpet is wet where his feet have been. Malo holds the jeans against Berndt’s still-rangy frame. They’re way too short.

  ‘Shame,’ he says.

  I stare at him. This is beyond subtle, beyond cruel. Whether Berndt realizes it or not, his alleged son is making a point. Different build. Different genes. Different everything. What I’d assumed was an act of charity is anything but. Just faintly, I’m beginning to feel sorry for the man I’d once loved.

  ‘So what will you do?’ I ask him. ‘Now? Tonight?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You’ve really no money?’

  ‘None.’ He fetches out his wallet, tosses it across to me. ‘Check, if you want.’

  ‘Credit cards?’

  ‘Insufficient funds.’

  ‘An account with some hotel chain?’

  ‘Those days have gone.’

  I nod, think, make a calculation or two. I have a personal account with two hotel chains. I use them when I have down-time on location and I can get away for a couple of days. One of them, the Holiday Inn, has an outpost in Kensington. It’s not cheap but just now it might ease my conscience.

  I give Berndt the address and order an Uber. The Uber, I tell him, will be on my account. Also the hotel. Three nights, absolute max.

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I suggest you go home. You have a return ticket?’ With some reluctance he nods. ‘Then use it.’

  He looks up at me and for a moment I think we’re in for tears again but then he seems to pull himself together. He’s come to try and negotiate some kind of settlement and he’s failed completely. Neither I nor Malo want anything to do with him. This is public failure compounded by private humiliation. This is what happens when you belittle and threaten and bad-mouth someone you’re supposed to love. This is what happens when, for the briefest moment, you start to believe in your own legend. I’ve seen it happen dozens of times but never like this, so close, so intimate, so personal.

  Malo offers to walk him down to wait for the Uber. Berndt gets to his feet and reaches for his bag. He has one question left and I spare him the indignity of having to ask it.

  My bag is in my bedroom. I count £270 in notes, all I can find. I extract twenty pounds and give the rest to Berndt. He looks at it for a moment and then folds it into a pocket in his jeans.

  ‘Don’t eat it all at once,’ I suggest. ‘London isn’t cheap.’

  He looks me in the eye and then turns away.

  ‘Tack,’ he mutters, heading for the door.

  THIRTEEN

  That night I can’t sleep. My head’s full of DNA kits, of couriers in red leather, of Berndt, of Saucy. I try and visualize the passage of Saucy’s hair, of Malo’s tiny crescents of fingernail, through all the scientific processes, faceless boffins with latex gloves and glass pipettes, whirling machin
es, multi-digit read-outs, the whole mad sci-fi world which will, by Friday, announce a winner in this bizarre race to claim authorship of my son.

  In my own mind, it’s already a foregone conclusion. It has to be Saucy. Malo’s build, Malo’s temperament, Malo’s fitful charm, even Malo’s hair. Why did I ever suspect otherwise? Why – in seventeen long years – did it never occur to me that Saucy’s sperm might have crossed the line before Berndt’s? In the face of so many clues, so much evidence, why didn’t I take a tiny step back and acknowledge at least the possibility that I was sharing my life with a child called Malo Prentice?

  The answer, of course, was simple. I didn’t want to. I was in love with a man who was taking me places I’d never even dreamed about. I was making my name as an actress. I was building a career. Only when our marriage began to falter did I start looking at Malo in a new light – as someone I had to hang on to – and even then it never occurred to me that his loathsome father might be a genetic impostor. That my precious Malo might belong to someone else.

  Saucy. I can see him in hospital. I can see him on the boat in Antibes all those years ago. I think I know the kind of man he is. And this worries me greatly. Why? Because I like him.

  I roll over. It’s 03.34. I phone Mitch. I like him, too, and I respect him greatly, but this thing is beginning to get out of control. I want a simple answer, a couple of sentences, no more.

  He answers quicker than you might imagine. He’s seen my name on caller ID.

  ‘What’s the matter? You want me to come round?’

  ‘Sweet thought, but no. Sorry to call at this time of night but just tell me one thing. What do you really want from me?’

  ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘It’s about Saucy. What do you want me to find out?’

  ‘I want to know who his mates are. I want to know who he’s talking to politically. I want to know where he’s putting his money. And I want to know what went down in Pompey.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When he was running with the 6.57 crew. When he started making money. Friends and enemies. People who might still be around.’

  ‘People he hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘People he might have killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You really believe all that stuff? Or is that where I come in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I hear another sleepy voice in the background and then the line goes dead. I’m staring at the clock. 03.35.

  I wake at nine. This time it’s Berndt on my mind. It was his decision to come to London, his decision to knock on our door, but I can’t rid myself of the image of my nearly ex-husband on the sofa, sobbing and humiliated, his head in his hands. Neither can I rid myself of a lingering sense of guilt for pushing him out into the night. He was never great with money. He loved ideas, scripts, narrative arcs, mould-breaking noir drama. He could conjure magic on the set and on location. He could, by his own account, talk any woman into bed. But when it came to making any kind of sane investment in the future his attention would wander. I learned this early. Hence my decision to look after my own financial affairs within the marriage. Alone now, he’s adrift into a script he doesn’t begin to understand. Maybe I should help him get his bearings.

  I phone my solicitor. He’s the same vintage as Rosa – sturdy, nerveless, a matchless professional happy in his own skin. His real name is Charles but I’ve called him Carlos since we met. He’s retained the loyalty of a smallish clientele and whenever I’ve needed advice in a hurry he’s always found the time for us to meet.

  This morning is no exception. I take a bus to the Strand and plunge into the maze of streets leading down to the river. He has an office on the third floor of a building that may well have survived the Great Fire of London. From his window I can see the top of the London Eye and clouds of seagulls drifting in the wind.

  Carlos is tall, slightly bent, with a big pale face framed by an explosion of grey curls. His hair always reminds me of certain pictures of Beethoven towards the end of his life, which is entirely apposite because Carlos is a gifted pianist. On boisterous social occasions, if he’s in the mood, he will commandeer a piano and belt out a tune or two. When the company is more intimate, his rendition of Schubert’s Impromptu Opus 90 has made me cry.

  ‘Well?’

  I tell him about Berndt suddenly appearing at our apartment. I try my best to capture just how helpless he’s become.

  ‘You gave him money?’

  ‘Of course I gave him money. He’s in a decent hotel for a couple of nights at my expense. But that’s just for now. I don’t want him at my door again. I want him gone. But I want him happy, too.’ I offer Carlos a bleak smile. ‘So what do I do?’

  Carlos briefly reviews the options. I’m filing for divorce. So far, Berndt hasn’t responded. Whether or not he even has a solicitor at this point is far from certain. We can press the issue, insist on full financial disclosure, and arrive at some kind of settlement. Or we can wait.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For matters to resolve themselves.’

  ‘And if they don’t? Ever?’

  ‘Then we’re all dead. Full financial disclosure will get things moving. There may be merit in that.’

  ‘But he has no money.’

  ‘Who says?’

  I frown. This is exactly the response I expected. My accountant would say the same thing. Everyone, in the end, is unknowable. Especially someone as opaque as Berndt.

  ‘So what do I do?’

  Carlos is rolling himself a cigarette. I think he took up smoking as a protest against political correctness. With his earnings he could afford any cigar on the market. Typically, he seems to prefer shag tobacco.

  ‘Is he still a good listener?’

  ‘If it’s in his interests, yes.’

  ‘And he’s here for how long?’

  ‘Three days, max.’

  ‘Then get hold of him and give him one of these.’ He sorts out a card from the chaos of his desk drawer and flips it across. ‘Tell him the first half hour’s free. After that he’s on the meter like everyone else.’

  ‘And what will you tell him?’

  ‘That’s client confidentiality. I can’t possibly say.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Always.’

  He gets to his feet and extends a bony hand. I thank him for his time, and for his gesture to Berndt.

  ‘My pleasure. He made some decent films in his time.’

  I take another bus, heading west this time. The Kensington Holiday Inn is on the Cromwell Road. I’ve tried to raise Berndt on both his mobile numbers but neither seems to work. My only option, therefore, is another face-to-face.

  It’s lunchtime and Kensington is buzzing. I wait for a break in the traffic to get across to the hotel. The estate agents around here don’t even bother with property details in English. You need Arabic to buy anything over three million, though the photos speak for themselves. Why anyone would need a Jacuzzi trimmed in purple ermine is beyond me.

  I ask for Berndt Andressen at reception. The girl behind the counter recognizes the name at once. She tells me he’s at lunch just now.

  ‘You happen to know where?’

  ‘Of course.’ She nods in the direction of the hotel restaurant. ‘He phoned to book a table this morning.’

  I lurk in the lobby for a moment or two, wondering if this is such a good idea, but the restaurant is busy, a sea of faces, and I tell myself there’s comfort in numbers.

  I step inside, trying to spot Berndt. After a moment or two I locate him at a table in the far corner beside the long plate-glass window that looks out over the street. In keeping with last night’s encounter, I’m expecting him to be eating alone, picking at something soulful, perhaps deep in a book. Instead, he has company. She’s facing me, unlike Berndt. She’s youngish, probably early thirties, certainly younger than me. Her auburn hair is swept tightly back, exposing her face. It’s an extraord
inary face, perfect bone structure, wide eyes, full mouth, a face made for the camera. For a moment I wonder whether it’s Annaliese but then I remember that she’s always blonde.

  ‘Madame?’ It’s the maître d’. He has a list of reservations on a display board. He wants to know whether one of those names is mine.

  I ignore him. I can’t take my eyes off the table in the corner. I’ve played this scene so often myself, been the willing target, the listening ear, the rapt companion, while Berndt casts his spell. I know exactly what he’s at, what pitch he’s making. I could even voice the dialogue, word for word. His hand reaches for hers. He’s leaning into the conversation. He’s pushing for some kind of commitment. Bed. Money. A role he needs playing. Anything.

  ‘Madame?’ The maître d’ again, insistent this time.

  At last I drag my attention elsewhere, spare him a glance, make my excuses, turn to leave.

  ‘I have a table for one,’ he says. ‘Any use?’

  ‘None at all.’ I manage a smile. ‘But thanks for the thought.’

  Bastard. Bastard. I’m sitting on the bus again, inching slowly home. The sight of Berndt doing his trust-me number has brought tears to my eyes. Not because I’m jealous. Not because I’m ever going to miss him again. But because I’ve been so easily duped. I’ve no idea who this woman is. She might be someone he’s known forever. She might be an actress or a model, someone he’s been around lately and added to his must-have list. She might have been in the bar last night, a bird of passage, moving through. A tall stranger suddenly appears on the bar stool beside her. There comes a casual word of introduction, a name left dangling lightly between them. And then, if the prospects look promising, he’ll ease into a proper conversation.

  Berndt has always been brilliant at this. I must have watched him playing strangers, mainly women, a million times. The fluency of his English, spiced with a Scandi accent. The hint of his standing in the film business. The mention of a particular script or a special actor, names that will resonate and intrigue. And the whole shtick, cleverly parcelled in bite-sized morsels, complete with those sudden trademark silences that confirm what a thoughtful and reflective guy he really is. Bastard, I think again, and then, as the bus begins to pick up speed, I feel abruptly better. In real life, I tell myself, she’s probably a hooker. What’s left of my £250 won’t buy what he’s after but she’s willing to join him for lunch and put up with all the arty bullshit. My poor Berndt. Reduced to a mere punter.