Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

I tell him as much as I know: my son slipping his moorings, my son disappearing at odd hours, my Zombie boy back at the door, totally wasted.

  ‘Wasted is fucking right. That stuff’s evil. Which is why he’s best off down here.’

  ‘Where you can keep an eye on him?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  To be fair, this is a proposition I’ve been half-expecting but now he’s spelled it out it makes me anxious. Stockholm Syndrome, I think. My son held hostage for a second time, first by Berndt, and now by his real father. Is this really what I want?

  ‘What about Malo?’ I say. ‘What does he think?’

  ‘He’s up for it. Room of his own? Learn how to drive a car as well as a bike? Money in his pocket? The boy can’t wait.’

  ‘You’re buying him off. That’s too easy. There has to be more.’

  ‘Of course there fucking does. He needs a project. Something he can run with. A bit of responsibility. If I make it sound a doss, it won’t be. No one gets a free pass. Not here. Not anywhere.’

  ‘So what will he do?’

  ‘I dunno yet. I’ve got a couple of ideas. We’ll see.’

  ‘Do I get any clues?’

  ‘No.’ The glass extended again. ‘Happy days, eh?’

  Happy days. I’m starting to get a feel for life in H’s boiling wake. He hasn’t recovered yet, far from it, but the pace he sets is still blistering. He’s up by half past seven, a cup of coffee and two slices of white toast. He summons a series of business associates and sundry others for brainstorming sessions in the downstairs reception room he’s reserved for get-togethers like these. On more than one occasion I watch the faces of these people as they leave. They look dazed. They look as if they’ve been under sustained bombardment. And they probably have.

  By now I’ve realized that H isn’t one of life’s democrats. He mistrusts discussion and he has no time for the word ‘no’. So far, I’ve only seen the softer side of him, and it’s Andy, of all people, who marks my card.

  ‘He wants to get you down here,’ he says. ‘As well as Malo.’

  ‘And he thinks that’s possible?’

  ‘He thinks anything’s possible.’

  ‘So what would you suggest?’

  The question takes him by surprise. I know he likes me, maybe more than that. I’ve seen it in his eyes, and in the odd aside from Jessie. I suppose I’m a bit exotic. I come from a different world, the world of feature films and the theatre and the odd TV series. That might be interesting in its own right but more importantly it keeps me at arm’s length from H. I owe him nothing, at least not yet, a situation I might – in Andy’s phrase – be wise to hang on to.

  ‘H likes to own people,’ he says. ‘Half the time he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. It’s just part of his nature. He wants you on the journey. He wants Malo, too. He wants all of us. With H, it’s black and white, all or nothing. This is a guy with no gearbox. It’s stop or flat out. And stop bores him stupid.’

  That’s nicely put. I make a mental note. What other tips does he have?

  ‘Don’t let him shag you. He wants to. Badly. Do I blame him? Of course I don’t. But he knows he’s done it once and he sees no reason why it shouldn’t happen again.’

  ‘What about me? Do I get any say in this?’

  ‘Of course you do. But you asked me a question. H is a creature of habit. He’s also impatient, and headstrong, and sees no point in fannying around. What you see is what you get.’

  I nod, and thank him for his time. This is sensible advice. We’re talking in the meadow beyond the kitchen garden where Andy has been tipping poison down badger holes. This spot, as far as I can judge, is invisible from the house.

  Andy hasn’t moved.

  ‘Does he ever let you out at night?’ he asks.

  ‘Never. I’m gagged and bound. That’s the way he likes me best.’

  ‘Fancy a drink at all? Whenever it suits? There are some neat pubs I know. Yeovil isn’t far.’

  I study him for a long moment. Good face. Good eyes. And the kind of smile any girl would enjoy waking up to. I beckon him closer. This is confessional stuff.

  ‘You know what that makes you?’ I ask. ‘Apart from brave and reckless and quite attractive?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It makes you crazy. I’ve spent all morning trying to imagine the wrath of Hayden Prentice and it does nothing for my peace of mind. I suspect you’ve known him forever. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. So why are you coming on to the mother of his long-lost son?’

  ‘Because I can.’ He grins. ‘And because we’d get away with it.’

  ‘That’s supposition. You’re delusional. And you know what?’ I lean forward and kiss him lightly on the lips. ‘That makes you just like H.’

  The following day I have to stage a brief return to London for a conference with my agent. Jessie drives me to Dorchester but my attempts to spark a conversation come to nothing. At the station I wave goodbye but she doesn’t spare me a backward glance. She’s been watching Andy, I conclude. Very wise.

  Rosa, when we go to lunch, shares the latest news from Montréal. The movie to which I’ve attached my name is definitely going ahead, but before I sign any contract Rosa has to be sure about my medical status.

  ‘I need more tests,’ I say at once. ‘Do you want me to ask for a schedule?’

  ‘It might be more complicated than that. We have to do the usual with the insurance forms. I’ve no objection to lying but if you collapse on set it might get awkward. The Montréal people are thrilled to have you but the word seems to have spread. They need to be certain you’ll last the course.’

  Last the course. After my break in the country I’m suddenly back in the world of movie budgets, and deadlines, and very probably another session with my neurosurgeon.

  ‘When do they want to start?’

  ‘After Christmas. Montréal? Wrap up warm.’

  Christmas is nothing. Less than three months away. How will I feel? Where will we all be?

  I call my neurosurgeon for advice. His secretary says he’s busy at another hospital. I tell her I’ll call back later and she says early next week would be best because he’s up to his ears. Rosa has been half-listening to the conversation.

  ‘You’ll be around tomorrow?’ she asks. ‘It’d be nice to get this thing wrapped up.’

  Tomorrow is Saturday. I shake my head and tell her I have a pressing social engagement in deepest Dorset.

  ‘Party time?’

  ‘In spades.’ I nod. ‘Wish me luck, eh?’

  It’s Jessie who picks me up at Dorchester station but this time she has Malo in the car. It’s raining hard and his Wellington boots have left mud all over the Range Rover’s rubber matting. He talks non-stop on the drive back to Flixcombe Manor, mainly about tomorrow’s party. He and Andy have taken the trailer to the big Tesco Extra in Yeovil. He’s a bit woolly about the details but between them they’ve plundered shelf after shelf of canapés, sausages, crisps, cold chicken, plus five packs of plastic glasses and a mountain of booze.

  ‘Mainly Stella,’ Jessie says drily. ‘And bourbon for afters.’

  I press Malo for more news. ‘How many might be coming?’

  ‘Forty-eight so far,’ Jessie confirms. ‘And counting.’

  Forty-eight guests is a small crowd. Or maybe a big riot. Forty-eight people will need an awful lot of looking after.

  ‘Where will they all sleep?’ I enquire.

  ‘Where they drop.’ Still Jessie. ‘I don’t think sleeping’s on the agenda. If push comes to shove I’ve had Andy put straw down in the barn.’ She shoots me a look. ‘He may have mentioned it.’

  ‘Sadly not,’ I say. ‘But it sounds very practical.’

  By now we’ve taken the turn from the main road and Jessie floors the accelerator as the back of the Range Rover shivers on the wet mud. The big grey house appears through the trees. Malo has glimpsed it already.

  ‘Home,’ he says absently. ‘That was quick.’
>
  We spend the evening brightening the house under H’s direction. Between them, Jessie and H have dug out countless photos and mementos from the glory days in Pompey. A pile of football programmes will greet guests on their arrival. In one of them is a travel voucher for a month in Mauritius, H’s idea for warming up the party from the off. I flick through a couple of the programmes, trying to grasp the magic appeal of Fratton Park, the legendary stadium where H’s journey began. Andy helps me out.

  ‘Fortress Fratton,’ he says. ‘Think Alcatraz on a wet day. Back to the Eighties. Back to the Seventies. Rule one: the old days were even better than you thought. Real football. Blood, sweat and shit meat pies. Ring any bells?’

  ‘None,’ I say. ‘Roland Garros was about my limit.’

  ‘Roland what?’

  ‘Garros. It’s in Paris. It’s French for Wimbledon.’

  Andy loves banter like this. Twice this evening he’s confessed to being a closet thesp, deeply frustrated, and I’m beginning to believe him. Of Jessie, for the moment, there’s no sign.

  Andy has found a cutting from a French newspaper. He can’t resist asking for a translation.

  I take a look. The cutting comes from Le Havre Libre. The date is badly smudged. Nineteen eighty-something. At the top of the story is a black and white photo of a cafe. My first impression is that the Vikings have paid a visit. The place has been sacked: tables on the terrace overturned, windows smashed, glass everywhere. Andy is standing beside me. I can feel his presence, the heat of his body. His finger rests briefly on the top of the photo.

  ‘The clue’s in the name,’ he says.

  Café de Southampton? I’m none the wiser.

  ‘Southampton’s up the coast from Pompey. The two cities hate each other. Anyone from Southampton is a Scummer. Anyone from Le Havre is even worse. The local frogs are twinned with Scummerdom. Something like that, you don’t need an excuse.’

  ‘For what?’

  Andy describes the cross-Channel expedition. Bazza and H and the rest of them jumped the ferry in Pompey and made the crossing to Le Havre. They attended a pre-season friendly, Pompey against the French lads, and then descended on the cafe. The rest, he says, is history.

  ‘You were there?’ I’m still looking at the photo.

  ‘No. I was late to the party. Nineties boy.’ He picks up the cutting. ‘This became a battle honour. Bazza couldn’t stop talking about it, H too. Run with these guys and you realized anything was possible.’

  ‘Even a place like this?’ I gesture round the wood-panelled walls.

  He laughs, looks at me. We’re alone in the big reception room, surrounded by memorabilia. The door is shut. Very politely, he asks for a kiss. I tell him no.

  More photos. More faces. More tattoos. Episode by episode the story H wants to celebrate unfolds. Some of these young faces, mostly pissed, will reappear tomorrow night. They’ll be older, maybe wiser. Some of them might even be semi-respectable, investing all that narco-loot in a wife and a family and a decent address.

  Slowly piecing together this pageant, I begin to wonder about all our lives. Berndt and I never did drugs, not seriously, but showbiz and the whole creative shtick is just as narcotic. Applause, like a good review, can become addictive. You start to yearn for the approbation of your friends, for that arty three-page profile in Cahiers that says you’ve arrived, for the whisper at boozy gallery openings that you’ve been down to Cannes not once, not twice, but umpteen times. H and his army of marauding cavaliers were chasing their dream as hard as we were chasing ours. What right do I have to raise an eyebrow or wag a finger? To suggest that we were perfect parents? Proper human beings?

  It’s at this stage that Malo steps into the room. Andy, mercifully, is on his knees on the polished wood floor, arranging a grid of photos. I’m aware that this is priceless stuff from Mitch’s point of view but I can’t bring myself to get my phone out and take a shot or two.

  Malo says that H wants to call a halt. He thinks we’ve done well. He wants us to get in the mood for tomorrow night. The parallel is obvious. I can’t resist it.

  ‘You mean some kind of rehearsal?’

  Yes. And yes again.

  We drink vintage Krug in the kitchen. Jessie has done two big bowls brimming with chips. We have a choice of sauces, red or brown. By ten o’clock, as H has doubtless anticipated, we’re blind drunk.

  After a final round of Jim Beam, Jessie steers Andy towards the door. Malo has already beaten a retreat, coshed by the champagne. That leaves me and H. Dimly I’m aware that this is a repeat of Antibes without the bougainvillea and the heat.

  I’m sitting on H’s lap. It’s his idea and I’m trying very hard not to hurt him. He’s telling me that he thinks he might be in love with me, which is definitely something I don’t remember from the last time, but there’s a cautionary, slightly provisional note in his voice.

  ‘You are or you’re not?’ I let him suck my finger for a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He starts to laugh. The laugh has an innocence I find wildly attractive because I’ve never heard it before. He’s laughing like a child. He’s laughing like Malo used to.

  ‘You’re pissed,’ I tell him gently. ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘You want to fuck me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Tell me why I should.’

  The question seems to floor him. For the first time ever he doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘You weren’t this way before.’

  ‘You never told me you loved me before.’

  ‘Might. I said might.’

  ‘Yeah. And that’s what I said back.’

  ‘So what does it take?’

  He’s trying to juice me through my knickers. I remove his hand and give it a little squeeze.

  ‘Is this some kind of negotiation?’ I ask him. ‘Some kind of business thing?’

  ‘Not at all. I wish it fucking was.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’ve got me. You’ve nailed me. That’s not supposed to happen. Not to me. Not to H.’

  Our faces are very close. He has a tiny smudge of brown around his mouth. I moisten a fingertip and remove it. Saucy, I think. HP.

  ‘It’s the Krug,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll get over it.’

  ‘I don’t want to get over it. I want it to go on and fucking on. You don’t have to do it. You don’t have to fuck me. You don’t even have to sleep with me. I just want you to be honest. I just want to know where we are.’

  ‘We’re here,’ I tell him. ‘You’re Malo’s dad and we’re the ones who made it happen. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He pauses for a think. ‘Yeah, it is.’ He looks up at me. There’s a lostness in his eyes. The last time I saw anything similar was with Malo, very recently, back in London. ‘You’re good with me, right?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m a twat?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you’ll stay here? Move in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘I never say never.’

  ‘One day then?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ I kiss him properly this time. ‘You’re a good man. All you have to do is believe it.’

  EIGHTEEN

  No one gets up next morning until way past ten. I prowl around the kitchen trying to remember where Jessie keeps the Sumatra strength five coffee. Footsteps on the stairs falter, resume, then come to a halt. I find Malo in his boxers holding his head. He thinks he might be dying. He asks me to check. I know exactly how he’s feeling. It’s probably a genetic thing.

  By mid-afternoon, with the exception of Malo, we’re combat-ready again. The food is laid out under cling film, including the stuff that has to go into the oven, and H has liberated yet more bottles of Krug. Souvenirs from the old days have penetrated every corner of the house until it’s started t
o resemble a museum. This seems to please H no end. All his life, I suspect, he’s hankered after an event like this, an opportunity not just to showcase his precious house but to prove that he can father a son. He even appears to have forgiven me for not sleeping with him. Either that, or it’s slipped his mind.

  Our first guest arrives early. To H’s surprise, it’s Marie Mackenzie. She must be in her fifties but she’s kept her looks. She’s blonde and slightly gaunt, testimony to a gym addiction. She wears a Balenciaga three-quarter-length dress, in the subtlest shade of a burnt autumnal red, a woman with taste as well as poise, and I catch a whiff of Coco Mademoiselle as she offers H a token hug. By now I know that Bazza is dead, because H – very drunk – has told me so. At the first opportunity, once I’ve been introduced, I offer her a tour of the house.

  It turns out that this woman has recognized me. She’s a big fan of the kind of movies I’ve been involved in all my professional life, which – given what I know about Bazza’s social life – comes as a slight surprise.

  ‘You speak French?’ I ask her.

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘And you liked the films?’

  ‘Very much.’ We happen to be in H’s bedroom. She looks me in the eye. ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘I have a son by Hayden.’ I see no point in lying.

  ‘He’s the boy downstairs?’

  ‘Yes. A one-night stand. Eighteen years ago.’

  She nods. Some of the iciness has gone. I sense she’s beginning to warm to me.

  ‘It’s hard to miss the resemblance,’ she says. ‘Poor boy.’

  ‘You think Hayden needs a makeover?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s the inside I always worry about.’

  I blink. This woman was married to the legendary Bazza, who was by all accounts H on steroids. What right does she have to badmouth Malo’s dad?

  She’s looking at a display of trophies neatly arranged on H’s bedside table. They include a brown chunk of turf ripped from the Wembley pitch when Pompey won the FA Cup, and a beer glass liberated from the Café de Southampton.

  ‘They were all crazy,’ she murmurs. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  I nod, say nothing. She’s looking at the bed now. Before she draws any conclusions I assure her that I sleep in a room on the next floor.