by Julia Thomas
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Who’ll play the girl?”
“I haven’t cast the girl yet, but we’re looking at a number of suitable actresses. It would have to be someone well known, to balance things out with the two of you.”
“I don’t believe we’ve accepted just yet,” Daniel said, swirling the wine in his glass.
“Oh, but you will. Think of it. It will make the film. Everyone will want to see you together.”
“I presume you’ll film in Dorset?” Hugh asked.
“Yes. I’ve already found a location. We stayed there a few weeks ago and discovered a rather unspoiled village that would be perfect. I have people there now making arrangements.”
“I’m still not convinced it would be the best idea for us to be in the same film,” Daniel said.
“Why not?” Hugh asked. “We’ve talked about it before.”
“True, but I didn’t really take it seriously. It would be rather like doing a movie with someone you’re married to.”
“We could handle it. Besides, we’d each bring different strengths to the film.”
“You must do it,” Hodge’s wife, Antonia, said as she entered the room. She was a tall, perfectly coiffed dyed blonde of a certain age who wore what Daniel considered dangerously high heels. She went over to the cabinet and poured herself a small sherry. “You’re bookends, you see. Light and dark. Good and evil. I, for one, would kill to see you both in it. Do consider it.”
“I believe that makes you the evil one,” Hugh said to Daniel, laughing.
“It’s a nice afternoon for a swim,” Sir John interrupted. “Why talk business when there’s fun to be had?”
“Excellent,” Hugh said, rising from his chair. “Just the thing for a pleasant afternoon.”
The subject didn’t come up again until they were about to leave the following day. Sir John followed them to the car and shook their hands.
“I’ll have scripts sent round,” he said, as if they had come to an agreement.
Daniel was ready to protest when Hugh intervened. “That would be wonderful. Thank you for considering us.”
“Yes,” Daniel echoed as he opened the car door. “And thank you for the weekend, as well.”
Three hours later, they had deposited the car at the rental agency and were on the ferry to England, and Daniel, after some persuasion, had agreed to make the film. The mast flag flapped in the breeze, which, while not quite a gale, was nevertheless strong enough to encourage most people to go inside. Daniel stood alone at the rail, staring at the retreating coast of France and not really thinking of the Hodges or the film they were producing or of Hugh’s enthusiasm for the project, but of the satisfaction of days like this. He liked the disconnected feeling he had just now, as if he were cut off from everything in the world. Even his mobile couldn’t get reception in the middle of the Channel. No one, neither agent nor family nor friends, could bother him in any way. It felt majestic having the deck to himself, and he was very glad he hadn’t let Hugh talk him into taking the Eurostar back to London.
“You’re missing one of the best experiences a person can have,” he’d chided when his friend announced his intention to get a drink and brace himself from the elements, such as they were on a sunny day in July.
“God, no,” Hugh had replied. “I still say we should have taken the train. Give me champagne and hake with gruyere in first class any day over a stiff wind and a plastic molded seat.”
“You don’t sit on a ferry, gobhead. You beat your chest and feel the wind in your face and, for this one hour, you own the Channel and everything you see.”
“You’re a romantic of the worst kind. Never deny yourself the odd bit of luxury. Life can be so cruel.”
Daniel laughed. “Yes, I imagine it’s been very hard for you. Best go find sustenance in the form of alcohol.”
“Thanks, I believe I shall.”
From the deck, Daniel took a last look at the pier and lighthouse growing smaller in the afternoon sun and then turned to face north. With only a thin band of clouds hovering high in the sky, the white cliffs of Dover were visible, even at this distance. Studying them, he felt an unexpected rush of pleasure. He didn’t think of himself as a nationalist, but certain images, these cliffs among them, gave him a strong sense of pride. The day was beautiful, and he was fortunate after a weekend’s freeloading to be here experiencing it instead of trapped in some office or even on location for a film. It would be an agreeable hour contemplating the gulls and watching the water ripple where the cod and plaice nipped up to the surface, the sort of thing that he would think about on rainy autumn days to take his mind off the bone-numbing chill.
He didn’t notice the girl at first. She sat on a bench several feet away from him, a small thing wearing a sundress and sandals with an enormously wide-brimmed hat on her head. She hardly moved. In fact, it was almost as if she were asleep behind the dark sunglasses she wore. Yet, even though she sat so still, something about her arrested his attention. When she suddenly moved to look at him, he realized he’d been staring.
“Why aren’t you inside, like everyone else?” she asked.
Daniel made an expansive gesture and smiled. “I’m taking this all in, of course. It’s far too nice a day to spend it indoors.”
“That’s what I think, too.” She removed her sunglasses and placed them on her lap. “What were you doing in France?”
He was surprised at her directness, almost as much as he was by the enormity of her deep brown eyes. “Business,” he said, shrugging. He didn’t get personal with people he didn’t know.
“I was day-tripping. That’s a fun word, day-tripping, isn’t it? I went shopping and treated myself to lunch.”
“Alone?” he couldn’t help but ask.
“Yes,” she admitted as she stood and walked over to stand by him at the rail. “I had a look around Calais. It was my first trip to France.”
She could do a good job better than Calais, he thought, although his answer was more civil. “There are a lot of nice things to see in France.”
“Oh, I’m sure there are. Maybe one day you’ll show me.”
In spite of himself, Daniel smiled. “We’re to become great friends, are we?”
“Of course. And it’s not because you’re a film star that I’m adding you to my list.”
“Your list?” he asked, uncomfortable now that she had recognized him.
“Yes, my list. I’m putting you on because you have a nice face.”
“As do you,” he replied, wondering if he could make a graceful escape. He didn’t chat up strangers. One never knew what they might want. Suddenly a Pimms with Hugh and a molded plastic seat sounded almost appealing.
“I’m Tamsyn,” she said, adjusting her hat. “Tamsyn Burke.”
“That’s a good name,” he said. “Not the sort someone could forget.”
Her face, with its large eyes and Cupid’s bow lips, was not forgettable either. There was something about her. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to talk to her a little bit longer. After all, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Nothing was more wretched than taking a day trip to Calais on one’s own.
“So, did you see the sights?” he asked. “The Hotel de Ville is very nice. A classic example of Flemish Renaissance architecture, if I’m correct.”
“You’re bound to be,” she said. “But I’m afraid I was more interested in flower stalls and poky little junk shops. And there was a café, facing the Channel, with the wind ruffling the edges of the umbrellas and the smell of the fishing boats coming in from the sea.”
“And most people just think Calais is a good place to score cheap booze. It’s nice to see someone who can appreciate it for its intrinsic value.”
“You’re laughing at me,” she said, in such a way that he wondered if she were laughing at him. “So, what
shall we see in Paris when we go?”
“Oh, Paris,” he mimicked, trying to imagine an adventure with this improbable girl. “That depends on your personality. You see, if you’re the serious type, we’d walk through the Père Lachaise looking for Édith Piaf’s grave, or spend interminable hours in the Louvre uncovering the mystery of why there are so many portraits of Josephine Bonaparte. Or perhaps we would sit at Les Deux Magots drinking bad coffee and reading Sartre or Hemingway and pretending they make sense.”
“But I’m not like that, of course.”
“Oh, you’re not like that at all. You’re a free spirit. You know: the sort to lean over the deck of a bateaux mouche to see if you can see your reflection in the Seine. Or eating melting ice cream on the Île Saint-Louis. Anything but ordinary.”
“You know, I thought you’d be a pompous arse. Actors generally are.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I should know. I’m an actor, too.”
He gave her a skeptical look while trying to keep a straight face.
“Oh, I’m not in the Jane Austen set like your lot,” she explained unselfconsciously. “I do the odd science fiction television program. You know, dinosaurs taking over the earth and mummies coming to life in the British Museum, that sort of thing.”
“Is that what you meant to do when you were at school?”
“I’ve changed my mind. You are a pompous arse.”
“At least we have that sorted. Would you like a drink?”
Tamsyn pulled off her hat and rested it on the railing. “I’d love one.”
He left her to purchase two lemonades from the mini café inside, pausing to exchange a smile with Hugh, who was observing his tête-à-tête with the girl. Hugh raised his glass in a mock toast, and Daniel shook his head. She wasn’t the sort of girl one chats up and takes to bed two hours later. He knew better than that. She was the sort you leave almost immediately after meeting and then wonder why the hell you can’t get her out of your mind.
Eight
In spite of its location off Trafalgar Square, amidst the angry snarl of Charing Cross Road and St. Martin’s Lane, the National Portrait Gallery remains a haven for deep thinkers and scholars who come primarily to transport themselves to other places and times. The massive stone walls shelter their inhabitants from the strident London traffic, which shunts incalculable numbers of passengers to and from various means of employment, meals, and business dealings of every kind. The gallery provides a place to contemplate the faces contained therein, some of which were fashioned of paint, others in pen and ink, not to mention observe the stark contradiction between the grandness of bronze sculptures and the more modest plasticine medallions. All are capable of inspiring interest and giving the viewer the ability to recreate, at least in the mind’s eye, the exact mental picture he or she hopes to attain.
It was shortly after agreeing to appear in Sir John’s film that Daniel found himself doing precisely that as he stood in front of the portrait of Thomas Hardy, oil on panel, by William Strang. The portrait was how he’d imagined it: entrancing. Hardy’s slightly balding head was captured bent in thought, eyes downcast, sad, almost, as if he were grieving or thinking of a love that he had once possessed but now lost. His full, bushy eyebrows dominated the upper half of his head, his even more voluminous mustache the lower, and the subtle play of hues behind his dark suit set the tone for an ominous mood. Certainly, if the author had been contemplating one of his characters, he was thinking not of Under the Greenwood Tree’s resilient Fancy Day but more likely of his heroine Tess, for the miseries with which he endowed her poor character would indeed have the power to cause him tremendous pain.
Daniel wasn’t overfond of portraits, or pictures of any kind. They were antithetical to the dramatic arts. He did, however, see the activity of searching out any and all relevant information as an important exercise in the preparation for a role, not unlike memorizing lines of dialogue or watching a previous version of a film in order to determine what, if anything, might be useful to him in his art. Hardy’s expressive face spoke volumes in the silent room. He had been a man who cared deeply about the people he created in his novels, and if he were able to see them now, would have opinions about every aspect of their depiction on film. At any rate, taking the odd hour in the NPG made Daniel feel he was substantiating his claim on his current undertaking.
He preferred the Victorian portraits to the other collections, for although he found photography somewhat more interesting, actors were frequently the subject of the newer collections and it was an odd sensation to see life-size photos of people one knew or with whom one worked. Hugh’s likeness had recently been added to the collection; he could be seen posing with a glass of champagne on a perch at Stonehenge. That in itself was certainly worth avoiding. It was fine to celebrate the works of actors like Sir Laurence Olivier or Dame Judi Dench, who had created a body of work which could be nothing less than deeply admired and who perhaps deserved, after decades of honing their craft, to be showcased in just such a manner, but to have his contemporaries, even his own friends, portrayed thusly, the people he got drunk with and ate with and spent half his time with … well, it was unimaginable.
He sat down on a bench, having accomplished his plan for the morning. He’d done what he had come to do—taken a serious look at the face of Thomas Hardy—and now he had to decide what to do next. Daniel was rarely bored; the innumerable activities provided by a city the size of London practically forbade it; but, nonetheless, he hadn’t found anyone available to join him for lunch and he didn’t like to eat alone. His mother had asked him down to Brighton for the day, but he had begged off. In fact, for the last two years, he had seen his family only at Christmas and once or twice in the summer, when he would take the morning train down and the earliest return trip back to London that he could manage. He didn’t mind seeing his parents, but his brother was an irritation he preferred to avoid. He had also been invited to spend the day with Hugh’s family, but he had done so recently and felt he could forego that particular duty. He had looked forward to a day of complete self-indulgence, and yet, now that he had it, he had no idea what to do with it.
After sitting for a few more minutes, he resolved to get a curry on the way back to his flat and spend the afternoon watching old videos. As he stood, he heard a voice call out to him.
“Daniel Richardson!”
He turned, and though he had no idea whom to expect, it certainly wasn’t the familiar face that beamed up at him, which belonged to the girl he’d recently met on the ferry. She looked even younger than she had before, wearing an absurd vintage frock that must have been quite the rage in 1962. If she had been wearing go-go boots instead of bottle-green ballet flats the color of her dress, she would have conjured images of the Beatles singing “Love Me Do.”
“I see you’re stalking me,” Daniel said. He couldn’t help smiling.
“In a city of eight million people, that seems rather impossible.”
“No doubt. What are you doing here? I hadn’t pegged you as the sort to spend Sunday mornings looking at portraits.”
“I was supposed to meet someone for lunch. It looks like I’ve been stood up.”
“Then why don’t you have lunch with me?” he said, the words erupting from his lips before he had even considered what he was saying.
“Do you often come here to pick up girls?” she asked in mock disapproval.
“Every day.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
She smiled, her broad, full lips devoid of any lipstick. Her hair was a riot of red waves, sun-streaked and natural, reminding him of girls at school. He wondered how old she was. Surely she was nearly his age. She looked younger, but there was something knowing in her eyes.
“Where would you like to eat?” he asked when they were out in the street, standing on the pebbled mosaic outside the door.
>
“Let’s have a picnic.”
He was pleased with her suggestion. Anyone else would have named a posh restaurant where she might have been seen with him. He was used to that by now.
“Well, I haven’t a blanket, for one thing,” he argued, hoping she would at least choose a respectable café. “Or a hamper from Harrods full of smoked salmon and caviar.”
“You’re just spoiled. Anything can be a picnic if you eat it outside in the fresh air.”
They settled for a lump of Stilton, a loaf of bread, and two apples purchased from a nearby shop, taking their finds to a bench overlooking the Thames. It was a bit Parisian for his taste. Meals were meant
to be eaten with a knife and fork, and wine was meant to be poured into glasses rather than shared in sips from the same bottle. Yet at the same time there was something pleasant about sitting with her and staring beyond the London Eye to the violet clouds beyond. Rain threatened overhead, but for now, there was a stillness, almost an air of expectation.
“We’d better go,” he said a half hour later, trying to think of a way to ask if he could see her again.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked. “Some friends are having a party.”
“Sorry. I can’t.”
“Of course not. You’re too famous to mingle with the average Briton.”
“No, I mean, I’m going to Dorset tomorrow. I’m leaving early.”
“Oh! Well, I’ll come with you.”
“Oh, you will, will you? No other plans to keep you here? What about the party?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Never mind about that. It would have been dull anyway.”
“Be that as it may, I’m not going away for the day. I’ll be gone weeks.”
“Take me along anyway. The minute you’re tired of me, put me on a train and send me right back to London.”
“And what might you do in Dorset, may I ask?”
“Work, presumably. I assume you’re there to do a film, and as it’s Dorset, it’s bound to be a period drama. I could get a part as an extra. ‘Girl With Sheep’ or something.”