The English Boys

by Julia Thomas

  “Oy! Are you all right?”

  Hugh looked up to see a young man near his own age yelling at him through an open car window.

  “Fine,” he replied, reaching for the sunglasses.

  “Close shave, that.”

  Keeping his head down, Hugh walked his bike into the park, away from the gathering crowd. Inside the safety of the gates, he steered clear of other cyclists and pedestrians, riding down abandoned paths while searching for a bench. He couldn’t find one that wasn’t taken, so instead rode toward a remote bank of trees and alighted to sit in the cool shade. It was possible to think here. He removed his hoodie and rolled it up for a cushion under his head, looking up at the sunlight that filtered through the tall, leafy oaks. He was alone in the world, and he felt it. He didn’t even want Daniel’s company now. Perhaps especially Daniel’s. He couldn’t stand the look of abject grief on his friend’s face. Tamsyn had changed him in those few months she’d been in their lives. The truth was, she had changed them both.

  By the time Hugh had met her, any hope of dating someone anonymously was long since gone. He had kept to his personal vow of eschewing public displays of affection and had never, ever smiled for the cameras that waited around every turn. The beginning of their affair, in Dorset, was the calmest their relationship would be, with the privacy of a countryside film shoot and getting to know each other slowly over several weeks. Back in London, as far as the press had been concerned, the gloves were off. He and Tamsyn had been photographed often, and in spite of the fact that she hadn’t dealt with it before, she’d had an instinct for handling the press. It took a great deal of sangfroid to pull that off, he knew, and he had a healthy respect for anyone who could do it.

  Above him, birds made raucous noises. The swallows and swifts were back in force after their African and Mediterranean winters, populating trees and building nests, making general nuisances of themselves. Summer was coming, he thought, without Tamsyn there to see it. The warm sun on his face made him think of his last trip to Greece, two years ago. Daniel had planned to go with him, but a last-minute opportunity to do a film prevented him from tagging along, so he had talked Marc Hayley into accompanying him. Marc was always a stalwart companion. Hugh hadn’t seen him since February, when the weather had been abysmal. The cold, from which they’d had no respite, seeped through cracks in the doorways and windows of old houses, even some of the grander ones. Hugh’s home had a few, in spite of the fact that he’d had contractors seal as many as he could before the onset of winter. The bedrooms upstairs were particularly drafty and hard to heat. Drizzle had tapped at the windows, threatening snow. Marc had come with him to a party at Daniel’s that night, and they’d resolved, inclement weather or no, to go out the next day for drinks and dinner.

  Tamsyn was off somewhere the following evening, in spite of the weather. Hugh had no idea where, shopping perhaps, but more likely she was with Daniel. She saw a good deal more of his friend than he did, but he never worried about them being together. In fact, he encouraged it. Daniel was more trustworthy than the Pope. When he’d chosen a best friend, he had chosen well.

  Marc had come to the house that evening to pick him up. “Traffic’s fucking atrocious,” he said as he walked through the door.

  “Want to take a cab?” Hugh had asked, pulling on his coat. “It’s too far to walk.”

  “Yeah. Then we won’t have to leave the car when we’ve had a few too many.”

  They had to walk three blocks before a cab finally stopped for them, and Hugh gave the driver directions. A few minutes later, they were deposited in front of the restaurant. Watley’s, which had opened within the past year, was bustling with eager patrons. A waiter took their order and the two of them settled back in their chairs.

  “I’m starving,” Hugh said. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a really good meal.”

  “What, the new fiancée doesn’t cook?” Marc asked.

  Their wine arrived and Hugh poured for them both. “I’m pretty sure she hasn’t even been in the kitchen yet,” he said with a laugh. “I think she still feels like a guest.”

  “I can’t believe you let someone move in with you, let alone got engaged.” Marc gestured around the room. “Look, there are pretty girls everywhere. Why give it all up for just one?”

  “When you find the right girl, you’ll see what I mean.”

  “I’d rather die, thank you very much.”

  “What about Anna Parrish?”

  “Anna?” Hayley shrugged. “We see each other when we’re in the same place. When I’m on another continent, I consider myself unattached. Don’t you?”

  Hugh smiled. “Marriage vows are serious things. Why bother with them if you don’t plan to hold up your end of the bargain?”

  Marc shook his head. “Really, Hugh, I’d never have expected it from you.”

  “You underestimate me, Marc.”

  Hugh listened to a brief rundown of the past year of Marc’s career, along with his friend’s hopes for the next. He was suddenly tired. Spending time with Marc in the past had been great fun, but after the stimulation of his time in Dorset with Tamsyn and Daniel, keeping up with him was more of a chore than he’d expected. After they finished the meal, he raised his hand to signal for the waiter.

  “Let’s have a coffee.”

  “Forget the coffee, old man. Let’s hit a bar.”

  Hugh paid the bill while Marc hailed a cab, already regretting his decision to go along with him. A quiet coffee would have suited him better; that and getting back to the house to see if Tamsyn had returned. He thought of texting her, but they’d made it a point not to check on each other constantly, as if there were no trust in the relationship. Instead, he got in the cab and they went to one of Marc’s favorite bars nearby. They ordered drinks and sat back on the stools.

  “So, how is your mother?” Hugh asked. The last he’d heard, a couple of months before, she had been undergoing radiation treatments for something rather serious. The liver, if he remembered correctly.

  “She’s doing better, actually,” Marc answered. “The treatments were successful, at least for now.”

  “She must be relieved.” Hugh couldn’t imagine going through that. His mother wasn’t particularly strong, and dealing with a life-or-death situation would take every ounce of fortitude they could muster. Yet it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. He was nearly thirty, and although she didn’t look it, his mother was almost sixty. He couldn’t expect her to be in perfect health forever.

  A female bartender came over to wipe the counter in front of them, no doubt to get a closer look at a couple of film stars who had wandered in off the street on a cold, wet night. Hugh was tired of the conversation before it even began.

  “What can I get for you boys?” she asked, looking up at them from under dark fake lashes. It was one of the bad things about being an actor; he could always spot artifice in women.

  “I’m fine,” he murmured.

  Marc smiled and set down his glass. “Well, I’ll have to think about that.”

  As Marc began a flirtatious banter with the girl, Hugh gazed up at the fireplace along the back wall, lost in thought. He was engaged to be married, and one didn’t do unseemly things when one was engaged. At least, he didn’t. It occurred to Hugh suddenly that neither he nor Marc had sisters. He was an only child, of course, and Marc had three brothers, two younger and one older. Neither of them had the deference toward the fair sex that they might have had if a sister had been raised in their midst. As it were, women were objectified. Not because they wanted them to be, but Hugh suspected that growing up with a complete lack of experience, along with the combined cultural norms of the day, had left them without the empathetic feelings they might have had toward the opposite sex.

  “If only I could say what I really want,” Marc teased the girl, interrupting Hugh’s thoughts.

  “It�
�s getting late,” Hugh said, tired of being in the line of fire.

  “Just one more,” Marc said, turning back to his friend. “By the way, did I tell you I’m shooting in Amsterdam next summer? A mystery. I’m playing the priest who isn’t so innocent after all.”

  “No surprise there,” Hugh remarked. He turned his attention to the girl, who was still waiting. “Looks like we’ll have another.”

  “Haven’t been to Amsterdam in a while, have you?” Marc asked as the girl turned to leave.

  “It’s been four or five years, I think.”

  “I hear there’s a lot to do, and I intend to try it all.”

  Hugh set down his glass as the girl brought another and placed it in front of him. The whiskey looked like a beautiful amber pool, and he swirled it in the glass before lifting it to his lips and knocking back a swallow.

  “That’s it for me,” he said.

  Marc followed his example and then turned toward him, looking serious. “Can I tell you something, mate?”

  “Of course.”

  “I admire you. I really do. It takes courage in this day and age to make a go of something, and if this girl gives you what you want, then I couldn’t be happier for you.”

  “Thank you,” Hugh said, surprised.

  “I’m almost jealous,” Marc said, stealing a glance at the barmaid once again. “Almost. But not quite.”

  He remembered those words now, lying in Hyde Park, wondering what he was supposed to do now. He needed a break from his career, the speculation in the press over Tamsyn’s murder, and, not least, from his parents. Tired of thinking, he listened to the sounds around him. He could hear the muted noise of people talking in the distance, all words thankfully obscured by the breeze. Honks and screeches of traffic wafted around him, easy enough to block out when one had grown up in the middle of London. In fact, it was odd that he often slept better in the city than in the country, but then a great many things about life were odd, and when it came down to it, there was nothing he could do about any of them.

  His mobile vibrated against his hip and he took it out to see that Daniel had texted him.

  Carey and I are looking into things together.

  How are you holding up?

  Hugh squinted at the small screen and frowned. There was no good answer for that question, as far as he was concerned. No good answer at all.

  Twenty-Three

  “May I help you?” a cheerful server asked, startling Daniel from his coma-like reverie in front of the array of choices before him at Patisserie Valerie. How long he’d been standing there, he wasn’t quite certain. He had ventured out of his flat, desperate to get away from the silence as well as the thoughts that beleaguered him, and since his cupboard was bare, he found himself inside the café. Outside, it drizzled, and rain dripped off his leather coat onto the polished floor.

  “That one, I suppose,” he said, pointing.

  “The almond croissant, or the brioche and butter?”

  “The croissant.” He hesitated, watching as she opened the case to remove the pastry from the shelf. “No, sorry. The brioche, I think.”

  She eyed him, the pleasant look draining from her face. Evidently she wasn’t prepared to deal with dithering customers. “The organic porridge is also popular, if you’re so inclined.”

  “I’m sure it’s quite good, thank you, but I’ll take the brioche.”

  “For takeaway?”

  “Yes, with a coffee, please.”

  She withstood the additional information without any further complaint, tucking the pastry into a bag and shouting out an order for the coffee. He turned toward the window, wishing it were a clear day, though he knew if it were he would find himself in the garden of St. Mary Abbots again thinking of Tamsyn. He wondered if he would have to move to a different part of the city to get through a single day without a backlash of grief and despair.

  “Sir?” the girl asked, getting his attention again.

  He looked up to see her holding the bag and cup out to him, clearly ready to move on to the next customer, who might not vacillate in front of the pastry counter like a fool. He reached for them and then found a table anyway. It was still raining far too steadily to venture outside. His table faced a window, and he pulled the chair close enough to touch the moisture on the inside of the glass. Rain puddled in the gutters outside and tires splashed pedestrians, who scurried to their various destinations. He watched as a couple pushing a pram with a freakish plastic cover went by; he tried to imagine zipping a child into what seemed an airless prison, cut off from all humanity by a torrent of rain. What errand was crucial enough to take a child out in such weather?

  Removing the lid from the coffee, he took a swallow and then reached into his pocket for his list of suspects. He had made notations on every inch of the paper, none of which made much sense or had come to fruition, pathetic attempts to learn more about the anomalous friends and associates Tamsyn and Hugh had invited to the wedding. He scanned the list until he came to the couple whom Tamsyn had met when she was first dabbling in acting: Dylan Cole and Lucy Potter. They were a curious duo. Though he had only seen them once, they had made an impression on him. Cole was darkly clad and rail thin, with dyed black hair and eyeliner. He was effeminate and refined, his hair gelled to points, with painted nails on small, bony fingers. The Potter girl was as odd in her own way. The dress she had worn to the wedding was a vintage shop find, with matching shoes and handbag from the 1940s, and between gloved hands, she’d clutched a large handkerchief embroidered with orange geraniums. Tamsyn had mentioned them on one or two occasions, but he really hadn’t paid attention. Now he wished he had.

  Taking his mobile from his pocket, Daniel got on the Internet and Googled them. There were only brief mentions in the occasional improv show or low-rent theatre production, mostly avant-garde plays with an occasional Chekhov to pay the bills. Carey said she’d never met them, and the only thing more ridiculous than trying to talk to them himself would be to have her do it. He pulled the brioche from the bag and took a bite, brooding. Even with all his connections in theatre, he might not find someone who had worked with them. Daniel ran through a mental list of actors, script writers, set designers, anyone he could think of. As he took another swallow of his coffee, a name sprang to mind: Siobhan Brady.

  She was one of few people he knew who worked both high-end and low-end productions. She was a costumer, coordinating vintage and specially made clothing, shoes, and scarves. She arranged alterations and scheduled fittings and repairs. She haunted vintage shops to find props and pieces to lend authenticity to whatever project she happened to be working on. Siobhan took a personal interest in each production. In fact, he had once heard it said that when stocking a bookshelf during stage productions, she only chose books that she had personally read. No one had her eye for detail.

  It took three calls to get her number, and he was relieved when at last he heard her voice.

  “Siobhan, this is Daniel Richardson. We worked together on The Importance of Being Earnest two years ago.”

  “Daniel! What a surprise,” she said. “What have you been up to? Or should I say ‘whom’?”

  There was a hint of mischief in her tone. She knew his habit, even from their relatively brief association, of dating girls from the set. Although she was at least fifteen years his elder, she was an attractive woman, with chestnut-brown hair and dark glasses usually found pushed halfway down her nose. She had a bookish quality that he found appealing. If she had been a little younger, he might have dated her too.

  “Nothing but trouble,” he said. “Listen, I wonder if you know a couple of people. I’m trying to reach Dylan Cole and Lucy Potter. Have you heard of them?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Not quite your style, I must say.”

  “It’s personal, not professional. They’re friends of a friend.”
/>   “They’re working in a small company called The Players Club. Last I heard, they were doing a wretched hash of Swan Lake, without the ballet.”

  Daniel tried without success to imagine it. “Any idea which theatre?”

  “The Byzantine, I think. They move around from place to place.”

  “So you’ve worked with them before?”

  “A couple of times. They were all right. I never had any problems with them.”

  He took a deep breath. “Did you know Tamsyn Burke?”

  “Not personally,” she answered, “though I’ve seen her before.”

  “Did she have any connection to The Players Club?”

  “Not that I know of. She visited Dylan and Lucy a few times when we last worked together, but that’s all I know.”

  “Well, thanks for the information. How are you? What are you working on now?”

  He listened as she told him about her current project, a play written by one of the hottest new writers in London.

  “Impressive,” he said when she was finished.

  He ended the call with the promise to take her out for a drink sometime, which they both knew would never happen. Outside, the rain had stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He threw his cup in the bin and stepped out of the café, raising his hand for a cab. He was lucky, for perhaps the first time in this entire business. The nearest cab spotted him and pulled up to the curb.

  “Hammersmith,” he said to the driver. “The Byzantine Theatre.”

  As the vehicle lurched into the morning traffic, he pulled out his mobile and looked up the theatre, then leaned back in his seat and sighed. It was odd, the startling differences between the friends of Hugh and Tamsyn. They barely even came from the same world. Was it true that opposites attracted—the dominant and the submissive, the weak and the strong? In general, he doubted it. He liked to be around people more like himself, who shared his basic values and beliefs, and though Tamsyn had been different, something about her had been familiar, as if they had been friends for years.