‘Oh, OK,’ said Ginny. She dropped the papers and gave him a curious look.
‘How’s your house, anyway?’ said Marcus abruptly. Ginny paused.
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘Lovely. Actually, we met the daughter the other day. Alice Chambers. The daughter of the woman letting the house out.’ She eyed Marcus carefully.
‘Oh right,’ said Marcus abstractly. Thank God. They were onto another subject. ‘Nice, is she?’ he added, for good measure.
‘She’s a lovely girl,’ said Ginny, and gave Marcus another side-long look.
They passed the rest of the journey in silence. Ginny looked out the window, and remembered the faces of Marcus and Liz on the day when she’d first visited the house in Russell Street. She’d thought it odd at the time, for them to have waited so long together, and to have been drinking champagne. And now, Marcus had obviously spent the afternoon doing something he didn’t want her to know about. Something must be going on between those two. It must be.
Marcus sat still, and willed Ginny not to ask any more questions about that afternoon. Of course, there was nothing wrong in telling her he’d been carrying out a valuation. Perfectly legitimate work. And with anybody else, he might have done. But not Ginny Prentice. Ginny wasn’t in public relations for nothing. He’d never met anyone with such a fertile imagination; such an eye for a story. If she caught even a whiff of what he’d been doing, she’d put together all the other pieces in no time.
As they approached the first major junction before Russell Street, Ginny gathered up her bag and pile of folders.
‘Drop me here,’ she said. ‘That’s completely brilliant.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘Thanks, Marcus! One less taxi fare to charge to Witherstone’s!’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Marcus, forcing a smile to his lips. And as he drove off, he reflected that he really meant what he said. At home, a row was in progress. When Marcus stepped in through the front door, he found Anthea, Daniel and Andrew still standing in the hall. Daniel’s face was bright red; he looked bunched up and uncomfortable in his blazer and school rucksack, and he was speaking in a raised, distressed voice.
‘Everyone’s been laughing at me all day,’ he was saying, as Marcus entered.
‘Nonsense,’ said Anthea briskly.
‘It’s true,’ said Andrew dispassionately. He had taken off his blazer and was sitting under the huge, heavy oak hall table, running a car idly up and down the legs. ‘They were laughing at him.’
‘What’s all this about?’ said Marcus in a hearty voice. ‘Hello, darling.’ He kissed Anthea, took off his coat and hung it up in the hall cupboard. ‘Daniel, why don’t you take off your blazer? You’ll feel better then.’
‘No I won’t,’ muttered Daniel, but he allowed his father to take his rucksack off his back, and began to unbutton his blazer, with rough, jerky movements.
‘Now, come on, Dan,’ said Marcus, when Daniel was unbuttoned and looked a bit calmer. ‘What’s gone wrong?’
‘Everyone’s been laughing at me at school because Mummy told all the other mothers that I always translate all my homework into French for fun.’ His voice trembled. ‘For fun!’ he repeated, on a rising note. ‘Edward White’s mother told him and he told the whole class and they kept laughing and pretending I can’t understand things if they’re not in French, and calling me Danielle.’
‘Well then, they’re very immature and stupid,’ said Anthea. ‘Just ignore them.’
‘You always say that! It’s not fair! And it’s all your fault! Why did you have to tell them that?’
Yes, why did you? Marcus wanted to repeat. He eyed Anthea suspiciously, then changed his expression to a supportive smile as she turned to face him.
‘It’s all nonsense,’ she said, in a defensive voice. ‘I was just having a conversation about homework with some of the other mothers, and I must have mentioned that time when we had Jacques Reynaud’s children over. Do you remember? They were gabbling away in French all evening. And they did translate Daniel’s homework into French.’
‘Yes, but that was a game!’ shouted Daniel, his chest heaving in frustration. ‘And it was only once! You told them I did it all the time because I found it fun.’
‘I didn’t tell them anything,’ said Anthea sharply. ‘I expect Edward White’s mother wasn’t listening properly.’
‘Could you have given them the wrong impression?’ said Marcus carefully.
‘Of course not!’ Anthea was sounding rattled. ‘This is ridiculous. If those other boys want to make fun of you, it’s because they’re jealous, that’s all. Now, go into the kitchen. Hannah’s got your tea.’
When the boys had left, Daniel resentfully slouching, Andrew trailing his car happily along the wall, Marcus looked sternly at Anthea. He knew exactly what she was like in the company of the other mothers at the school gate: unable to stop herself from boasting about the boys’ prowess; unable to let another parent’s story go without capping it, even if that meant embellishing the truth. She couldn’t help it; it was bigger than her.
‘What did you say to those mums?’
‘Nothing! I said nothing.’ Her eyes fluttered round. ‘It’s not my fault if a lot of silly boys decide to pick on Daniel.’
‘They seem to pick on him rather a lot. And it’s often because of something you’ve said.’
‘What do you mean?’ A fiery spot of colour appeared in each of Anthea’s cheeks. ‘What are you accusing me of?’
‘I just think you should be more careful of what you say. Daniel’s under enough pressure as it is at the moment, without being made the laughing-stock of the class.’
‘I see. So you think I’m deliberately trying to make him a laughing-stock, do you?’ Anthea’s eyes flashed at Marcus.
‘Of course not—’
‘Do you know how much I do for him? How many hours I spend helping him with his homework, listening to him practise, ferrying him around?’
‘I know you do!’ said Marcus, suddenly pushed to the limits of frustration. His day had been stressful enough, without all this. ‘Well, maybe you should do a bit less!’ Anthea paused, for a shocked second, then turned slowly away, bowing her head slightly. Oh fuck it, thought Marcus. He’d played right into her hands.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said. He went over, and put a hand on her bony, cashmere-covered shoulder. He felt the muscles relax; felt Anthea begin to give a little. Then suddenly into his head popped a twin vision of Liz’s well-covered generous shoulder, warm and naked apart from a blob of lotion. He flushed slightly, and shook his head to dispel it. Christ. Who was he to lecture Anthea? ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve had a hard day. Let’s just forget it, shall we?’
She turned to face him, and he saw the unmistakable light of guilt in her eyes. She had been boasting to the other mothers. And she knew she had. But something in her would refuse to allow her to admit it. It was a familiar pattern. When she was in this mood, she would deny any charge until she was in a state of hysteria. Marcus shuddered at the memory of previous arguments; scenes of increasingly wild accusation on his part and shrieking denial on hers. He always gave in first; always would give in first. It simply wasn’t worth doing anything else. And so they all had to carry on, allowing her the pretence that she was innocent; suggesting other explanations; letting the ripples of arguments die down without identifying a satisfactory cause. The boys would learn soon enough that the easiest route was always to go along with her; to fudge the truth for a quiet life.
But it wasn’t fair. Like a small boy, Marcus found himself repeating the words to himself, even as he began to massage Anthea’s shoulder; even as he cupped her face affectionately in his hand. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.
Later on that evening, he went to say good night to Daniel, who was propped up in bed, avidly reading a Biggles book. Marcus sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘I hope this whole French thing will have blown over by tomorrow,’ he said honestly
. Daniel shrugged mutely and turned pink. ‘I hate to say it,’ added Marcus, ‘but Mummy does have a point when she tells you to ignore it. You must know what it’s like if you’re teasing someone. If they ignore you completely, it gets boring.’ There was silence. Daniel gave no impression of having heard. Marcus waited.
‘She did say it,’ said Daniel suddenly, in a low, aggrieved voice. ‘I know she did.’
‘Well, maybe she said something without meaning to,’ said Marcus placatingly. ‘The trouble is,’ he continued, ‘that Mummy is so proud of you, she finds it difficult not to tell everybody when you do well.’
‘I know,’ said Daniel despairingly. He glanced up at his father. ‘We don’t tell her things, sometimes, because all she’d do is tell everybody straightaway.’ He paused, and looked at his father for a reaction. Marcus felt unable to speak. ‘Andrew got a star in his comprehension last week,’ continued Daniel, ‘and he didn’t tell Mummy. And he made me promise not to either. We told Hannah, instead.’ Marcus looked at Daniel’s earnest face, and felt a creeping sadness in his chest. Had it really come to this? That in order to get along as a family, they all had to have secrets from each other? That the only person they could confide in was the housekeeper?
‘Well, I can see why you might want to keep things like that quiet,’ he said eventually. He fingered Daniel’s blue-and-white-striped duvet, and a smell of fresh-laundered linen rose up in the air. ‘And I think—’ He broke off and looked at Daniel. ‘I think you might be wise.’
He got up abruptly and paced to the other side of the room, picked up a model car on the mantelpiece, and turned it over idly in his fingers. ‘But, you know,’ he said, suddenly, not quite looking at Daniel, ‘Hannah isn’t the only person you can tell things to.’ He put the car down, and came back to the bed. ‘I won’t go running to Mummy,’ he said softly. ‘If you do well at something, either of you, you must tell me.’ Daniel looked at him solemnly.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘And Andrew too,’ said Marcus.
‘All right,’ said Daniel.
‘And I won’t say a word to Edward White’s mother,’ said Marcus, in serious tones. He caught Daniel’s eye, and they both started giggling. ‘I don’t even know Edward White’s mother,’ added Marcus. Daniel’s giggles got louder; his face turned scarlet and he disappeared under the duvet.
Anthea appeared in the doorway.
‘What’s funny?’ she said. Marcus noticed that she had an automatic note of disapproval in her voice. Was that new? Or had he never picked it up before?
‘Nothing important,’ he said. ‘Right, it’s time to go. G’night, Dan.’
‘G’night,’ said Daniel, emerging from the duvet, still with a gurgle in his voice.
As Marcus passed Anthea in the doorway, she gave him an anxious, mildly suspicious glance. He ignored it, and strode away down the corridor. Behind him, he could hear Anthea’s voice, asking Daniel rather petulantly if he’d brushed his teeth.
Leave the boy alone, he thought grimly. Leave him alone. But try saying that to Anthea, and he’d regret it. Try saying anything to Anthea, these days, and he’d probably regret it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Piers gave an enormous, self-conscious yawn, looked out of the window, and tried to stop a huge smile from spreading across his face. He was sitting, alone briefly, in the office of Alan Tinker, the producer of Summer Street. The phone had rung a couple of minutes ago, and Alan had grimaced to Piers as he picked up the receiver.
‘Bugger,’ he said as he put it down again. ‘That bastard McKenna. Look, Piers, you won’t mind if I pop out for a few moments?’ He gestured around the office. ‘Make yourself some more coffee if you want to; do what you like. Watch some telly!’ He’d flashed a conspirator’s grin at Piers, and disappeared out of the room, leaving Piers alone to sit as calmly as he could, and try to ignore his growing sense of elation.
The meeting was going well. By any standards, it was going well. Alan Tinker had met Piers in reception himself, had taken him casually into the main canteen for a cup of coffee, had introduced him to a number of people. A number of really quite important people. And although he hadn’t actually said, ‘This is Piers who’s taking over from Ian’—the way he was talking, it seemed as though . . .
Piers forced himself to break his train of thought. He’d been here before; too often to allow himself the self-indulgence of assuming everything was OK. He had only met the guy, for God’s sake. It wasn’t as if he’d even done an audition yet. There was really nothing to get excited about. And yet, as he stared deliberately blankly round the room, taking in the bank of four television screens mounted on the wall, the framed awards, the rows of books and magazines, the piles of folders and papers and scripts, he felt his heart thudding with an incipient exhilaration. Alan Tinker was an important man. He was a head producer. If he liked someone, he had the power to make them big. If he liked them.
‘We know you can act,’ had been almost his first words. Piers stared down at the pale blue carpet of the office and allowed a secret, painful thrill to run through him. Alan Tinker knew he could act. Alan Tinker had told him he knew he could act.
‘But all of this isn’t just about whether you can act or not,’ Alan had added impressively. Piers nodded intelligently.
‘Of course not,’ he murmured, then wondered if it was a mistake to say anything.
‘What we really want is commitment,’ said Alan. Piers looked straight back at him, trying to adopt his most committed expression. ‘We don’t want someone who’s going to disappear after six months to do, I don’t know . . .’ Alan waved his arms airily ‘. . . a juicy part in the West End.’
‘Of course not,’ said Piers again. Some fucking chance, he thought bitterly.
‘You’ve been doing a lot of stage work recently, haven’t you, Piers?’ Alan gave him a penetrating look.
‘Yes,’ said Piers. He thought desperately. ‘But I’m very committed to working in television as a long-term aim.’
‘Is that so?’ Alan raised his eyebrows at Piers, who remembered, too late, the announcement in the latest edition of The Stage that Alan Tinker was setting up his own theatre company. Fuck it. He just couldn’t win. But Alan relented. ‘Good, good,’ he said encouragingly, and leant forward. ‘Now, Piers, we on Summer Street like to think of everyone, cast and crew alike, as part of a team. A family. If you’re working as hard as we do, there’s no time for not getting along with this person, or thinking yourself better than that person. You’re just a part of the machine. A cog. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Piers, trying to sound as convincing as he could. ‘Everyone working towards the same goal.’ What was he saying? The guy would think he was taking the piss.
‘Many actors,’ Alan continued, ‘consider themselves too important to blend in with a lot of others. After all, you have to be pretty self-centred to be an actor in the first place.’ Piers wondered whether to dispute that. Was this some elaborate test to see whether he had any character; whether he could stand up for himself? He eyed Alan’s face. But Alan looked in deadly earnest. And he’d always heard that the guy had some weird ideas.
‘So what we like to do,’ said Alan, ‘as well as, obviously, a screen test, is to let each contender for a part come into the studio for a couple of hours, and rehearse a few scenes with the rest of the cast. That way, if anyone is obviously not going to get on with the others, isn’t going to blend in easily, then we realize it straight away.’
‘Good idea,’ Piers had said heartily. ‘That really makes sense.’
Now, left alone, he rose to his feet, too keyed up to sit still. He paced over to the window, allowing his eyes to skim the papers on Alan’s desk for anything interesting, then adopted a relaxed but elegant pose by the side of the window. Rupert, the character he would be playing in Summer Street, was, if not exactly camp, then certainly not hearty—and it would do no harm to try to show Alan that he could look the part.
The door opened, and Piers turned his head unhurriedly. There in the doorway was a woman dressed in a pair of crushed-velvet leggings and suede boots up to her thighs.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but Alan asked me to tell you that he’s been held up. He’ll be in touch later this week.’ Piers stared at her, blankly, stupidly, for a moment, and then realized what she was saying.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘So I’ll go now, shall I?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said the woman, in tones that weren’t quite sarcastic. ‘Alan did ask me to apologize. But he’s terribly busy at the moment.’
‘Oh, no!’ said Piers, hurriedly. ‘That’s fine. We’d finished our meeting, anyway.’ The woman didn’t look convinced.
‘I’ll show you out,’ she said.
Piers followed as she marched along the carpeted corridors, nodding to people as she passed but neither looking at Piers nor speaking to him. By the time they reached the entrance, he felt rather deflated.
‘Well, goodbye,’ he said, trying to summon up some cheer. ‘Thanks for showing me the way.’
The woman didn’t smile, but said, ‘Could you give back your visitor’s pass please,’ and Piers handed over the white card feeling as though he’d been found infiltrating the building under false pretences. He pushed open the swing door, and threw his head back to a blast of chill winter wind. Who gives a fuck anyway? he thought to himself. They can keep their crappy little part.
But by the time he was on the train to Silchester, his initial excitement had returned. So what if some secretary had made him feel stupid. It was Alan Tinker who counted. And Alan Tinker had said he knew he could act. Now Piers sat staring out of the train window, running down the list of cast members in his mind. The characters of Summer Street were mainly young, laid back, his kind of people. He would get on with them fine. He’d bloody well have to.
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