Wishful Thinking

by Jemma Harvey

  ‘Bollocks!’ said Georgie with understandable indignation.

  ‘I think you should just go home and contemplate suicide,’ I said. ‘We can start again in the morning. Tomorrow is another day.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Lin. ‘Rhett Butler. Another bastard. Besides, where on earth did he get a stupid name like Rhett?’

  ‘Short for retro,’ Georgie said.

  On Friday, armed with careful directions, I went to see Jerry Beauman. He lived in a flat off Berkeley Square, the kind with a sub-tropical roof garden and rooms so large there were whole areas of floor with nothing to do. I was admitted by a Filipino maid whom I mistook – briefly – for the Oriental girlfriend. Shown into a vast living room, I stayed close to the wall in case I got lost. I had been expecting a designer interior worthy of the colour supplements, but instead I was confronted with a sort of sumptuous banality, a bland tastelessness without the flourish of vulgarity or the style of natural elegance. The furniture was antique, presumably genuine, but so lustrously polished, so artfully restored that it appeared fake. There were acres of gleaming parquet scattered with Persian rugs, chandeliers adorned with electric candles, swags of brocade curtain tied back with tasselled cords. The paintings included several big landscapes (one, I guessed, might be identifiable as a Constable, had I known anything about art), a simpering Venus clutching a handkerchief to her crotch amid trailing putti, and a couple of conscientiously modern abstracts. I was sure Beauman was a Collector: the pictures looked Collected, somehow, rather than simply bought for fun. There was also a portrait of a gentleman called the Sieur de Beaumont whom I learned later Jerry claimed as an ancestor, on no grounds whatsoever. The nearest bookshelves to catch the visitor’s eye were packed with his own oeuvres in a variety of languages, side by side with Shakespeare and translations of Horace. Optimist, I thought. I was studying a Lorna Doone vista of gloomy rocks and tumbling water topped off with a windswept tree and some pretty foul weather when Beauman came in.

  To my surprise he was both genial and friendly, turning on something that might have passed for charm in the Klingon world. He had barely noticed me when we met at the Bel Manoir, but then I had been of no use to him; now, I was going to tidy up his book. Or rather, as he put it, ‘assist the creative process’. He showed me round the flat in an expansive spirit, possibly with the object of adding me to the exclusive ranks of his admirers, told me the value of every picture (the Constable was a Constable), even demonstrated the workings of the alarm system. Not for the last time, as I was to discover, I experienced a sudden impulse to become a professional burglar. He made me stand respectfully in front of the inevitable photos of him with various iconic figures, including Nelson Mandela. (I do feel the Hero of our Time could be more selective about the company he keeps.) ‘I call that one Old Lags Together,’ Jerry joked. I blenched. Mandela had been a prisoner of conscience on Devil’s Island, or some such island; Jerry had done time for fraud, mostly in a cosy open prison. Did they really have anything in common? Besides, the photos obviously predated Jerry’s stint as a guest of Her Maj. Other pix showed him pally with politicians, ageing popstars, and all-purpose celebs like Peter Stringfellow and Neil Hamilton. You’d have thought he would have removed the last one, but he seemed oblivious to its impact on visitors. In fact, he seemed oblivious to a lot of things. His self-assurance was absolute, turning his seedy little crime into a dashing adventure, transforming inconvenient truth with the light of fantasy. In a warmer personality, it might have been endearing. But there was coldness and calculation underneath the buoyancy, and an expression in his eyes – or lack of one – which gave him away. They were narrow, beady, ratty orbs without depth or soul, unaware of anything beyond his own appetite and need. This, I thought, is a man with no real friends – but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care. He’s perfectly happy with pretend ones.

  When the tour was over we retired to his study, a slightly smaller room with a panoramic view of the backs of expensive houses. He had all the accoutrements of a successful writer: teak desk with wafer-thin laptop, wodge of manuscript, Mont Blanc pen for hand-written alterations, telephone, Dictaphone, printer, reference books. Everything but the blackened coffee mug – and that could have been cleared away by the maid. But it all looked faintly like a stage set. I got the feeling he wasn’t so much writing as Being a Writer. Listening to him talk about his current book I realised that here, again, his blinkered vision enabled him to take an idealised – if narrow – view of himself. He held forth on his creative genius as if he expected to make the Booker shortlist. The fact that the end result needed to be revised, re-punctuated and partially re-structured by someone else seemed to bypass him. He believed he was a great writer. His self-belief was like armour-plating. Other people’s perceptions, doubts, criticisms, bounced off it. He was the best thing since Shakespeare, and he knew it. After all, every book with his name on it had sold at least a million.

  It was a daunting thought.

  ‘Hope you’ll enjoy working with me,’ he said, with a smile that stopped short of his eyes. (They always did.) ‘Nice to have an attractive female colleague after poor old Buckle. Came across as quite a he-man; just goes to show, you can’t be too careful these days. Not that I’ve got anything against pansies – I just wouldn’t want to live with one.’ This was clearly meant for a joke. I looked blank. ‘Never been that way inclined, even at public school.’ I was sure he hadn’t been to public school. ‘How about some coffee?’

  I didn’t ask for tea; there was no point. Beauman wouldn’t have noticed.

  We had coffee. Jerry talked about himself, moving from his chair to perch on the edge of the desk where he could have gazed down my cleavage, had I been showing any. Actually, I was covered to the clavicle, but my bosom tends to obtrusive at all times and there was nothing I could do about it. He suggested that on these long hot summer days I could always do my editing up on the roof terrace. ‘Bring a bikini. Have a sunbathe. I really wouldn’t mind.’

  A few pounds off, I thought, and now Jerry Beauman, of all people, wants to see me in a bikini. The Wyshing Well fairy had certainly picked her moment to endow me with sex-goddessness. No doubt about it, she had a very nasty sense of humour.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said noncommittally. ‘Er – don’t you think we should talk about the book now? We do have a pretty tight deadline.’

  He grinned and went back to his chair. ‘I thrive on deadlines. Never missed one yet. They call me Mister Deadline. We’ll make it, you’ll see.’

  We?

  ‘Of course we will,’ I said.

  We discussed plot and character exhaustively for a while – at least, I was exhausted. Like many writers, Jerry threw out half a dozen new ideas at every turn, though his were more far-fetched and implausible than most. I did my best to discourage them, diplomatically, and insinuate a couple of my own, while making him believe they were his. Laurence had told me this was the standard procedure. By the end of the session Jerry was beaming. ‘I can see we’re going to work well together,’ he declared. ‘You’re a lot brighter than old Buckle. You can help to give me that feminine slant which, I must admit, has often eluded me. I’ve always been more of a man’s man.’

  So’s Laurence, I felt like saying, but resisted the temptation. Jerry evidently hadn’t registered that many of my suggestions were those which Laurence had kindly passed on to me – suggestions which Beauman had previously rejected out of hand when he realised they came from a poofter.

  ‘Got to go now,’ Jerry said, skirting the desk to grasp my hand and plant a kiss on my cheek. ‘Lunch with Jonathan Aitken. A good chap – much misunderstood.’

  He was gone, leaving me temporarily speechless. Anyone in his position ought to be anxious to rehabilitate himself, avoiding other notorious ex-crooks like the plague. But not Jerry Beauman. Clinton might apologise, David Mellor resign, George Galloway deny and sue, but Beauman remained brash and unashamed. He was right, he was wronged, he was the comeback kid who’d n
ever been away, the star who could outshine all the mud that stuck to his image. I really, really didn’t want him to get away with it.

  ‘He will, you know,’ Georgie said, back at the office. ‘Everyone knows he’s a liar and a cheat and a thief – everyone except him – but it doesn’t matter. His sheer arrogance will carry it. Did you see the latest Private Eye, or that sketch on Dead Ringers? Talk about savage – but it’s all grist to his mill. It wouldn’t work if he was a politician, or anything in public life – it would finish him in TV and probably as an actor – but no one cares what writers do. Any publicity is good publicity. It may be bloody hard to get coverage for some people but, believe me, this is the one business where the adage really does apply. His book will come out in a furore of indignation, criticism and contempt, and everyone will buy it, just to see what the fuss is all about.’

  ‘His book?’ I said. ‘It’s totally derivative.’

  ‘So what?’ said Georgie. ‘All writers do that.’

  There was only one thing to be said, and I said it. ‘Fuck.’

  Jerry Beauman has that effect on everyone’s vocabulary.

  While Lin’s Internet dating exchanges were driving her to contemplate suicide, Georgie’s quest for a millionaire seemed to have come to a full stop. After her night at the opera she had allowed herself to hope that Neville would call again: he had been attractive enough, and amusing enough, for her to consider taking things further, and when, after more than a week, she had had no word, she was conscious of disappointment. Her marriage might have been a long-term catastrophe, but Georgie wasn’t used to failure in the short-term, and it left her feeling rather damped. She knew looks and charm alone wouldn’t inspire every passing male – or any passing male – with true love, but she did expect the combination to engender lust, particularly after an evening’s exposure. ‘I must be getting old,’ she said. ‘Over the hill. I just can’t do the femme fatale thing any more.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ I assured her. ‘You’re not at all old.’ First Lin feeling middle-aged, now Georgie old. It was getting to be too much.

  ‘Don’t be kind. I know I am. I looked in the mirror and counted the lines.’

  ‘We’ve all got lines,’ said Lin, on the strength of her one or two.

  ‘How many?’ I asked Georgie with curiosity.

  ‘Fifteen. And that’s before I smile. Maybe I should give up smiling.’

  ‘I can’t see fifteen.’

  ‘You aren’t looking as closely as I was,’ Georgie retorted.

  ‘There’s a couple on your forehead which your fringe hides, and the hint of a smile line . . .’

  ‘See? No more smiles.’

  ‘Then you’ll just be old and miserable,’ Lin pointed out with a gleam of mischief. ‘No one’s going to fancy you if you’re gloomy.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Georgie agreed, stricken. ‘It’s no good, I’m finished. My career as an attractive woman is over. I shall just have to decline into someone’s aunt, or an elderly eccentric who bores people by reminiscing about her beautiful youth. I shall carry a stack of photographs to show them how lovely I once was.’

  ‘How about a wedding cake?’ I said. ‘With cobwebs.’

  ‘You’re just not taking me seriously. Hi, Cal.’ It was ten to six and nearly time for close of play, and he had drifted into the office looking like a man in need of a drink.

  ‘Georgie’s worried she’s getting old,’ said Lin.

  ‘Ain’t we all. Ten years ago I could shag six times a night, and not necessarily with the same woman. Nowadays, I don’t have the stamina.’

  ‘Good thing too,’ said Georgie, reviving. ‘One, I want all the energy you’ve got, and two, I don’t share. Let’s go to the pub.’

  Lin went home to relieve the child-minder, cook for the brats and swap e-mails with her would-be admirers, and I headed pubwards with the other two. Georgie, forgetful of her advanced years, eyed up the new barman in an automatic way and managed to infuse a request for dry-roasted peanuts with come-hither overtones. The barman – inevitably – was an Aussie, with bleached-blond hair and a skimpy T-shirt revealing his six-pack. ‘Behave yourself,’ Cal ordered, hauling her away and depositing her at a table. ‘I think I’ll put you on a lead.’

  ‘Kinky.’

  With Jerry Beauman’s book to work on, I left early. Cal was staying the night with Georgie; he did so on a fairly regular basis these days, telling Christy he was with one of his mates, an explanation she accepted without question or interest. After I’d gone they wandered off to a small Italian restaurant, ate seafood linguine, splashed out on a bottle of Barolo.

  ‘Would you ever leave Christy?’ Georgie asked suddenly. ‘Not for me particularly. Just – leave. Because the marriage doesn’t work.’

  ‘God knows. I live in the moment – don’t look ahead very far. I can’t plan things. Who knows how I’ll feel next year, or the year after? But . . . I couldn’t fail the kids. You know that.’Specially Allan. Christy’s always so absorbed in Jamie – well, I’ve told you how it is. Allan needs me; they both do. I want to be a good dad. I couldn’t bear to let them down.’

  ‘Your dad left, didn’t he?’ Georgie said.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘So . . . you don’t want to be like him, right?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘So this is all just temporary, you and me. A casual affair.’ She looked down at her plate, toying with a strand of pasta. ‘“Since there’s no help, come, let us kiss and part.”’

  Cal, the dyslexic, had little acquaintance with poetry. ‘No need to rush it. Anyway, it’s not casual: you know that.’

  ‘Isn’t it? These things don’t last. D’you know of one single relationship between a married man and an unmarried woman that has ever been permanent? I don’t. Sooner or later I’ll meet some guy with less baggage – an ex instead of a wife, kids only on Sunday, double bed with a vacancy – and I’ll succumb to the lure of security and a wedding band. It always happens that way. Will you mind?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ The trace of sadness in his face, so often erased by his smile, was suddenly very plain. ‘Why’re you talking like this? I thought I made you happy. I didn’t know you had this craving for security.’

  ‘Doesn’t everybody?’

  ‘You aren’t everybody. Please – let’s just enjoy now. I told you, I don’t like to look ahead. Typical male, I guess; I don’t want to face unpleasant things. I prefer to put them off.’

  Georgie grinned wryly. ‘Typical male.’

  It was Cal’s turn to focus on his plate. Then he looked up at her, his expression intent and very serious. ‘I love you,’ he said. The L-word, the word he never said – or never when he was sober. But he wasn’t drunk this time, and she knew it was true, it was deep and real, and now it was out there it couldn’t be brushed aside. It hung in the air between them like a musical note that would never die away. ‘I don’t know where we’re going, or what will happen next. I can’t make promises. There are the children, and Christy needs my support. But I do love you.’

  She found there were tears in her eyes, and blinked furiously, knowing they would smudge her mascara. ‘I suppose . . . I love you too. Damn. This is getting like Brief Encounter.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Movie classic. Black-and-white. Rachmaninov in the background.’

  ‘Sounds bloody depressing.’

  ‘It’s meant to be moving and tragic,’ Georgie explained. ‘She’s married, and they meet, and fall in love, on a railway station, and part, never to meet again. On the same railway station. They don’t even have sex.’

  ‘Bloody unrealistic too.’

  Georgie managed a watery laugh. ‘Too right!’

  ‘This is us, not some vintage film,’ Cal said. ‘It’s like books and things. You read too many books. Life’s different. Books have endings: happy endings, sad endings, but the writer has to stop somewhere, so he makes the characters stop, the story stop. I’m not saying this ver
y well – I don’t say things well – but you know what I mean. Life doesn’t have endings, until you die. At least, it doesn’t have to. I love you – you’re part of me. That won’t have an ending. If there’s another man, if you marry, and you’re secure, and happy, I’ll still love you. You’ll still be part of me. Even if there’s someone else for me, I’ll love you. We’ll be friends, we’ll go out to dinner, and I’ll listen to your problems, try to help, do what I can. I’ll always be there. I’ll be your – your faithful admirer, hopelessly adoring you. Like a puppy. Whatever happens. This is – always. Whatever happens.’

  Georgie blinked again. ‘It isn’t like that,’ she said. ‘Lovers don’t become friends. I’ll never stop caring for you, even if I marry – women don’t – but you’ll forget me, or I’ll dwindle to a pleasant memory, a pang of nostalgia. That’s how it goes.’

  ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ Cal said. ‘You really don’t understand.’

  I’m afraid to, Georgie thought. I’m afraid to believe in it. I’m afraid to believe in us.

  And: It’s never been like this before . . .

  ‘Well,’ she said, changing gear with an effort, ‘since the wine bottle’s empty, and this isn’t a black-and-white movie with Rachmaninov, let’s go home and have sex.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Cal said.

  He paid the bill, refusing to split, and they walked some way in search of a taxi, feeling shaken, and sad, and happy, and intensely alive. Back at Georgie’s, they made love with a depth of emotion that hadn’t been there before, falling asleep at last still welded together, as if they could never bear to part.

  During the following week I had a couple more sessions with Jerry Beauman, or rather, at his flat. He put in only brief appearances, but he preferred me to work in his study, on his personal computer, instead of at the office – he said that made collaboration easier. I wasn’t offered any food, even though I worked through lunch one day; just coffee and mineral water. As he wasn’t around much, I decided to take advantage of his invitation to use the roof garden. I rolled my vest-top down to expose my shoulders and hitched my skirt up to my bum to tan my thighs – doing something useful while reading through the manuscript and scribbling comments in the margin. The second time I did it, I was startled to hear his voice behind me. He must have approached very quietly; I hadn’t heard a thing.