Now that they were seated Adela's inquisitiveness seemed to turn on him with full energy, and he quickly sensed that, although she was an actress, magnetic in limelight, part of her charm was her power of attention. She was relaxed, pleased with the setting, and yet extremely careful to listen. She picked up all tones, all gradations of seriousness; she let her companion know that she wanted to do him justice. She had expertise in this realm, knew how to encourage. She followed his face when he spoke, looking at his eyes, his lips, taking his meaning from all sources of expression. And although she was less professionally poised than on their first encounter, when she had so much to convey to a stranger, her relaxation today made it easier to see the reality of her talent. She was facially compelling, possessing features that were not only fine in themselves, but imbued with intelligence. Her gaze held a quickening intensity, as though she were of superior stock, had something special or marked about her which commanded attention, an energy of interest she was able to repay.
Michael felt he could confide in her. Not because she seemed discreet, but because something about her insisted on substance, and to serve her up anything less than one's best material was to risk seeming dull. She presupposed seriousness. She offered it herself. And this generosity of response was the quality that convinced him Hilldyard was wrong. She was not merely plausible, she was stimulating. She was not simply genuine, she was frequently outspoken. Though she had expressive resources and could doubtless project the most heroic emotions on stage, it was the latency of this power he found beguiling. And although she was sensitive and fine, Adela was not precious. Her eyes could glitter with irony, especially when the subject of her parents came up; though even here the irony was kindly, signifying a private perspective rather than a hardening of feeling.
'They've seen me on TV and still think I should marry a merchant banker and have a dozen children. They want happiness through me, and my being an actress spoils that.'
'Aren't they proud?'
She looked blankly at him. 'Dad thinks theatre is something laid on for the middle classes by travelling minstrels, people, you know, from outside society. It's lovely to go to Chichester on a summer evening, but God forbid one's daughter should go on stage and make an exhibition of her feelings.'
He frowned. 'So what do you talk about?'
'With Dad?' She was amused by the question. 'Oh, driving routes. How to get from Wokingham to Croydon when the M25 is down.'
'And your mother?'
Adela contemplated the question with an abstract look. 'She wants things to be ''nice''.'
Michael nodded.
'She doesn't want me to sleep with bisexual actors and says so a lot.' Adela's brow was knitted: the injustice of it. 'I'd love to if I could just find one.'
He laughed.
'I do my best. Honestly. To be a good daughter. But both my parents have set the limits of their life and feel threatened by my independence. I love them, but mentally we're on separate planets. Besides, they think I'm highly-strung.'
'Are you?'
She shrugged. 'I'd call it temperament.'
He raised the glass of wine that had succeeded his lager. 'Let's drink to temperament.'
She smiled, raising her glass.
Michael gazed at the peaks of Anacapri and felt the full warmth of an October sun on his face. They were having lunch on an island in the Tyrrhenian Sea and talking about people who lived in Croydon.
He was curious. 'Do you like being an actress?'
She knew the answer instantly. 'I love the art and hate the profession.'
He was intrigued; she was after all very successful.
'One's creativity is so dependent on luck,' she continued. 'I can't just get out there and act. To do the thing I want to do I need the patronage of casting directors, TV producers. My livelihood is down to their whim. Whoever you are it's a cattle market. Which means rejection and more rejection, and although I've had some breaks I'm sick to the back teeth of bloody rejection. Because what gets rejected is the whole you.' She gazed at him earnestly, inviting him to encompass the reality of that.
He nodded readily.
'A writer can write. A painter can paint. An actor is the one artist who has no creative self-determination. We're dependent on forces beyond our control to be able to express ourselves.' She looked askance. 'Which is why I got on a plane and came out here. For once in my life I thought I could influence my own destiny.'
Michael blinked, almost embarrassed. He showed his sympathy by not saying anything.
'One has a gift, something that feels quite valuable, and to get it across you have to give everything, every last drop. Which you do, and they love you for it, but in the end we're all dispensable.'
'But you love the art?'
'I feel a better person when I act.' She brightened. 'Noble.'
'Noble?'
'Only when acting.' She smiled to reassure him. 'But yes. There's something purifying about giving over everything you have to another character. It's an act of self-effacement, of discovery. Does that sound absurd?'
Michael looked exceptionally grave. It did not sound ridiculous. What she said had a strange effect on him.
'No . . . So how d'you cope with the crap?'
She took in a breath. 'By trying to respect myself. Whatever quality I have it's not going to vanish overnight. And if I can just focus on developing and improving and forget about trying to impress people, I'll be all right. I mean, I've been lucky so far. I just don't want to do rubbish. That's why I admire you.'
'Me?'
She fiddled with her bread. 'You only do the top stuff.'
He did not know whether to be puzzled or flattered.
'Basil Curwen thinks you've got real integrity.'
It remained unconvincing to hear praise from that quarter.
'He says you dazzled him with your knowledge of Hilldyard's novels. And he told me about Intelligent Productions and The Other House and that play by Mike Summers, which, by the way, I saw last year and thought was brilliant.'
He was pleased to hear late acclaim for his only TV drama. 'Thank you.'
'Oh God–' She was almost distressed. 'It was for grown-ups. I mean subtle.'
'He's a very good writer.'
'You're a very good producer. Every time I see something like that I think a miracle has happened. I'll bet The Other House is going to be fantastic.'
It seemed a shame to disillusion her.
'Well, actually, the Beeb canned it last month.'
'Oh!' It was almost a personal blow. 'Why?'
'I expect they're clearing the decks for a bonkbuster.'
'Oh, miserable!'
'Developing quality drama is a short-cut to oblivion these days.' He shrugged. 'Nobody stands up for it any more.'
'That's so depressing.'
'What I was interested in producing the system didn't want.'
'But you'll make other things?' She was concerned.
He wanted to announce his failure, to proclaim it, almost as proof of his values; but Adela had rekindled some of his old pride and that warranted a more careful response than the bitter cry that the system had failed him, that he had gone bust, and it was all the fault of the philistines.
'I don't know.' He did, of course. 'There are other things I might want to do.'
'Oh please!'
'Television is no place for passion, you see. If you care about things passionately don't become a producer, because a producer is a mule of compromise. And compromise is all very nice for business, but it detaches you from what you love. And eventually love has little to do with it. You do the work, but without conviction.'
Michael pushed the stem of his wineglass along the cloth. Adela was listening carefully. He was feeding himself out to her and she was reeling him in.
'I've had an awakening here. Talking to Hilldyard makes me feel that up to now I've wasted my life. I've been struggling to idealise the process whereby something precious is simplified for public c
onsumption. I've turned what I love into career fodder. Become a dealer in the commodity of culture. I haven't contributed to culture. Intelligent Productions has diluted the arts. The arts can't be mediated via television or newspapers. They have to be encountered directly, one to one. The only authentic exchange. All the rest is background noise, the babble of other people's careers, colour-supplement verbiage.'
He frowned and sipped at his wine.
She seemed struck, almost disturbed.
'I knew that in being a producer I was losing my integrity. And if one wants to live according to some kind of self-truth I suppose it's inevitable that you become an artist.' He looked away. 'I've started writing. Nothing ambitious. Just to help make sense of things.'
He sipped at his wine again. He was sounding very earnest. Saying to somebody that you had started 'writing' was about as thrilling for them as declaring oneself vegetarian or Christian.
'What you say is very interesting.'
To Michael she looked more worried than interested.
She drew a strand of hair over her ear.
'Badly paid,' he said.
She looked at him with her green eyes, her features carved in seriousness. 'D'you mind if I tell you something?'
He was suddenly hooked on her parted lips, as if seeing them for the first time.
'You'd have been the ideal producer for this film.'
What held him was the depth of the upper lip, the way it adhered in the corners to her lower lip, two cushions meeting.
'You'd have been brilliant.'
A warm sensation spread through his chest.
'You're not wowed by Hollywood. I mean, you would have made the right decisions.'
Michael blinked, passed a hand across his mouth. He caught what she said; just. 'I've never made a feature film.'
'But that's your strength. You could walk away from all the bullshit. Oh, how frustrating!'
He wondered what to say. He could not share her view of him, though her faith was touching. He could only register the intensity of her disappointment.
'I hope that when you meet James you'll feel less frustrated.'
'Don't give up producing!'
'Right now my only concern is to work with Hilldyard.'
'You'll stay here?'
'For the time being.'
'Won't you be lonely?'
It was an odd question; it had never occurred to him.
'I feel less lonely now than I have in years.'
'Oh gosh.' She put her hands to her lips.
He smiled, raised his eyebrows.
'It's all so extraordinary,' she said.
'What?'
'Your incredible friendship.'
There was a note in her voice of warm-hearted envy, which made him realise how much she understood.
'Perhaps you should stay.' He was light. 'This place would do you good.'
'You could indoctrinate me. Cure me of my worldly ambitions.'
'I don't mean that. I could show you around a bit.'
'I'm serious. I'd give anything to stay. This is so much what I need.'
'Then stay.'
She shook her head.
The expression on Michael's face concealed his disappointment. 'You probably need a holiday.'
'I'm up for jobs on Thursday and Friday.'
'Come back afterwards.'
She frowned thoughtfully, and he wondered what she was reckoning. Her commitments were unknown to him.
'I don't know. There are things and things.'
'Don't let them get the better of you.'
She snorted. 'They always get the better of me.'
He had the apprehension suddenly that she was attached and that her warmth was the warmth of a woman on leave from a complicated and consuming relationship. She had glanced to the side, as if alluding to a certain aspect of her life, and the glance contained a fondness for that aspect.
He managed a half-smile.
'You could be my mentor, I suppose.' She was amused. 'I've lots to catch up on.'
He had found himself presuming that anyone so open, so interested in the progress of her life, would be unattached. She had spoken to him as if freshly created herself.
He was serious in response. 'What have you got to catch up on?'
'I've no personal philosophy. I haven't thought things through like you.'
'Then you must come back.'
'D'you do a crash course?' She laughed.
'That depends on the student.'
'Oh, I'd be a very good student.'
'Two weeks should do it.'
'You'd keep me company?'
'Of course.'
She raised her eyebrows in appreciative amusement. 'What an offer!'
He smiled. 'It would be nice for me.'
She stretched and inhaled, binding her arms tight behind the chair so her frock became breastful. 'Oh the life of the mind,' she hummed. 'All very tempting.' She straightened up to her full seated height, squaring her shoulders, in good posture. 'Shall we go for a walk?'
They paid the bill, rose from the table and made their way out of the restaurant on to a quiet road that ran in the direction of a belvedere under the muscled boughs of a eucalyptus tree. Adela seemed dreamy, taken by the smell of fallen leaves, the gated drives of monumental villas, the luxurious foliage around half-hidden hotels. She was happy to glide on the atmosphere, as if letting Capri into her system with the special openness of a person doomed to go home. She gazed up and across, stood under a tulip tree that rose in chapters of magnitude to a filigree summit against the sky and made sure Michael followed her gaze to the swaying silhouette of a bird that suddenly scattered itself with a screech from the upper branches.
Adela's behind view, the lilting shoulders, the falling arms, the horsey twitch of her frock fell on his eye with a musical smoothness, as though an extra sensuality accompanied vision. He could almost feel the dappled light running across the nape of her neck as she halted and turned, waiting for him to follow.
The path started to descend, and soon they were tripping off steps, gathering speed. Michael was drawn on by the desire to look beyond. Adela bumped along, hand grazing the rail, sharing his anticipation, as though they both wanted to make the discovery first. The path brought them out from under the trees to a railed promenade, and to a wide view of the sea and sky divided by an immense spire of rock.
They slow-motioned on to the promenade, the view hitting back on them until they stopped at the edge, palms on the rail.
'Excellent,' she breathed.
Behind them was a circular bench with a strawberry tree in its middle. After walking the promenade like the edge of a stage, Adela doubled-back to the bench. She sat there and slid down on to her back, hair spiralling over the wooden slats. She lay prone, one foot on the ground, one on the seat, and let the decorated leafy altitudes play on her eyes.
Soon Michael was by her side, sitting contemplatively, palms pressed together between his legs. Without moving he could see everything from the far horizon to the topsy-turvy features of her face. He could see the lineless dome of her forehead, the fine-stitched eyebrows, the lashes of shut eyes resting on a cheek. Her mouth was peacefully closed. She seemed to be listening to the birds and the breeze, almost unaware of him. He tried to claim his own concentration, to receive the spirit of the place and the moment, and not to disturb her reverie.
'Tell me,' she said presently. She twisted round, expelled hair from her face. She looked at him, wanting eye-contact. 'What did you think of that book?'
He frowned at the suddenness of the enquiry; it seemed to come at him from another side of things. 'Oh, I thought it was marvellous.'
She hesitated, pre-mouthing the words. 'What about the theory?'
'The theory?'
'The theory of love?'
He nodded.
'The lurv theory?' She hoiked an eyebrow. 'I mean . . . you know.' She sat up properly. 'The idea that true love is unimaginable until it happens, and that even if
you think you're in love with someone, it's always possible that real love will come along like a revelation, making you realise that everything else has been a kind of half-life.'
He looked at her.
'And that is your chance, and you have to take it. In fact, you have to realise it first. And if the chance passes by, that's it. You've missed the opportunity to be happy. The chance of a lifetime. Whoosh. Gone.' She was more than hypothetical, she was assertive.
He shifted his weight. The précis was interesting, and it was interesting that Adela should be so definite about reading the book in this way.
'D'you think that's true?'
He was not ready to venture an opinion. He smiled. 'I'm no great expert on lurv.'
She produced a bent-faced look. 'You've been in love, I hope?'
'I have been.'
'When?'
'When I was married.'
'You were married!'
'Not any more.'
She was utterly astonished, then amused by her astonishment, the suddenness of it, which raised her colouring.
'When was that? Sorry! D'you mind me asking?'
'Eight years ago.'
Adela's eyes were unblinkingly fascinated by the idea of Michael's marriage. 'You seem so unmarried!'
'I am.'
'I mean ever.'
He did not know what he seemed or how he seemed it. She was looking at him for more signs, her irises switching like searchlights over him. She leaned closer, collarbones against neckline.
'So what happened?'
Michael felt disorientated by the frankness of the question. He had no answer that was quite right for someone like Adela.
'You know, on a postage stamp.'
He looked at her lightly.
'Am I being nosy?'
'She was killed in a car crash.'
'Oh!'
'It's all right.'
He could see her embarrassment transforming into a complete readiness of sympathy that almost overflowed from her eyes.
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