Bright Stars

by Sophie Duffy

  I have to rub my eye, sniff back some snot. She hands me a napkin.

  It’s pointless blaming anyone.

  Is it? I do. I blame someone. I blame Tommo for what happened on that cold night in Lancashire, the wreck of our young lives strewn across a wet field, the lights of campus glowing in the distance, the stars bright above us.

  Christie excuses herself, says we’ll talk later, that she has a speech to give right now. I watch her walk away into the throng. With her $25,000 leg.

  ‘I came here as a child, some function or other, dragged along by my father to keep a colleague’s son company.’ Tommo is beside me, yellow-tipped fingers clasping an empty glass. ‘I must’ve been eleven, twelve, the other boy around the same age. The other boy liked football. Thought the Sex Pistols was a swearword.’ He takes a breath, lungs like a rain stick. ‘I slunk off once I’d scoffed enough food and tippled enough of the grown-ups’ booze. Explored the hotel, followed the sound of music, found a beast of a piano in the lobby, a smart man playing it. I stood up close to the smart man, mesmerised by his delicate girlish fingers flitting across the keys. The notes swarmed inside my head. Made me dizzy with a joy I couldn’t name. In a quiet moment the man let me sit alongside. He played ‘Bring me Sunshine’. A blissful few minutes when parts of my life connected and the world made some kind of sense.’

  ‘You couldn’t do that these days without a CRB check, a health and safety risk assessment and the parent or guardian’s written permission.’ I’m quite pleased with this retort, but Tommo fires me a dark look. He is on his way to being drunk, pilfers another glass from a passing tray, winking at a pretty red-haired waitress.

  ‘Where’s Bex?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s disappeared somewhere, hunting down Christie no doubt. She’s in a stonker of a mood, hates being late for anything. But we’re here now and in a couple of hours it’ll be over and I can crawl back to bed. All I can think about is sleep.’

  ‘All you can think about is sleep? Are you joking? What about Christie?’

  ‘Well, yeah, there is that. I do want to see her. But I don’t know if I have the energy.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man. You have to deal with this.’

  I leave him then, the sensitive soul, the middle-aged bairn, and seek out the pretty red-haired waitress with the wine. One more glass and I’ll be ready to carry on.

  Christie chinks a silver fork on a glass. * She waits till she has everyone’s attention, introduces herself – though

  everyone in the room must know who she is: the beautiful, clever Canadian businesswoman and philanthropist who also happens to have a prosthetic leg.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome and thank you for coming, especially on such a wet night. You Brits sure know how to welcome a girl.’ She does a Marilyn Monroe pout. * The audience respond with an exhalation of laughter. ‘I’m going to begin with a story, back in 1968, the year I was born. The year everyone was smoking pot.’ Another rumble of laughter. ‘And the year my mom and dad decided to go into the wine business.’

  She asks for the lights to be dimmed, presses the button on the remote in her hand. There, on two large screens, is the landscape of her home. Wide open skies, like that bit at the end of every episode of Little House on the Prairie where the Ingalls girls run down the hill through the meadow grass. Only here, the landscape is flatter and vines stretch into the distance, as far as you can see. And there is her father, the man I never met, the big bear of a Canadian. He talks about the pioneering spirit of the Canadian wine industry back in the day, and I notice Christie dab at her eye with a napkin. A daddy’s girl if ever there was one.

  The video is holding the audience’s attention. Reporters scribble notes in books, on iPhones and tablets. The video finishes. The lights are back on.

  She shuts her eyes briefly, opens them again. ‘This Icewine is going to be sold in Fortnum and Mason’s. It is going to be served by white-gloved sommeliers in Claridge’s, the Savoy, here in the Ritz. This is going to work.’ She holds the gaze of her audience, the press, the wine critics, the vintners and buyers, us.

  She opens a bottle of Icewine, a tall thin bottle, pours a glass, slowly, for dramatic effect, demonstrates how to drink it, how to hold it in your mouth for seven seconds, to savour it, to let the flavours dance on your tongue, to let it roll all around, and then swallow.

  ‘This is Niagara liquid gold. No spitting allowed.’ Then she instructs the waiting staff to go ahead and serve. ‘Bottoms up.’

  There is a rousing round of applause and she beams a smile. But she is clutching her glass so tight, I worry it will smash into a thousand pieces in her hand.

  I see the others and make my way through the throng to join them.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ I ask.

  ‘Banging,’ Tommo says.

  ‘Lush,’ Loulou says.

  ‘All right,’ Ethan says.

  Bex says nothing. Her eyes are elsewhere.

  I turn to follow the direction of her stare and there she is, Christie, approaching us, nearing us, standing, standing before us with that smile.

  She kisses Bex on both cheeks, European for the moment.

  ‘Congratulations, Christie,’ Bex says. ‘That was really excellent.’ The words sound empty, hollow, as if she’s making them up.

  ‘Glad you could be a part of this special night.’ Christie’s words seem sincere, genuine, from the lips of a true Canadian. She turns to Tommo. They kiss awkwardly. ‘What do ya think of the wine?’

  ‘Bloody great,’ he says. ‘I’m sure it’ll go down well over here.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ Christie looks pleased, relieved even. ‘So these are your kids, right?’

  ‘Yep, Loulou and Ethan,’ Bex introduces them.

  They shake hands, are surprisingly charming.

  ‘Listen you two I was given these tickets,’ Christie says. ‘Do ya wanna go to the movies up there in Leicester Square? I’m not exactly able to go tonight. This must be kind of boring for you guys.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bex says. ‘I mean that’s very thoughtful. But they’ll be fine here.’

  ‘How about I give them to you anyways.’ Christie reaches for her handbag and produces them, checks the time. ‘The showing’s in a half hour so you don’t have long.’

  ‘Can we, Mum? I really want to see this film. Don’t you, Ethan?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘They’ll be fine, Rebecca,’ says Tommo, a grimness in his voice, a shiny shroud of sweat across his brow.

  ‘Come back as soon as it’s finished. We’ll be in the suite but, if not, you know the number, don’t you?’

  ‘Stop fussing, Mother.’ Loulou accepts the tickets and pulls her brother away before Bex changes her mind. ‘Thanks, Christie,’ she shouts over her shoulder.

  Christie shakes her head. ‘Geez, have I got this to look forward to?’

  ‘How old’s your daughter?’ Bex asks.

  ‘Mallory’s six.’

  ‘It’s just round the corner, then. Though to be honest, Lou’s always been spirited.’

  ‘I guess there’s nothing wrong with being spirited. We should know that.’ A smile flutters between them, delicate as butterfly wings.

  Christie offers us more wine, hails a waiter who tops up our glasses.

  ‘So do you mind if I ask you a question?’ Bex looks at Christie.

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  ‘Why did you invite us? I mean, it’s like one of those films when people are summoned and you’re waiting for some big secret to be revealed.’

  ‘A big secret? Do you know something I don’t know?’ Christie flicks her hair, whispers to her assistant who is hovering proprietorially nearby. With a minute gesture, something Christie does with her hand, the assistant leaves them alone.

  ‘You look amazing,’ Bex says. ‘You’d never know.’

  ‘Never know?’

  ‘Your leg.’

  This is awkward. Really awkward
but Bex presses on, Tommo and I watching, listening, silent. An inappropriate expression comes to mind: a car crash. I have a sip of wine to make sure I don’t say it out loud.

  ‘I so wanted to see you that night at the hospital. But they wouldn’t let me.’ Bex’s face is flushed, her voice wobbly with emotion. ‘They wouldn’t let any of us. And then Cameron was arrested and it all got muddled.’ She shakes her head like there’s something stuck in there she wants to shift. ‘I’m sorry we never got to… say goodbye, I suppose.’

  ‘Too bad it all had to end like that.’

  ‘Too bad?’ Bex’s eyes widen, the spider-leg lashes flicker. ‘That’s an understatement.’

  ‘I guess,’ Christie says. ‘To be honest I don’t remember much at all from that night. There was the inn, the pub, in that country village. I remember I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to get back to my room on campus, especially when I saw Richard.’

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘The professor.’ Christie wipes a finger across her brow, to move a stray strand of hair. Perfect hair. Perfect brow. Botox? ‘He’s here tonight actually. You remember him, Cameron?’ She turns to me. They all turn to me.

  ‘I remember him. I think we all remember him, banging on the car window, scaring you witless.’ Her tutor. Someone else’s husband. ‘He came to see me in the hospital room,’ I go on. ‘He was kind. He smelt of pipe smoke. Said he’d called your parents.’

  ‘He did? That was him?’

  ‘He wasn’t the only visitor I had that evening.’ I look at Bex. Everyone wanted a piece of me.

  ‘Everyone wanted a piece of you?’ Christie looks confused. They all look confused.

  ‘Did I speak out loud again?’

  They nod.

  ‘Ignore me.’

  They ignore me.

  ‘I lost a big piece of me that night. Back in that bright yellow crappy car.’

  Christie has said it. The leg. It’s out there, so to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. And I am sorry. Of course I’m bloody sorry. But there are others who should be more sorry, while I am maintaining this thirty year long charade.

  ‘You get through it,’ Christie says. ‘My parents were amazing,’ Christie says. ‘I had the best care and I still do,’ Christie says.’ And she lifts the hem of her silk dress and we stare, the three of us stare.

  I have to pull back, restrain myself from reaching out to touch it.

  ‘It looks incredible,’ Bex says. ‘You’d never know.’

  ‘It made me rely on myself, not my body.’ She is wistful for a moment. ‘It’s still pretty awesome though, eh?’ Then she laughs that raucous Christie laugh.

  ‘Yeah, it’s pretty awesome,’ Tommo says.

  We all nod in agreement. It’s pretty awesome. Idiotic puppets.

  I’m light-headed. The room is stuffy. The oil-painted bigwigs on the wall leer at me, the Hoorah Henries in their London finery swim around me.

  Bex pulls at the fabric of her dress where it clings to her middle.

  Tommo launches on a coughing spree.

  I take my chance and go for it: ‘Why didn’t you pursue me? Through the courts? For money, for compensation? Why did you walk away – oh God, sorry.’

  Christie smiles. ‘No problem.’ She looks towards the carpet, then back up at me. She might not have been expecting this honesty off us Brits, so soon in our re-acquaintance, but nothing fazes Christie. ‘Why would I do that?’ she asks. ‘We knew you were going to be prosecuted. I knew you didn’t do anything on purpose. I told my parents I wanted nothing to do with it. I wouldn’t give evidence. I couldn’t remember anything. And I knew you, Bex and Tommo would tell the truth.’

  I feel nauseous. The rich, sweet, pungent wine. The knowledge I am here with Christie while a big secret stokes inside me like the worst heartburn, a malignant tumour.

  I lied in court. I said I was driving. I said I was guilty. Tommo and Bex backed this up with their statements. We lied. We could tell Christie now, but we won’t. And guilt? Guilt is far worse than perjury. Guilt is a life sentence. Tommo, Bex and I, we all know that. We’ve lived through that night every night. Over and over and over.

  Tommo has knocked back another drink and his cough is a background phlegm-fest as he speaks, falters, tries again. ‘It’s going well tonight,’ he manages. ‘I had a brief chat with this guy from the FT and he was raving.’

  ‘Oh right,’ Christie says. ‘I guess I better go find him. Where is he?’

  Tommo points him out and Christie heads straight there, leaving us with an enigmatic glance over her shoulder. Tommo starts to cough again. The bright lights burn my eyes. I want to go home.

  ‘Nice wine,’ Tommo says. ‘But I could do with a cold pint of Kronenbourg. Do excuse me.’ And he bows and disappears into the crowd.

  ‘What do you reckon to all that?’ Bex says. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Am I okay? Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because this must be a strain for you.’

  ‘It’s a strain for all of us.’ I hear myself snap at her, the last thing I want to do, but I’m halfway to being drunk, my head woolly, like one of my gran’s jumpers is stuffed inside it, the yarn unravelling and tangling and I know I should stop drinking now. Concentrate. I have to get through this evening but I have this sensation, almost euphoria; I have this power in my hands but I don’t know what to do with it because my knitted brain won’t tell me.

  ‘Cameron? You look pale.’

  ‘I’m a Scot. A lack of sun and an absence of vitamins.’

  ‘Don’t make fun of yourself. Don’t let Tommo get to you.’

  ‘I can handle Tommo.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t do anything stupid. It’s you I worry about, still with him after all these years.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?

  ‘Nothing. It’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Exactly. Concentrate on your own failing relationship. Ask yourself why Amanda’s walked out on you.’

  With that, I walk away from Bex. I leave her stranded in the room because I cannot bear to be so near to her and for it not to be okay.

  I felt it just then, the four of us together again. I felt this energy crawl inside me, twist around and threaten to rupture. But I must contain it for now. I’ve waited for this without knowing I’ve waited for this. So I can wait a wee bit longer.

  I must watch Tommo. I don’t want him walking away from me again. The last time I saw him was in that stinking visiting room, Tommo sitting opposite me, a table between us, the Berlin wall. He moaned about his crappy job in a crappy office as if he deserved sympathy. As if I’d just swapped shifts with him, not put my life on the line. There were hard men in that place. I could’ve had my throat slit, my head bashed in. But I scraped through, made it to the other side, avoided the cracks, the spiders, the bogeymen.

  Apart from that first night, when I slipped in the shower. Bex saw the bruise on the side of my face when she came to visit a few days later. What have they done to you? Her eyes were filled with concern. I told her what they all said and she shook her head because she knew. Or she thought she knew. And maybe I didn’t salve her conscience when I could’ve done. I might have done this for her, this whole going to prison business, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want her to worry about me.

  ‘Cameron, isn’t it?’

  I stop, look round, see an old man sitting in a chair to the side of the room. A slightly worn suit, shiny cuffs and thin knees. A fine head of snow-white hair. Glasses. ‘Do we know each other?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say “know”, not in a deep sense. But our paths have crossed.’

  ‘They have? I’m afraid I don’t remember. Did we work together?’

  ‘I was one of your lecturers.’

  ‘Aye, of course. Dr Grey, is it?’

  ‘Professor Grey now actually. Ms Armstrong thought I might like to see the fruits of her Marketing degree.’

  T
he lecturer. The one with the wife and kids. The one who gave Christie more than good grades. The one who was sitting in the pub with a pipe and a paper. The face that stared like a mad man through the car window. An old man for real now.

  Does he still have a wife? Do his children love him?

  ‘I’m so very pleased it turned out rather well for her. After the tragedy of that night.’

  ‘Aye, a tragic night.’ I’m worried I sound like Fraser in Dad’s Army. We’re all doomed. Maybe we are all doomed. We can all be doomed together.

  ‘I came to see you in the Infirmary.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I came to see you in the hospital that night. I had to creep about because I didn’t want the police asking me questions.’

  ‘I don’t remember much from that night.’

  ‘The human brain is a remarkable thing.’

  I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. In fact he goes off on a tangent, like a teenager, like a toddler.

  ‘I’m sorry you went to prison but I assume that’s all behind you now. I don’t suppose you’d be here otherwise.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I would, no.’ I want to make my excuses. I want to get away from this old man. But I can’t do it.

  ‘I also assume money changed hands?’ he goes on. ‘From Ptolemy’s family, no doubt. I know they were well-to-do. I know yours wasn’t.’

  The room tips a little. I might just slide with it, slide and fall over. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I was first on the scene in my car. I raised the alarm.’

  ‘That was you?’

  ‘It was.’ He takes a small sip of his Icewine, holds it in his mouth as Christie demonstrated, then swallows. ‘As soon as the first ambulance arrived, I slipped away. You see I’d drunk rather a lot. Like your friend.’

  ‘He was never my friend.’

  He waits for me to elaborate. I don’t.

  ‘I also saw Ms Stone in the Infirmary. I told her I’d contacted Christie’s parents. She was the saddest picture I have ever seen. I’ve never forgotten that.’

  ‘Then I did the right thing?’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ he says.

  I don’t have a chance to delve further into this because my phone rings out. It’s Dad.