The venue was the top room of a pub in Stoke Newington, the start time an innocent six p.m. Family-friendly, the invite had said. I met Helen in a bar across the road so that we could revise.
‘Who was the guy who played Friar Laurence?’ said Helen. ‘Always crying.’
‘Keith something.’
‘And those musicians?’
‘Sam and …’
‘Go on.’
‘Grace!’
‘How come you remember all this, Charlie?’
‘I just do.’
‘You know who won’t be there?’ said Helen. ‘Polly and Bernard.’
‘They’re not …?’
‘Yep. Both of them.’
‘When?’
‘Bernard died years ago, Polly earlier this year.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Facebook.’
‘Oh, Christ. Polly and Bernard.’
‘She was nearly ninety, it’s not a surprise.’
‘I know. Still, people get fixed, don’t they, in your mind. Bernard I don’t think I ever spoke to, but Polly – she was always nice to me. Nearly always. I lost my virginity in Polly’s cottage.’
‘Yes. I know this.’
‘Oh God. Poor Polly. Lousy actress, lovely woman.’
‘They could put that on her tombstone. Along with your virginity thing.’
‘Poor Polly.’ We touched our glasses together. ‘I feel sad now.’
‘We could stay here.’
‘No, come on. We’ve come this far.’
And so we drained our drinks and crossed the road, trotted up the narrow stairs to the function room, made our big entrance and recognised no one. The cast of Macbeth was there, the As You Like It gang, the Midsummer Night’s Dream crews (both of them), laughing and telling stories, but from Romeo and Juliet, not one familiar face.
‘Okay, let’s leave.’
‘Five minutes,’ I said. ‘Then we can go.’
To look less lonely, we stood in front of a noticeboard of old black-and-white production photos.
‘Maybe they forgot the camera our year.’
‘There’s Miles,’ I said. ‘So I think that’s the back of my head,’ I added.
‘A much-treasured company member.’
‘I was! I carried that show.’
‘And yet almost entirely absent,’ said Helen, laughing, and I wondered if this was the great peril of reunions: the discovery that we aren’t as essential to other people’s memories as they are to ours.
This could not be said of Polly, and another pinboard was given over to her old acting head-shots from the sixties, hair cropped, kohl-eyed, pure Carnaby Street, and photos of her varied roles and similar expressions, eyes and mouth always open to their full extent. After a while, we were joined by someone who looked like Colin Smart’s dad and who turned out to be Colin Smart. ‘Look how much I’ve grown!’ he said, though he had not grown. We chatted for a while, threw names around and I tried hard to concentrate and not to scan the room over his shoulder. Had I expected something wilder, a last-night party? There were children here, eating crisps at the buffet table, and at the bar I found myself standing next to Lucy Tran, a paediatrician now, brisk and pleasant and funny until talk turned to our old school. Did I still see Lloyd or Harper or that lot?
‘No, not for years. You know how it is. We grew apart.’
‘Good! Good news. They made my life a misery, those boys. Little shits.’
‘Yes, they could be mean.’
‘So could you, Charlie. You weren’t as bad, but you never stood up to them.’
‘No, that’s true. I think about that sometimes. I apologise.’
‘Yes. Well. You got better.’
‘Did I? Christ, I hope so.’
‘Did you ever get my message?’
‘What message?’
‘I wrote it on your school shirt. Last day of school.’
‘I did. “You made me cry”.’
‘Well you did.’
‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’ Some time passed. ‘Anyway …’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘Seen who?’
‘Well, you didn’t come here to see me.’
‘No, I just presumed she wasn’t coming.’
‘Oh, she’s here. She’s sitting down somewhere. Look – over there.’
And through a gap in the crowd, I saw her on a chair by the window, one hand resting on the bulge of her pregnant stomach, talking intently to one of the children, a girl, ten years old, who could only be her daughter. As I watched, she reached over and tucked the girl’s hair behind her ear.
‘Aw, your face,’ laughed Lucy. ‘What was it? Oh she doth teach the torches to burn bright …’ She patted my arm. ‘Good luck!’
Fran Fisher laughed at something the girl had said, then sent her off and, in doing so, saw me. She laughed again and opened her eyes wide, clapping both hands to her face. Through gaps in the crowd we made a series of garbled gestures – Look at you! Why are we here? Talk soon. Five minutes? Come find me – and then Colin Smart was there, embracing her over her bump and I stood alone for some time, strangely breathless and unsure of what to do.
‘Hey there!’ A hand was on my elbow. ‘You all right?’
‘George!’ I said, and we performed a little dance, half-handshake, half-hug.
‘Seen a ghost?’
‘Nothing but ghosts.’
‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ said George. ‘We thought about not coming.’
‘It is weird,’ I said.
And I thought, ‘we’?
‘I saw Helen. Isn’t Helen great?’
‘She is great.’
‘Have you spoken to …?’
‘No.’
‘I know she’ll want to speak to you.’
And I thought, how do you know?
‘You look good, Charlie.’
‘You too, George.’
He did look better, healthy and assured, though even without glasses he still retained that blinking, surprised quality, as if woken by a bright light. ‘Contact lenses and no dairy.’ With the old gesture, he put his hand to his face. ‘Skin should clear up any day now.’
‘Your skin looks fine.’
‘Yes, people have been telling me that for twenty-five years.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. It’s fine.’
‘So. What else, George?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Tell me everything that’s happened in the last twenty years.’
He didn’t tell me everything, but enough.
Last Love Story
George Pearce went to Cambridge, as planned. One tangible legacy of Full Fathom Five was an interest in Shakespeare, the Elizabethans and Jacobeans, and after graduating with a first he took his MA, then his PhD. He steered clear of acting – too many Miles-es involved in that game – and Shakespeare too, because what was left to say? Instead, he specialised in Jacobean playwrights, their grisly tragedies and confusing comedies, and when a London company put on a production of Webster’s The White Devil, he was asked to talk to the cast about the play. There, in the back row, grinning broadly, playing the role of Lady-in-Waiting, was Fran Fisher.
It was all he could do to speak in proper sentences, and afterwards they embraced and went for coffee to catch up and talk about old times. Fran was married to another actor, a wild, impulsive move on a long world tour because ‘you’ve got to fill the days somehow’. That was five years ago, and now they had a daughter, Grace, two years old. Coffee turned to wine and Fran began to drop dark hints about the marriage – the husband was a drinker, a possible philanderer, irresponsible, stupidly handsome and handsomely stupid. But she loved him and loved being a parent, and thought they could stay together, thought they could survive, if he sorted himself out. She was going to give up acting, though. She was nearly thirty and was never going to make it, not in a way that would ever make her happy. Doing all those plays
as a kid was one thing, but now it made her feel silly and powerless, and one actor in the family was enough.
‘Our scene in Romeo and Juliet, d’you remember?’
‘You were good in that.’
‘We both were, George. Frankly, it was all downhill after that.’
They said goodbye on Waterloo Bridge, exchanged details and promised to keep in touch and George Pearce walked away, furious and elated. His great first love was his great unrequited love and also his only love, a combination that can derail a life entirely, and it was maddening – in the sense that it might send him mad – to see her like this. He had her number but he would not call it. What was the point? He was no Paris, throwing his dignity, his life, away on someone who would not and could not love him back.
He changed jobs and moved, coincidentally, to London. Met a girl, moved in, broke up, moved out, and five years passed. One Friday he was invited to a dinner party; a woman would be there, a French translator, single mum. He didn’t want to go, of course, thought he’d stay at home and read, but the friend insisted and …
God, I don’t know, I listened, but I couldn’t really take it in. What did I feel? Jealousy? Not precisely. Of course I knew that there’d be others, some mistakes and some that she’d cut out in little stars, and it would require a sourer heart than mine to resent George’s obvious happiness, his glee, doting on the stepdaughter who had joined us now, hanging from his arm.
‘Grace, this man here,’ he told the girl, ‘used to know your mum when she played Juliet.’ Grace looked indifferent and I felt the pompous indignation of the ex-boyfriend. Has she not spoken about me? Do you have any idea who I AM? ‘Charlie and your mum were very close,’ said George. ‘Of course, I was furious about it.’
Was I furious in return? Hardly. There was a kind of sense to it; they’d always made each other laugh and I was pleased that George had shaken off that persecuted air, was happy and successful and in love. Someone who I liked very much was with someone who I’d loved. Good news!
Still, I was silent for a while and perhaps it was envy, not of the fact of Fran and George, but of their story. It was a good story, a better story than mine; it made sense and ended in the right way, which is to say that it didn’t end at all. Even after all these years without seeing them, I knew that they would be happy together and once Grace had gone, I put my hand on his shoulder, squeezed it hard and tried to express this.
‘George, you bastard.’
He laughed, a little nervously. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it? I can see that it’s weird.’
‘No, it’s very … romantic.’
‘And what a truly terrible word that is. Well, if it’s any consolation, it’s pretty loveless. Isn’t that right, Fran?’
‘It’s true,’ said Fran, appearing at his side. ‘It is grim.’
‘Hello, Fran.’ I leant over the bulge, tapped her cheek with mine.
‘Come with me,’ she said, taking my hand. ‘And I’ll tell you all about the dark side.’
Pleasure
The pub had a roof that overlooked the terraced gardens of Stoke Newington, the air misty with fog and Sunday-night stove fires. Crates of empty bottles, a rusting barbecue, tropical palms turning brown. ‘Are we even meant to be up here?’ she said, looking for somewhere dry to sit.
‘Doesn’t look like it. Do you want to go back down?’
‘If we go down, people will talk to us.’
We sat on an old bench damp enough to soak through our overcoats and, just as when we’d first met, took it in turns to summarise great chunks of time. I was more inclined to answer questions now than at sixteen, and it seemed that she knew something of what I’d been doing, though I didn’t ask how.
‘You’re doing well.’
‘Not bad, for the moment.’
‘Well, I’m pleased but not surprised. I knew you’d find something,’ she said and placed her hand on the bulge of her stomach.
‘How long now?’
‘Three weeks to go.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘A boy.’
‘Name?’
‘We’re calling him … well, the fact is we’re calling him Charlie.’
Not really, she said and laughed, said they’d not decided, though Charlie was a nice name. I asked, how had she been? In general, she’d been quite unhappy, she said, which had surprised her. An accidental marriage, a thwarted career, worries over money. ‘My twenties – they were brutal. I thought that would be my time. I had all these hopes and expectations of how it was going to be, like a party that you think about and plan what you’re going to wear, clothes all laid out, and how you’re going to behave. Then you turn up and the people aren’t nice, the music’s terrible, you keep saying the wrong thing …’
‘Mine was the same, except I was off my face for most of it.’
‘Well, there was a bit of that too, with this lunatic – I got married, did George tell you? Some couples, you know how they get drunk and go and get tattoos together? Well, we got married. Christ, what was I thinking? If we’d got tattoos at least they’d have lasted. We argued once – this was when I knew I’d made a mistake – about whether seahorses were related to horses. You know, on a genetic level. “Frances, I just refuse to accept that it’s a coincidence!” That’s a very good impression, by the way.’
‘Uncanny.’
‘All my best impressions are of people no one knows. I shouldn’t be mean about him, he was charming and handsome and he’s still Grace’s dad, but basically he was an idiot. My parents, oh man, my parents hated him.’
‘More than me?’
‘They never hated you! My mum loved you. She said she caught you throwing little stones up at my window once. She said it was the most romantic thing she’d ever seen.’
‘I remember that. At the time she looked pissed off.’
‘Well, now she thinks it was very charming.’
‘And how do they feel about George?’
‘Oh, George is a doll. George can do no wrong.’
‘George Pearce, eh?’
‘Professor George Pearce. Now he knows the difference between a horse and a seahorse.’
‘No dark side then.’
‘The worst thing he does – if he’s in a restaurant and we’ve finished eating, he starts to clear the table. Scraping the leftovers, stacking the plates. He’d load the dishwasher if he could, it’s really maddening.’
‘Well if that’s the worst thing …’
‘Exactly. I’m much happier now. Found a job I wanted to do, found someone I wanted to be with. He was worried about you coming, you know.’
‘Was he?’
‘He wondered how you might take it. He thought that you might lash out.’
‘Twenty years ago, I would have.’
‘Or some old spark would reignite and we’d elope.’
‘Well, that is why I’m here.’
She laughed. ‘What does it say on the box? “Don’t return to the firework once lit.”’
‘There’s got to be a time limit though, hasn’t there?’
‘I think twenty years is long enough.’
‘Twenty years is safe,’ I said, but a thought had occurred to me, paranoid I knew, but still I had to ask. ‘Hey, you didn’t … like George back then, did you?’
‘When we did the play? ’Course not.’ She took my hand. ‘I was in love with you, wasn’t I?’
‘Well, you too.’
‘I mean you must have noticed?’
‘I did.’
‘I loved you a lot, and I mean a lot.’
‘Well, the same.’
‘Which doesn’t happen often, believe me.’
‘No. I’m sorry it ended badly.’
‘Was it bad? It was painful, but not bad.’
‘All that shouting in shopping centres.’
‘I suppose so. But I think if it ends amicably, it probably should have stayed amicable in the first place. If you can give it up without a fight … Anyw
ay, we were seventeen. Different people.’
‘Entirely.’
Somehow we were holding hands now, sitting in silence, and I found myself wishing we could sit opposite each other so that I could look at her, rather than steal glances, take in the old laughter lines etched a little deeper around her eyes, new lines bracketing her mouth like the indentation of thumbnails in clay, the small raised seam in her lower lip, the chip in her tooth like the folded corner of a page. She tucked her hair behind her ear, turned and smiled.
‘Your tooth!’ I said, without thinking.
‘What?’
‘I remember you used to have this little chip on your front tooth.’
‘Oh, that!’ She bit her thumb to display the tooth. ‘I had it filled. Not vanity – my agent said it was stopping me getting commercial work. Turned out that wasn’t the problem after all.’
‘It’s a shame. I liked it.’
‘I’ve had some fillings, if that’s any consolation,’ she said, hooking her finger into her mouth.
‘That’s okay.’
A moment, then: ‘At these things, when people say “You haven’t changed a bit,” even if it were true, are you meant to be pleased?’
‘I think it means “You don’t look any worse”.’
‘But you look much better,’ she said.
‘In middle age?’
‘Are we middle-aged?’
‘The borders.’
‘Well it suits you, Charlie, you look good.’
‘Please don’t say I’ve “filled out”.’
‘Yes, what does that even mean?’
‘It means fatter.’
‘It’s not that. No, your face, you’ve grown into it, like you’ve … grown up to meet it.’
‘Well, you look great. Glowing, is that what people say?’
‘Blood pressure and rage. Bigger hips too. That’s babies for you. You don’t have any?’
‘Kids? No. We’d like them. I mean desperately. We’re trying – I think that’s the phrase. I mean really trying.’
Sweet Sorrow Page 36