by Adele Geras
‘Five years ago. Well, a great deal’s happened since then.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Really?’ His father’s death just over two years ago, and now his mother’s, and all his fears for Lou. Her history with that ghastly Ray … no, Matt had no intention of going into any of that. ‘You don’t want to know about my life.’
‘Why not? I’m very fond of you, you know. We were married once, even if it was only for about five minutes.’
‘Indeed.’ He was still shocked by the brevity of their marriage. From meeting Ellie at a cocktail party hosted by his mother to her leaving the country with that frightful Italian couldn’t have been more than a couple of years. If he thought about it, he could transport himself to the night he’d met her. He’d never seen anyone like her before. If she was exotic now, in those days, more than twenty years ago, she’d lit up the room. She was twenty-nine then and he twenty-five, and the age difference had always been something that – well, there was no doubt it heightened the desire between them. Ellie liked younger men, and Matt wasn’t too disgustingly youthful. Eyebrows would have been raised if she’d latched on to an eighteen-year-old, but those four years! They allowed her to be the teacher, the one who instructed, the one who took the lead in sexual matters, even though Matt had already had several lovers by the time they met. It suited her to think of him as almost virginal. It suited them both for her to be the one who seduced, who demanded, who set the tempo. And he’d never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted to be wrapped around and swept away by her, absorbed into her.
The wind whipped Ellie’s scarf into her eyes, and Matt had a sudden vision of the first time he’d seen her naked. He heard her voice in his head: Come here, my sweet boy, come to me … and he had to stop for a moment and pretend that his shoelaces needed retying as a memory as sharp as a photograph came into his mind: Ellie holding out her arms to him, sighing as he came to her, opening her lips under his. He stood up, trying to collect himself. This was not the sort of thought he was supposed to be having. If Phyl knew … She’d looked a bit askance when he mentioned that he was going into Brighton to meet Ellie and had asked why she couldn’t come to the house.
‘It makes it obvious, doesn’t it, that it’s you she really wants to see,’ she said just before he left the house this morning. She couldn’t help an aggrieved note creeping into her voice, he noticed, even after so long.
‘She might want to talk to me about some legal matter,’ he’d told Phyl. ‘In fact I’m sure she does, but there’s nothing sinister about it, I promise. It’s Nessa, more than likely. Getting at me through her mother. She’ll be wanting to discuss the will.’
‘She could have come into the office, couldn’t she? If she didn’t want to see me, particularly. Or you might have mentioned that I’d asked everyone here to discuss things … She could even have come to dinner on Saturday, at a pinch.’
Matt sighed. ‘I’ve got to go. I had the impression she didn’t want to come to Haywards Heath.’
He’d left before Phyl could say another word, but now he wondered whether there might be something – well – something more personal in Ellie’s invitation. He let his mind return to the past.
In those days, he seemed older than he was. Constance used to tease him about never having been a proper rebellious teenager. Born middle-aged, she’d say, laughing, to her friends. He knew she thought of him as a stick-in-the-mud and hadn’t realized that this was a disguise, a protective colouration adopted at an early age to avoid trouble. Or maybe she had known. Maybe she’d always known that he was capable of passion. Maybe that was why she’d practically thrown him together with Ellie. Made the match …
He answered, a little belatedly and as casually as he could, the last remark his ex-wife had made.
‘I didn’t leave the marriage, you know,’ he said. ‘It was you, Ellie. Who knows – we might still be together, if it had been up to me.’
‘Oh, Mattie darling, I was bored to sobs – not with you but with the life. I wanted to travel, and Paolo promised me so much. He wasn’t a patch on you in bed, of course.’
She smiled and stopped, then turned to him. They were standing very close together. She took his face between both her hands and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
‘Don’t do that, Ellie. It makes me feel …’
‘Still? You surprise me. Aren’t you a happily married man?’
‘Of course I am. But let’s change the subject, shall we?’
‘Fine. I just wanted to ask you what might be done about the will.’
‘There aren’t any grounds for contesting it, but I do feel so bad for Lou—’
‘I know, but I don’t mean Lou, Matt. You must know that. It’s Nessa. What about her? She’s been done out of her share of the property, you know.’
‘She’s got her business, and a lovely house and Gareth is doing very well too, I believe. They’re … she’s not short of anything as far as I can see.’
‘She thinks Constance ought to have allowed Milthorpe to be sold and the proceeds divided …’
Matt was impatient. ‘She’s not the only one who thought that. Those were the original provisions, that the property be sold and the proceeds divided equally between me and the children. You don’t see me moaning on about being done out of my inheritance, do you? Nessa can’t really complain, Ellie. She’s in exactly the same position as I am and she’s not even a blood relation, though of course that sort of thing never worried Mother. But just look what she’s done to Lou. She’s gone and cut her out of the bloody will altogether. Everyone knows what she thought of Dad’s novels. I feel dreadful. Lou had such an awful time with that man she took up with. My only consolation is she didn’t marry him.’
‘D’you want to tell me about it? About him?’
Matt shook his head. Where would he begin? Even thinking about Lou’s time with Ray made him shiver.
‘No, you tell me about yourself, Ellie. How long will you be staying? There’s not much we’re going to be able to do about the will, you know.’
‘I’m buying a flat in town. A lovely conversion, two bedrooms, in Portland Place. Brighton Portland Place isn’t like the London one, of course, but I couldn’t resist the address. There, now you look more surprised than I’ve seen you look in your whole life. Why’s that, d’you suppose?’
‘Well, because. I don’t know, Ellie. I thought you were committed to never living in England.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. Abroad has come to be a bit …’ She paused, searching for the right word. ‘A bit tiresome. Wearing, even. I feel – well, I’ve got a grandchild now, you know.’
Matt smiled. ‘That wouldn’t cut any ice with the Ellie I remember.’
‘I’ve mellowed, perhaps. Is that out of the question?’
Yes, Matt wanted to say. Quite out of the question. As likely as a tiger turning vegetarian. He said instead, ‘If there’s anything I can do to help the sale along, just let me know, Ellie. It’ll be nice to have you as a sort of neighbour.’
‘Lovely, I know.’ She touched his hand briefly. ‘We’ll see one another so much more, won’t we?’
‘Of course we will.’ He was working out what he’d tell Phyl when Ellie spoke her name.
‘How’s Phyl?’
‘She’s fine. She likes being a granny. I like being a grandfather.’
Ellie smiled and Matt wondered what they could talk about now that they’d dealt with the will and also with Ellie’s plans. They’d arrived at a Starbucks. There was no one much about at this time of day on a Wednesday and they took a table in the window. Matt went to get two cappuccinos and, while they were being prepared, he watched Ellie settling down and arranging her scarf and jacket over the back of the chair.
‘I’ve got the hard part, you know,’ he said, when he returned. ‘After everyone’s made noises about Lou and the disinheritancel – God, if Constance were here, I’d strangle her – there are boxes and boxes of papers to go t
hrough. Mother hung on to everything, you know. Dad’s stuff too. I did ask her to give those boxes to me when he died, but she wanted them at Milthorpe for some reason. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, it’s my job to go through the lot now, but I’m so short of time. I thought I might ask Lou to help me. What do you think?’
‘Darling, why ask me? How do I know what’s best? Does Lou like sorting through old bumph? It would kill me, I think. I can’t imagine why anyone would keep ancient papers.’
Matt stirred the foam in his cup. ‘I never knew Dad had hoarded so much. Things from his childhood, all brown and falling to bits.’
‘Did he ever speak about his childhood?’
‘Well, no. He didn’t talk about anything much, to me. By the time I was born, he’d pretty much closed in on himself. What I remember is his black moods. The failure of his novels hit him hard, I think. Lou was the one he softened up for. Became a different man when she was born. Loved her more than anything.’
‘I thought his books were supposed to be very good. That’s what Constance told me.’
‘Oh, God, Ellie, she never read them! Mother likedma the idea of being married to a writer. She imagined Dad was going to be famous, but as soon as she saw that the odd good review was all it was – a few words in some of the stuffier papers and no money forthcoming – she gave up the idea of being a Muse and moving in literary circles.’
‘Shame. Constance would have run a very good salon, I think.’
Matt shook his head. ‘She wasn’t really interested in the books. Not as books, if you know what I mean. She was never much of a reader, as you know.’
‘Well, neither are you, are you?’
Matt frowned. ‘No, I’m not. Not of novels, anyway. I never could see the point of things that were made up – untrue. I don’t mind a good biography. Or history. I like that.’
‘Then you’re just the person to go through your father’s papers. Find out about the family history. But d’you think Louise will have the time to help you? Young children are so demanding.’
‘Possibly not. She couldn’t do it unless …’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless she and Poppy came home to live with me and Phyl for a while.’
‘Both of them? A baby in the house, at your age? You’d have to do the looking after, I promise you. Lou won’t want to stop work, will she?’
Matt sighed. ‘It’s not me, it’s Phyl. She’s got a bee in her bonnet. Lou’s work is only reading scripts and writing reports about them. She could do that equally well here.’ A vision of his daughter in London, sitting crouched over that too-small and rather rickety desk with his granddaughter in the little box room that was her nursery, made him sad and he shook his head to dispel the mood. ‘I don’t know what I think any longer.’
‘Then don’t. I’ve nearly finished my coffee. Let’s get another and pretend we’re young and foolish again.’
Was Ellie flirting with him? Matt went back to the counter, thinking about the implications of this, wondering how he ought to respond, and at the same time, imagining what Phyl would say if she knew. She’d always been jealous of Ellie and when he left the house this morning, he would have pooh-poohed the possibility of anything at all happening between himself and Ellie. But now … Pull yourself together, man, he told himself as he approached the table with the coffee. It’s just the way Ellie is, and always has been. It doesn’t mean a thing.
*
Cinnamon Hill Productions had its offices on two floors of a rather tall, thin house in one of the seedier streets behind Tottenham Court Road. Even so, Lou always started walking more quickly as she approached this rather unprepossessing place. She loved going to the office. She only did so when she had a script to discuss with Harry Lang, and wished she could go there every day to escape her four walls and sit in someone else’s space. Going to the office meant more to her than to most other people, she realized. It was a sign of many things. It showed, for instance, that she was a grown-up. This was something she had trouble believing and, okay, part of it was her age. She was only twenty-three, for God’s sake, which seemed to her not a bit grown-up and certainly far too young to be a mother.
She’d had fifteen months to get used to Poppy, but even now she felt a sickening plunge of pure fear when she reflected that she was in sole charge of a young child. From the moment her daughter was born, she’d been on a dizzying seesaw that moved between terror and elation. That had got a bit better, after the first few weeks. Nowadays, she knew how to bath, dress, feed and comfort her baby, but still, Poppy was often an enigma and Lou was constantly aware that she could spring surprises; that occasions could arise when she, Lou, would be at a complete loss and need to ask for help; when all the experts with their users’ manuals for mothers were worse than useless and she was left feeling hysterical and more often than not in tears.
I’m always so relieved when I drop her off at nursery on the three days she goes there – that must mean something, she told herself. It must mean I’m glad to be without her. How unnatural is that? She’d discussed this rush of pleasure with Margie, who pronounced it perfectly normal and assured her that everything would get a whole lot easier and better when Poppy could talk. Lou hoped she was right.
Working at Cinnamon Hill Productions also gave her a link, however tenuous, to the film industry. She was a part of it, even if only a tiny one. Films were Lou’s passion. It was difficult for her to go to the movies very often these days. The price of tickets and a babysitter was simply too much for her, but she hadn’t been able to say no to her father’s present of a DVD player and she would have gone without food in order to pay for her Amazon rentals.
The office was up a couple of flights of stairs that badly needed sweeping. The first thing you saw when you came in was a small, shared open-plan space where a couple of people worked at computers, sometimes getting up to use the photocopier. From time to time a phone would ring. Three small offices opened off this one. The Cinnamon Hill producers worked in a couple of these and the third belonged to the script development officer, which was Harry’s job description and sounded very grand. Upstairs, in what must once have been the attic, was the conference room, which sounded more impressive than it was. That was where meetings were held on the rare occasions when they involved more than three people. Lou had discovered that Harry was only five years older than she was and he was one of those people who looked even younger than his real age. It was quite surprising that high-powered producers took any notice of him at all, but he was, from the little Lou had gathered from chat in the office, very well respected. She knocked at Harry’s door and opened it a crack.
‘Harry? Can I come in?’
‘Hello, Lou! How’s things? What have you got for me?’
‘It’s this When the Deathbeast Awakens thing.’
‘Not one for us, you reckon?’
‘Don’t think it’s one for anyone. Here’s my report.’
‘You look a bit – I don’t know – a bit rough. Something wrong? Your baby okay?’
‘She’s fine. My grandmother died. I was at the funeral a couple of days ago …’
‘God, I’m sorry, Lou. Really. Were you close? Are you up to this? Deathbeasts and so on?’
‘I didn’t love her. She was a bitch … she …’ To her horror, Lou felt her lip trembling before she burst into tears. God, how could she be speaking like this of Constance, and to someone whom she hardly knew. Mortification at the very idea of breaking down at work made the tears come faster as she dug in the bottom of her bag for tissues. Harry jumped up and took a handkerchief out of his pocket. It was shiny white; the kind of white you saw only in ads. It was also ironed. Who had ironed hankies in their pocket? Didn’t men do tissues?
‘Take this, Lou. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be here, really. D’you want to go home? I can call you a cab.’
‘No!’ That came out too loud and desperate. Lou took a few deep breaths and blew her nose. ‘I’m okay. Truly. I don’
t know what … and your hankie. Thanks so much. I’ll wash it and give it back next time.’
‘Bugger hankies,’ Harry said, and opened the door. He spoke to Jeanette in the outer office. She doubled as a receptionist and did most of the photocopying and other menial work that cropped up around the office. Gofer should have been her job description, Lou thought. He was going to order coffee. Jeanette was chief coffee fetcher.
‘Can you get us a couple of lattes, Jeanette?’
Jeanette smiled at Harry and stood up at once. He added, ‘And pastries or croissants or something. Chelsea buns. Muffins. I don’t care, but sweet and filling, okay? Ta.’
Harry shut the door and went to sit behind his desk again. Lou looked at him and thought, as she’d often thought before, that he looked very much like a small boy stretched out into a tall, slim adult. He had light brown hair that flopped over his forehead; his glasses, square and tortoiseshell-rimmed, made his brown eyes look larger than they really were. He favoured denim and T-shirts or checked shirts and wore Timberland shoes. He seemed to spend most of his time seeing writers, chivvying and encouraging them, or talking to producers, and consulting with Lou about anything she thought might be worth developing. Mostly, Lou and Harry between them gave scripts the thumbs-down. Then poor Jeanette or one of the others had to feed them through the shredder. Now that so much was online, the days of addressing jiffy bags were almost over.
There was a tremendous amount of rubbish out there, Lou knew, and most of it seemed to be given to her to read and comment on. It was partly the knowledge that (given half a chance) she could produce something so much better than what she was reading for Harry that kept her own scriptwriting dreams alive. Ever since she’d realized that movies were written down first, like plays, she’d wanted to be the person who did work like that. She filled exercise book after exercise book all the way through her childhood, making up what she called film-words.
‘I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t sleep well last night. You quite often don’t, with a little kid in the house. And I’ve got to go down to my parents tomorrow. They’re having a family gathering to discuss my grandmother’s will.’ Lou pushed the hankie into her handbag.