Expo 58: A Novel

by Jonathan Coe

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Thomas, blushing with pleasure.

  ‘In the light of which, Mr Swaine and I are confident that we’ve reached the right decision.’

  After an expectant pause, Thomas said: ‘Decision, sir?’

  ‘Exactly. There’ve been a few changes in personnel back in London recently. Last week Tracepurcel was poached by the Foreign Office. It’s left us rather short-staffed and right now, we think we can make much better use of you back in Baker Street than here.’

  Thomas looked from one man to the other, panic beginning to seize him. It was obvious what Mr Cooke was trying to say, but somehow his brain refused to process the information.

  ‘We’re sending you home, Foley,’ Mr Cooke said, finally spelling it out. ‘At the end of the week. Back to the bosom of your family – where you belong.’

  Like a princess

  Dear Miss Hoskens, Thomas wrote.

  After considering the phrase for a few moments, he crossed it out and wrote Dear Anneke instead. Yes, that was better. Much more appropriate. He must try not to come across as cold. It was a frequent failing on his part, he knew.

  Dear Anneke, By the time you read this letter, I will probably have returned to London. My employers at the Central Office of Information have decided that there is not much more work for me to do at the Britannia, or at Expo 58.

  I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for all the . . .

  For all the what? Thomas laid down his notebook and looked around the cabin, his mind scrambling for inspiration. He was sitting up on one of the beds. It was Friday evening, and he was due to meet Emily at the Britannia in just over an hour. His flight from Brussels was booked for nine o’clock in the morning. It was his last night. Was it cowardly of him, in the first place, to say goodbye to Anneke in writing, rather than in person? Not really. His conscience was clear on this point. He would be sparing them both an awkward scene.

  I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for all the many happy hours I have spent in your company.

  Not bad. ‘Happy’ hours, though? Could he not improve upon that?

  Wonderful hours.

  Memorable hours.

  Hours of which I shall treasure the fondest memories for many years to come.

  Terrible. And to think that he earned his living by writing for the public!

  I do hope that if ever you get the opportunity to come to London . . .

  No, definitely not. There was no point in prolonging the agony. And besides, in his newly lovestruck state (because he was suddenly and hopelessly in love, Thomas realized, with all things American) he did not envisage living in London for very much longer. New horizons were beckoning.

  Best to keep the letter simple, and concise. But at the same time affectionate. After all, nothing much had really happened between them. The phrase he had used to Tony all those months ago – ‘serious friendship’ – still seemed a good way to describe it. He was sure that Anneke saw things the same way. The fleeting, charged moment of intimacy he had imagined between them last Saturday, as they had stood together in the buttercup field, must have been precisely that: the product of his own imagination.

  Thomas ran a finger between his neck and the collar of his shirt. It was getting devilishly hot. All week the atmosphere had been growing more humid, and it wouldn’t surprise him if there was a thunderstorm soon. Perhaps even tonight. In the meantime, wanting some fresh air, he took the wooden pole from the corner of his cabin and used it to open the skylight to its fullest extent. But it didn’t make much difference to the temperature.

  He picked up his notepad again and started writing. No point in agonizing over this letter any longer. He should treat it like any other piece of writing, composed to a deadline and targeted at a particular audience. He was experienced at this sort of thing. And besides, it was more important that he started to think about what he was going to say to Emily.

  Entering the Britannia that evening, Thomas realized that it was the last time he would ever set foot in the place. In two months’ time, when the Expo was over, it would cease to exist: at least, he assumed so. If there were any plans to preserve or relocate it, nobody had told him about them. He took a good look around the main saloon bar. It was crowded and noisy, as usual, and although most of the conversation was in English, he could make out at least three other languages being spoken at different tables. Mr Rossiter was behind the main bar, counting out change at the till while taking a none-too-surreptitious sip from the glass of whisky standing next to it. Shirley was doing her best to serve customers while reciprocating the attentions of Ed Longman, who never seemed to leave her alone these days. The scale model of the Britannia aeroplane was still suspended from the ceiling, threatening a knock on the head to anybody over six foot four who happened to pass beneath it. This had been Thomas’s home for the last four months but tonight he was conscious, more than ever before, of its evanescence, its strange fragility. How could his life have been changed so profoundly by experiences which had taken place inside what was, essentially, a mirage? A place which would shortly be closed down, dismantled and finally unmasked for the chimera it most certainly was?

  In the grip, once again, of the bizarre feeling that he was the only real person walking through a room thronged by ghosts, Thomas made straight for the bar, asked Shirley to prepare a couple of dry Martinis, and then managed to find a suitably secluded table for two in a corner near the main entrance. After only a few minutes, Emily appeared in the doorway and looked around for him. Thomas waved and beckoned and, as she came over, her face at once lit up by its habitual gleaming, immutable smile, he thought to himself: Well, she looks real enough. (Until he remembered, of course, that this was the same smile she turned on and off every day for the benefit of spectators to her faux-domestic activities at the American pavilion.)

  ‘There you are, darling,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek and pulling up her chair to sit close beside him. ‘I don’t suppose you had the foresight to order me a drink?’

  ‘I did indeed,’ said Thomas. ‘Shirley will bring it over in a moment.’

  ‘What an angel you are. I’m positively gasping for one.’ She settled herself more comfortably in her chair, and quickly launched into a long story about the party of West German scientists who had come to the pavilion that day, asking a series of increasingly technical and complicated questions about the motor that powered her vacuum cleaner, and had then got very offended when she insisted that she didn’t know the answers. ‘They ended up complaining to my supervisor,’ she said. ‘Honestly, it’s days like this that make me wish I was back in Manhattan. Even unemployment seems preferable, somehow.’

  ‘Have a cigarette,’ said Thomas. ‘It’ll help you relax.’

  ‘Thanks. You’re an angel. Did I say that before?’

  ‘You did. But it bears repetition.’

  As they were lighting their cigarettes, Shirley approached with a silver tray upon which two cocktail glasses were balanced.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘On the house, naturally, Mr Foley. You can drink as much as you like tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, Shirley, that’s very kind.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when Mr Rossiter told me you weren’t going to be here any more. The Britannia won’t be the same without you!’

  ‘What’s this?’ said Emily, turning to him sharply. ‘You’re leaving?’

  Thomas sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. The powers-that-be at the COI have given me my marching orders.’

  ‘But when?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  Thomas was very slightly deflated by the impact his words had on Emily. She seemed only to have half-absorbed them. Her eyes, for some reason, were following Shirley as she walked back to the bar with the silver tray.

  ‘So now you see,’ he continued, ‘why I was so anxious to have a
drink with you here tonight.’

  ‘Mm? Yes, quite. But this is shocking news, Thomas, quite shocking. Just when we were getting to know each other so well.’

  ‘I know. The timing is wretched, from that point of view.’

  ‘I shall miss you terribly, darling. I mean, the Lord knows, there are few enough friendly faces around here . . .’

  Thomas took a sip of his Martini, and stirred it thoughtfully with the olive on the end of his cocktail stick. He knew that he would have to choose his next words carefully: they were among the most important he would ever speak in his life. It was not just his personal happiness at stake – although that was certainly, at the moment, the consideration uppermost in his mind. But there was also the not entirely negligible matter of the job he was supposed to be doing for Mr Radford and Mr Wayne. He opened his mouth and was just about to speak when he realized that Emily’s eyes, once again, were elsewhere. Now she was watching Mr Longman as he left the Britannia and hurried away in the direction of the ornamental lake.

  ‘Miss Parker . . .’ he pressed on, regardless. ‘Emily . . . I wonder if our . . . friendship has now become so advanced, that I might ask you a question that might in other circumstances appear presumptuous?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Emily, turning towards him with her glossiest and most disarming smile. ‘I mean, I caught most of that but I’m not sure that I understood it. It sounded like something you might read in a Henry James novel.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps I could express myself . . . more directly. Very well. Last Saturday, on our little excursion –’

  ‘Which I enjoyed very much indeed.’

  ‘– I shared with you some small details about my personal life. I was wondering, now, if you might – well, reciprocate?’

  ‘Reciprocate?’

  ‘Yes. I was wondering if you might . . . Well, I shall put this as bluntly as I can, Miss Parker, and damn the consequences. What I wanted to know was – are you a free agent, as it were? Is there a man in your life?’

  But even now, it seemed, he did not have Emily’s full attention. She had spotted yet another familiar figure, who was on the point of sitting down at a nearby table by himself: Mr Chersky.

  ‘Oh look, Thomas, it’s Andrey!’

  She waved across at him, and called out a note of greeting. ‘Coo-ee! Mr Chersky!’ He looked up and gave them a smile and a politely questioning glance, in response to which Emily beckoned him over, only asking Thomas as an afterthought: ‘You won’t mind if he joins us, will you, darling?’

  He had not had time to answer before Mr Chersky was already approaching the table, beaming with pleasure at this unexpected encounter.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said, drawing up a chair. ‘Doesn’t this demonstrate all that is good about the British way of doing things? Isn’t this exactly what should happen when you walk into a British pub? The first thing you see is a couple of old friends. You’ll permit me to sit with you, I hope, for a few minutes?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Thomas, making the words sound as frosty as he could. ‘Would you care for a drink?’

  ‘Martini!’ said Andrey. ‘How very metropolitan and sophisticated you both are. Myself, as a man of the people, I have rather more proletarian tastes. I’m sure Shirley will bring me my usual, just as soon as she’s noticed I’ve arrived.’

  He turned towards the bar, and caught Shirley’s eye. She nodded back.

  ‘Now then, Thomas, what’s this I hear about you planning to desert us?’

  ‘How could you possibly know that?’ Emily asked. ‘He’s only just told me.’

  ‘Oh, news travels fast at Expo 58,’ said Andrey. ‘Especially important news like this. You’re leaving tomorrow, is that correct?’

  ‘Perfectly correct.’

  ‘Well, you will be sorely missed, I assure you. Your advice over the last few weeks has been invaluable, quite invaluable. I was just saying only the other day –’

  He broke off as Shirley returned to their table, carrying a pint of Britannia bitter and the inevitable packet of Smith’s crisps.

  ‘Miss Knott, you are the bringer of all that is good in my life,’ said Andrey, putting his arm around her waist. ‘Tell me that when the Expo is over, you will come back to Moscow to live with me as my wife, and devote yourself to my needs, supplying me with British delicacies on a silver platter whenever I ask for them.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Chersky! You’ll be the death of me, you will.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Andrey, picking up the crisps. ‘Is it just my imagination, or are these packets getting bigger?’

  ‘No, you’re quite right,’ said Shirley. ‘We’ve just had a special delivery in. These are the new jumbo-sized packets.’

  ‘Jumbo-sized!’ repeated Mr Chersky, marvelling. ‘Astonishing. And I thought that life could not possibly get any better. Isn’t there an English phrase, “Good things come in large packages”?’

  ‘Small packages,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Ah. Thank you.’

  ‘Well, just let me know if you need anything more,’ Shirley said to them all. ‘As I said, everything tonight is on the house.’

  Thomas watched her leave, and took another, disgruntled sip of his Martini. He was already annoyed that Andrey had joined their table, rupturing the blossoming mood of intimacy between himself and Emily. He was even more annoyed that Emily herself did not seem to mind; or, indeed, even seem to be aware that anything had been blossoming between them at all. But what happened next was even worse: subtly, but unmistakeably, Emily shifted her chair away from him and towards Mr Chersky. She turned in his direction, too. She was actually turning her back on Thomas! She was leaning in towards the handsome Russian, her chin cradled in her hands, smiling at him, looking directly into his eyes. Thomas could not believe what he was seeing or hearing.

  ‘Andrey,’ she was murmuring, with a quite uncharacteristic girlish pout, ‘I always thought it was me who was going to come to Moscow with you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘You didn’t take any of that seriously, did you? You know me by now. I’m a terrible flirt.’

  ‘Yes, but sometimes you mean it, and sometimes you don’t, and how’s a girl supposed to tell the difference?’

  ‘The difference,’ he answered, ‘is quite simple. When I say it to you, I mean it.’

  Emily blushed and giggled.

  ‘But then again,’ he continued, ‘in reality, you are the one who is teasing me. I know that you would never come with me. When you go home at the end of the Expo, you will forget all about me. The pull of your own country, and your own culture, is much too strong.’

  ‘Not true.’ Emily helped herself to a crisp and nibbled at it in a dreamy, preoccupied sort of way, her eyes still locked onto Andrey’s. Thomas looked on in disbelief. It was the first time he had seen a packet of crisps used as an instrument of seduction. ‘I’m dying to see your country. The wonderful buildings – Red Square, the Bolshoi Theatre, the Winter Palace at St Petersburg –’

  ‘Leningrad, please,’ Andrey corrected.

  ‘Of course, I know it’s not all like that. I know I probably have a romantic view of the place . . .’

  ‘Most Westerners have a view of it which is not romantic enough, in my view. We don’t all live in squalor.’

  ‘Really? Well, what about your apartment, for instance? Is it comfortable?’

  ‘I live very modestly, as befits my status as a humble worker in the newspaper industry.’

  Thomas snorted. Emily and Andrey turned to look at him, momentarily, then resumed their conversation.

  ‘Well, modest living has its virtues, of course,’ Emily said. ‘But personally, I think a little luxury doesn’t come amiss, every now and again – wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Up to a point,’ Andrey conceded. ‘Up to a point, yes, I would agree.’

  ‘For in
stance . . .’ said Emily. She glanced over her shoulder, to see if Thomas was listening; and since it was obvious that he was, she moved in even closer to Andrey, as if purposely to exclude Thomas from this particular exchange. ‘The accommodation they’ve found for me here is terribly shabby. So, do you know what I do, every so often, when it all begins to get me down?’

  ‘No,’ said Andrey, who seemed to grow more entranced by her with every second. ‘What do you do?’

  Emily took a handful of crisps and stuffed them into her mouth. Surprised, Andrey did the same.

  ‘Well . . . I get in touch with my father, and he wires me some money over from home, and I use it to . . . pamper myself.’

  ‘Pamper?’

  ‘Yes, I book myself into the Astoria Hotel – into one of the honeymoon suites, actually – and I run myself a hot bath, and I order myself some caviar and champagne from room service, and for a few hours, I live . . . like a princess.’

  ‘Like a princess . . . It sounds wonderful.’ He took another mouthful of crisps. ‘And you are all by yourself, when you do this?’

  ‘Yes. All alone,’ she said, thrusting her fingers into the packet again.

  ‘And when,’ said Andrey, finishing off the few remaining crisps, folding up the packet (as was his peculiar habit) and putting it into an inside pocket of his blazer, ‘when do you next plan to spoil yourself in this extravagant way?’

  ‘Tonight,’ said Emily. ‘In fact, I have the key to the honeymoon suite right here.’

  From her handbag she produced a key, attached to the heavy brass tag of an expensive hotel. She held it up and dangled it before Andrey’s eyes. Thomas looked on, his incredulity and outrage on the point of bursting forth in words when he was stopped short by a recognizably jovial English voice: