by M. M. Mayle
“I was thinkin’ about trying out your gym, actually.”
“My home gym? The one in my house where you wouldn’t stay for fear of being too closely monitored? That gym?
“Yeh, that would be the one.”
“And now that Laurel’s left her scent there, my place is no longer off limits. I can suppose it’s been sanctified.”
Before Colin can snarl a response, Bemus comes in followed by room service with breakfast. Hot food and drink blunt some of the sharper conversational edges, and while a third party is seated at the table, topics remain neutral. The minute Bemus finishes his breakfast and heads back to his own quarters, Nate nimbly sidesteps the subject left hanging earlier by asking about Simon.
“I should pay him a visit one of these days or he’ll grow up without knowing I’m his unofficial godfather.”
“You might want to do that, actually. He’s been more alert and responsive lately. They tell me he was quite animated when Laurel read one of my nonsense rhymes to him yesterday.”
“I hear she talked to Anthony, too. Running her by the kids for approval?”
“What if I was? What the fuck is it to you?”
“Nothing. Just doing my job, looking after your best interests.”
“If you’re so bloody concerned about my best interests, where were you when considerable shit hit the fan?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, but I will say it was in service to you—which is beginning to look like a losing proposition because no matter how I go about it, I get complaints.”
“What complaints?”
“Jesus, Colin, can you hear yourself? You just implied that I should have been on hand when you mixed it up with the photographer and presumably should have been there for the fallout following that fuckup. And if I had been there to intercede, you know what would have gone down? Do you? I can absolutely guarantee you would have been all over me for nursemaiding you, and you would have thrown a major rock star tantrum when I confiscated your goddammed headache powders that cause nothing but trouble.”
“Laurel said the same thing. About the headache powder.”
“Good for her. I hope she took it away from you.”
Colin pushes back from the table, leaving his breakfast half finished. “Did you come here to let off steam or was this meant to be an actual fact-finding mission?”
“Venting was the last thing on my mind until you started it.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Colin moves to the sitting area and stretches out on one of the couches. The one facing away from the breakfast table and Nate’s smug expression.
Nate nevertheless revisits every sodding thing that’s transpired since the trip to Denver. He natters on for a good quarter-hour that Colin could have spent in pursuit of extra kip. Nate eventually winds down with the barbed reminder that if Colin had stuck with the original plan, his exercise needs wouldn’t have to be met in public places.
“But hey, no hard feelings.” Nate abandons the breakfast table and takes a seat on the opposite couch, where he can’t be ignored. “Use the gym whenever you wish. However, you’ll have to let yourself in. The housekeeper’s off until Friday, and I won’t be around either.”
“In other words, I won’t be disturbed. Perfect. You gonna give me a key or what?”
“You don’t need a key. It’s electronic entry now. There’s a keypad and a code. We went over this when I understood you’d be staying with me. I gave you the code—I gave you all the pertinent numbers when we were in Denver. On a little laminated card. You put it behind one of the pictures in your photo wallet. Remember?”
“Oh, that’s what that was. I stuck it in there just to shut you up and . . . uh-oh.”
“What now? I’m almost afraid to ask”
“The photo wallet.”
“What about it?”
“I almost forgot. It went missing whilst I was in L.A. When Bemus packed up it was missing, and later on I saw that my sponge bag had been tampered with.”
“And you said nothing until now?”
“Was I gonna report that a pocket photo album and a few headache powders were nicked? Who to? The room service police? The FBI? Bemus agreed it was likely the work of some souvenir-seeking hotel employee and I let it go at that.”
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. You never fail to—”
“Spare me, won’t you? Don’t even start! If whoever nicked the photo wallet knows those are my boys in the photos, don’t you think they would’ve been plastered all over the tabloids by now? And if the thief thought the headache powder was some other kind of shit, is he gonna complain that he snorted a pain reliever instead of the real thing? I don’t think so. And as for a card with a bunch of numbers on it—what’s that gonna mean to some bloke who can’t possibly connect the numbers to the properties they represent?”
“Oh, but that bloke can.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t just numbers that were listed. The corresponding properties were included.”
“Fuck all! If that doesn’t take all! I suppose everything was color coded and included little map drawings so I could find my way home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course it wasn’t. And now that I think about it, losing that card may not be such a calamity after all.”
“Oh yes it is.” Colin sits up, springs to his feet, glowers down at Nate. “But the calamity’s in the gross insult to me. The big revelation here isn’t about the missing card, it’s about your still not seeing me as capable of remembering my own goddammed address and phone number. That’s what you should be concerned about—that’s the only thing you should be concerned about because if you don’t stop treating me like a halfwit, you won’t be treating me at all. Got it, then?”
Nate shrugs. “Got it,” he says, without appearing to take the threat seriously. “If you’re hell-bent on turning a thoughtful gesture into a gross insult, there’s not much I can do about it. I can, however, assure you it would take a fairly determined would-be intruder to decipher actual addresses from the abbreviations I used and—”
“I suppose I can thank you for crediting me with enough brain power to grasp the meanings of abbreviations. A rousing cheer for that, at least.”
Nate drones on, impervious to the sarcasm, intent only on describing the damage control that’s now necessary because of the detour to LA
Colin could crank his ire up another notch at this additional jibe, but it’s too much bother. It’s too much of a chicken or the egg thing to have to remind Nate there wouldn’t have been a need for damage control if there hadn’t been a demeaning printed directory to go missing.
“Go ahead, do whatever you have to do.” He okays Nate’s proposed replacement of entry codes and phone numbers where deemed necessary. “Make the changes and when you’re done, leave a copy of the new numbers with Bemus. Now get out, I need more sleep.”
After Nate leaves and Bemus resumes watchdog duty, he crawls back into bed fully clothed. But he never sinks into a deep enough sleep to blank out the worry that Laurel, after having heard a detailed account of his injuries, will start treating him the same way Nate does.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Late morning, April 8, 1987
Laurel rings at eleven as promised. “Are you up for a road trip?” she says. “I’ve thought of a place that’s all but abandoned this time of year. It’s outdoors, requires a lot of walking and I think the weather’s on our side. A little cloudy, blustery maybe, but no rain in the forecast. How’s that sound?”
“Brilliant,” Colin says, spirits lifted by the sound of her voice alone. “You gonna say where or keep me guessing?”
“Will you know where if I say Island Beach State Park?”
“No, but I’ve no problem with the unknown.”
“Very well, I’ll be at the rear of the hotel at noon. Come out through the Oyster Bar and we should be able to make a clean getaway. Oh, and wear sturdy clothes, we could get dirty. And wet.”
“One
only hopes.”
“See you in a little while,” she says after a slight pause he’s free to interpret as silent disapproval of the innuendo.
He changes into clothes he won’t mind getting wet or dirty—the same jeans, jumper, and leather jacket he wore on their other park outing—and opts for trainers instead of boots. He thinks to stuff hat and shades into jacket pockets and leave all forms of pharmaceuticals behind.
As expected, he gets flak from Bemus about going out without escort. The compromise is to allow Bemus to lead the way from hotel suite to Laurel’s awaiting Range Rover when the appointed time arrives. A buzz accompanies their passage through the early lunch crowd in the Oyster Bar, but that sort of clientele is not apt to follow into the street.
“A clean getaway,” he says her line as he buckles into the passenger seat and hazards a glance at her. He tries not to fixate on her profile as they pull away from the curb and enter traffic on 58th Street. Then he tries not to wonder what tears would look like sliding down the smooth contour of her exposed cheek, perhaps dripping off her lifted chin, and tries not to guess what her composed bearing would look like jarred by hiccoughs. He makes himself glance away; he’s only reflecting an opinion, a biased one, considering all else Nate’s been subjective about lately.
He gropes for something safe to say. “New coat?” The Burberry draped behind her on the driver’s seat is not one he’s seen before, and her black jeans and lace-up ankle boots look new as well.
“Yes, and way overdue. Yesterday Amanda and I went on a little shopping spree and I replaced several outdated things. Can’t tell you the last time I did that . . . But more to the point, what I thought we could do today is review the transcriptions of the taped interviews with Rayce and with Nate.”
“Hold on. You only just finished the Nate interview. Please don’t tell me you were up all night transcribing.”
“I wasn’t, but I did get up early.”
“How early?”
“Never mind. The point is the material is ready for you to review. Amanda took care of the Rayce portion last night, so this is everything to date from outside sources, and the ride today is long enough for you to give it a good going-over.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because your days here have dwindled down—”
“To a precious few,” he tacks on the rest of the well-known lyric without her appearing to catch the significance.
“And because I think you may find some of the material objectionable and better left unsaid,” she continues.
“You actually expect me to do this? Aren’t you forgetting I already know what’s been said?”
“No, I’m not. And I’m not forgetting the countless times you’ve had to sit through verbal accounts. But I’m not asking you to listen to it all again, I’m asking you to read it—albeit in rough draft form—and get some idea what the public will be exposed to.
Everything’s in a folder on the seat behind you.”
He makes no move to reach for the folder, and she says nothing more about it till they’re through the Lincoln Tunnel and about to connect with the Garden State Parkway. Then she flashes him a look that says read or else, and he retrieves the folder from the backseat and reluctantly opens it. He starts with the Rayce interview and grimaces before he’s off page one. At page five, he’s squirming; two pages later, he’s staring through the page without seeing what’s on it.
The moment of truth is upon him, but it’s not the one he’s been waiting for. And the declaration called for is not the one he’s been aching to make, but it’s every bit as important if he’s not to come across as the worst kind of opportunist. Vetoing even one line of text is to suggest that the decision to go public with his life story was a cheap means to an end that had nothing to do with publishing.
He refocuses on the printout, sets his jaw, and devours the remainder of Rayce’s testimony without stopping. At the finish, he looks out at a landscape morphed from industrial congestion into suburban sprawl with no indication of how far they’ve come or how far they still have to go.
Laurel anticipates him. “We’re halfway there, and look at you, already finished with the most difficult part.”
“Difficult’s an understatement, but I am going to let it stand. All of it.”
“Are you sure?” She casts a skeptical eye.
“Yeh and now I’d like you to tell me which bits you thought I might find unsuitable—sorry, objectionable was the word used.”
She bites her bottom lip, says nothing.
“The stuff about certain of her . . . skills. Am I right?”
“All of it. Everything about her. Are you sure you want to confirm the worst suspicions and imaginings by putting your name on this?”
“Isn’t that what we’re about, setting the story straight? And I don’t know anyone that could tell it straighter than Rayce. It stands, Laurel, and I can tell you right now that unless Nate tossed in some dodgy embellishments—which I very much doubt—whatever all he said stands.”
“Very well. I needed to be sure. But this is not to say I questioned anything either of them told me. Rayce clearly cares for you as more than a contemporary and more than a protégé. I see the attachment as father-son.”
“You’re not the first.”
“And Nate . . . I’m absolutely in awe of the devotion he showed you and the baby after the accident. I imagine you’ll want to dedicate the book to him, perhaps write a dedication page yourself. That kind of selflessness and commitment is so rare these days. I can’t praise him enough . . . I am very, very impressed now that I’ve gotten to know him.”
“You might not want to get entirely carried away. He was, after all, still on payroll.”
“Oh please. It wasn’t about money, you know better than that.”
“Because he’s independently wealthy? Yeh, I suppose I do know better, but that doesn’t make putting up with him any easier these days.”
“Why, because he still sees you as reliant on him?”
“Oh, you think? Let me tell you what I found out only this morning.” He launches into the story of the laminated memory card, as he will always think of it, but this doesn’t produce the indignation he wants from Laurel.
Instead, she defends Nate, forgives his hovering smothering overweening micromanagement style as understandable, all things considered. She goes on and on about Nate, praising his hospitality, his food and drink choices, his art collection, his sensitivity to her needs and to the needs of others, his goddammed state-of-the art kitchen. Repetition, the lot of it; already said on the phone the night before.
He drifts deeper and deeper into a brooding silence that lasts till they leave the Parkway at the Toms River exit. They’re coming into a resort area now with featureless little summer cottages crowded together on barren plots of land reminiscent of beach huts shoulder to shoulder along the rocky Channel coast.
“Have you ever been to Brighton?” he says.
“Do you mean Brighton Beach on the peninsula? That’s a ways south of where we’re headed today. And no, I’ve never been there.”
“I was thinking of Brighton in England. Certain things here remind me of that area.”
“I’ve never been there either. I’ve only been to London and very briefly.”
“Do you think you’d ever like to see more of England?”
“Yes, of course. Who wouldn’t?”
The answer rather surprises him. Even though the question was purposely vague, he was expecting the negative response he got the time he asked if she would travel to the UK in order to complete work on the book. He takes heart from this crumb of hope and approaches cheerful when she suggests a plan for lunch.
“The spot I have in mind is on the boardwalk in Seaside Heights, just across the bay. They serve what’s reputed to be the best pizza in New Jersey and shouldn’t be too crowded this time of day.”
“Outstanding. I can’t recall the last time I had decent pizza.”
“How
ever. . . .”
“Yeh, I know. Same as yesterday. The bleedin’ recognition factor. There’s just no popping round the local for a simple pint and a pie, is there?”
She touches his arm lightly. “I don’t mind, and please don’t let it bother you. What I thought I’d do is leave you under wraps, go in and assess the situation.”
“How, by asking for a show of hands from the Colin Elliot fans?”
“You know, I may just do that and when no one raises a hand won’t you be the joke of the day.” She gives his arm a playful punch and laughingly explains that if the pizza place is teeming with girls and young women she’ll revert to plan B and order takeaway pizza.
They cross a bridge to a barrier island where he was not expecting to see the profile of a Ferris wheel and the convoluted structures of other pleasure park rides silhouetted against the open Atlantic. Reminiscent of Brighton Pier, it is.
She follows his gaze. “Don’t worry, we’re not stopping there.”
“I didn’t think so, but the sight of it reminds me to call home next chance I get.”
“And that reminds me to ask if Anthony’s settled down any. Did he attend school today?”
“When we spoke earlier, he sounded better and the plan was to go to school. He still had a lot of questions, though. Some about you, I should warn.”
“Warn? Is he questioning my credentials or something?”
“He’s questioning your relationship to me. I think he’s beginning to suspect you may be the reason I’m delayed coming home.”
She gives him a look. “You know I cannot allow that. He must not be allowed to think that.”
“Then you tell him because there’s no way I’m denying it.”
She hits the brakes well short of the nearest stop sign and turns to confront him. “The minute we reach the restaurant, I expect you to get on the phone with your son and correct his thinking. By maneuvering me into speaking to him yesterday, you encouraged a belief for which there is no basis. By doing so, you were unfair to him. And to me. Give me your word you’ll do as I ask or you’ll be sitting here the rest of the day.” She glares at him impervious to all else—including the bleating horns of the traffic they’re blocking.