by Anna Maxted
I sniffed, and smelt oats. I glared at the porridge, snatched up the bowl, and marched towards Greg’s office. I reached it, took a slow, deep breath, put a smile on my face, and knocked.
‘Yup,’ he said. ‘Come in.’
‘I believe this belongs to you.’
‘Thanks, girl.’ He paused, signalling that our conversation was over and my presence superfluous. Too bad.
‘You said the name Jack Forrester rang a bell and ran off. I wondered if you’d met him.’
Greg shook his head. ‘I’ve read about him. He’s done well for himself. He looks after some big names. A lot of young actresses.’ He grinned.
‘What a boy,’ I said. ‘Good old Jack, I’m so pleased for him.’ I turned to leave the room.
‘Hey.’
I turned back.
Greg winked at me. ‘Keep me informed.’
After work, I drove to Hampstead Garden Suburb in silence. I’d realised that if I failed to sort out my ‘baggage’ and Jason no longer wanted me, I had very little in my life. Ah well.
I had more immediate concerns. Terence Rattigan’s Separate Tables, for one. The casting and selecting committee of Inimitable Theatre had voted to stage this play, a 1950s British classic, according to my father. He was director (as well as a star) and tonight they were doing a tech. Which, for the Martines among you, is short for a technical rehearsal. I’d said I’d help out – an idea I blame on the guilt reserves swishing about my insides. I hoped Roger would be too busy bossing to ask after my love life. I parked the car, dragged two jumpers out of the boot – wherever IT rehearsed, the cold was polar – and hurried into the assembly hall of the local grammar school.
I liked pretty much everyone in IT. It was a friendly company. Whole families were members. A woman might join because she loved acting, and persuade her fiancé to join too. They’d marry, and when their children were old enough, they’d probably take part in the yearly pantomine. Eventually, they might decide they preferred to work behind the scenes, doing costumes or choreography. My mother joined because my father asked her to, but rarely mingled. Once, one of the more am dram members boomed, ‘Angela, whenever I see you, I always think of a cup of tea!’
There she was, face, hair, posture sagging, sweeping the floor in front of the stage. It was thick with sawdust – it looked like they’d just finished building the set. I nodded hello. Roger was standing in the middle of the hall, in crisp attire, pinching his chin between finger and thumb and murmuring to William, the stage manager. He was fond of saying, as everyone scurried around him, adjusting lights, sound level, scenery, ‘I’m not the director of this, I’m a worker like everybody else,’ but it wasn’t true. Even his laugh sounded lordly. Although IT was not short on men with deep laughs.
I decided not to bother my father, he was obviously busy.
I beelined for Diana, a primary school teacher. She hadn’t been with the company long, found it hard to say ‘No’ and was therefore apportioned the work of ten men. That evening, she was taping cable wires to the skirting boards, so no old dear would trip and sue.
‘I can help you with that,’ I said.
I was sneaking backstage to find scissors, when Roger cried, ‘Hann-arrr!’
Blow. I approached Roger. He had a pencil tucked behind his ear.
‘Hiya, Daddy, how’s it going?’
‘Appallingly. Miriam wheeled the fireplace from the garage on the trolley, left it outside and some bastard’s gone and pinched it.’
‘What, the trolley?’
‘The trolley. The ugly, four wheels, a platform and a handle, trolley. What possible use could anyone have for the damn thing?’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘People will tea leaf anything these days, Roger.’
‘I don’t know where you learnt to speak like that, but it certainly wasn’t in my house.’ He groaned. ‘And,’ he added, ‘Nettie is refusing to wear a wig, so Peggy’s going to have to spray her hair with orange dye.’
I sucked air through my teeth. Peggy was seventy-six and whenever she sipped her customary Earl Grey, her hands shook so violently the cup just about shattered the saucer. Nettie was in all probability about to be sprayed all over orange; her head would look like a clementine.
‘Anything else?’ I said, biting my lip.
‘Rosie drifted off while she was meant to be prompting, and Sefton was left hissing, “Line, line.” Hardly a tragedy but he stormed off-stage, bellowing, “This! Is the last production I’ll ever do for this company!”’
‘Roger, he always says that.’
My father ran his hands through his hair. ‘I know, but it doesn’t make my job any easier.’ He suddenly produced a stopwatch and shouted, ‘This is the big one! Right! Let’s change the scenery. Any able-bodied person! Could we have interval music? Just get it all off! No discussions! ONE MINUTE!’
Everyone sprang (or tottered) into action, and my father started pacing. I saw my chance and murmured, ‘I’ll just go and help Diana,’ but Roger grabbed my wrist. Seven minutes later, when Peggy was still meandering round the stage clutching a framed picture of a horse, Roger said to William, ‘Take over, will you?’ and propelled me by my neck to the back of the hall. He gestured to a chair. I sat down, and so did he.
‘Make me smile,’ he said.
‘OK. Know the one where the camel walks into a bar?’
‘Hann. Er …’
I sighed and flopped forward. ‘Roger, I’ve tried talking to Jack but it’s impossible. He’s all bitter. It was a mistake to contact him. I really think it’s best to leave him be. I don’t know what that means for me and Jason, but—’
My father stood up and walked away. Perhaps he’d suddenly remembered to remind William of something and would return in a second. But he didn’t. He didn’t look at me again the entire evening.
Chapter 12
I rang my father first thing the following day. ‘I’m meeting Jack later,’ I said.
Roger laughed. ‘Oh, bravo! That’s my girl.’
I beamed down the phone.
‘If I was distracted last night, darling, you must forgive me. You know I mean nothing by it. I rather fear I wandered off mid-conversation like an old loon … I didn’t, did I?’
‘Oh, no, Roger, don’t worry about it. I know what rehearsals are like. Your attention’s in a hundred places.’
‘At the very least. Anyway, must dash. But let me know what happens with Jack. And don’t let him bully you. I won’t have any man bully my daughter.’
I put the phone down, still smiling.
I also rang Gabrielle to tell her the news. The tone of her voice surprised me. ‘Are you all right?’ I said.
‘Fine. I’m just in the middle of something.’
‘Work?’
‘No … no. Cleaning the bathroom.’
‘I thought you had a cleaner.’
‘I sacked her.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘She was thieving?’
‘God, Hannah, not everyone is a master criminal.’ She took a breath and brought her voice down a level. ‘She just wasn’t very good at cleaning.’
‘Gab,’ I said, ‘no cleaner is good at cleaning, because it’s a job that it’s impossible to care about. The last cleaner I had was like a cat burglar. Left no trace. Your mindset when hiring a cleaner has got to be “this will be marginally better than not cleaning my house at all”.’
There was an unimpressed pause. ‘I can’t think like that. Anyway, I can do a better job myself.’
‘Are you sure, Gab? It’s a big old house you’ve got there.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘I don’t imply things. I say them. And I’m saying it’s a lot to manage – your job, Jude, and the house. And,’ I added, ‘I bet you do all the paperwork, knowing Oliver.’
‘We have Nanny Amanda.’
‘Yes, but nannies don’t do paperwork. And she’s only part time, isn’t she?’
> ‘Well, yes, of course. If I hand over my child wholesale to another woman, what’s the point of having him?’
‘No, no … I agree.’
‘It’s not like I have four children. It would be a bit sad if I couldn’t manage one child.’
I was unsure what we were arguing about, so I gently eased the conversation to a close. I’d tell Gabrielle about Jack when she was more herself. When you have your head down a toilet (even a luxe one), scrubbing shit, it’s hard not to see it as symbolic of your life. Even if your life is as lovely as Gabrielle’s.
At work, I was good for nothing, even though I had a corporate insurance case to amuse me. It seems that half the country is at home on full pay after injuring themselves at work. Greg likes corporate business because they give you a budget and tell you to get on with it. Matrimonial cases tend to be more interesting, but when they say adultery doesn’t pay, they’re right. You can’t make a living out of adultery. It’s awkward when some poor wife rings up and says, ‘I can’t afford for you to watch him today,’ then, five minutes later, ‘He’s not home yet – can you go out and find him?’
Insurance companies are less emotional. They just want you to find out whether Mr Bloggs really does have a serious spinal injury from slipping on a grape on company premises or whether he hobbles in public then does backflips around his garden, and they’re generous because we save them a fortune. It’s not that easy, though; we put the work in. If someone is defrauding an insurance company they’re usually cocky about it. They’ll limp all the way to their front door, and then you’ll see them sauntering around their lounge, miraculously healed. They won’t even bother to draw their curtains, because they know it’s illegal to film someone through a window. The law is designed to help crooks.
I had grand ambitions of fighting crime, but didn’t. I thought about Jack. After leaving the Separate Tables rehearsal, I’d rung and said, ‘Please. Let me explain myself. You never allowed it.’ I took a breath. ‘It might make you feel better too, Jack.’ When he paused I’d added, ‘Even murderers get a chance to defend themselves in court.’
‘Yeah, well, the law’s an ass,’ he’d said. ‘And so am I. Jesus Christ. But we’ll meet on my terms.’
I sat at my desk, chewed my pencil, and replayed his voice in my head. I felt sick at the thought of seeing him. I stood in front of the mirror, stretching my cheeks towards my ears to see how I’d aged since Jack had last seen me. My stomach curdled. I feared that mere sight of him would turn me into the naïve little girl I’d been ten years ago. Maybe he’d cancel our meeting and I wouldn’t have to go through with it. But I knew he wouldn’t. Jack made decisions, acted on them. As I knew to my cost.
We were meeting at seven in a restaurant that, according to Time Out, was a second home to celebrities and ‘media people’. I’d not heard of it. It was strange to imagine Jack hanging out with celebrities. I didn’t want to give him any credit, but I had to. I bet he was a good agent. He wasn’t impressed by fame. Or, rather, he was less impressed by fame than most of us. I claim not to be, but I fear that I am. If someone is kind enough to point out a famous person to me, I feel highly excited. Unfortunately, I never know who they are. I am, none the less, thrilled by the idea of their fame, and of the happy chance to brush past it.
Maybe Jack was different now. Perhaps he’d shed all his old friends and mixed only with the well known. I wondered if he’d turn up in a velvet suit. Or if he wore an earring. That was the one twittish thing about Guy (who, as far as I knew, had never made the Evel Knievel three-bus leap from obscurity). Guy wore an earring. I’d remarked on it – ‘Mmm, nice earring’ – and he told me that he got a new earring every time he got a new girl. Profound. This one was represented by a cat. I said it seemed to me as though she’d be more accurately represented by a mat, which earned me a cold stare.
Jack didn’t turn up in a velvet suit. But he looked a lot different from when I’d last seen him. If I was the blushing sort, I’d have gone scarlet. My heart beat so hard, I picked at my shirt, as if he might detect a tremor in the material. I felt he could see right through me to the bone.
His dark hair was very short, very Black Hawk Down. There was a hint of stubble. When we were on friendlier terms I’d teased him about it – his facial hair naturally grew in a Mexican bandit style. He was thinner than he had been aged twenty-two, which made his deep-set eyes look even more sunken. His teeth were still his best weapon. An upper pre-molar on each side of his mouth had poked through the gum but never bothered to emerge further, which I’d found ridiculously sexy (although, described it sounds revolting).
He was wearing a beautiful orange shirt, artfully faded jeans, and scuffed trainers. He was carrying a mobile that looked as though it might cook dinner for you if you asked. His appearance suggested a fraught diary, success, and no effort.
I’d made an effort, but not so that he’d notice. I wanted to look sharp, in control of my life, but not as though I was trying to attract him. If you desperately need something off someone you don’t arrive looking like a beggar. You arrive looking well-fed (within reason) and prosperous. So I’d cleaned my glasses. (My contact lenses were out of action. My fault for always running out of saline solution, and leaving them in tap water overnight, licking them before popping them back in. Jason insisted I’d go blind with this regime but it wasn’t that. They were scratchy; some sort of calcium deposit had built up on them.) I’d washed the shine off my face, and brushed my teeth. And checked my clothes for stains.
I was wearing my work gear, which, since you ask, is whatever I feel like wearing on the day. On the rare occasions you need a disguise – only when you’re spending a long time on the street – you put on a hat, to break up the features of the face, or change your jacket. Otherwise you just try to blend in. Be a Ms Nobody but a Ms Everybody. A grey woman who doesn’t stand out. Although sometimes you have to stand out to fit in. I’ve worn a hard hat and a fluorescent green jacket and carried a clipboard so as not to be noticed. Happily, though, this wasn’t today’s outfit.
Jack saw me sitting in my favourite spot of any establishment – corner table, back facing the wall – and gave me a reluctant smile. To be honest, I hadn’t chosen this spot, I’d been led to it when I announced who I was meeting. I found myself briefly speechless. I stood up – I don’t know why – and said, ‘I see that tooth still hasn’t grown.’
He huffed amusement, then frowned. I could tell he regretted the smile. But I felt more cheerful than I had done a moment before. I didn’t want things to turn nasty, and it looked as if they might not have to.
‘You look old,’ he said.
Then again.
‘What a rude remark,’ I said. I was shocked at his lack of gallantry. I wanted to bite back but I clenched my teeth.
Jack shrugged.
I said, ‘Do you want a drink, rude person?’
He flipped open his mobile, flipped it shut, stared at me. ‘No. I want this to be over with. This isn’t a social meeting.’
I stared back. ‘Relax, Jack. You’re not that irresistible.’
When the waiter approached, I ordered a red wine, drank it. My hands shook, I sat on them.
‘Nervous?’ said Jack.
‘Hung over.’
‘I think you’re nervous, seeing me again.’
‘Yes, I am, and you know why that is? Because you’re such a colossal a-hole.’ I stared hopefully at the bottom of my glass. ‘Jesus. I thought we could be civilised for five minutes. I fucking forgot who I was fucking dealing with.’
My language always deteriorated when I was with Jack. Five minutes in his company, my mouth became a filth pit.
‘So what did you want to discuss? Why you were seeing someone else when you were seeing me? How things are at the office? Who you’re cheating on now? James? Jason. Didn’t he make a sacrifice for all mankind.’
‘Jack, you’re so chippy. Are you jealous?’
‘Oh, yeah. That’s what’s missing from m
y life. Marriage to a woman who makes me miserable. Darrrling.’
I jumped. A thin blonde with eyes slightly too close together was standing by our table, trying to focus on Jack. She gave me a huge white grin before bending low to kiss Jack on both cheeks and give him a bird’s-eye view of her cleavage.
I yawned and looked around.
I had a fine view of the entire restaurant. Which could only mean that Jack Forrester commanded the best table. Way beyond, by the crisscross stained-glass windows – which allowed in light, but no goggling from the street – I saw a few grumpy types eating. They knew they’d been relegated to restaurant Siberia. Nearer, I spotted a soap-star hard man in a pink flowery shirt picking at a frilly salad. And, walking up to the table next to ours was an oldish guy I could have sworn was a famed actor. I think he was in that Hobbit film. The two women sitting there stood up and one smoothly said to the other, ‘You know Ian,’ as he reached to kiss her cheek.
After murmuring about a ‘project’ currently ‘on hold’ but ‘about to be green lit’, the thin blonde strode back to her table.
‘So she’s your darling,’ I said.
Jack looked down his nose. ‘I call people “darling”,’ he said, ‘when I can’t remember their names.’
I fiddled with the stem of my wine glass. ‘So how are things at the office?’
He laughed.
‘No, really. I hear it’s going well.’
‘Yeah? How’d you hear?’
‘Well, gosh, Jack, I bugged your office.’ I gave him a disgusted look. Then I said, ‘My boss knew of you and mentioned it.’
Jack rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Right,’ he said. In a more civil tone, he added, ‘I’ve got some nice clients. You know one of them.’
‘Me?’ I laughed. ‘I don’t know anyone.’
‘Jonathan Coates. Mr Coates?’
‘Mr Coates!’ I laughed. ‘What, Mr Coates who taught drama at my infant school?’