by PETER DAVEY
“It sounds as though you know her pretty well.”
“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard from Miranda. But it’s common knowledge now anyway.”
“Mr Newcomb, it’s almost certain you’ll be cross-examined. About the nature of your relationship with Nicola Carson.”
“They can cross-examine me all they want,” he said defiantly. “I’ll just tell them the truth – the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
Dominic was acutely aware that Gloucestershire had once again become frostbound. But then the old man turned his attention to his pack of cavorting grandchildren and the frost vanished as suddenly as it had come.
“So, you’re planning to write a best-seller on the back of this scandal and make your name as a writer, are you?”
Dominic was a little shocked at hearing his own motives mirrored back at him quite so starkly. “Yes. That’s my plan.”
“Well, I don’t blame you. We all have to grab our opportunities where we can in this grubby little world of ours. But you’ll have to be quick off the mark. Every Tom, Dick and Harry’ll be writing books on the subject once that information breaks. Although not this Tom, you’ll be relieved to hear.”
Dominic laughed, rather uneasily. “Yes, but I’m a close friend of the Haymers and it was I who saw the original manuscript.”
“Try telling that to the competition!”
His words sent a chill down Dominic’s spine, despite the winter sunshine. All of a sudden he wanted to get out of the place, to be on his own to think.
“Well, I’d better be getting back to London,” he said, rousing himself and holding out his hand. “Thanks a million for all your help, Mr. Newcomb. I’ll be in touch as soon as we have a date for the hearing.”
“Aren’t you staying to lunch? We’re having cabbage.”
“That’s really kind of you. But I ought to be on my way.”
*
As soon as he was back on the A40, Dominic pulled into a lay-by and tried to get Ted on his mobile. By a miracle he succeeded although it was a very poor signal.
“I think we may be home and dry!” he shouted.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Tom Newcomb – the great Tom Newcomb – is prepared to testify in court that Nicola told him she pinched your novel!”
There followed such a long silence that Dominic wondered if he had lost the signal.
“He actually said that?”
“He actually said it.”
“And he used the word ‘pinched’?”
“What she said precisely was that she ‘got it off you’ but we both know what that means!”
“That’s amazing, Dominic! Absolutely bloody amazing! Well done!”
“Of course it’s still not actual proof. It’s still his word against hers. But what a word! And we’ve still got all our circumstantial evidence to back it up. But I have to ask you, Ted, how did you know he hated Nicola Carson's guts?”
“I guessed.”
Driving back to London, Dominic found his elation at the coup he had just pulled off weighed down by unwelcome, depressing thoughts – thoughts induced by Tom Newcomb’s parting words. Writing a book took time and his special relationship with Ted and his manuscript did not mean other writers were going to stand politely by while he honed and polished his work to perfection. How was he ever going to find time to write it anyway, if he was settling into life and a demanding job in America? And as soon as someone else – possibly someone famous – had brought out a book on the subject, there would be little chance for his own however unique his Unique Selling Point. He had heard tales of publishers locking writers in hotel rooms with nothing but a crate of Pot Noodles and a fridge full of Red Bull until they had finished their commissioned work on some red-hot topic of the moment. He longed to make some advances to publishers and agents, but he could not risk giving the game away, he had to keep his powder dry. Nonetheless, he needed to start mustering all the notes and material he had accumulated on the subject into some sort of first draft straight away. That very evening.
As he neared Oxford, he knew he had reached a fork in the journey of his life and that whichever road he took was going to determine his entire future. And he had to remember, when making his choice, that it was his life he was talking about. His life. Nobody else’s.
*
Using his shiny new mobile, Ted managed to get on to Anne.
“I’ve spoken to Dominic. You know what Tom Newcomb said to him? He said that Nicola told him she’d stolen my novel and he’s prepared to testify to that in court.”
“She told him? Why would she do that?”
“Because she knew he’d guessed. And she also knew he fancied the pants off her. So she decided it’d be better to have the camel inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in.”
“My God.”
“And he said he’s convinced it was written by a man – some old git who’d lived through the frumpy fifties and the swinging sixties and the sordid seventies and God knows what all else. I’ve made a decision, Anne. I want you to get on to Peach and tell him I’m going ahead. That’s our novel – we’re the ones who put all that time and sweat and effort into it – you and I and Julie, not her – and I’m sick and tired of taking this lying down! If nothing else, I owe it to Julie not to have her steal it away from us. And when I win, I’m going to send a copy of the judgement to Alistair Milner with precise instructions as to where he can shove it. And if I lose, they can award her all the damages they want, it won’t do them any good, since I haven’t got anything. They can take my typewriter, and my clarinet, and my priceless collection of odd socks. They can even send me to prison. I’m too old and ugly to care about bending over in the shower. And don’t worry about Peach. Or the barrister. I’ve got money for that.”
The ether between them fell suddenly silent. Then Anne said, “What are you talking about? You told me you had nothing!”
“I’ve got a bit of support. Someone who believes in me. A woman. A rich old woman with no dependants who comes into the Queen’s every night for two gin and tonics then goes home to watch Coronation Street. But she loves literature, so she’s backing me because I’m going to win.”
“Ted, are you drunk?”
“Of course I am. It’s the only way I can keep going.”
*
Dominic was parked in a service station, gazing at the bare masts of poplar and willow rising against a grimy sky and rehearsing what he was going to say. ‘Katie... darling, about this America plan. I’m not sure...’ He sighed, shaking his head in despair. If he couldn’t say it in his imagination, how was he ever going to say it in reality?
He thought back to the first time they had met. She had been struggling with a mountain of shopping – mostly cases of beer – getting it from the check-out at Asda to her little Ford KA, and she had gratefully accepted his offer of help. He had asked if the beer was for her personal use and she had laughed and told him she and her house-mates were having a party. “Why not come along? It's the least I can do after all your humping. Bring your girlfriend.”
“Well, thank you,” he had replied, “though I don't actually have a girlfriend at the moment.”
“Oh. Right,” she had smiled, eyeing him swiftly up and down. “Just bring yourself then.”
He had been determined not to arrive on time – that was so uncool – and the music and dancing and drinking had been well under way when he found the address in Wimbledon she had given him. She had screamed “Hi!” when she spotted him in the hall and they had got acquainted by yelling at each other over the strains of Shakira singing La Pared. He managed to convey to her that he worked in publishing and wanted to be a writer. She managed to convey to him that she considered the most important aspect of a novel to be a good plot. She was a huge fan of John Grisham and Dan Browne and wasn't above a bit of chick-lit – but only on holiday! “I'm really fascinated by writing which suggests the symbolic meaning beneath
the surface of everyday things!” he had shouted as he waved his arms and hips vaguely in time to the music and she had pointed an ear in his direction and shouted, “Sorry?”
Parked in that grim service station with dusk closing around him, he recalled every detail of that evening, and of their first date and their first night together – the faintly musky scent of her skin, her disarming giggle which actually stemmed from nervousness, the swellings and hollows of her body, the extraordinarily soft and light texture of her hair. For months he had lived mostly at her place instead of his depressing little hole in Walthamstow and finally, by mutual consent prompted by her house-mates' annoyance at his taking too long in the bathroom, they had looked for a place together. When they found the flat in Stratford, she had remarked, laughingly, that she had come down in the world. A talent of Katie’s was for extracting the maximum pleasure from the surfaces of life, and he had learned from her how to relax and be carried like a seed on the gentle currents of his happiness, not to be ruled by the future and by his compulsion to over-analyse everything. He thought of their outings together to pubs, to cinemas, to concerts, to the seaside, of their holidays in Ibitha and Tunisia, of that ridiculous camping trip to Cornwall (funds had been low that summer) before which she had spent three hundred pounds on equipment, thus defeating the object entirely. “Getting back to nature's all very well,” she had remarked, “but I'm buggered if I'm going to be uncomfortable!”
It had been on that trip, as they lay together on an inflatable bed watching the morning sunlight glow through the orange fabric of the tent, that she had said for the first time, “Do you fancy going to America?”
“We can't afford it, can we?” he had responded, surprised.
“I don't mean right now. Sometime in the future. I'd like to move out to California.”
“You mean emigrate?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
He had considered the prospect at some length. “Why California?”
“I don't know,” she had murmured dreamily. “It just seems so... nice out there.”
The neon windows of the Welcome Break had darkened the sky and bestowed a false gaiety on the scene. The motorway to London was now an unbroken stream of headlights and tail-lights. Dominic heaved a sigh and reached for the ignition key.
An hour later, as he left the M25 and headed homeward through the northern suburbs, his heart felt like a lump of lead in the pit of his rib cage. He reminded himself that he was only going to ask for a delay – or rather, insist on a delay – if he had the courage, but since their flight was mere days away and they would almost certainly lose their entire fare, it would, to Katie, be tantamount to calling it off. By the time he was edging his car into the gap between the garages and the bottle bank, he felt nauseous and his heart was pounding as he trudged up the double flight of bleak, familiar stairs. He reached their landing and stood a moment before the blank brown door of their home – flat number 27 – then turned the key and entered, croaking the words, “I'm back!” The absence of a response granted momentary relief but with an undercurrent of frustration – he wanted to get this over with.
It was not long before he saw what had happened. All his clothes, which had been hanging on the drying racks, heralding their imminent departure, had been dumped in a heap on the living-room floor and all her clothes – in fact, all her possessions, had disappeared. Then he noticed a sheet of paper propped against the kettle in the kitchen. On it was written, in a large and, for Katie, unusually untidy scrawl:
I hope you enjoyed seeing your “great aunt”. I’m going on my own. Goodbye Dominic
CHAPTER SIX
THE MAGIC SHOES
In their house in Hailsham, Anne and Linda made tea and settled down in armchairs in front of the television. In his converted barn near Goudhurst, William Peach poured a whisky for himself and a G&T for his wife Annabel then settled down beside her in front of the television. In their farmhouse in Gloucestershire, Tom Newcomb poured some elderflower wine, pushed two ageing sheepdogs and a lurcher off the sofa then settled down with Bracken, Ty and Jo-Jo in front of the television. In their house in Kew, Miranda Cole and her partner Dr. Jenny Blades opened a bottle of Chardonnay and settled down in front of the television. In his flat in Stratford, Dominic opened a can of lager and stretched out on the sofa in front of the television. Throughout Britain and beyond, people were making something to eat or drink then settling down to the evening's best alternative to darts or Celebrity Wife Swap – the BAFTAs. Ted settled down with a brandy and looked at the stars.
No one was going to make a fortune backing Nicola Carson for Best Leading Actress. Her latest film The Beautiful and Blessed – a brash and vicious tale of life in the fast lane, leavened by a few steamy sex scenes, had been number one at the box office for weeks and been nominated for no less than three awards. Over the past four years she had won one BAFTA and had three nominations, and if her winning streak continued in America, it would be her second Oscar. Two films in which she had starred had won Best Movie Oscars and another the Palme d’Or at Cannes. One bitter rival – Rachel Springer – had been overheard to remark that Nicola only had to fart and she’d be given an award for it.
The lesser categories had all been handed out and ageing Hollywood stalwart Bill Ackworth was introduced by the host for the evening, Russell Floss, to present the award for Best Leading Actress. The nominees were announced, clips of their films were shown on a gigantic screen above his head to rapturous applause. Then deathly hush as Bill tore open the envelope, drew out the card bearing the winner’s name and scrutinised it through a dramatic pause. “And the winner is… Nicola Carson for The Beautiful and Blessed!”
Screams. Applause. Sporting smiles on the faces of the other nominees and their coteries (in case they happened to be on camera) but what filled the Royal Opera House at that moment was an almost palpable sense of inevitability. The object of their adulation – who had been positioned five rows back beside the aisle – seemed rather indifferent to her triumph but at least she wasn’t hypocritical enough to clap her palms to her cheeks in feigned astonishment. She stood up along with her cohort – director, producers, writer, leading man – and they all hugged and kissed as though they had been separated for thirty years by the Berlin Wall. Then she set off alone on the long, perilous journey up to the stage. The first impression was breathtaking – the exquisitely delicate frame, the glistening, raven-black hair cut in a curled-in bob to the base of the neck, the restrained make-up which was her trade-mark, tiny gold ear rings just pendant, the stunningly simple ash-green Armani gown, designed to offset the red carpet in the publicity shots. Yet none of these design masterpieces could disguise the fact that the Nicola Carson who gingerly ascended the stage was a far, far cry from the Nicola Carson of four years earlier, the startling new talent of All about Me. One could almost hear, mingled with the applause, a collective gasp of amazement. She looked drawn, gaunt, painfully underweight and ill. Bill Akworth kissed her on both cheeks, handed her her award, then withdrew to where Floss was standing, applauding. There followed another deathly hush which seemed to go on forever, everyone praying that her speech would not be as distressing as her appearance.
“Thank you,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. The she cleared her throat and repeated, “Thank you. I’m grateful to BAFTA for giving me this award, even though I don’t deserve it. I want you all to know that my performance in that film was crap, and I mean crap!”
Members of the audience glanced at one another, laughing uneasily.
“I know I shouldn’t use that word in this glittering company but it’s the only way to describe it. It’s been crap in my last three films. I mean… hasn’t anyone noticed? I’ve lost it…” She shook her head slowly, despairingly. “I’ve just… lost it! This award should have gone to Rachel. She was far far better in ‘Torrent’ than I was in ‘The Beautiful and Blessed’.”
Her magnanimous words invoked a wave of rather uncertain applause while camera 8 sw
ung onto Rachel Springer who was firing glistening, disbelieving smiles in all directions as though beseeching everyone to agree with what Nicola had said.
“But thank you anyway.”
It was with fresh applause and some relief that the audience watched her receive kisses on both cheeks from Bill, then pick up the famous mask in preparation for the journey back to her seat. But she did not pick it up – instead her hands shot over her face and her shoulders heaved. They stared at her in disbelief, compelled to look yet hardly bearing to look at the hunched, waif-like figure whose utter loneliness was spotlit in the middle of that vast stage. She sobbed, she wailed – she looked like a little girl all done up for a party who had been accidentally elbowed in the face by an over-boisterous boy.
Silence had fallen over the auditorium. The old hands had seen some prize-winning performances in their time, but never anything like this. For five full seconds the only sound in the whole of the Royal Opera House was Nicola’s amplified crying which was being beamed out into space and back into homes all over Britain, Canada, America and God knows where besides – five seconds that could have been an hour. Her anguish was a physical pain shared by fifty million people. This was not histrionics. These were real tears.
Bill Ackworth appeared paralysed but then – ever the professional – he sprang forward and took her in a fatherly hug while Floss looked on helplessly, no doubt trying to think up some snide witticism to get things back on track once this was over. At that moment someone started clapping, then two or three others joined in. The infection spread, the applause swelling and growing, powered by relief that the terrible moment seemed to have passed. Then someone got to their feet. Then another. Then another. And suddenly the entire audience was standing. Applauding hands were raised in the air. They cheered. They shouted. The looks of alarm on the faces of the director and producers turned to relief as they glanced around, then to satisfaction and finally elation. Rachel Springer’s companion reported her as having murmured “Oh… please!”