‘Penny?’ asked Jeremy, signalling for the bill. ‘Are you two getting back together? I hear it’s all the fashion. At least you know each other’s habits.’
Sandy shook his head. ‘She’s just being kind.’ He put thirty pounds on the table and looked at his watch. ‘I need to get back. Thanks guys. So, next month? Arthur’s perhaps?’
They left the wine bar together. None of them, Peter knew, wanted Sandy to think they were staying behind for a post-mortem. Tim said he had a client and Jeremy muttered he was late for a meeting. Peter wondered what Sandy needed to get back to. Maybe he had a doctor’s appointment. Only Peter, it seemed, had nothing to do.
He decided to shop for dinner, taking more time than was necessary. He dawdled around the greengrocer’s, picking up pieces of fruit and discarding them until it was made clear to him he had to either purchase or leave. He took his bags of endive, pomegranate and apples to the fishmonger, where he peered into the eyes of dead fish, annoying the assistant when he finally chose the sea bass right at the bottom of the pile, then asked for it to be gutted and filleted.
‘Lovely fillets right here already, sir,’ said the assistant.
‘But I like to see their eyes,’ replied Peter. The man raised his eyebrows and took up his knife.
He chose a small piece of Stinking Bishop from the cheese shop in Judd Street, then an extravagant bottle of Meursault from the vintner near Russell Square tube and finally a box of four Waitrose chocolate truffles, dusted with the dense bitter cocoa Frieda liked so much. He was particularly pleased about the truffles.
So that was dinner organised and it was only four o’clock, hours before Frieda came home and he could start cooking. He might stop in at the bookshop on Theobald’s Road.
He was procrastinating and he knew it. Peter enjoyed not working. Apart from the money, of which he had enough, being frugal all his life and unencumbered by a series of wives and children, he’d decided some months ago he didn’t care if he never worked again. Perhaps it was just as well, because no one had offered him any work for a month. He didn’t care about that either.
Acknowledging this was a relief. He no longer had to maintain an exhausting up-beat persona, pretending the fulfilment of his entire lifetime lay in the invention of a new way to film dishwashing detergent, or feigning excitement over baby food. For a week after his last freelance job, he’d prowled about his flat, noting hairline cracks in the plaster of the sitting room, some bulging tiles in the bathroom. Nothing he couldn’t fix in a couple of days. Frieda called his flat, one of four in an ex-council building near Great Ormond Street, the Bauhaus Box. Yet again, she was right about form following function.
He thought about Frieda as he stood at the kitchen sink, his preferred place to ponder. When he wasn’t thinking about Frieda, the way she snuffled in her sleep, the delicious curve of her belly, he considered the emerging leaves on the linden tree. He noticed that some had unfurled and deepened in colour. Others were still buds. He marvelled at the intricacies of their shapes, that each one was unique.
He thought about Carl Linnaeus and his life’s work in classifying plants and animals. All afternoon he stood in silence, looking out his kitchen window, thinking about who he was and what he wanted. He wasn’t like Linnaeus, a creative obsessive able to sustain an academic passion for all his life. He wasn’t like the other directors he knew, always thinking of a new way to frame a shot or film a scene, trying to reconfigure the language of cinema. Nor was he like his friends, striving for something bigger and better, despising themselves if they failed. Even Tim, swaddled in psychological enlightenment, occasionally redrew old battle plans, became expansive late at night about what might have been.
Peter was interested in doing a good job, the best he could do within the constraints of budgets and available talent. But his interests finished with the job in hand and began again with the next one. He liked doing a job. He didn’t want a career.
A spring shower came and went. After noting how gracefully the leaves bowed under the weight of the rain, it came to him. He wanted to be Frieda’s wife. He wanted to stay at home, as his mother had for his father. Peter liked cooking and he didn’t mind cleaning. The oven, particularly, he found curiously satisfying. After decades of working with argumentative teams, he relished daytime solitude. It made him appreciate night-time companionship.
If Frieda was like his father, and wanted a dry martini before dinner, he’d be happy to oblige, as his mother had done. He’d even buy a cocktail shaker. He’d run a bath for her, wash her back, then sit on the toilet and chat about her day while they drank her favourite prosecco.
Peter didn’t want Frieda to keep him. He was no ponce. He’d thought about renting his flat and giving the money to her, keeping a small allowance for himself. Pin money, his mother used to call it. She used to change before his father came home from his accountancy office. She’d paint her mouth with a lipstick called Frozen Peaches, blurring the outline with her little finger, then she’d ruffle Peter’s hair as she moved past him towards the kitchen to prepare dinner.
After so many years of elegant promiscuity, he wanted his parents’ predictable measured life and he wanted it with Frieda. Acknowledging this made him feel vulnerable and unusually sensitive. His handsomeness had always been his armour against all those doe-eyed girls that he seduced so easily and then discarded when they wanted some affirmation of his affection. He wasn’t cruel to them, and he didn’t lie. But he never once considered how they might feel when he stopped calling for no reason or when they saw him out with someone else.
He hadn’t considered it, because he’d never felt anything for any of them apart from casual affection. He didn’t understand their reproachful stares when he ran into them, or their impassioned late-night telephone calls. Only since he had met Frieda had he begun to understand the mad pull of the heart. He regretted the pain he had caused and felt guilty about it, while selfishly hoping that he would never have to feel it for himself.
In the kitchen, Peter checked the level of the Pernod bottle. He wanted a slurp for the fish. He laid out the ingredients for dinner. He set the table. Everything he wanted was right in front of him. Except for Frieda and she would be home soon.
Chapter 24
The letter was lying on the hall mat, partly obscured by one from British Gas with the word URGENT, followed by an exclamation mark, and a mail order catalogue. He fingered the thick paper of the envelope, studied the italic writing of his name. Alexander Ellison Esq.
He took it to the kitchen table. It might be an invitation, he thought, as he looked at the first-class stamp with a frisson of anticipation. To a party, or a dinner with people he used to know. It could be something to do with the re-recording of ‘Never Give Up’.
He saw himself accepting some kind of award, giving a short witty speech, being clapped on the back by the industry’s big swinging dicks. The Guardian might track him down for that section on songwriting, even though the new version of the song, by some group called Daddy’s Cool, sounded nothing like his original. Too much bass.
Royalties would have been so much better than accolades. But recognition never hurt. It might be the beginning of something, an idea or an opportunity. It wasn’t impossible that something could happen. He might write a song again. Imagine that. A song. Even better, imagine writing songs. Picking out notes on the piano, tinkering back and forth until the sounds came together; then the lyrics, bumbling in his head until, in some kind of divine miracle, they formed their own rhythm. These new songs would be sweet, like the others, but more poignant, more autumnal and full of rue, in keeping with his age and his new sobriety.
Yes.
They would be hits, recorded by divas like Beyonce and Rihanna, downloaded from iTunes and Spotify, making it into the Billboard Top 100 – he would be back where he used to belong. On top. Money in the bank. A new postcode. A corner banquette at Scott’s, smiles from the maître d’. Chummy cocktails beforehand with Jeremy and the ot
hers. No more sighs from Penny. No more rolling of the eyeballs from Matthew and Emily.
No.
He had to stop. This was the beginning of another mad moment, when illusion was so much more seductive than reality. Justin had warned against extremes of any kind. ‘Try to be calm,’ he said. ‘Don’t start anything new, don’t start having intense affairs. Remember the pussy trail often leads to Château Despair. Just be with yourself.’
Justin forgot to tell him how bored he would become, being with himself, that he could get so excited about an unopened letter. He held it up to the light. It couldn’t be a bill. Accounts departments specialised in cheap paper that got thinner and more like tissue with each successive demand for payment. This was a proper letter, he could tell. He would save it up, open it after he made himself a cup of Rooibos. Caffeine free. Justin had told him it would be better for him than the regular stuff. He was getting quite a taste for it.
At the kitchen bench, he put the letter from British Gas to one side and threw the unopened catalogue into the bin. He drank half the tea, then couldn’t wait any longer. He slit the envelope open, took out the folded piece of paper, noticing, even before he unfolded it, the weight of it, the linen weave, the indentation made by the embossed letterhead on the other side of the page.
Odd that it was Jeremy’s letterhead. Sandy didn’t understand why he was writing to him in this formal manner when they’d had lunch together only the week before. A quick lunch, because Jeremy had an early afternoon meeting, but long enough to restore in Sandy that old feeling that if Jeremy still had time for him, he was still worth something.
Jeremy had commiserated about the re-release of the song and promised to look through the sale contract of the back catalogue, to see if there was some way he could winkle out some money. During coffee, they’d laughed about Amy, how silly and young she was. Sandy said nothing about his meetings in the church hall, his dissembling confession to the group. It seemed to belong in another world and he was content to leave it there. What was important, he thought to himself as he finished his espresso and Jeremy paid the bill, was the friendship between them.
All this went through his mind as he read the letter, and then reread it because he didn’t take it in properly the first time. He read the letter a third time, just to be sure. The woman in the flat above dropped something on the floor, then turned up the radio. From outside, the faint machine-gun rattle of a helicopter grew louder and louder, almost deafening. Shards of light flickered across the wall as it flew overhead.
He waited until everything was silent and still again, then looked at the letter in case he’d misread it. But he’d understood perfectly the first time. Jeremy had somehow lost every penny of his pathetically small savings and couldn’t be bothered to tell him in person.
An anger without sides possessed him, and under that a hard and savage hurt. Jeremy had done it again, sacrificed Sandy to save himself. But this time Sandy wouldn’t stay silent about it for decades. He’d go immediately and confront him, before he lost his nerve or went down to the off-licence on the corner. He’d tell him the truth.
On Battersea Bridge Road, the late spring wind was eye-watering. In his rush, he had forgotten his jacket. He was cold. His heart hurt. His lungs ached as he stamped along. Rising above the trees were the roofs of the prosperous redbrick mansion blocks. He conjured up a vision of the people inside, sitting in their high-ceilinged rooms, gazing out their tall windows onto the river, secure in their measured lives and assured incomes. He was overwhelmed by a sudden need for some kind of luxury. A plate of oysters at Wilton’s, a soothing silk shirt, a first-class train ticket. It didn’t matter what it was. Something, anything he could eat, feel or touch to distract him from his rage.
At the traffic lights at the end of the bridge, just as he was about to turn towards Lots Road, a car that looked like a tank, with tinted windows and huge wheels high off the ground, mounted the kerb and almost ran him over. A woman driver with one hand on the wheel, the other on her mobile. She waved and pulled away, all Hollywood highlights and dark glasses. He stood on the pavement, giddy with shock, before striding down towards the pier and onto the jetty. A flock of seagulls feasting on a half-eaten hamburger screamed and flew off.
The wake from a passing tug rocked the houseboat. The deck was still slippery from morning dew. He stepped carefully to the cabin door and banged on it. He heard voices, then footsteps before the door opened and Jeremy emerged, dripping wet and wrapped in an oversized bathrobe.
‘Sandy, good to see you, looking spruce.’ A scent of lemon filled the air between them as he grasped Sandy’s elbow. Sandy removed his hand. How could Jeremy persist with this charade, as if nothing had happened? How could he stand there, all early morning bonhomie?
Sandy felt in his pocket for the letter. ‘Not so good to see you. Mate.’ He spat out the last word. ‘And I’m not feeling quite so spruce.’ He thrust the letter at Jeremy. ‘You total and utter bastard. Had you already written this last week, when we had lunch, when you were pretending to be my friend, offering to help? When I was thanking you for being such a terrific friend? You fucking traitor. You shitty little coward, not even to have the guts to tell me to my face. After everything that happened, after what I did for you.’
Jeremy tried to look blank.
‘Don’t you dare to pretend you’ve forgotten,’ snarled Sandy. ‘You know exactly what happened. You were there. I was there. And you were the one who used to say if you have to choose between betraying your friend and your country, have the balls to betray your country. E. M. Forster. Remember? Or are you pretending to forget that as well?’
His voice rose. A window snapped open on the boat moored opposite. Jeremy looked around.
‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘We’ll discuss this, but you need to calm down.’
‘Calm down!’ Sandy shouted. ‘Give me a reason why I should calm down? I trusted you with everything I had. You told me everything was safe, I would be safe. And you owed me.’
Jeremy stepped out on the deck. ‘You need to come inside.’
‘Why?’ Sandy shouted. ‘Worried that your fancy neighbours might overhear that you’ve managed to lose every miserable penny I had? After what I did for you. You wouldn’t have your glorious rich career if I hadn’t saved your miserable arse.’
His rage was magnificent, purifying.
‘I saved you! You fucking traitor!’ he shouted again.
Jeremy paled. He grabbed Sandy, pulled him inside and shut the door. ‘Stop this,’ he said slowly, shaking his fist in some unseen rhythm. ‘Stop right now. We will talk about this calmly, when you stop shouting.’ He might have been addressing a boisterous shareholder.
‘No, we won’t,’ said Sandy. ‘I won’t be calm. Not now. Not ever …’
A high adenoidal voice interrupted him.
‘John? Is everything all right? Can I have some coffee?’
She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, fourteen perhaps, with a smattering of freckles under her spots, bruised shadows under her eyes and a bath towel wrapped around her skinny body. Jeremy moved in front of her, as if to make her disappear.
‘John? His name isn’t John. He’s called Jeremy,’ snapped Sandy. ‘And sweetie pie, aren’t you a bit late for school? Don’t want to get detention, do you?’
The girl looked from one man to the other, confused.
‘Shut up,’ said Jeremy to Sandy, and then to the girl, ‘You need to go now.’
The girl started to speak, but Jeremy took her arm and marched her out of the saloon, towards the bedroom.
‘Don’t you fret about a thing,’ Sandy called after her. ‘Uncle John will help you tie your shoelaces. If you’re nice to him, he’ll even plait your hair, give you some lunch money.’
He looked around the room he had always admired, the one where he’d felt more at home than in his own flat: the Georgian chandelier, the Ruscha on the wall, the plump sofas and armchairs. He thought of his own tiny sitting
room, crammed with piles of newspapers and mismatched chairs, but he no longer envied Jeremy.
All this stuff, all this upholstered luxury. It was nothing more than a façade for a seedy and immoral lowlife clothed in a Huntsman suit; all the cracks neatly obscured with clever tailoring. It had taken him more than forty years to realise it.
There was a scuffling behind him. Jeremy and the girl emerged from the bedroom. She looked even younger in her low-slung jeans and skimpy T-shirt, glancing nervously at Sandy as she scurried through onto the deck.
Jeremy shut the door behind her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Sorry for what? Sorry that I caught you with your under-age bimbo, or sorry that you lied about losing the last pathetically small amount of money I had?’
Jeremy shrugged. ‘It’s gone. I can’t get it back. It’s the risk you took, everyone took. You’re not the only one.’
Sandy thought of the rent, the unpaid bills, the council tax. ‘You told me not to worry. You said everything was safe, that you were looking after everything. Why couldn’t you have left my money out of it? You always said I was your poorest client. You knew I had nothing more, that was it.’
Jeremy was silent, staring fixedly at a point somewhere above Sandy’s head.
‘And what about you? What will happen to you?’ Sandy asked.
Jeremy walked over to the Ruscha and adjusted the frame. ‘I’m staying put.’
Sandy understood. Jeremy wasn’t going anywhere because he didn’t need to.
‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ said Jeremy. ‘Want some?’
Sandy shook his head. ‘You owed me.’
‘You can’t keep calling in that old debt. I’ve paid up.’ Jeremy tightened the belt of his bathrobe.
‘You can’t pay up for that,’ said Sandy. ‘It’s not, it never was, one of your clever little financial transactions. It …’
Jeremy cut him off with a savage swipe through the air. ‘Don’t go there. It’s over, gone. End of story. I’m late already.’
After Everything Page 15