'Nope,' Jack said. 'No sex in that film if you recall, Fleming. Just lots of yearning, longing and sacrifice. Three emotions that I do not expect to be feeling over the next forty-eight hours. To which end I have booked us into a hotel. My digs are not built for passion. I think my carpet has fleas, the landlady is an alcoholic insomniac and there's a pink crocheted lady over the loo roll.'
'A nice one?' Valentine asked hopefully. 'The hotel, I mean.' She didn't often get to stay in good hotels. Finn had once taken her on a mini-break to some posh country hotel when Eva was away filming, but his credit card had been declined and she'd had to pay with hers. In fact, she was probably still paying for it.
It was indeed a very nice one, Valentine reflected once she and Jack had got all the yearning and longing out of their systems, which took most of the afternoon. Taupe walls (she knew that only very expensive hotels ever used taupe); five-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets; a carpet so luxuriously thick you practically sank up to your knees when you walked on it; lovely Molton Brown products in the bathroom. It must have cost Jack a fortune.
'So what else have you been up to, apart from meeting Piers?' Jack asked as she lay with her head on his chest, he with his arm round her.
'Not much,' Valentine mumbled and as soon as the words were out of her mouth an image of kissing Finn popped up in her head. She was convinced that Jack would be able to tell that she was lying; instead he asked if she was hungry. Reprieve for the guilty.
Over a Thai meal Jack filled her in on how rehearsals had been going. Apparently the director was so precious that he made VPL look laid back. The two actresses playing Lear's evil daughters Goneril and Regan hated each other. Regan thought Goneril was too old to be playing the part and kept making barbed comments behind her back. The actress playing Goneril thought Regan was fat and made equally snide comments. The actor playing Lear had a formidable reputation as a stage actor who, despite many offers of film work in his youth, had never done a movie, believing the stage to be infinitely superior. And now he believed that he was superior to any film actors. Subsequently he loathed Tamara, who represented everything he despised about film actors.
'I really do feel sorry for her,' Jack said again. Valentine nearly choked on her green curry. 'I mean, she is spoilt and no great actress – we're all agreed on that – but Clive, who's playing Lear, is so vile to her.'
'I wouldn't worry about her,' Valentine said, when she could finally speak. 'She's got thicker skin than a rhinoceros. It serves her right if he's giving her a hard time. She thinks she can waltz into a serious role like that and everyone will love her, when the truth is it exposes that she actually has no talent whatsoever!' She was getting impassioned now. 'I can't wait for that moment she's carried on stage dead!'
'Nor can Clive, as he frequently tells her. Seriously, Valentine, she's been in tears more than once after one of his tongue-lashings. He told her she delivered her lines with all the emotion of the speaking clock.'
'As much as that? I always used to think she sounded like a Dalek.' Valentine replied, not at all liking Jack's show of sympathy for NTM. 'So how's your other girlfriend, Julia Mentalist Turner?'
Jack curled his lip. 'Don't say girlfriend and Julia Turner in the same sentence – that woman took ten years off my life. She's getting rave reviews in Street Car, which has thankfully got her off my case. She was born to play Blanche Dubois.'
'That's because she is Blanche Dubois!'
'OK enough! I don't want to talk about Julia or Tamara or anyone but you. And have you nearly finished your green vegetable curry? Because I've got another bad case of yearning. Our Egyptian cotton temple awaits us.'
They spent most of Saturday in the Egyptian cotton temple. Their desire for each other had only grown more intense in the three-week absence. Valentine was feeling blissfully happy. The illicit kiss, the unsatisfactory meeting with Piers, the no-work scenario – all were forgotten as she basked in being with Jack. On the morning of his birthday she surprised him with smoked salmon, bagels, strawberries and champagne, which she'd smuggled into the hotel the night before, and hidden in the mini-bar.
'Sorry it's not room service,' she said.
'I like it all the more because you got it,' he told her. If he was lying it was a sweet lie.
'So, happy birthday old man!' she joked, handing him a small package. Jack ripped off the paper and opened the black velvet box.
'That is so cool!' he exclaimed, lifting out the thick silver chain bracelet she'd bought him from Frank's stall.
'Well, I thought you were metrosexual enough to carry it off,' she said, fastening it on his wrist.
'You're so cheeky, Fleming. Do you know what your present is?'
'A dirty old man with a big package, I hope,' she replied, giggling as Jack pinned her down on the bed.
You're only three years younger than me! I am going to take such delight in your thirtieth birthday,' he exclaimed.
'Oh shut up,' she murmured. 'I've never shagged a thirty-year-old before; aren't you going to get on with it? Or do you need me to get you a fluffer to get you going?'
Apparently not, as after round one, Jack was up for an encore. Maybe it was just a myth that men reached their peak at the age of eighteen. Valentine was just wondering if they could go for a hat trick when Jack's phone rang. Go away world, Valentine thought as Jack sat up and took the call.
'Shit! I'd completely forgotten! Sorry, we'll be with you in a half an hour.' He snapped his phone shut and looked over at Valentine, 'We're supposed to be meeting some of the cast right now for drinks.'
'Who's going to be there?' Valentine asked cautiously.
'Regan, Gloucester, the Fool and Tamara.'
Valentine did a major eye-roll.
'Don't give me that look. We won't stay long, I promise. When they offered to take me out I couldn't really say no.'
Couldn't you? Valentine felt like saying, slightly put out that she was wasting her last day with Jack in the company of strangers and they wouldn't be seeing each other for at least another two weeks.
'Happy Birthday, Jack!' Tamara squealed as soon as they walked into the bar. Valentine tried not to grit her teeth too much at the sight of Tamara's slender arms wrapped round Jack. She could get through this. She would be calm, sophisticated, aloof. Barely acknowledging Valentine, Tamara led Jack to a table where other members of the cast were sitting. Valentine trailed behind. Tamara installed Jack next to her at one end, leaving Valentine sitting at the opposite end, next to the fool (Timothy) – was Tamara trying to tell her something? – and Gloucester (Seb), who fortunately were both charming. Especially Seb, who paid her outrageous compliments about how lovely she looked. And so she bloody should! The moment she'd found out about the drinks she'd spent an hour getting ready. Tamara, of course, looked ravishing in a white sun dress that showed off her beautiful golden-brown skin, her blonde hair with a just-got-out-of-bed-but-actually-it-cost-a-fortune-to-achieve-this look.
'To the birthday boy!' she called out, holding up a glass of champagne – vintage, naturally. Valentine had a sudden pang for that morning when she and Jack had shared the cheapest she could find in Sainsbury's. Then Tamara handed Jack an exquisitely wrapped present. Jack looked slightly awkward as he unwrapped it to reveal a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird – one of his favourite books.
'Tamara, this is too much,' he said, sounding embarrassed, especially when he opened the cover and saw it was a first edition. 'Really too much.'
Tamara looked like the cat who had got the cream – fat-free in her case. 'It's just a little thank you for being so sweet to me and helping me through this difficult time.'
Valentine felt a flash of jealousy at the thought of Jack giving NTM any attention.
Jack shrugged. 'I really haven't done anything.'
But Tamara lowered her voice, making the exchange between them intimate, 'You have, Jack, you've been my rock.' Her voice caught with a sob as she carried on, 'You've been like Atticus Finch standi
ng up to the bullies who would bring me down.'
The woman was an egomaniac! Fancy comparing her situation to that of the persecuted African American falsely accused of rape! She was just a bad actress and she only had herself to blame for that.
Still, Jack was simply being nice to Tamara because that was the kind of person he was, Valentine tried to tell herself. She should be happy that she had such a lovely, generous, warm-hearted boyfriend. The pep talk didn't work. Her mood grew darker.
Seb pulled her back from the brink by asking her about A Midsummer Night's Dream. 'Jack said you were absolutely sensational!'
'Not sensational enough, apparently,' she said. 'I've heard nothing from my agent.' She took another sip of champagne, but the drink, which had made her feel so high this morning, was now having the opposite effect. She just wanted to go. She looked appealingly at Jack, but he was still being monopolised by Tamara. Valentine hated to admit it but she felt jealous and insecure. She was just hours away from getting the train back home, leaving Jack with Tamara. And Jack's plan to have a quick drink then leave did not materialise as the director of the play turned up and ordered more champagne.
At five o'clock – just half an hour before Valentine's train – they finally left.
'I thought we weren't going to stay long,' Valentine said, aware that she sounded petulant, but unable to stop.
'I know, I'm sorry.' He put his arm round her. 'I'll make it up to you next time, I promise.'
'You know NTM really fancies you,' Valentine continued.
'She doesn't,' Jack protested, but he didn't look Valentine in the eye. 'I told you she's having a hard time and she sees me as an ally.'
'Do you have to be her ally?' Valentine persisted. 'Couldn't you just keep a cool and polite distance?'
Jack removed his arm. She'd exasperated him. 'Clive is bullying her. I hate bullying, that's all.'
'So if the situation was reversed and say it was me and Finn and he was having a hard time and I was just being kind and he was buying me expensive presents, you wouldn't mind?'
'It's completely different! You've got previous with Finn. Tamara is just a colleague. I really don't know what your problem is with her. Yes, she can be annoying and she isn't as talented as you and it is a shame that she's got to where she has because of her connections, but that's just the way of the world. She's completely harmless and actually quite sweet when you get to know her.'
Valentine saw red. 'You've got no idea! She was vile to me at drama school, never missed an opportunity to put me down, and she's been like that ever since.'
'She's probably just insecure because she knows that you're the better actress.'
'Oh yes, that must be it! She's jealous of my glittering career! Who knows what exciting roles the coming week has in store for me! Maybe I'll get another booking to be a party fairy and be groped by some lecherous dad, or I can help out at the yummy mummy music group again and be criticised for not putting my all into "The Wheels on the Fucking Bus"! No wonder NTM is jealous of me; I mean, how can the role of Cordelia compare with all of that?' The anger and jealousy was pouring out of her.
There was a pause when they both stood glaring at each other in the station – a direct contrast to their romantic meeting two days earlier. Oh God, she couldn't part like this!
Jack was the first to speak. 'Don't let's argue. It's not important.' He put his arm round her again. 'Are you sure you can't stay tonight? I could smuggle you into my digs. I promise I won't let the bed bugs bite and I'll hide the pink crocheted lady loo roll cover.'
'Really? That cover would have been one of the highlights of my stay,' she attempted to joke. 'But no, I can't, Jack.' It was tempting, but she knew she would feel ten times worse in the morning when Jack left for his rehearsal and she had an empty day ahead of her.
'I love you, Valentine,' Jack said as they hugged by the ticket barrier. She buried her face in his neck, getting one final hit of Jack and Eau Sauvage. So much more romantic in the past when lovers could wave each other off at the platform. 'Love you too,' Valentine said. There was nothing at all romantic about going through a ticket barrier on your own.
It was a miserable journey back to London. The train was packed. The air-conditioning had broken and it was sweltering. 'We should be able to get our money back,' the large man opposite her kept repeating at regular intervals. The heat didn't seem to have suppressed his appetite and Valentine watched him put away a Big Mac, fries and an apple pie. In the heat of the carriage the smell of the fast food seemed to linger. Valentine had brought one of Jack's T-shirts back to snuggle up with in bed because it carried his scent, but at this rate all it was going to smell of was bloody McDonald's – hardly the Proustian memory she had hoped for. Her iPod battery had gone flat, but she put the headphones in anyway, hoping to protect herself from any more comments from fast-food man, and shut her eyes for good measure. She was already missing Jack and hating the fact that they had nearly quarrelled as she left. Had she been in the wrong to be so negative about Tamara? She didn't want to seem like a bitch, but she really couldn't stand her. Just thinking about her again and about the way she had hijacked Jack's birthday made Valentine feel angry, irrational and very insecure.
12
Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be . . .
'Does this say "daughter of famous film director" to you?' Valentine demanded, walking into the living room where Nathan was doing sit-ups (proper Army-style hardcore ones, she noticed in some awe) while Lauren lay on the sofa languidly eating Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia from the tub.
Valentine was off to meet Piers and his wife Olivia for lunch at Nobu in Mayfair. It was to be her second meeting with Piers and her first with Olivia. Since she'd met Piers in Hampstead they had been sending each other emails regularly. And Valentine had found herself warming more to Piers. She discovered he had a very dry sense of humour – but it still felt strange every time she remembered who he was. She was nervous about Olivia, certain that she would be a force to be reckoned with, and she wanted to make a good impression. All her dresses, a mixture of Vintage and Top Shop, appeared a little shabby by daylight. In the end she'd chosen a green halterneck with a fitted waist and full skirt, with a little black cardigan over the top. She'd spent ages taming her hair so it hung in soft forties-style waves and not in a mad frizz. The question was, would she do?
'V, you look great, but I don't know what a daughter of a famous film director is supposed to look like, except Sophia Coppola. And you don't look like her, sweetie.'
'Because she's so slim,' Valentine said gloomily.
'No! Because you have a completely different look, birdbrain!'
'You look gorgeous V,' Nathan panted, now doing press-ups.
'I don't mean to witter on,' Valentine sighed, perching on the end of the sofa. 'It's just that I really want Piers to like me.'
'Do you like him?' Lauren demanded.
'I don't know him yet. But he is my father. I'm still hoping for some kind of connection.' Valentine couldn't bring herself to say "dad". She'd already had a dad – Chris. Piers could never replace him.
Lauren put down the empty tub of Cherry Garcia. 'V, if he doesn't like you then he is some fucked up motherfucker.'
'Lauren!' Nathan and Valentine chorused. Nathan fully supported Valentine's campaign to get Lauren to stop saying "motherfucker".
'Oh shut up American Boy and get on with your press-ups. I thought your abs seemed a little slack this morning,' Lauren shot back.
'Nothing to what yours will be if you keep mainlining ice-cream,' Nathan replied, but they were smiling at each other. It was definitely love, Valentine thought as she headed out of the house.
'So Valentine, isn't that a boy's name?' That original question came from Olivia. She was several years older than Piers, in her late fifties, but still intimidatingly beautiful in an ice-blonde sort of way, with cheekbones to die for. She had not been giving off especially friendly vibes. Valentine had tried to see things from Olivia's
point of view. It was understandable that she would be wary of her husband's daughter suddenly appearing on the scene. All the same, her cool manner had been disconcerting.
Valentine nodded and launched into her usual explanation, all the while aware of Olivia observing her, and not just Olivia. Piers had also brought along Saul Morrison, one of the screenwriters he worked with, explaining that he wanted Valentine to get to know the people he was closest to. Valentine would have preferred one-to-one time with Piers. She hadn't warmed to Saul one little bit. Alongside Olivia, he had interrogated Valentine about her acting CV and the looks he gave her made it clear that he thought she was a loser. He seemed to be dissecting her every move and every expression, as if storing them for future use. No doubt people were just source material to him. If that wasn't enough he was wearing the loathsome chinos. She felt supremely awkward. Piers was making an effort with her, but Saul and Olivia were so aloof. No one was drinking alcohol and in Olivia's case, not eating anything either. Valentine had long wanted to taste black cod in miso, but she was too aware of Olivia monitoring her mouthfuls to enjoy it.
'Valentine was at drama school with Tamara Moore,' Piers told Olivia when there was a lull in the conversation.
'Such a lovely girl!' Finally the ice queen looked animated. 'And isn't she in Lear at the moment? We'll have to go, Piers. Though,' and here she seemed to shudder slightly, 'isn't it in Manchester?'
'Not a fan of the North?' Valentine asked teasingly. 'I love it myself.'
'Of course I like the North; what are you suggesting?' Olivia demanded, her grey eyes bulging slightly, a vein pulsing in her lovely long neck. 'One of my horse sanctuaries is in Cheshire; I'm always going up there.'
'Nothing at all,' Valentine mumbled. Maybe Olivia just had no sense of humour and preferred horses to people. Valentine had long been wary of horse people since her days as a horse-mad ten-year-old and having to deal with Mrs Trimmer, the fearsome owner of the stables. Mrs Trimmer strode around in mud-caked boots, a filthy Barbour, fag hanging out of her mouth and woe betide you if you hadn't groomed or mucked out her horses to her satisfaction. In fairness she adored her horses – it was just the people she didn't care for. Maybe Olivia was like Mrs Trimmer – except a beautiful, non-smoking version.
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