I put the video on pause. I stare at the frozen, blurred image on the video screen. This is real. You can see that. The woman’s face, distorted by the penis in her mouth, has a vacant, slightly horsey expression. How do these people do this? Why do they do this?
I rewind to the kiss at the beginning of the scene. I’ve seen Sophie do that a hundred times. That’s how I met her, kissing for the camera. I met her and I said hi, and about five minutes later we were kissing. I kissed her and kissed her and kissed her and she kissed me and said wow. I was in trouble already and I knew it. I’m still in trouble. When I kissed Sophie, it wasn’t real. But actually, later, it turned out it was. I look again at the screen. The blowjob in Shag City will have no patrol boats or continuity violations. There will be sophisticated lighting, skillful camera work, believable performances and a storyline. But it will be real. It isn’t supposed to be real. Taste dictates that it not be real.
I turn off the video. I pick up the phone. “Hi, Anne-Marie, it’s Frederick Case speaking, of Godzone International, I don’t know if you remember me.” I can hear my own voice. I sound nasal and pompous. I can’t believe I said that about Godzone. I sound like I’m about to offer her a job.
“Oh,” she says, cautiously, “of course, Frederick. How are you?”
“Er, is this a good time to call?”
“Sure, kids are in bed, what can I do you for?”
“Well, I don’t know, I mean I hope you don’t mind, I mean I . . . I thought I might drop round. If it was convenient.”
“Well, Frederick, sure, you wanna stop by, just stop on by, it’d be great to see you.”
“Great.”
Another pause. “Okay, well, come on over.”
“It’s the blokes I feel for,” says Gary.
“The blokes?”
He leans on the counter, pulls a cigarette out from behind his ear, plays with it, and puts it back. “Yeah, it’s hard for the blokes. They gotta perform, know wot I mean? There’s gonna be all these people watching, director, cameraman, lighting, makeup, wha’ever. Maybe they know the girl, maybe they don’t. Maybe they fancy ’er, maybe they don’t. But none a that matters. They gotta get up, get in, get out, every time, on cue, on time, on budget. There’s easier ways of makin’ a livin’ let me tell yer. There’s not many blokes what can do it, as a matter of fact. Like the best ones, they can keep it up for hours and hours. And then when you need the cumshot, there it is, bang, on cue. They can time it to the second. Give ’em a few minutes and they’re ready to go again. It’s a gift, really.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
But, like, the girls get all the attention. It’s really about the girls, innit? The blokes tend to be more secretive. They come and they go. The girls, there’s never any shortage of girls, know wot I mean? They all want to get in on it. They all wanna be the next porn queen. But the blokes, they’re harder to find. You find a good bloke, you ’ang on to ’im.”
“You’ve obviously worked in the industry yourself.”
“Oh yeah,” says Gary, “I’ve been in the business for years now.”
“You perform?”
“No, not me. I ’aven’t got the gift, know wot I mean? I do all sorts. Bit a’ camera work, bit a’ lighting, script supervisor, directing, wha’ever.” He leans on the counter again, gets out the cigarette and taps it on the counter. “Of course it goes right back, dunnit?”
“What?”
“Porno.”
“You mean the Greeks and their vases?”
“Oh, well, yeah, there was that. But I meant more like on film. Like they started makin’ porno same time as they discovered film at all, know wot I mean?”
“Oh, really?”
“Oh, yeah. They got right on it. Then you got the stags, over in America, like.”
“The stags?”
“Yeah, in the thirties and the forties and the fifties, used to make these little short films, right. Called ’em stags. Little porno films. Used to show ’em all over. Private screenings. And then you’ve got your golden age. The golden age of porn.” He sighs sentimentally.
“Let me guess. The seventies?”
“Yeah, late sixties, early seventies. Got your big-budget porn round then. The classics, like Behind the Green Door, Opening of Misty Beethoven, all that. Them were the days, really. People put money into it then. Nowadays it’s all just gonzo. Just a geezer and a girl and a room and a video camera. Bang bang bang, thank you very much darling there’s a tenner, know wot I mean? No lighting, no script, no story. That’s the thing I miss. No story at all. Back in the seventies you had a real story—humor too. Some very funny moments in porn, sometimes. Really amusing.”
“So what happened after the seventies?”
“Well, you got your feminist-orientated porn o’ course. That’s the eighties, early nineties.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah, a bunch of girls got together, all in the business, made their own production company. Called it Femme Productions. They made a few in’eresting films. Not very ’ot though, not really, not from a bloke’s point of view, anyway. Not enough close-ups. See that’s the fing, innit? Porn’s gotta be ’ot, or what’s the point? Yeah?”
“Absolutely. And what happened after that?”
“Well, people just lost interest really. You got the Net and all that, now. I mean it’s huge, the industry, it’s vast. It’s bigger than ’ollywood.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“Yeah, it is, it’s a fifty-billion-dollar industry, the porno industry.”
“Good God.”
“Yeah, but it’s all just low budget nowadays, see? Instant gra’ification, know wot I mean? Nobody wants to make any effort. They just want to see the business, know wot I mean? Well, ask me, you can keep it. No story, no characterization. That’s the fing. See, that’s what you’re after, innit, Frederick? I can tell. You want a bit of a story, a bit of character.” He taps his cigarette one last time, holds it to his lips, stares into space, sighs, and puts it away, unlit. “See, nobody cares about that anymore. No setting, no lighting. No . . . what was that you said the other week? No lyricism. Yeah, that’s it. Course you got your Wild Orchid, 9 1/2 Weeks, stuff like that, but that’s just soft, innit? It ain’t the real fing, it ain’t ’ard. Know wot I mean?” He shakes his head. “Nah, it ain’t porno. Nah,” he sighs, “it’s a kind of a rebel fing. But who knows? Maybe fings are gonna change again. You ask me, what we need is a really big star to come along and make a big budget porno film, with a story and everyfing, like the old days. It’ll ’appen. Mark my words. Like, nowadays, it’s all remakes innit? Well, they’re running out of fings to remake, in’t they? I mean, if they can do a remake of Spider-Man, they can do a big budget porno.” He pauses. “It’s just another genre, see—like dance films, well, you don’t see them anymore, do you? But one day, you will. Really, it’s just a very misunnerstood genre, is all.”
The next time I went into the shop, Gary wasn’t there. Instead there was an old man with one eye and a hunch and no smile. I didn’t see Gary again.
It’s one of those enormous, square, ivy-clad brick mansions on Avenue Road, just a few doors down from the discreet, high-class knocking shop on the corner of Allison Road. Rachel Hunter has a place a bit farther along and on the other side. I cross the forecourt. There’s a Mercedes four-wheel-drive parked outside, and the coach light at the front door is on. The door opens after a stomach-churning wait of a few seconds, during which I almost lose my nerve and make a run for it.
“Well, hi Frederick, come on in.” She stands back, smiling relaxed, breezy. It’s a relatively warm evening in late spring, and she’s in T-shirt and jeans. She’s got the same makeup mask, the same wrought-iron hair, the same biceps. “You want something to drink?”
“Thanks, that’d be great.”
She takes my steerhide coat and we sit in an unspeakably pleasant little sitting ro
om near the back of the house. I don’t know what the interior of the house was like when it was first built but there’s probably hardly a wall in its original position. Everything is white, and light, and airy and halogen-lit without being harsh or barren. From where I’m sitting the kitchen is visible through an arch and I can see kids’ drawings magneted to the fridge.
I sip my crystal whiskey bucket. “I’m sorry to barge in on you, like this.”
“That’s okay, Frederick, don’t be sorry, it’s really good to see you.”
“Could I ask you one thing?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think about all this?”
“About the filming? About Sophie and Matt? If you really want to know, Frederick, I don’t like it.”
“Right.”
“I don’t like it at all.”
“Well, I don’t like it either.”
“Have you told Sophie that?”
“I think she knows.”
“But, you know, Frederick, with Matt, I’ve learned over the years, that if you really love someone you have to accept them as they are.”
“Mm.”
“You have to look at the whole deal. I think that’s what you have to do.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I know with Matt, he’s not the average person. I can accept that. Or not. That’s my choice. But it’s no good just burning up about it. You know, the fact is, if you’re gonna make movies, if you’re gonna be a Hollywood actor, you gotta play by different rules. It’s another world out there.”
“But . . . what about Paul Newman?”
“The exception that proves the rule.”
“But . . .”
“You don’t like it. Sure. Neither do I. But that’s how it is.”
“Yeah. But . . .”
“Look. I don’t know Sophie. I don’t know you. But I know Matt and I know that over the years, I mean I’ve been through so many issues with Matt over the years, and I’ve been up against it before now, and I’ve just learnt that if I want to be with Matt, I have to accept certain things. I don’t have to like them. And I don’t have to pretend I like them either. And, in fact, I don’t. Like them. But it’s my choice. You know?”
“Wow.”
Anne-Marie flips her hair to the other shoulder and caresses her left biceps absently. “I think you have to look at the whole deal. Matt is such a wonderful guy in so many ways. He’s given me so much. Because he is just such a wonderful, amazing guy. You know? So I just look at what I have, I mean, I have so much. I have three wonderful children, and I have a wonderful life here, and elsewhere, wonderful friends, and so much freedom, and you know, you have to do that, look at the whole deal. You can’t be with someone who is special, and different, with this very special career, and expect him at the same time just to be a regular ordinary guy. ’Cos he just ain’t. And I wouldn’t love him the way I do if he was.”
“The whole deal . . .”
“That’s what I do.”
“So what you’re saying is . . . ?”
“I’m not saying anything about how you should handle it because I don’t know you. But that’s how I handle it. It’s like, if you love something, let it go.” She releases an imaginary dove.
“I never thought about it that way.”
“Hey. I’m glad you stopped by.”
“But I mean, this scene . . .”
“The blowjob.”
“Yeah. That scene.”
“Crazy, huh?” She shakes her head, then tosses it back and laughs. “I know, I know . . . just about drove me crazy.”
I mean. I just . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I just can’t . . . cope.”
“Well, hey, Frederick, they’re pushing boundaries here. In not many years, the rules about what you can and can’t show in a mainstream movie have changed, dramatically.”
“Yeah but I don’t mean that.”
“You mean, like, why should we put up with it?”
“Yeah.”
“You know what I say? I say to myself, she’s giving my husband a blowjob. Okay. But what it means . . .” She taps her head. “It’s all in here. Right? It’s up to him. It’s up to her. It’s up to me. It’s up to you. Matt said to me, if you say no, I won’t do it. He said that to me. So, I thought about it. And I decided, okay. I’m gonna trust you with this. If you say that you can handle it, and you can be clear about it in your own mind, then hell, if we can put a man on the moon, surely we can be okay about a little onscreen blowjob?”
I’m standing in an English garden. An orchard. She’s sitting with her back to me, looking out across the valley. She’s wearing a sky-blue coat and her hair is tangled across the back. It’s very fine hair and it tangles easily. I have all these phrases heavy on my tongue, I have it all worked out, and I never get to say any of it, because when she turns I don’t even recognize her face and I’m getting that zooming-in dollying-out feeling and I realize that something bad and unexpected is about to happen.
“I had an affair with Matt.” She starts to cry.
The ground tilts. Well, I think to myself, that’s it. The worst has finally happened.
And suddenly, just like that, I was free. I put my hands on her shoulders. “Listen,” I said, “I don’t care. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not happy about what you’ve done. But I understand how it could happen. You’re under pressure. Pressure to perform, every day. You’re in an emotionally charged situation, you’re spending all your time—twelve, fourteen hours a day, maybe more—with this small tight-knit group of people, you’re thrown together with this guy, you’re spending all day playing make-believe, you’re drawing on your own feelings. You’re fooling your own feelings, and you’re getting paid to make it real. I know, I’ve been there. The two of you are in the same boat. You rely on each other. You have a lot in common. He’s a good-looking guy. A fun guy. It’s only natural that the lines are going to get a bit blurred, a bit fuzzy. It’s totally understandable. And there you are, away from home, you’re lonely. You want comfort. I can understand that.” I felt a fierce pride. It was something bright and beautiful. I was not a jealous guy. I was a loving guy. I took her hand. “Look,” I said, “things have been bad for a while now between us. I know that. There’s a distance between us. I’m as responsible for that as you are. But we can work it through. We can do it. We can turn it around.”
I think somewhere about now I expected Sophie to look at me with gratitude and love, and maybe to say something. But she didn’t, she just kept crying. She was getting distinctly puffy.
“Hey,” I said. “It’s okay.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t understand. It’s not okay. I’m in love with him.”
EXT. ORCHARD—DAY.
FREDERICK TURNS. STUMBLING ON FALLEN APPLES HE HEADS FOR THE HOUSE. SOPHIE CALLS AFTER HIM SOFTLY, BLINDLY.
INT. KITCHEN—DAY.
BORIS LOOKS UP FROM THE DOG.
Boris
Find her?
Frederick
Yeah, I found her.
Boris
In the orchard?
Frederick
No, actually she’s gone for a walk down by the river.
THERE IS A HUGE ZINC SINK BENCH UNDER THE WINDOWS OVERLOOKING THE CHURCH GRAVEYARD. FREDERICK CROSSES TO IT AND TURNS ON THE TWO MASSIVE BRASS TAPS. THE WATER QUICKLY RUNS HOT. STEAM RISES. TAMINTHA STROLLS BY.
Tamintha
Don’t know what we’d do without you, Frederick.
Frederick
Get a maid?
On the road again. Feels good. It was easy—finished the dishes, nipped upstairs, grabbed my wallet, a pair of boots, nipped back downstairs, over the dry stone wall, through the churchyard and away.
Scot-free.
A new life.
Around the bend is a right-of-way that cuts across the fields, down the hill and into the village. There’ll be a train later this afternoon. I can walk it in forty minutes. I follow a huge well-
tended hawthorn hedge to the entrance to the right-of-way, climb the stile and slip through. The path leads through a farmyard. Chickens, a couple of outbuildings, what looks like a cucumber frame and behind that a dirty glasshouse. A girl in overalls is working on a tractor. She doesn’t look up although I pass within ten feet.
I climb another stile behind the glasshouse and the track starts up a smooth, steep, rolling hill. It’s muddy underfoot. Twice I slip but I don’t fall. At the brow of the hill I cross another stile, and start across a field of burnt stubble. I pick my way until I come to a lone tree standing stark against the rounded crest, a lone crow hunched on one wandering branch. I stand under the tree, breathing heavily. Looking ahead, I can see the church spire from the next village jutting like a lighthouse above a tangle of bare limbed trees fringing the next hill crest.
The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life Page 14