Russell, as my support person, didn’t really work out so well on account of his being so busy with Brian and so tired all the time, and besides he was trying to stay friends with Sophie too, which made him next to useless when it came to saying horrible things about Sophie. Which, naturally, I needed to do just as much as she did about me. Russell didn’t actually object, but every time I got started, he’d kind of hunch down and stare into his cup of tea and look embarrassed and sad and forlorn. I didn’t want that. I wanted enthusiasm, I wanted suggestions. We’d usually end up doing Matt instead. That was pretty easy.
For her part, Sophie came up with some amazing stuff. After she told me about Matt, that weekend at Tamintha’s, we went straight home, and we locked the door and for forty-eight hours we were in there, hard at it. Hammering it out, toe-to-toe, trading bald assertion for bald assertion, denial for denial and attribution for invective. We said it all. We said it, loud and clear. It was domestic hardball, and no mistake.
Sophie explained to me, in some detail, how I’d become a deadening and uninspiring person. I’d become a cipher. There was nothing there anymore. I never did anything. I had nothing to offer. I was going nowhere with my life, all I did was hang around and drink vodka and spout bullshit. I was psychically dragging her down to my own level. I was a black hole of despair. Further, Sophie said, even if I didn’t realize it, deep down I wanted her to fail. (That was smart, that, even if I didn’t realize it.) She said deep down in my heart I’d never been comfortable with her success and I wanted her to fall flat on her face so I could pick up the pieces and be powerful in the relationship again. She said I simply couldn’t cope with a successful woman. She said the real reason I didn’t want her to do Shag had nothing to do with the sex scenes, and nothing to do with Matt Chalmers and everything to do with my fear of her continuing success.
Of course none of this was remotely true. I’ve always been very comfortable with Sophie’s success. I’ve always been very comfortable because of Sophie’s success. It was my failure I was uncomfortable with. And the same went for Sophie: she just couldn’t cope with my failure. Not at all. She was so scared of failing herself that she was scared of even being around failure. She was scared that I’d taint her, that I’d drag her down. But as I pointed out to her, if she gave in to that fear, and ditched me merely because I was a failure, something inside her, something bright and tender and real, would die. She’d be forever just that little bit less a human being, that little bit more a calculating machine. Furthermore, I said, that’s all Matt Chalmers was to her. He was a symbol of success. In deluding herself that she was falling in love with Matt Chalmers, what she was really falling in love with was her own success, her own career—with herself. Thus she was doomed to become involuted, dehumanized and closed off from the real world of compassion, humanity and feeling. And as for Shag City, her willingness to do such a cheap, low-down, exploitative piece of rubbish was an indication of the danger she was already in.
In the end we had to agree to disagree. Although in fact we did agree on most things, on questions of fact. We agreed that I’d failed. We agreed that she’d succeeded. We agreed that she’d had an affair with Matt. Where we differed was over the more complex question of causality. For Sophie, there was a clear stream of causality, flowing strongly in one direction: everything I did made her do everything she did. For me there was no stream. It was more a swamp of causality. Everything was in there, floating around, smelling less than wonderful, bumping into everything else. Things had been caused, that was clear enough, but by what and by whom, I had no idea.
Also, there was the crucial question. Sophie claimed to have fallen in love with Matt Chalmers. I rejected that utterly. It was sheer madness, sheer folly. A daydream.
“Mark my words.”
It was two in the morning of the second day and only hours before her final departure. We’d finished the last bottle of wine, the bread was stale and we were starting to run low on assertions. I stood on the table. “Mark my words,” I said. “He means nothing to you, and you even less to him. Even if you don’t realize it now.” I think that was probably my finest moment. I kind of went downhill from there.
I drain my orange juice and pour another. Rebecca is at this moment leaning on the rail and staring out to sea and telling Mark what an arsehole I am. I can see her lips moving from here. Fact is, Rebecca and I have a past.
Rebecca always hated me. I couldn’t understand it. She really, really seemed to hate me. It was like we’d been implacable foes in a past life. The first time I ever set eyes on her, she gave me a look so evil I crossed myself. And that’s the way it stayed. Monosyllabic replies, averted eyes. The odd evil glance.
At first I tried to win her over. I made jokes, I made cups of tea. I took an overt interest in her personal life. I addressed her repeatedly by her first name. I put her at ease by giving her lots of private time with Sophie and yet at the same time cheerfully accompanying them on clothes and cosmetic shopping expeditions to help carry the parcels. “You know, Rebecca, I think that lipstick really goes with your eyes.”
No dice. Nothing.
Then I realized what it was. She didn’t hate me. She was, secretly, incredibly hot for me. She couldn’t trust herself even to look me in the eye for fear she would betray her true feelings, break down and throw herself at me, thus betraying her friendship with Sophie. Beneath that barren cinder cone of dislike lurked the seething lava of passion. How she must have suffered, so close and yet so far from the object of her passion. And then of course she broke up with Enoch, and that clinched it. It was all clear. She’d left him because of me. There was no other explanation. I even began to feel sorry for the kid.
Then, when Sophie finally left, I went into my revenge phase, which lasted about six hours. I decided to seduce Rebecca. I decided to wreck things between Sophie and her best friend, just when she needed her most. Wicked, huh? I went right around to Rebecca’s place with a bottle of wine and a Miles Davis CD. Turned out I was right the first time: she wasn’t secretly incredibly hot for me at all, she really, really hated me. She told Sophie all about it later. I denied everything. Sophie said she didn’t know what was more pathetic, trying it on with her best friend or denying it later. I think probably the denial, although admittedly it’s a close-run thing.
I’ve drained yet another orange juice and I pour what I think is my third. Pretty soon I’m going to have to go looking for the head. As for Melissa, I’m worried. She has “loose cannon” written all over her. Although she’s right about one thing. I haven’t been showing enough affection. It’s hard to show affection. A drink would help, but I can’t drink. If I drink I die. I don’t think I’ve ever been this sober in my life. It’s terrifying just how sober you can get. It’s been several weeks now, and still I’m getting more sober. Every morning I wake up a little soberer. I don’t see things anymore, I see through things. It’s terrible. And as for the LSD, that was no help at all. I bitterly regret taking it and I’ll never take it again. It has to be the most useless drug ever invented. I mean what is the point of a drug that increases your level of insight?
I must relax. I must show affection. I must find the head.
“Frederick.” Now it’s Ella. Looks like she wants a piece of me too.
“Great boat, huh?”
“Listen, what’s the story with you and Melissa?” This is Ella’s style. Some might say she’s blunt and tactless but she prefers to think of herself as direct and no-nonsense.
“Well, there’s not a lot to say really. We met in Selfridges. In garden furniture, actually. She said have you got the time, I said . . .”
Ella gives an impatient wave of her hand. “She obviously thinks the world of you, Frederick.”
“Oh she does. She’s wild about me. Wild.”
“She seems really nice.”
“She is.”
“Very affectionate.”
“Yeah, oh yeah. Very affectionate.”
“She seem
s like a really lovely girl.”
“Lovely. Charming.”
She looks at me fixedly. “Are you serious about her?” There’s something about the way she’s looking at me that’s making me nervous. I don’t know what the right answer is.
“Well, sure, I mean we are serious, of course. Why?”
Ella is still looking at me. “I don’t know, I just . . . you’re not still on the rebound, are you? Because I think she’s better than that. I think she deserves better.”
“Oh, of course.” I’m beginning to feel slightly sweaty.
“Tell me it’s none of my business, but . . . I just wonder if you’re ready for this. Do you really think you’re ready for this?”
“Ready? Am I what? Of course I am. I’ve never been so ready in my life.”
Her tone softens. “I assume you’ve heard about Sophie?”
“What about Sophie?”
“That she’s pregnant.”
“Oh, that. Yes, yes. Great isn’t it? Is it a boy or a girl? Does she know?”
Ella looks at me disbelievingly and pats my arm. “Take care, Frederick. Take care of yourself. And take care of Melissa.” She’s suspicious I’m sure. She’s on to me.
When I get back to Melissa, I find her chatting to the captain. He’s wearing a white hat, white shoes and white suit, but he looks distinctly rough trade—Querelle twenty years on. The uniform is crumpled, a little greasy. He’s around fifty, weather-beaten, seamed and lined, tangled blond hair, big broad shoulders. A white scar down his forehead, across one corner of his eye and down his cheek. Not too clean. I notice a Tahitian tattoo on the back of one hand, and more tattoos crawling up the back of his neck.
“Gilles,” says Melissa, smiling unpleasantly, and caressing my cheek, “this is Frederick. Frederick, this is Gilles. Gilles has been telling me all about himself.”
“And I’m sure you’ve been telling Gilles all about yourself, too.”
She looks blank.
“Here you are . . . darling.” I hand over the champagne.
“As a matter of fact,” says Gilles, “Melissa has been telling me all about you. You are the estranged husband of the famous actress who performs oral sex on camera?”
“I am.”
Melissa takes my hand. “Gilles has been teaching me how to say ‘oral sex’ in French.”
“That should come in handy.”
Gilles steps toward me. “And you are a New Zealander?”
“Yes.”
He puts a hand on his heart. “Then allow me to apologize to you, personally, and to all New Zealanders, for the sinking of the Rainbow Warrior in New Zealand’s national waters. It was an act of state piracy of the worst kind.”
Melissa steps in again. “Gilles used to live on his own yacht. He used to spend all his time sailing from island to island, all over the Pacific.”
“Sounds like paradise.”
Gilles shrugs. “Yes, but paradise—what is that? You sail from island to island. You catch fish, you eat bananas. Once a year you stop somewhere, you work, you make a little money, you fix up the boat, you stock up on beer, you sail off again.”
“Idyllic.”
“You forget. The so-what factor.”
“The who?”
“You wake up one morning, you’re anchored in a perfect little bay somewhere, the parrots are fluttering about the coconut palms, the water is so clear you can see the bottom five meters down and you think—so what?”
“Yeah, good point. That would be a problem. I can see that. So what did you do?”
“I got this job.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause.
“So, Gilles. Where’s the head?”
He beckons to us. “Come.”
I force myself to hold Melissa’s hand as we follow Gilles to the wheelhouse, which looks like the cockpit of a 747. There’s Internet, e-mail, sat-phone, real-time weather information with downloadable satellite photos, GPS, radar, depth sounders, autopilot. There are depth alarms, fire alarms, fuel alarms, weather alarms, leak alarms. “And,” says Gilles, proudly, “every system is backed up. We even have backups for the backups.”
“Let me guess,” I say, “even God couldn’t sink this boat.”
Gilles looks at me. “Not even the French could sink this boat.”
Below decks it’s a palace. From the wheelhouse we come out in a mahogany-paneled library. There’s a galley to put to shame any kitchen, a dining table to seat ten, separate lounge, showers, stereo, TV, electric toilets, works of art on the walls. Melissa is round-eyed, but I’m bored. I know about boats but I don’t really like them. I think it’s mainly just the fact that I’m such a terrible sailor. I took a couple of Sea Legs before we left this morning, so I’ll be okay, but then I can never stay awake much past lunchtime.
Melissa turns to Gilles. “How much would a boat like this cost?”
Gilles shrugs. “Several millions.”
“In what currency?”
“Any currency.”
Melissa whistles.
“Voilà!” With his eyes on Melissa, Gilles flings open the door to a magnificent stateroom. The bed is enormous, with a tiger-skin spread. Erotic art on the walls, an Exercycle and an en suite bathroom with bidet. “What do you think of that?”
“Very nice.” Melissa sits on the bed. She pats the cover. “Nice and firm.” There’s a slightly pregnant pause. Gilles appears to be breathing heavily. “Anyway, I must go back to the wheelhouse. I’ll leave you two to make use of the facilities. Feel free. Take your time.” He leaves, discreetly closing the door.
When I come out of the head, Melissa is lying on the bed. “I thought of something we could do. I thought it might help.”
“Help with what?”
“With the relationship.” She’s looking at me in a way I don’t quite like.
“What?”
“Why don’t we just do it, stud? Right here and now.”
“I thought I made this clear. No sex.”
She sighs. “You really are very screwed up about your body, did you know that?”
“Of course. It’s a natural part of the aging process.”
“You’re actually incapable of showing physical affection. Aren’t you?”
“I am not incapable. I just choose not to.”
“How in the world do you expect to convince people that you’re having a normal physical relationship with me if you can’t even touch me?”
“I can touch you.”
“Go on then. Touch me.”
“All right. There.”
“Not like that.”
“I just touched you, didn’t I?”
“You prodded me in the leg with your index finger. I’m talking about sensuous contact. Sexual touching.”
All of a sudden it seems strangely hot in here. “I’m sorry. What exactly is the problem here? I’ve asked you to do a job, and . . .”
“Look,” she says. “Tin tacks, okay? You want me to shut up, I’ll shut up. No skin off my nose. I could take your money, I could say nothing about it. We can go back up on deck and we can continue just the way we are. But I don’t like to work that way.” She sits up, cross-legged. “Do you want me to continue?”
“Continue.”
“I know what you want. You want intimacy, right?”
“Simulated intimacy.”
“The fact is, the way things are, no one is going to believe for a moment that I’m your girlfriend. They are all going to see right through it, and they’re going to guess what I am, and there is nothing I can do about it.”
“Why?”
“Because you just don’t have ‘it.’”
“Have . . . what?”
“Call it whatever you like. Fact is, to put it bluntly, you don’t look like someone who’s getting it regular. You have an aura of chastity. You carry it with you wherever you go.”
“I do?”
“Every time I go near you, you freeze up, you look embarrassed and you look the oth
er way. You see what I’m saying? Your body language is telling everybody that you hardly know me, and know even less what to do with me.”
“Well, I suppose maybe I could be a little out of practice . . .”
“Let me ask you this: when was the last time you did it?”
“Well . . .”
“Was it with your wife?”
“Of course it was with my wife.”
“Mm. That’s what I thought.”
Ah yes. I remember it well. It was a sympathy fuck pure and simple and I treasure the memory. After all it’s not every day you get that much sympathy. And you can never get too much sympathy. It was the last night. The night I stood on the table. I had my finest moment, up there on the table, and Sophie heard me out. There was a moment’s silence. Then she said she was leaving me. That very minute. She went and phoned Rebecca. I was still standing on the table. It was like The China Syndrome. I was Jack Lemmon. No one would listen to me. She just kept on doing what she was doing, making plans and arrangements, packing, calculating her share of the phone bill. I suddenly realized that this was real. She might really, actually leave. Tonight. That had never occurred to me before.
I got down and I begged. I got down on my hands and knees, and I begged. It wasn’t so bad, not really, not once you get going. Actually it came to me quite naturally—not that I have no pride. I have a deep innate sense of self-respect and pride. This is the product of my privileged upbringing and caring background. I was taught to value myself, and I do. Yes—I’m proud, and proud to be proud. But I wear my pride on the inside.
Please. Please don’t leave. Please don’t go. Oh, please, oh please oh please. Not tonight. Not now, don’t leave me. I am begging you not to go. Just one more night, please please please. I didn’t cry. I would have, but she hates it when I cry. If I had cried it would have been all over. I did wring my hands, but only a little. I kept the delivery straight, and I just said it, quietly, humbly, with dignity. I remember the scene. I have perfect recall. It was about two in the morning. We were in the bedroom. There was a candle burning. The blue coverlet of the bed glowed unnaturally. Sophie was standing. I was prostrate, the sweet earthen taste of carpet on my tongue.
The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life Page 18