by Gary Crew
‘I go to kindy,’ Nicky said. ‘But today we went to the movies.’
‘I had a day off,’ the father said, ‘so we made the most of it. My wife went shopping. I played daddy.’
I nodded, not knowing what to say. ‘My favourite movie is Star Wars,’ Tim said, helping out.
‘I saw that movie,’ I said, an image of Rory and myself sitting in the darkened theatre coming to mind and my mother waiting outside in a huff. ‘I’d like to be Luke Skywalker.’
‘Nah,’ Tim said, ‘Luke’s a wimp. Hans Solo’s cool.’
‘Kids,’ the father said, ‘I wanted to be Luke too.’
Because he had a family, I’d taken him to be older than me, but when I looked at him, he might have been twenty-three, tops twenty-five. I looked at his wife. They were happy, I could tell. What hope did I have, now that Chanteleer had gotten to my Lootie?
I realised that I was staring, so I said, ‘Do the boys like bedtime stories?’ I imagined them setting up in bed in their PJs having their father read to them. This image appealed to me because it was something I had never known, hardly with my mother, and never with a father.
The dad laughed. ‘Bedtime stories?’ he said. ‘They like the idea more than the reality.’
‘You don’t read to them?’
‘The truth is,’ he said, hugging them to him, ‘if they hop into bed with me to read a story, which they say they want, they end up fighting. They’d rather fight than read. Hence Star Wars. Ask them…’
‘Is that true?’ I said to Tim, because I wasn’t exactly sure what I was asking. ‘Fighting, books or movies?’
‘Movies,’ he said, ‘because you see the fights. Light sabres, you know…’ and slipping to the floor, he prepared to engage his more than willing brother, sound effects included.
‘That’s enough,’ the mother said. ‘We’re nearly home. Sit down.’
‘I never had a brother,’ I said. ‘Or a father.’
The mother looked at me, steadying little Nicky as she did. ‘These boys have a third brother,’ she said, indicating their father. ‘He’s more childish than they are. Ask them who starts the fight, go on…’
‘Is that true?’ I said. ‘Is Dad just a big kid?’
The boys nodded, laughing.
‘There would be no bedtime stories at all if it wasn’t for me,’ the mother said. ‘All of my friends say the same thing. When it comes to physical stuff, ask Dad, when it comes to homework, books, any emotional problem, ask mum.’ As an afterthought, she added, ‘You haven’t got kids have you?’ I shook my head. ‘Hmmm,’ she said, ‘Think twice…’
I did think twice. I also called on that other me, the upright Charlie Bloome, to lend a hand. Together, over several reds and a few hours under the elm, we thought very hard, even entering into conversation once or twice.
The first thing Charlie and I considered was Birkin’s book, J. M. Barrie and the Lost Boys. I’d chosen to read it thoroughly, to study it, you might say, and although I have said that Barrie annoyed me, I was glad that I gave it the time.
When James Barrie was a child, his older brother David had been killed in an accident. As a result, James (the J. M. Barrie of Peter Pan fame) fell under the spell of his grieving mother. Birkin argues that the mother’s influence was so powerful the boy ceased to mature, eventually entering adulthood an emotional cripple, hardly more than a child himself. Hence Barrie only related to children, especially the Llewellyn-Davies boys who he met and wooed in Kensington Park, finally adopting as his own when their parents died. Ultimately, based upon his adventures in playing with these boys and his own interminable childhood, Barrie created Peter Pan, the boy who would never grow up.
Charlie and I thought hard about Birkin’s book. I admitted that I was concerned. Barrie might never have grown up, but here I was talking to my own adult alter ego. Charlie conceded that was a worry but encouraged me to go on, to talk it out.
I told him that when I found myself attracting the attention of kids on a tram by making goofy faces (shades of Barrie and the Llewellyn-Davies boys in Kensington Park), I wondered if something like what happened to Barrie had happened to me. I might not have had a brother who died, but my mother had smothered me, and the me that I didn’t like (the gutless me, the goofy, Monkey Boy me) was the product.
On the other hand, Barrie most likely never had a sexual relationship with a woman. There was every reason to believe that his marriage was never consummated. Charlie knew (only too well) that I couldn’t say the same about myself.
But sex is one thing, and committing to having kids quite another. If the mother on that tram was right, and the responsibility for the intellectual and emotional lives of children fell upon women, where did that leave Lootie and me?
Charlie saw my problem.
I skipped certain lectures over the next week and went to a few more bookshops. I also checked the internet for books in print by Chanteleer. The message was the same: nobody had stock of his novels. Worse, there had been none reprinted since the late 1990s. But one helpful dealer did manage to turn up Eve’s business card. I read the name there, Eve Forsythe, and the title, Personal Manager. I put the card in my wallet.
I tried to tell Lootie about Chanteleer’s unavailable titles, to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen.
‘Not true,’ she said. ‘What did we buy at the Redmond Barry lecture then? Toilet paper?’
‘I can’t explain that,’ I admitted.
‘So leave me alone. I know what I’m doing. Okay?’
‘But why would booksellers lie?’ I asked. ‘They’d make a sale if they could, wouldn’t they?’
‘If they don’t have stock, it’s all Eve’s fault. Sebastian told me she was hopeless.’
‘Eve’s fault? All Eve did was promote his work. Well, try to at least. The books have to be in print. You can’t promote what doesn’t exist.’
‘I’m not listening,’ she said, covering her ears like a child.
18
Chanteleer’s presence in my life was all-consuming. My studies were neglected. In an attempt to understand him, I was reading books about children’s writers rather than those set for uni. I had never forfeited my uni work, not even when Mum was sick.
I fretted about money. Lootie had let her student allowance lapse because of him, and the little extra that I did earn (ball-busting as my courier work was) she spent on fancy clothes.
My sex life (once healthy) was nonexistent. I spent more time on the sofa, or under the elm, moping, than in our bed. I found myself in a three-way relationship where my rival wasn’t exactly sexual (which was something, I guess), but not asexual either (which was even trickier). It seemed to me that Chanteleer was a master of a more sinister form of seduction: the art of psychic manipulation—and here I was, the original emotional cripple—the guy whose closest relationship had been with his mother.
I have to admit that I don’t want to write this next section. That while getting all of this down has been hard (a lousy word, I know, but who would buy agonising or traumatic? Maybe demeaning is the word I want. Or pathetic? Whatever…), since this part involves my meeting up with Eve Forsythe, I really stumble over it. I’ve thought about this a lot, and finally decided that there’s a couple of reasons for my reticence.
The first is a stylistic issue. Yeah, yeah, so it’s not like I’m the doyen of literary stylists (any dick could see that), but this part is—necessarily—more ordinary than the rest. I met Eve at Georgio’s (as I will soon recount, in painful detail) and hence the text is mostly dialogue (between relative strangers, at that) over a coffee table—stuff like, I said, she said, she gasped, I grimaced, blah de blah—hardly great literature. But I have to tell it. I have to get it down because it contains details (and revelations) germane to an understanding of what was going on between Chanteleer and Lootie. Or, more specifically, what was going on with Chanteleer that affected Lootie. And myself, of course, seeing as I loved her.
And now that the love wor
d has raised its pitiful head (with reference to myself, at least), I can admit to the second reason that I find this hard to write: demeaning, pathetic, (even incredible) as it may seem, at the age of twenty-three, I had never been out with another girl—just Lootie.
So, in a lather of guilt (Why, I asked myself, should I feel guilty?), I took Eve Forsythe’s business card from my wallet and phoned her.
Naturally, Eve had no idea who I was. And why should she? I had seen her once at a public function (the Redmond Barry lecture), and spoken to her once at a garden party. Nor was I what a woman might call ‘physically arresting’—unless I’d walked into her, or on her (which was always a possibility). So it took some pretty fast talking (and a bucket of sweat) to explain to Eve that I wasn’t some jerk trying to hit on her. Worse, how could I explain the circumstances when I didn’t fully understand them myself?
Finally I shot my mouth off and said that my girlfriend was about to enter into a business venture with Sebastian Chanteleer and I was seeking advice on her behalf.
There was a long silence, then the voice on the other end said, ‘I see.’
So we arranged to meet.
Social tragic that I was, I suggested Georgio’s. I took the precaution of taking one of Lootie’s prized Chanteleer novels to put on the coffee table, that way Eve could identify me.
The girl who came to my table was hardly the business-suited Eve that I remembered. She wore little make-up, ordinary blue jeans and a T-shirt. I liked her right away, sensing a hint of spring in the air.
‘Eve?’ I asked.
‘Charlie Bloome?’
‘The same,’ I said, getting up. ‘As I tried to explain on the phone, I’ve only seen you a couple of times: once at the Redmond Barry lecture and again at the garden party. To be honest, I’m trying to forget both occasions. No insult intended.’
‘You and me both,’ she said. ‘I had to arrange them.’
‘You looked different. More of a businesswoman, you know.’
‘Blame Chanteleer for that,’ she said. ‘I was such a fool.’ She picked up Lootie’s book. ‘Crappy cover isn’t it?’
‘That’s what I reckon,’ I admitted. ‘They’re all crappy. How come?’
‘I’ll tell you over a coffee,’ she said, laughing.
I went inside to order. Georgio was doing his best to check out who I was with, seeing it wasn’t Lootie. ‘My sister,’ I said, to put him out of his misery. I doubt that even he was stupid enough to believe that.
Eve was a goodlooking blonde, a bigger woman than Lootie, all over. Guilty or otherwise, now that I could take a better look, especially with her wearing jeans and a T-shirt, I’d say this new Eve was pretty rather than sexy, which I preferred. Sexy soon lost its attraction; I knew that from the girls I checked out in the uni café. The ones who were sexy turned me on one day but lost their charisma the next. Pretty girls lasted. They always looked good. I suspected that they were nicer people too. This was just a theory. Having had such limited experience (as I mentioned, I’d only been with Lootie), I had no way of knowing. And I daren’t ask Rory.
When our order came, I cut the chitchat. ‘Eve,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry to drag you out like this, but like I said, my partner Lootie is thinking of taking a job with Sebastian Chanteleer. From what I understand, you’ve done PR work for him, and I need your advice.’
‘Sure,’ she said, ‘but how come she can’t ask me herself.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but I have to be honest. From what I know of him, which isn’t that much, I can’t take to the man. The trouble is, Lootie thinks he’s terrific.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ she said. ‘I hate the bastard.’
I made the goofy face.
‘You heard me,’ she said. ‘Shoot! I’m all ears.’
‘Well,’ I said (not knowing this girl, and seeing that she worked for Chanteleer I had to take this slowly), ‘Sebastian seems to have her under his thumb. She believes everything that he tells her. And while he makes out that he’s so famous and all, I can’t find a single title that he’s written on the shelves.’
Eve sat back and sighed. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Can I fill you in?’
‘Please. I’m worried sick.’
‘I’m an Arts Graduate,’ she began, ‘majoring in Modern History.’
I thought it might break the ice if I told her I was a student too. I told her what I was studying, but I hadn’t seen her at uni. I would have remembered.
‘No, no,’ she laughed. ‘I’m not from here. I graduated in Hobart. University of Tasmania. I only came to the mainland to find work. That was a few months ago. End of March…’
‘And?’
‘No luck. Nobody wants Arts Graduates with History majors. I should have done a Graduate Diploma in Education and become a teacher.’
‘My partner Lootie was doing a straight Education degree. Early childhood.’
‘How come you call her Lootie?’
‘Dunno,’ I admitted. ‘Maybe because her surname is Lutyens.’
‘Weird.’
‘Nicknames are weird,’ I admitted. ‘I mean, my mate Rory calls me Monkey Boy.’ Why did I feel the need to tell her that? Also weird.
‘You?’ she said, giving me the once-over. ‘Monkey Boy?’
‘I used to own this clockwork monkey when I was a kid. The name stuck.’
‘Tell him he needs glasses,’ she said.
‘Yeah, right. So you came over from Tassie to find work?’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘I gave my CV, such as it was, to an employment agency and they came up with Chanteleer’s ad.’
‘Chanteleer’s ad?’
‘He was listed on the agency’s books as wanting a “Personal Manager for an Internationally Acclaimed Children’s Author”. That sounded excellent so I asked the agency to tell me who this acclaimed author was, but they wouldn’t. The ad specifically stated that the author’s name remain confidential until my interview. So I thought What the hell?, and applied. I met him at his house in Kew.’
‘How come this ad wasn’t run by his publishers? How come you didn’t meet him in their offices?’
‘Because he doesn’t have a publisher.’
I laughed, disbelieving. ‘What about this?’ I said, tapping Lootie’s book on the table.
‘All in good time. Okay?’
I’d waited so long, all I wanted was answers.
‘It wasn’t so funny turning up at his house by myself, especially when I had no idea who I was going to see. When I look back, I was stupid. So bloody desperate. I wanted to say to my parents that I had this great job. And then I saw his house. Huge, like a mansion, those gates, that garden. I’d never been inside a house like that. And when I knocked, a servant met me at the door. A servant!’
‘Adrian?’ I said. ‘The stutterer?’
‘That’s the one,’ she said. ‘Stutterer, gardener, cook, cleaner. You know who he is?’
‘Sebastian’s brother.’
‘He sure is. Sebastian doesn’t advertise that. There’s a mother too, you know.’
I nodded. ‘I met her. Lootie insisted that I go to their house. Twice.’
‘Lucky you. The mother’s okay, actually. But Sebastian’s such a snob, he’s ashamed of Adrian. The black sheep, you know.’
‘The Monkey Boy of the Chanteleers,’ I laughed, and she raised her eyebrows, not understanding. ‘The dill…’
‘You got that right,’ she agreed, knowingly tapping her temple. ‘Anyway, Adrian meets me at the door and I follow him up to the study. Chanteleer’s there, sitting in a leather chair, reading the paper. He looks every bit the author. Adrian says, “Sebastian Chanteleer,” and I go in. I’d never heard of this person, but all the time that line, “Acclaimed Children’s Author” is ringing in my ears. I say, “I’m Eve Forsythe from the agency. I understand you have a position vacant?” The room looked great. This huge desk, the covers mounted around the wall. I was shitting myself, I can tell you.’
‘I’
ve been in that room,’ I said.
‘Well, you can understand. Me, the girl from Tasmania. What made matters worse was that I didn’t know who Sebastian Chanteleer was, not even after I heard his name, and I thought that I ought to, seeing that he was world famous and all. “Take a seat,” he says, so I sink into one of those big leather chairs and my skirt slips up around my neck. I feel even sillier. “So,” he says, “I’m looking for a person to manage the public relations end of my writing. Your CV says that you’re a History major, I had a flirtation with History once. But do you have any experience in PR?” I told him that I didn’t, that I had only just graduated. I felt as if I should leave, like before I was kicked out, but he says, “No matter. I’m sure you could learn, a pretty girl like you.”’
‘He said that? No!’
‘He did too. I should have left right then, but, as I say, I was desperate.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, but for what exactly, I wasn’t too sure. Here I was thinking how goodlooking she was myself. The only difference was that I hadn’t said so.
‘Yeah, well,’ she giggled, ‘he shows me all of his awards, and I listen, getting sucked in further and further every minute. “And what exactly does the job entail?” I asked.
“‘Well,” he says, “I’ll tell you a little about myself…” So away he goes with the Chanteleer life story. His father died when he was young. He’d been successful during the 1980s, won lots of awards—blah, blah—but he was starting to lose his edge. He needed a new horizon, he said. So he talked to his mum, asked her advice—as you do when you’re fifty—and they decided to come out here. That was about six months ago, a month or so before he placed the ad at the agency. Anyway, he said that he needed someone to establish his profile here. To get his books on the shelves, to arrange speaking gigs.’
‘What books?’
‘I’m coming to that,’ she assured me. ‘So, ignorant as I was, I at least had the brains to ask him how come his publishers weren’t doing that, or would I be working for his publishers? I mean, he might have been so famous that he employed who he wanted and his publishers paid the wage. How would I know?’