by Nigel Planer
What little sunlight there was filled the other three bare rooms and filtered through the glass partition to my desk. On my desk was a bulging envelope with my name on it. My full name. Not just Guy, but Guy Richard Mullin, and the date. It was the only foreign object. I picked it up and went to the kitchenette to put on the kettle. The mini-sofa was still there in the main room but the magazines were gone from the coffee table. Almost all of the box files were gone from the shelves. The up-to-date Spotlight casting directories were gone. The piles of hopeful ten-by-eight photographs were gone, the Z-cards from the corkboard, two of the computers and the year planner on Tilda’s wall were all gone. In Naomi’s room, the grey metal filing cabinets were empty, the sounds I made opening empty drawers reverberated off the walls slightly. My God, the carpet was filthy! We hadn’t realized with all our stuff in, but now grey and brown speckles drew the eye embarrassingly to the floor, and around Tania’s desk a scuffed and grizzly patch where Cleopatra had spent her days sitting patiently waiting to be walked. I opened the letter.
‘All further correspondence to be referred to Ketts Stanton-Walker, 191 Regent Street …’ fax, phone, e-mail, etc.
Headed note paper already, my dears. Ketts Stanton-Walker and a rather fetching logo, with the K bigger than the S-W.
At the bottom of the page, in small print, the registered office — a firm of accountants I had never heard of — and a list of directors: Naomi Ketts, Tilda Bonelli and Arabella Stanton-Walker. So, Naomi had found someone to buy her out at last, someone with money. Arabella Stanton-Walker. Jeremy Planter s new bedfellow. A past-her-sell-by-date hoofer who had shagged the leading man and bought his agency with money saved, or money from Daddy in Surrey more like.
With my coffee, I sat down on the sofa and smiled. That involuntary nervous mirth common in the face of sudden disaster. Surprise is not an actual feeling, it’s more like an absence of feeling. Or had I known all along that this would happen, omitting to acknowledge the signs until now? I could not concentrate on the rest of the large letter. I scanned it, looking for the word ‘sorry’, a note even, anything personal. But it contained only legal details and contractual bumf. I shrugged and let it fall to the floor. ‘Twas ever thus. The hot-water system rumbled into action. Pipes a couple of floors below gurgled. It was quite a pleasant sound. In fact, I felt OK. It would take a few days to sort out the details, the lease, the photocopier, which clients were gone — Jeremy Planter, obviously — but it was OK, honestly it was. My breathing was surprisingly steady. I rang my mother on the cordless. She always took at least ten rings to answer.
Twelve years. Twelve years I’ve known that Ketts woman. No, fifteen if you count before we started the company. Fifteen years I’ve seen that woman every day, well, virtually every day. I’ve been through all her moods with her, her weight loss, her weight gain, her fucking hopeless relationships, on and on about her fucking relationships. I’ve been drunk with her on countless occasions at do’s and even at don’ts. I must have spent more time on the phone to her — any time, day or night, she’d ring — than I’ve had conversations with everyone else put together, certainly more than I’ve spent having sex; she always would choose the worst moments to ring. And never, as far as I can remember, a ‘How are you?’ or an ‘Is this a good time to call?’ Always straight down to business, always the next thing, always ‘Guy, I hear they’re casting a new detective series at Yorkshire and there’s a part which would be good for Peter or Mary or Solomon or Tunde, and Guy, you know Theresa Undrell, don’t you, she’s casting, can you get her to see Tunde?’ Never an apology, never a break, never a let-up. Always the pink jacket, or the horrible sky-blue suit, or the new shiny shoes, or the ‘How do you like my hair, I’m trying to look like Michelle Pfeiffer this week.’ I’ve seen Naomi make mincemeat of lesser folk — several trainees have resigned in tears — and I thought I was OK, I was special, I thought I could handle her. When people complained about her overbearing, insensitive nature, or some slight she had inflicted on them I would defend her: ‘That’s Naomi, I’m afraid. What you see is what you get,’ I’d say, or, ‘Yes, she’s not exactly easy, is she? But she is good.’ Or simply, with a knowing smile, ‘That’s Ketts for you.’ She is good. That’s the trouble, she’s really good, but that’s all she is. She’s a machine. She must have realized some time ago that I was turning into a liability. She must have been thinking of this for months. And then seen her opportunity when Jeremy got shacked up with that bimbo. I wonder how long. She must’ve known about Arabella Stantonshit-Walker all the time. Two years? Since Grace’s ear infections at least. And there’s me, like some patsy, some complete jerk-off, some stupid, gullible old crystal-gazing hippy-chick, trying to be nice, trying to make everyone happy, to make everyone feel good. Ruthlessness, that’s an attractive quality, isn’t it? Bugger it, if I was a client, I’d rather have Naomi Ketts represent me than me. I have to admit it. Damn. You don’t want someone kind looking after you, do you now? You want someone ruthless, someone with no conscience, someone who can fight off all the other predators, and fight dirty for you if necessary. Niceness, kindness, what’s the point? Naomi Ketts would make a good daddy.
My mother’s phone was still ringing. Maybe she wasn’t in or wasn’t up yet. I hung up, but feverishly tried the number again in case she’d been just about to pick it up, or I’d misdialled. It carried on ringing.
I suppose it’s the same with children. It’s all very well, isn’t it, having cuddlesome, generous, warm-hearted, caring, liberal parents, but what if big monsters come and eat them up? You want to feel safe. You want to know your parents can look after themselves first, don’t you? You want to know they can see off the opposition, by whatever means. Then if they give you a bit of attention on top of that, well, it’s a bonus, isn’t it? I suppose that’s why Liz is interested in someone like Bob Henderson, BSCI FTT or whatever fucking letters he’s got after his fucking name. He fights to win. Like Naomi. He’ll lie, cheat, steal, anything, but he’ll win. Naomi should’ve been in the legal profession, it would have suited her. Skunks. And Liz probably knew exactly what she was doing. She was right to drop me. Little old fat old Guy, faffing about like an auntie trying to get everything right, trying to do all the right things, to have everything in order. That’s a servile mentality, that is. Just like my dad. Over-reaching myself, unable to see what’s going on right in front of my eyes. Jollying along on my merry jaunt, singing a pretty song, anything to keep me from realizing what a total no-hope, pathetic little turdy little never-has-been wanker I am. Any song will do, any bit of business, any sound in the brain, so long as it keeps the mind from hearing that empty ring of disappointment.
I was looking at my chubby failure of a face in the tiny pink plastic mirror in the kitchenette now with a penetrating loathing. I hung up the phone again. If I felt like this, what chance did Grace have? I’m supposed to set an example, to be the man, the guy, the one she looks to, the one she listens to, the one they all look to, the one they all listen to. The phone rang.
‘Guy?’ It was my mother. ‘What’s going on? It’s early in the morning, I was asleep.’
‘Sorry, Mum. How did you know it was me?’
‘I did 1471.’
‘Have you looked at the short list of flats I sent you?’ She obviously hadn’t. 1 didn’t want to drag her around hundreds of unsuitable flats. I wanted her to see one of those photos on the estate agents’ details and fall in love with it and then let me make all the arrangements without getting in the way or interfering. Our conversation stalled and she started on at me about Grace.
‘You never bring her round to see me, Guy.’
‘Well, it’s difficult, you know.’
‘What about Liz? She never phones me. What does she do all day? She could bring her round and I’d be happy to look after her if Liz wanted to go shopping or something.’
‘It’s a long way, Mum. It’d take her longer to come to you and then all the way out and back. Why don’t you ever c
ome over to us to see her?’ I knew she wouldn’t, so there was no harm in suggesting it. She had no inkling of my sleeping in the office. I hadn’t wanted to upset her, knowing that in the end she would advise and tut-tut her way to controlling everything.
‘Oh, you know I can’t do that, Guy. I wouldn’t want to feel like the proverbial interfering mother-in-law. I don’t want to invade another woman’s home, and besides, there’s nowhere to park.’
It’s funny that no matter how much you pay for it, you DIY it, you share in the bin-emptying of it and the fridge-filling, even if you do a fair share of housework, you sleep in it and you eat in it, as far as your mum is concerned, it’s still another woman’s home. It’s still not yours.
‘OK, Mum,’ I said. ‘But you must come round -for tea sometime, we’d love to see you, and let me know what you think of the flats I’ve sent you. The one with the small kitchen has a great view over Bishop’s Park and you’d be so much nearer us. You could walk, you could see Grace every day. And you’d be much nearer Tony too, which is a sort of mixed blessing, I’ll grant.’
I knew the idea of walking anywhere would put her off, but what the hell. I just wanted her at least to look at the details. Rather pointless persuading her to come and live near Grace when I wasn’t even there myself But I did want to have her sorted out. One less thing to worry about. We said goodbye. She hung up and I sat, listening to the dialling tone. It was better than the unbearable deafening silence, which would hurt my ears if I were to put the receiver back in its cradle. I felt a strong desire to speak to Grace, so I rang home — if you can call it such.
Liz had changed the outgoing message on our answer-phone. Instead of my voice there, there was now hers, speaking in a very clipped and measured way. ‘You’ve reached, etc., and for work enquiries for Liz Garnet, please call …’ She sounded overly formal. I remembered when we’d first got that answer-phone, second-hand from Mullin and Ketts, of course, and she’d claimed to be unable to work out how to use it, so I’d had to do it while she giggled in the background.
There were seven short bleeps before the long one, and it was Monday morning so she wasn’t picking up her messages. Maybe she had spent the weekend at Bob Henderson’s, maybe she had taken Grace with her, maybe Grace called Bob ‘Daddy’ now. Maybe Bob Henderson had connections with a paedophile ring in Belgium and Grace was even now in a crate in the Channel Tunnel.
‘Hello, it’s Dad here,’ I said on to the machine, with as much of a jovial lilt as I could muster. ‘Just ringing up to see how you are and I’ll see you in a few days.’ And then, lowering my voice to adult tones in order to address Liz, ‘I could pick her up from nursery on Wednesday and drop her off, or would you like me to put her to bed at home? Just tell me which suits you better. Please ring me back to confirm.’
Then the silence again, banging around in the vaulting emptiness of Mullin and Ketts, Meard Street, the painful silence again. Or rather, just Mullin now. I would have to arrange new notepaper. The ‘Ketts’ had flown and was now in Regent Street. I looked at my watch: 8.55. They probably wouldn’t be in yet. I could go round there and piss through their letterbox, or post them a turd. I could ring the Ketts Stanton-Walker number and leave obscene messages on the answer-phone. I could burst in after ten o’clock and shout at them a lot and get thrown out by the police. I could get my lawyers to threaten them with injunctions. I could hire hit men to go round and fell them all with guns with silencers on: shtip, shtip, sthip.
I thought of the ‘How Men Need to Change’ weekend. If only all this had happened on Friday. I would have had. something to scream about in the large hall. Something to talk about in the circle with our eyes closed. I remembered the confession of the pervy guy and unwillingly put Liz into his violent gang-rape fantasy. When it came to the bit where he dragged her face down across the gravel path, unwillingly again, I got an erection. My phone rang, thank God. I snapped it out of its cradle.
‘Hello.’
‘Oh, hello, Guy, it’s you. I wasn’t expecting a person. You’re in early.’ It was Susan Planter. ‘Listen, Guy, I’ve had a terrible weekend. They’re all over me like a rash. I’ve got three of them outside right now. They clicked away when I took the kids to school and followed us halfway up the road. It’s a nightmare. It’s like Princess Di, it’s ridiculous, I mean, I’m not even wearing a split skirt or anything. I’ve taken the day off work. I can’t face going out of the door again. They keep trying to show me photos of him with that slut to see if they can get a reaction out of me, and the phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I don’t deserve this, Guy. I don’t deserve it.’
I told her how to arrange Call Divert and offered to do it for her.
‘And as for that little shit. You said I shouldn’t talk to any of them, but he’s been blabbing his mouth off to anyone who cares to ask. The little shit, the bastard. How could he?’
Evidently Jeremy had been splashed all over the weekend tabloids attending some awards ceremony with Arabella in a backless, low-cut evening gown. I hadn’t read a paper since Thursday, too busy workshopping my masculinity. So Arabella Stanton-Walker had had a busy weekend. A flashy celeb do on the Friday night and then a get-in at her spanking-new Regent Street office on Saturday, although, no doubt, she would have got her people to do anything which required heavy lifting. Like my client files, for example.
‘I feel like telling the first one to offer me any serious money that Jeremy’s got a very small penis, Guy, I really do. I know it’s wrong but I’ve got to do something. I can’t handle this. He’s a total shit. He’s a…’
She was lost for words and quite hysterical on the end of the line. It sounded as if she’d dropped the phone, and from further away. I heard a crash and a shout. She picked up the receiver again, out of breath.
‘Sorry, Guy. I’m just so angry I can’t control myself any more.’ She was crying now and I envied her the ability. ‘I can’t cope,’ she sobbed, sounding just like Liz used to when Grace had her ear infection. ‘Guy, I can’t cope.’ This time, though, there was no one in the office with me to cover up for.
‘I’m not looking after the kids properly, Guy. I just scream at them. Could you help, Guy? Take them off my hands for a bit before I end up hitting them or something. Dave is driving me mad. He keeps asking questions. It’s as if he’s blaming me, and, and I can’t give him what he needs, Guy, because I look in his eyes and all I can see is that shit Jeremy, and I hate him. I hate my own child, Guy. It’s not his fault but I hate him and he can see it. I’m losing him too, Guy.’ She subsided into inarticulate snivels.
The post arrived with a patter on the floor. There was a lot of it. The young runner from the film company below very kindly sorts it for the whole building and delivers it. He’ll sometimes nip out and get you a sandwich too if he’s got nothing else to do. Very keen and probably unpaid. Should go far. I’m always nice to him. May end up running the BFI or something.
I was still cordless, so I walked across and picked up the mail while murmuring sympathetically to the distraught Susan. I advised her again not to talk and not to accept money from the gutter, but my words were hollow. I couldn’t really convince myself, let alone her.
I offered to pick up Dave and Polly from school and take them to a McDonald’s. I told her that if she really did want to sell a story, then I’d do the negotiating for her, but that she should think about it for a while first. It was the least I could do. She was calming down now and able to apologize and laugh through the sniffing.
‘I’m sorry to do this to you, Guy, I’m so sorry. I feel ridiculous.’
‘That’s OK. Really. It’s what I’m here for,’ I said, starting on the mail with the phone crooked in my shoulder: three requests for representation, with drama-school CVs and ten-by-eights. An unpaid invoice from the auditors for Tania to deal with, if she was still working for me, of course. And then a strangely shaped envelope, longer than square, with the documents inside folded lengthways instead of across, making them ha
rd to flatten on the desk.
‘You’ve just got to get through to the end of this school term,’ I said to Susan down the phone. The summer holiday was nearly on us. ‘It’s only a week or so and then you could go away with the kids, get away, let the dust settle. Well, let the shit settle. It’s worse than dust, I know.’
The oblong letter was a series of papers and documents, paper-clipped and stapled, with an introductory letter loose on the top from the solicitors Henderson Giggs. It was signed not by Bob himself, but by a senior partner, Ralph Tropier-Potts. Down the side of the front page was printed, in luscious purply-blue: ‘Henderson Giggs, Copyright Litigation, Contract and Investment Law’, and the registered office — another firm of accountants of whom I’d never heard.
I really must think about redesigning the Mullin and Ketts notepaper, sooner rather than later. Apart from just excising the Ketts, I mean. The designs on these two letters today were far more modern and dynamic. It was something I hadn’t thought about for years. Now I looked at it, our M and K logo looked, well, too eighties.
I told Susan that I knew of a very nice hotel in Kent which took children and which would be totally discreet and might give her the chance to get a break and get the unwanted eyes of the media off her. She said she wouldn’t be able to take the time off work. I told her she had to. I reminded her to ring Dave and Polly’s school to warn them that it would be me picking the kids up today.