by A J Waines
Since that first nativity play, acting is all she’s ever wanted to do. It’s typical of my daughter that she chose such a cut-throat career. She’s always been headstrong and done things the hard way, never taken the obvious, straightforward route. So, her dream is my dream – and I want nothing more than to see her gain her rightful place in the limelight.
When I first met Peter Roper and grasped he was twelve years older than my daughter, I wondered if Beth’s impetuous energy was what he was most drawn to. Or perhaps it was simply her looks. She has the kind of face you only ever see in portraits of fine ladies by Gainsborough. The ones with exquisitely pale, flawless skin and a natural sheen, like smooth marble.
It goes against all my feminist values about independence to accept the fact, but there is no denying that their marriage could solve many problems in one go. And sometimes needs must.
We fill in the hole, leaving the mound as before and make sure we’ve left no obvious boot prints. To any onlooker, nothing has changed. Nothing added, nothing taken away. Then we hurry back to the car and drive home, leaving it a few streets away from the house. We’ll give it a good clean in the morning.
We have little to hide now, just muddy boots and spades. Nothing unusual. I’d been seen plenty of times at the church getting soil on my hands – just not at this hour of the night. The timing is the only bit we need to worry about.
We’ve barely exchanged a word since we got on with the job, but once we’re back inside the house, Beth can’t stop.
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe we just did that! Totally unbelievable! Do you think anyone saw us? Did you see that coffin? When we tried to get it over on its side, I thought it was going to split open and that old woman was going to fall out. Shit…I thought…’
I make her sit on the sofa and look for signs she’s going to have another asthma attack. Her chest rises fast, but smoothly, and I brush the hair away from her sticky forehead. It’s still imprinted with the cable pattern of the knitted hat she was wearing.
‘It’s okay. It’s done now – everything is over with. All we need are watertight alibis.’
She draws back. ‘Why? The police won’t come to us, will they? Why would they?’
‘We must cover every eventuality, that’s all. Carl is only “missing” for now, but I won’t sleep unless I know we can fight our corner if the worst happens.’
In truth, fool-proof alibis aren’t all we need. We also have to hope that Carl hasn’t mentioned his little dalliance with Beth to anyone and that he wasn’t spotted on his way to the pub, on Wednesday night.
I cup her chin gently so she’s looking at me. ‘We need to be really clear about where we were these last two nights and stick to it.’ I lighten my tone. ‘You should be good at this, it’s going to be like acting. We’re going to pretend we’re playing parts in a film. We’re going to be really calm and unperturbed.’ It sounds good in theory, only right this minute, she looks anything but calm and unperturbed.
Beth plays around with different roles most days to such an extent that it’s hard to know who she really is at times. She’s slippery, changeable and always relishes the idea of pretending to be someone else. Only now, just when we need a solid performance from her, she’s flummoxed.
‘We’ve done something despicable,’ she whispers.
‘I know. But I hope you know why.’
Only, of course, I know she has no idea at all.
6
Beth
June – nine months earlier
I’d barely thought of Peter Roper until I took coffee in to Tom, in the editing suite. He was putting together a voiceover script for the ‘Dance on Screen’ footage.
While Tom found a space on his cluttered desk for the mug, I looked over his shoulder. Peter was right. The questions he was asked in his interview weren’t half as astute as mine. I smiled as I caught a few of his responses, remembering the way he’d been with me; at ease, charismatic, teasing. On camera, he’s straight-laced and intense and I feel privileged I saw a more intimate side to him.
While I was folding tea-towels in the kitchen, I overheard Gloria ask her PA, Trevor, to contact Mr Roper to ask about the copyright holder for one of his photographs. I made a point of walking past Gloria’s desk and spotted a full-screen image of him on her computer. I felt the same shiver down the back of my neck as I had when he’d said my name, that day. It was the photo I’d chosen from his phone – the one I’d insisted he use for the magazine interview.
After lunch, Trevor put a call through to me on my mobile. I’m on the move so much, I don’t really have a desk and just then I was on my way to the television studio. The presenter was about to do a piece about a disbanded boy-band and her zip had broken.
‘That guy from the documentary wants a word with you,’ he said. ‘Just putting him through.’
I stopped at the next seating area and put down the sewing box I was carrying.
‘Hello, Beth Kendall speaking.’
‘It’s “that guy from the documentary”,’ came Peter’s smooth aristocratic voice, with a chuckle. ‘Peter Roper, remember him?’
‘Hard to forget,’ I said, unable to keep the teasing edge out of my voice.
‘I’m heading off to New York tomorrow, but I wondered if there’s any chance you might be free for dinner tonight?’
I nearly dropped the phone. ‘Dinner?’
Me?
‘I know it’s short notice. It’s…I’m sorry.’
‘Actually, that would be lovely. I finish here at six.’
‘I’ll send a cab for you, if you like?’
‘No…it’s fine. Where shall we meet?’
‘Say, eight o’clock at the ground-floor bar at the National Theatre? We’ll go on from there.’ There was a beat of hesitation. ‘Do you like fish? Something a bit exotic?’
‘Absolutely. I fell in love with spicy shrimp soup and monkfish curry in Thailand.’
‘Excellent.’
That was it. The call ended.
Y-e-s!
I punched the air with both hands, not caring who could see me through the glass panels from every angle, like the hall of mirrors at a funfair.
He’s a hot-shot in the film industry and he wants to see ME…
The question was, who should I phone first to tell about it. Then I froze. I glanced down at my baby-pink wrap top and white trousers – smart enough for the office, but not going to cut it for a posh meal out. I had nothing with me to change into. Peter Roper was clearly loaded and sophisticated. I couldn’t turn up wearing this!
I reached down for the sewing kit. I was heading for the studio anyway, so I’d check the green room. There was a slim chance there might be something I could borrow for the night, but I wasn’t hopeful. Programmes are mostly filmed off-site by independent makers, so there’s only one studio and no wardrobe department as such. It would be a long shot.
‘I’ve never had dinner on a boat before,’ I tell him as he leads the way down the gangplank. A faint breeze warmed by the persistent sun softly brushes my bare arms.
‘Not even in Thailand?’
‘I’ve eaten overlooking the water and had food on the go on ships and boats, but not a proper sit down meal, like this.’
I can see straightaway this isn’t any old boat. It’s a sleek white luxury yacht and we appear to be the only guests onboard.
A waiter, wearing a bow tie and with a white napkin draped over his arm, guides us through to the bar area, then asks what we’d like to drink.
I take my glass of Bollinger and head straight through the sliding glass door onto the deck to take in the views across the Thames. Out here, the sky feels like it has doubled in size. It’s a luminous cornflower blue and below, a thousand crystals are scattered across the surface of the water.
‘We have about an hour of daylight left,’ Peter tells me, coming up beside me against the railing. ‘They’ll let us go as far as Putney Bridge, then we’ll head back this way for sunset…’<
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He turns around, his back to the water, stroking the stem of his glass. The engine rumbles and we start moving.
‘I have a question for you. Would you like to watch the sunset at Big Ben or Tower Bridge?’
‘Seriously? I can honestly say no one has ever asked me that before.’
He’s more attractive than I remembered. He waits for my reply and I go for Tower Bridge.
‘That would have been my choice,’ he says. ‘By the way, you look stunning in that dress.’ I’ve felt his eyes glued to me virtually every moment since I found him earlier in the theatre bar.
As I’d feared, there was nothing I could use in the wardrobe at work, so in a panic about the whole ‘what to wear’ conundrum, I’d phoned my old friend from junior school, Tina.
‘Well, you have no choice, Bee. You can’t go to Top Shop if he’s that important. You need to get yourself over to Bond Street or Knightsbridge.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. And a cocktail dress? Gown? LBD or what?’
‘Where’s he taking you?’
‘No idea, but I reckon it’ll be expensive.’
‘Go the whole hog. I would.’ Tina is someone who’d think nothing of spending two hundred pounds on a pair of exquisite shoes – but then she’s just been offered a part in Hollyoaks, so her monthly income will have quadrupled.
In the end, I used my credit card to buy a long gown from Harvey Nicholls with a plunging cross-over bodice, made of emerald green silk. Mum is always going on about making the most of my ‘simmering green eyes’.
I managed to get to a charity shop before they shut and bought a pair of strappy sandals, then charged over to the NT to change in the Ladies’. Luckily I had what I needed to refresh my face in my make-up bag.
We glide past the Houses of Parliament towards Lambeth Bridge, feathers of white foam fanning out behind us. The breeze tugs at my hair and Peter gently brushes back a strand as it catches on my eyelashes and I feel that tingle again.
He asks me about my upbringing and I risk telling him the truth – that I never knew my father and Mum found herself pregnant when she was underage. I realise as I say it, that it’s a test on my part and I’m relieved when I read concern in his eyes, rather than disapproval.
‘Forgive me if this seems rude,’ he says, ‘but you appear very refined.’
‘For someone from a single parent family who didn’t go to public school, you mean?’
He wrinkles his nose. ‘No. For anyone. Sorry, it didn’t come out the way I wanted.’ He stops to think. ‘What I mean is, you sit like a dancer, with a straight back and long neck, your nails are immaculate…you got out of the taxi like a gazelle, like royalty…’
‘I’m an actress, don’t forget,’ I say, turning to look at him over my shoulder in a deliberately seductive pose.
I don’t tell him that ‘playing’ demure and ultra-feminine come very easily to me, which is odd considering I’m no innocent wallflower.
‘Seriously though, my grandmother was from Chile and I’ve always had this thing about rhythm and moving well.’
‘You dance?’ He looks taken aback.
‘Sort of. Latin-American. Anything from salsa and rumba to cha-cha-cha. I love to swing and sway – it’s in my blood.’
The waiter hovers behind us. ‘Ah, it’s time to eat,’ Peter says. ‘If you’re cold, we can go inside.’
‘No, it’s perfect.’
The waiter leads us to the table at the back of the boat. It looks like it’s made of marble.
The first course is soup, then the main course arrives.
‘How cool is this?’ I exclaim. ‘It’s exactly what I had in Chiang Mai.’
So…he’d been listening carefully during our brief chat this afternoon. A good sign.
‘I’m glad I got it right.’
I ask Peter whether it was hard to give up dancing to work behind the scenes.
‘Age got the better of me, as I knew it would. I could no longer perform at the highest level. But after so long in the business, I knew all the right people and where to find them, so it was an obvious transition to make films involving dance.’
We reach Putney Bridge and the yacht turns round and heads back to the city. Dessert is light and lemony, then we take our drinks and stand as the river curves and the light fades. With the faintest orange flares of remaining sunlight singeing the sky, the boat pulls into the bank near Tower Bridge.
‘This is unbelievable…’ I say, as we look back inland and watch the sun giving away its final flames for the day.
‘Not bad,’ he says, leaning close to me.
I know this must be nothing compared to the kinds of awesome experiences he must have had in his life, but I’m touched he’s indulging me.
‘I’ll let you into a secret, the boat belongs to an acquaintance of mine. In fact…he might be a good person for you to meet sometime…that’s if we…you know…’ He twists his hands into an ambiguous shape in the air. I hide a smile. He does quite a bit of wriggling, I’ve noticed. For someone who seems to be a consummate man of the world, he’s remarkably modest.
‘What does this acquaintance do?’ I ask.
‘He’s a big name in films – commercial blockbusters. You might have heard of him: Carl Jacobson.’
I draw back, stunned. ‘You know him?’
He nods nonchalantly. For someone in my position, anyone in movies is worth meeting, but Carl Jacobson is right up there on my wish-list. ‘Well, yes…an introduction, one day, would be incredible,’ I say.
‘He’s a decent guy. Known him for years.’
He nods at the waiter, claps his hands together decisively and I feel a shiver of dread. It looks like everything is going to come to an end and I’m not ready to go. I want to take in more of his creamy, educated voice, the musky, sexy smell of him and to revel in being the focus of his attention. I want to hear more about what he does, the life he lives.
I’ve had lots of boyfriends, but I’ve never felt this way with anyone before; hovering on a precipice between perilous and invincible, all wrapped up in a kind of heady yearning for more.
‘Where do you live?’ he asks.
‘Chiswick.’
I don’t tell him it’s the same tip of a bedsit I’ve lived in since my student days. Nor do I say I can’t even afford that anymore and I’m thinking of moving back to Mum’s.
He clears his throat. ‘I have an apartment in Chelsea. It’s not far. Do you…would you like to nip over there for a night cap, if it’s not too forward of me to ask?’
I run my finger around the rim of my glass.
‘I like forward,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’m quite good at forward. It means people know where they stand, and they can stop wondering if they’ve misinterpreted a situation.’
‘That’s very refreshing,’ he says, blinking fast, as though he hasn’t heard anyone be so bold before.
I don’t notice a great deal about Peter’s apartment, because as soon as we’re inside, he swoops me by the hand straight into his bedroom.
There’s a subdued glow seeping from a lamp in the corner that must have come on automatically, once it got dark. Peter breaks away from me to draw the floor-length curtains, but instead of returning to my side, he sits on the bed.
He was all gung-ho a moment ago and now he’s looking pensive.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to rush and spoil everything.’
‘You’re going away…’ I say, sidling over and reaching down to touch his shoulder.
He looks forlorn. ‘Yep. New York for three weeks.’ He pats the space beside him and I sit.
He turns to me with measured deliberation. ‘Beth, from the moment I saw you – when I stepped out of the lift and found you waiting for me – I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.’ He trails his finger along my bare arm.
I’m bubbling inside, tingling all over.
He carries on. ‘You’re probably seeing someone…and I’m far too old, but…
life is short and I thought it might be worth a shot.’
I swallow hard, taking in what he’s saying.
‘Are you…seeing someone?’ he asks.
I look up. ‘I would have said by now, if I was.’
There’s a thin film of sweat glistening in his palm. He’s really serious about this.
‘And am I too old? Are you…humouring me?’
Are you kidding me?
I shake my head, fixing my eyes on his. ‘No way.’
It’s a lot to take in. We’re poles apart in terms of upbringing, standing and social status, as well as our ages. I’m basically one step from being on the dole and he probably thinks nothing of spending a thousand pounds on a meal. Then I think of Russell: how one minute he was fine, then the next, he was rapidly going downhill, until one day he wasn’t there anymore.
Peter sees me thinking hard and gets up.
‘If it’s all too much, I’ll get you home straight away. It’s been a wonderful evening.’ He kisses my hand. ‘Just perfect as it is.’
I look up at him. ‘No,’ I whisper. ‘Sometimes you have to go for things if they feel right.’
‘And does it? Feel right? You being here, like this, with me?’
For a split second I think about the implications: successful movie mogul seduces aspiring young actress. The press would have a field day. Was this just a casting-couch cliché? Did I actually like him or was I only interested in what he could offer me?
‘Be honest,’ he says.
My heart is battering inside of my ribcage like a wild creature desperate to be let loose. I breathe in the outline of his lips, the tight line of his jaw and want nothing more than to fold myself into him.
I don’t need any more time to decide. ‘Yes. It does feel right.’
I know it with every bone of my body.
He pulls me to my feet and embraces me, wrapping me firmly in his arms and holding me against him for a long time. I can feel his heart thudding against my throat, his breath husky and eager beside my ear.