‘I do know that,’ she whispered. ‘Because I felt that too. But now: say no more.’
And then she gave me another kiss. And said: ‘Want to try something really different?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Let’s keep it to a glass of wine each tonight. Two tops. Because something tells me it would be nice to be relatively sober later on.’
So we stuck to a glass each of Chablis. Then we moved on to the restaurant. We ate oysters and soft-shelled crabs, and I drank one more glass of wine, and we spent the next hour talking a lot of very amusing rubbish that made us both laugh like idiots. And then, when the final dishes were whisked away, and we turned down coffee, she took me by the hand, and led me back into the main hotel building and up an elevator, and into a large, plush suite. When she shut the door behind us, she took me in her arms and said, ‘Do you know that standard-issue scene in every Cary Grant/Katherine Hepburn movie, where Cary whisks off Kate’s glasses and kisses her madly? I want us to re-enact that scene right now.’
We did just that. Only the scene got carried away, as we stumbled backwards onto the bed.
And then . . .
Then it was morning. And – surprise, surprise – I woke to discover that I’d slept wonderfully. So wonderfully that, for the first minute or two of quasi-consciousness, I simply lay in bed, replaying the entire extraordinary evening over again in my head. But as I reached over for Martha, my hand touched a wooden object: the framed photo of Caitlin and myself, positioned on the adjoining pillow. I sat up and realized that I was alone in the room. I glanced at my watch. Ten-twelve am. Then I noticed a black case on the table, with an envelope on top of it. I got up. The envelope said David on the front. Inside:
Dearest David
I have to go. I will be in touch very soon . . . but, please, let it be me who makes contact.
The object in the case is a little gift for you. If you decide to get rid of it, I will never talk to you again. And as I do want to talk with you again . . . well, I think you can take it from here.
With love,
Martha
I unzipped the case and stared down at a brand new Toshiba laptop computer.
A few minutes later, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, rubbing my now lightly bristled face. There was a phone to the left of the sink. I picked it up and called the Front Desk. When the guy on duty answered, I said, ‘Morning. Is there any chance I might be able to get some shaving stuff sent up to me?’
‘No problem, Mr Armitage. And would you like some breakfast?’
‘Just some orange juice and coffee, please.’
‘Coming right up, sir. And one final thing: your friend has arranged one of our drivers to take you home . . . ’
‘Really?’
‘Yes – it’s all taken care of. But check-out time is not until one, so . . . ’
At five past one, I found myself in the back of a chauffeured Mercedes, heading towards Meredith, the computer in its case, and on the seat beside me.
I showed up for work at Books & Company the next day. Les stopped by the shop in mid-afternoon, and spent a stunned moment or two trying to work out that it was actually me behind the counter. Then he looked at me with mock solemnity and said, ‘Now in my experience, you have to be seriously in love to have cut off all that hair.’
He was right: I was seriously, wildly in love. Martha consumed my thoughts constantly. I kept running and rerunning the tape of that night in my head. I kept hearing her voice, her laugh, her fiercely whispered articulations of love as we made love. I was desperate to speak with her. Desperate to touch her. Desperate to be with her. And desperate that she had yet to phone me.
By day four I’d reached breaking point. I decided that, if I didn’t hear from her by noon tomorrow, I’d disobey her directive and call her cellphone, and tell her that we had to run off with each other immediately.
At eight the next morning, there was a loud knocking on the door. I jumped out of bed, thinking: she’s here. But when I flung open the front door, I found a guy in a blue uniform, holding a large padded manila envelope.
‘David Armitage?’
I nodded.
‘Courier service. I’ve got a package here for you.’
‘From whom?’
‘Haven’t a clue, sir.’ He handed me a clipboard. I signed for the delivery, then thanked him.
I went back inside. I opened the package. It was a DVD. I slid it out of its cardboard box. The front of the disc was adorned with a white label, upon which was a crudely drawn heart, with an arrow bisecting it. On one side of the arrow were the initials D.A. On the other side, M.F.
I felt a deep chill run through me. But I still forced myself to feed the DVD into the player.
On the screen, there was a static camera shot of a hotel suite. Then the door opened, and Martha and I stumbled into the room. She took me in her arms. Though the sound was harsh and tinny, I could still hear her saying:
‘Do you know that standard-issue scene in every Cary Grant/Katherine Hepburn movie, where Cary whisks off Kate’s glasses and kisses her madly? I want us to re-enact that scene right now.’
We began to kiss. We lurched backwards on to the bed. We were all over each other, pulling off our clothes, the hidden camera perfectly positioned to show maximum detail.
After five minutes, I hit the off button. I didn’t need to see any more.
Fleck. The all-knowing, all-seeing, ever-omnipotent Philip Fleck. He’d set us up. He’d tapped her phone calls. Discovered she was arranging this liaison at the Four Seasons, Santa Barbara. Then, once again, he had his people to spread some money around, find out the number of the suite she’d reserved, and had it rigged out with the necessary covert camera and microphone.
And now . . . now he had us. Naked and in digital color. His first hard-core production . . . which would be used to destroy his wife, and to make certain that the dead zone in which I currently resided would always be my permanent address.
The phone rang. I dived for it.
‘David?’
It was Martha. Her voice sounded preternaturally calm; the sort of calm that usually accompanies a deep concussion.
‘Oh thank Christ, Martha . . . ’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘Yeah. I’ve seen it. He’s just had it delivered here.’
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t believe . . . ’
‘We need to meet,’ she said.
‘Now,’ I said.
Five
I WAS DRESSED and on the road in five minutes. All the way south to Los Angeles, I kept the pedal flush against the floor, cranking the VW up to a thermo-dynamic seventy-eight miles per hour (its absolute top speed). It was like forcing a geriatric with emphysema to do an extended hundred-yard dash – but I didn’t care. I had to see Martha immediately – before Fleck did whatever he was planning to do with that dire DVD.
She told me to meet her at a café in Santa Monica. I arrived there shortly after ten. She was already seated at a table, facing the beach. The sun was at full wattage; a light breeze wafted off the Pacific, tempering the morning heat.
‘Hi there,’ she said as I bounded up to the table. She was wearing dark glasses, so I couldn’t properly gauge just how anxious she was. But what was immediately evident to me was her strange composure; a sang-froid which, once again, I put down to shock.
I came over and took her in my arms. But she remained seated and gave me her cheek to kiss – a gesture which immediately made me anxious.
‘Easy there,’ she said, gently putting her hand against my chest and pushing me towards the adjoining chair. ‘You never know who’s watching.’
‘Of course, of course,’ I said, sitting down and taking her hand under the table. ‘But listen . . . I’ve been thinking things through all the way down here. And I now know what we have to do. We have to go together to your husband, tell him we’re in love, and ask him to stay out of our . . . ’
> ‘David,’ she said sharply, cutting me off. ‘Before we do anything, there’s an important question you need to answer.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Do you want an espresso, a cappuccino, or a latte?’
I looked up and saw a waitress hovering by our table, trying to control the amused expression on her face. She’d obviously heard everything I’d just said.
‘A double espresso,’ I said.
As soon as the waitress had gone, I took Martha’s hand and kissed it.
‘It has been a very long four days,’ I said.
‘Has it?’ she said, her tone amused.
‘And I can’t tell you how touched I was by the gift.’
‘I hope you use it.’
‘I will. I will.’
‘Writing is what you do well.’
‘I have to tell you something . . . ’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘From the moment I woke up alone in the hotel room, you have not left my mind once.’
She calmly disengaged her hand from mine. And asked, ‘Do you always act this way after sleeping with someone for the first time?’
‘I’m sorry. I know I’m sounding like a love-sick adolescent.’
‘It’s very sweet.’
‘It’s what I feel.’
‘David . . . there’s a larger matter to discuss right now.’
‘You’re right, you’re right. Because I’m also just a little terrorized about what he might do with the DVD.’
‘Well, that depends on how he reacts to it.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, suddenly confused.
‘I mean – he had nothing to do with the DVD.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense. If he didn’t set us up, who did?’
‘I did.’
I looked at her carefully, trying to discern some mischief in her eyes. But she met my stare and held it.
‘I don’t understand this.’
‘It’s all very straightforward, really. When Philip refused to acknowledge that he’d stage-managed all your problems, I decided that it was time to go drastic. That’s when I hatched my little plan. And the way I figured it – if I couldn’t get him on tape, then I’d have to get us on tape. The hotel management were only too willing to help – especially after I greased the palms of the appropriate people. And I had an audio-visual guy I knew in LA rig the whole thing up.’
‘Was he there while we . . . ?’
‘Do you really think I wanted anyone watching us in bed? Remember when I went to the Ladies just before we left the restaurant? I actually went back to our room and turned on the DVD recorder, which was hidden in one of the closets. Then . . . it was showtime.
‘And the next morning, while you were sleeping, I took the DVD out of the machine and left. Two days later, I showed up again in Chicago – and forced Philip to sit down in his hotel suite and watch the first couple of minutes of our film.’
‘How did he react?’
‘In a typical Philip way: he said nothing. He just stared at the screen. But I knew the reaction he’d have to it. Though he’d never openly show it, he’s fanatically jealous. I also know that his greatest fear in life is being exposed, found out, shown up. Which is why I decided on this course of action. Because I knew that a filmed record of me in bed with you would hit every panic button in his shrouded brain. But just to make certain he got the message, I told him that a copy of this DVD was with my lawyer in New York. And if he didn’t put your career back together again in the next seven days, my lawyer had been instructed to release copies of the DVDs to the Post, the News, the Enquirer, Inside Edition, and every other purveyor of sleazy journalism imaginable. The clock is running. As of today, he’s got six more days to go . . . ’
‘But if he calls your bluff . . . if it gets released . . . ’
‘Then the two of us are going to be front page news. But I don’t care. If he takes it over the edge, then I’m going to give a very frank interview to Oprah or Diane Sawyer, in which I tell all about ‘the joys’ of living with a man worth all that money, but who still has all the sensitivity of a paper cup.
‘Anyway, the only thing that matters right now is that he makes amends for what he did to you. As for me, my mind’s made up: I’m leaving him.’
‘You are?’ I said, sounding a little too hopeful.
‘That’s what I told him. And according to my lawyer, if I do release the DVD to the press, it will have absolutely no effect whatsoever on my prenuptial agreement. It’s a complete no-fault contract. If I walk away, if he decides he wants out – the result is still the same: I get $120 million.’
‘Good God.’
‘As far as Mr Fleck is concerned, it’s a bargain. If we were full-time California residents, I could sue him for half of everything. Not that I’d want to. $120 million will be more than enough for me and the child . . . ’
‘What did you just say?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Oh,’ I said, sounding even more shell-shocked. ‘That’s . . . uh . . . wonderful news.’
‘Thanks.’
‘When did you find out?’
‘Three months ago.’
And I suddenly realized why she craftily dodged all but a glass of wine the other night.
‘What does Philip . . . ?’
‘Well,’ she said, cutting me off, ‘he only found out yesterday. It was one of several little bombshells I detonated in front of him.’
‘But I thought the two of you hadn’t been . . . ’
‘There was a brief interlude a couple of months ago – shortly after I met you on the island – when Philip decided to start sharing our life again, and actually seemed to have fallen back in love with me . . . as I did with him. But that only lasted three months. Then he got all withdrawn again. And so, when I found out I was pregnant, I simply didn’t tell him. Until yesterday, that is. And do you know what he said? Nothing? Complete silence.’
I took her hand again.
‘Martha . . . .’ Before I could speak another word, she cut me right off.
‘Don’t even say what you’re thinking . . . ’
‘But didn’t you . . . don’t you . . . ’
‘What? Love you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve known you exactly three days.’
‘But you can know after five minutes.’
‘True. But I’m not even going there right now.’
‘I simply can’t believe you’ve risked everything you have for me.’
‘Cut the Harlequin Romance prose, please. The man treated you like dirt – primarily, I sense, because he got a full report of our night on the island. It didn’t matter that we didn’t do the deed. What mattered was that you were talented and I sort of fell for you. So when I found out how he pulled your career apart, I felt responsible. And when he wouldn’t listen to moral arguments, I decided to play dirty pool. So that’s what this is all about. Settling the score. Balancing the books. Righting the wrong. Or any other cliché you care to mention.’
‘He can’t just pay me off. I’m going to need some sort of professional restitution as well. A statement from him clearing up the mess. And also . . . ’
‘Yes?’
An idea popped into my head – an absurd, devious idea . . . but worth a gamble. Especially as I had absolutely nothing else to lose.
‘I want you to insist on a joint television interview with Philip and myself. Something high profile and national. No doubt, your husband’s people can set it up.’
‘And what’s going to happen during the interview?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. If, that is, I can do anything.’
‘You’ve been wonderful. More than wonderful.’
‘David, stop.’
She stood up. ‘And now, I’ve got to go.’
I got out of my chair and kissed her. This time she let it fall on her lips. There was a torrent of romantic stupidity that I w
anted to blurt out, but I held myself in check.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything,’ she said. Then she turned and walked off towards her car.
All the way back to Meredith, I kept replaying our conversation again in my head, homing in (like any lovesick jerk) on the few optimistic signals she had thrown me. She was leaving Fleck. Though she didn’t admit outright love for me, she didn’t deny it either. And she did confess that she sort of fell for me. And she also knew the way I felt about her before I even learned of the sum coming her way when she left Fleck. Surely, that had to count for something, didn’t it?
Being the ultimate fatalist, I also envisaged a worst-case scenario: Fleck decided to play hardball. The DVDs were released. I was now publicly vilified all over again – not only for being a psychotic plagiarist, but also for wrecking a marriage . . . and sleeping with a woman who was already three months pregnant. Martha would leave Fleck, but decide to fly solo without me. And I’d be in even deeper nowheresville than before.
When I got back to Meredith, there were two urgent messages for me on the answerphone at the bookshop. The first was from my boss, asking me why I’d failed to open the damn shop this morning . . . and that he hoped this would be a one-off lapse. The second was from Alison, telling me to phone her pronto.
Which I did.
‘Well,’ she said after taking the call, ‘the Lord works in mysterious ways.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Listen to this: I just received a phone call from a certain Mitchell van Parks of this big fuck-you law firm in New York. He explained he was acting on behalf of Fleck Films, and he wanted to apologize for the confusion that existed over the registration of your . . . yes, he actually used that pronoun . . . your screenplay, We Three Grunts. “ Terrible system failure at SATWA,” he said, “which, of course, Fleck Films wants to put right.” To which I said: “So what are we talking about here?” And he said: “One million dollars . . . and shared writing credit.” And I said: “Seven months ago, your client, Mr Fleck, offered my client, Mr Armitage, a fee of two-point-five, pay or play. Surely, given the fact that certain public questions could be raised about how Mr Fleck’s name ended up on the title page . . . ”
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