by William Boyd
Bethany is fully aware that, paradoxically, the bitterness engendered by her parents’ divorce has intensified in the many years since it occurred. Time is no healer, at least as far as her mother is concerned.
‘How could you want to spend Christmas with that … that piece of filth, that scum?’ Alannah asks, reasonably, then takes a large swallow of her drink.
‘He’s my father. I haven’t seen him for nearly two years. I feel guilty for what I did. He forgave her, they got married, for God’s sake. I never expected he’d divorce Chi-Chi –’
‘You did him a massive favour, my sweet. Serves him bloody well right.’ She exhales. ‘Go if you must. I’ll be fine with Ogunmokun. In fact it might be better if you aren’t here, come to think of it.’
Ogunmokun is her mother’s Nigerian boyfriend. He’s a medical student. Bethany really likes him.
‘Have you never been to LA?’ Howard Christopher asks, astonished. He’s drinking from a can of Speyhawk Special Brew.
‘No,’ Bethany says. ‘I’m quite curious, actually.’
‘Never been to El Lay. Good Lord. How old are you? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?’
‘Twenty-four,’ Bethany says.
‘That’s the time to go, darling. When you’re young. I can’t stand the place.’
‘Can I get you a glass?’ Bethany asks.
‘It’s better straight from the tin,’ Howard says. ‘More kick.’
‘I thought I might stay on a bit, you know,’ Bethany says. ‘Having gone all the way over there.’
‘When do we open in the new year?’ Howard asks.
‘January the fifteenth.’
‘Really? I think I’m skiing then … You take your time, darling. Your job is safe.’ He laughs and glugs Speyhawk, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Last time I was in LA I was arrested for smoking – outside. Terrible place. You’ll be back.’
On the plane to Los Angeles, Bethany opens her father’s book. A FALSE ECONOMY: Aspirations, Evasions and Illusions in Everyday Life by Zane Mellmoth. It’s her father’s second book, after Novaville, and far and away his most successful, having reached number eight on the New York Times non-fiction chart. He sent this new one to her almost six months ago when it was published but somehow she can’t bring herself to read it. Too close to the bone. She has read the inscription – ‘With love! Hang tight! Big Daddy’ – and has studied the author’s photograph and bio. ‘Zane Mellmoth is Professor of Psychogeography at Brandiwine University, California. He lives.’ In the author’s photograph he looks absurdly handsome – lean, unshaven, short grey hair, a black V-neck T-shirt. He’s holding a pencil in his hand – an old-fashioned wooden pencil. It’s all deliberate, Bethany realizes, all knowing – as if he’s somehow living out the very concept of his subtitle. It always gives her something of a shock to realize that her father is well over half a century old.
She puts the book down and picks up her journal.
22 December, en route to LA. A turmoil of emotions is raging in me. Guilt, principally. Why did I ever tell Dad about Chi-Chi’s betrayal? What if I’d just kept quiet?
She crosses it out, vigorously. The man beside her has come back from the toilet, changed. He’s wearing shorts and flip-flops – ready for the heat, those Californian rays. He has fat hairy legs, Bethany notices. People shouldn’t be allowed to fly in shorts, she thinks, it’s disgusting. There’s still three hours to go and I have to sit here seeing his horrible legs out of the corner of my eye. She puts on her sunglasses and hunches away from him, looking out of the window at the clouds, a line coming into her mind from a novel she’s read. We are the first generation to see clouds from both sides, from below and above. Who said that? George Orwell? No. Then she thinks: that’s not true. If you climbed a high mountain you could see clouds from above; you could look down on the tops of clouds. Even cavemen, Neanderthals, must have looked down on clouds.
Bethany comes through from customs and immigration at LAX and glances around for her father – where’s Zane? He’s not there. She closes her eyes – typical – and wanders about for a while, through the throng of limo drivers. She sees a young guy chatting to a couple of chauffeurs. He has a sign under his arm and she can tell it has ‘MELLMOTH’ written on it. She taps him on the shoulder. He turns. He has brown skin and the whitest teeth, a close soft beard and his longish hair is held up in a knotted bun.
‘I’m Mellmoth,’ she says, not smiling. Just do your job, mate.
‘Hey, Bethany,’ he says, shaking her hand. ‘Happy holidays. You were out fast. I’m Jagjit. Everyone calls me Jag.’
He takes her suitcase and she walks with Jag into the car park. Jagjit – he must be Indian, she thinks. His accent is pure Californian, however. He’s skinny, wearing jeans and a loose white linen shirt. He’s quite attractive, Bethany thinks, for a limo driver.
Jag opens the door to a curvy-looking low-slung car and Bethany eases herself in.
‘What kind of car is this?’ she asks as he settles down beside her.
‘It’s a Tesla,’ he says. ‘It’s totally electric.’ He smiles. ‘It’s not mine, it’s your father’s. I’m his driver. Part-time.’
He takes out a card and hands it to her.
JAGFILMCO, she reads. Chief executive: Jagjit Chaturredi.
‘Where is my father?’ she asks as they pull away from the airport.
‘He’s mentoring. He asked me to pick you up. We’re not far away.’
‘Where are we headed?’
‘Venice.’
Zane Mellmoth’s place in Venice is one street back from the beach. A big clapboard two-storey, split-level house painted pale blue. Jag lets her in, tells her to make herself at home and then leaves, wishing her ‘Happy holidays’. Bethany stands in the middle of the wide sitting room – white sofas on stained wood, rug-strewn floors, a stone fireplace, abstract paintings on the walls – and feels absurdly like crying, wishing she’d never come. She wanders upstairs looking for a room that might be hers and passes a terrace where a naked woman is lying sunbathing.
‘So you and Regina have met,’ Zane Mellmoth says, putting his arm around Bethany.
Regina is now clothed. However, after Bethany coughed politely and introduced herself, Regina stayed naked for at least half an hour as they chatted before she pulled on a towelling dressing gown and went to take a shower.
‘Oh, yes,’ Regina says. ‘I now have the whole backstory. You’re a dark horse, big boy.’
Her father laughs, visibly enjoying the banter. He releases Bethany and tries to grab Regina, who backs away, her hands raised in a karate pose.
‘These hands are lethal weapons,’ she says.
‘All my secrets are safe with Bethany,’ Zane says. ‘You devil-woman, you.’ They both laugh – like fiends, Bethany thinks.
After supper Bethany goes for a walk with her father along the beach, heading for a bar. Regina doesn’t drink, it turns out. And she’s also a vegan. Regina is his new girlfriend, he says. We’re very close. She has a small chain of deluxe spas called Therapositi. Santa Barbara, Carmel, Pacific Palisades. Hugely successful. At least she’s over forty, Bethany thinks, as they sit down and order some wine. Her father tells her more about Regina, how they met, how their relationship is on a new serious plane – marriage might be on the cards: she could be the third Mrs Mellmoth – how she’s the cleanest woman he’s ever known. Bethany concedes this might be true: Regina is always massaging a gel of some kind into her hands.
‘What happened to Chi-Chi, after the divorce, and the baby – Arnie?’ Bethany asks, carefully.
‘Actually, it was a girl, not a boy. She’s coming over for Christmas.’
‘Chi-Chi?’
‘No. Light.’
‘Light?’
‘The baby’s called Light. She’s a girl. I get to see her one weekend a month. Californian law is very …’ He thinks. ‘Draconian, when it comes to divorce.’
‘But she was cheating on you.’
‘I would ne
ver have suspected – if you hadn’t told me.’
‘That’s what’s troubling me, Dad. You see, I never meant to break up –’
‘No. No. Nooooo. No-no-no.’ Her father takes her hand, kisses it. ‘You did me the biggest favour, pumpkin. You did the right thing. You found out what Chi-Chi was up to. I forgave her – we got married, for Christ’s sake. You told me – you had to. Then I found out it had never stopped – the cheating, the affairs. She is one sensational liar, I will give her that. I might still have been with that …’ He searches for a word. ‘Ball-breaking, hate-filled, basket-case,’ he says with venom, with bitterness. ‘You warned me and I didn’t listen – but you saved my life, darling.’ He smiles, raising his glass. ‘Anyway. Everything’s great now. Happy holidays.’
Bethany writes in her journal:
Christmas Day. The temperature is 92 degrees. A chef arrived and prepared roast turkey with all the trimmings. We ate outside on the roof terrace. Regina pointed at the Brussels sprouts and said: what are those things? Eugh. I kept forgetting to pronounce her name properly. She became quite cross. She said to me, ‘Honey, it doesn’t rhyme with vagina.’ Regeeena, Regeeeeeeena. After lunch Jag arrived in the Tesla with a German girl called Beate and the little baby, Light. Beate is in her twenties and on the plump side. She is Light’s nanny. Only Beate and Dad are allowed to touch the baby, it turned out. I said to Beate: she’s my half-sister, for God’s sake. Beate said I had to get permission from Chi-Chi. Light is nearly two years old. She seems very sweet. A surprisingly quiet, thoughtful child.
On Boxing Day Bethany borrows some running shoes and goes for a run along the beach. She stops after two minutes, thinking she might vomit. I must get fitter, she says to herself. She rolls a cigarette and strolls down to the surf edge for a tranquil smoke. The Pacific Ocean looks grey, like slate, even though the sun is shining and the sky is uninterrupted blue. How many times have I stood on a beach looking at the waves, contemplating my life, Bethany asks herself? The question is rhetorical, she decides.
Feeling a sudden craving for food, she wanders back to the promenade and finds a cool pizza joint called Peet-za-za! She takes her seat, orders a margherita and consults the menu. She looks up to see Regina sitting in a corner with a beer and a pepperoni pizza with fries on the side. Regina glances over and their eyes meet. They both look away. It never happened. The waiter – a girl with a ring in her nose – rollerblades over.
‘Hi there, welcome to Peet-za-za! Ready to order? My name is Naiyala-tae. Happy holidays.’
Jag is driving Beate, Light and Bethany back to Chi-Chi’s house. It’s 27 December. Bethany has hitched a ride as she needs closure on the whole Chi-Chi/Zane Mellmoth divorce issue, and her role in it. If nothing else this will make her trip to LA worthwhile.
Chi-Chi lives in a cantilevered moderne house high on Coldwater Canyon. As they wind up the swerving road – air con at full blast – Bethany spots a life-size Santa sleigh and four model reindeer on a front lawn and then a house bedecked with thousands of winking fairy lights. Oh yes, it’s Christmas, she remembers. Of course, the season of goodwill. Bethany steps out of the car, feeling a bit sick about meeting Chi-Chi, following Beate and Light into the house. Chi-Chi stands in the hall, waiting. ‘Happy holidays!’ she cries and greets Bethany like her oldest friend – hugs and kisses – and showers compliments on her: her hair, her skin, her jeans, her necklace, her shoes. Bethany keeps a smile on while noting that Chi-Chi is living in some style for an out-of-work dancer. Chi-Chi allows Bethany to hold Light for a few seconds and kiss her on the forehead then Beate takes her off upstairs for her nap. Jag says he’ll wait in the Tesla – he has some calls to make.
Chi-Chi leads Bethany to a terrace and offers her some tea. Bethany says yes, please, thank you, not daring to ask if she can smoke. They drink their tea and finally Bethany summons up the necessary courage.
‘Chi-Chi, I want to apologize – I have to apologize.’
‘No. Stop. Stop now. You did me the biggest favour, girl. Seriously.’ She flicks back her long, incredibly straight black hair. ‘I just need to know one thing: how did you figure it out? I mean before you told Zane.’
Bethany flashes back. Christmas in London. Christmas lunch in the Fedora Palace Grand. Chi-Chi pregnant with what turned out to be Light. Bethany swallows.
‘You went to get Dad from the gym in the hotel and you left your phone behind. It rang. I picked it up and before I could say “Chi-Chi’s phone” this guy started talking. Intimately. Very intimately. Extremely intimately.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he was in a hot tub, thinking about you and that he was actually –’
‘Got it. Left you in no doubt.’
‘None at all. I had to tell my dad. It was a real moral dilemma. I couldn’t stay silent because I knew, you see –’
‘Don’t blame yourself. He said he’d forgiven me – but then he put a private detective on me when we got back to LA. It was over in two months … I just could never figure out how he figured it out.’ She frowns. Then smiles brightly. ‘Best thing that could have happened.’
‘And you have Light.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Little Light. My sister. Light Mellmoth.’
‘I won’t have her use that name. Not Mellmoth. Never.’
On the drive back to Venice with Jag, Bethany is thoughtful. Has she closure? Chi-Chi bears her no ill will. She seems rich and happy. Moreover, Bethany thinks, her father is in a new relationship. Regina is age-appropriate. Bethany keeps forgetting that Chi-Chi, when she was briefly her stepmother, was in fact younger than her. Everything for the best, then. Jag is talking.
‘Sorry?’
‘I may be coming to London. Next month, maybe. Perhaps we could have a drink.’
Bethany refocusses and says she’d love to meet up with Jag in London. When he drops her at the house they exchange numbers. Bethany takes out his card when he’s driven off. Jagjit Chaturredi … Bethany Chaturredi … She has to stop doing this.
Bethany goes in but the place is empty. There’s a note above the fireplace from her father. He and Regina have gone up to Santa Barbara to the Therapositi spa there to ‘detox’. Join us or stay on, he invites her. Chill. We’ll be back in a week. Happy holidays, Dad. Bethany sighs. Typical. I come all this way. All the same, she’s now living in a large comfortable house in Venice, California. There are worse places to be. Maybe she could do some work on 2084. Hang out with Jag …
Bethany writes in her journal:
29 December. I find it hard to work here, for some reason. I haven’t written a word of 2084 except to change ‘Jones’ back to ‘Churchill’. And I’m bored. I called Dad and he said come up to Santa Barbara but I don’t feel like being with him and Regina. I told Dad about my meeting with Chi-Chi, how it went. Cool, he said. Then I remembered – thinking about the surnames in 2084. What’s Chi-Chi’s maiden name, I asked? She won’t let Light be called Light Mellmoth. I know, Dad said, she’s a very bitter woman. So what’s her maiden name? T’an, he said. Mandarin Chinese. Tee, apostrophe, ay, en. That’s Light’s name? I repeated, shocked. It’s impossible. What’s wrong with it? he said. I’m sorry, I said, you can’t let someone go through life being called Light T’an. I think that’s when I decided I had to go back to London.
The mood in the Tesla is strange, Bethany thinks, as Jag drives her back to LAX. Something has changed and she wonders if it’s because they’re going to see each other again. They are no longer ‘driver’ and ‘passenger’. Jag keeps glancing at her and smiling, showing his incredibly white teeth.
He pulls up at the drop-off point and lifts her bag out for her.
‘Well …’ he says. Probably standing just a little too close.
Bethany doesn’t know what comes over her but she feels she has to kiss Jag. There has to be something about this trip that she’ll cherish. So she puts her arms around him and they kiss. Then they kiss like lovers for a full sixty seconds
. Bethany breaks off.
‘See you in London,’ she says, managing to get the words out.
She turns and walks away.
‘Bethany!’ Jag calls.
Bethany freezes. Please don’t say it, she says to herself as she turns. Please.
Jag waves. ‘Happy holidays!’
She waves back, wordless, smiling, then turns away and strides briskly towards the plane that will carry her back to London and her own world and a whole new year beginning.
Part III
* * *
The Vanishing Game: An Adventure …
It has been my philosophy of life that difficulties vanish when faced boldly.
Isaac Asimov
Part One: The Girl with the Broken Ankle
It’s all about perception, so they tell you. Was I the right guy in the wrong place? Or was I the wrong guy in the right place? From my point of view – my perception – I was the wrong guy in the wrong place so it was no surprise that my troubles multiplied. But this is all with benefit of hindsight and its 20/20 vision. At the time I thought my luck had changed. At last, I said to myself, things are going my way. And I needed a break; I was due a break, or so I thought.
London. October.
Three days after my flat had been burgled and five days after my car had been sideswiped by a white van that didn’t stop, my agent, Gervase Somerville, called.
‘Alec, darling boy, you’ve got an audition. An “American” movie, no less.’
I tried not to let my excitement overwhelm me.
‘What’s it called?’
‘Ah …’ Rustle of papers. ‘Um … Yes, Transfigured Night.’
‘Isn’t that a Schoenberg sextet?’
‘Quite possibly. Anyway it happens to be the title of this fillum.’
The script was embargoed, he said. I thought this a good sign. And the producers were in final negotiation with an A-list director, he added, they would announce next week.