by William Boyd
“It was her idea—she’s staying in a friend’s house. In Kemp Town,” he added.
“What’s she doing?”
“She’s working on a new ending. Ideas for a new ending. Versions, possibilities,” he improvised quickly. “Maybe she could figure something out. She’s bloody clever that way. Get us out of this pickle.”
“I’d hardly call it a ‘pickle,’ Reggie. Still, we are paying her a grand a week. Might as well make her earn her keep.”
“Let me give her a ring,” Reggie said, and went to find a phone box.
Talbot stood and crossed the spongy carpet to the bar and ordered another whisky—the warm alcohol seemed to be soothing his gut, paradoxically. Local anaesthetic—he knew he’d suffer later.
They walked back to the set where they found everything was winding down, Anny’s refusal to act with Sylvia and Ferdie prematurely ending the day’s filming. Who pays for that? Talbot wondered, aggrieved, in the car that drove them to Kemp Town. They headed for the East Cliff, turning off Marine Parade just before reaching the surprising grandeur of Lewes Crescent and motored along Chesham Road, Reggie giving the driver confident directions, Talbot noticed. Clearly he had been here before.
Janet Headstone’s friend’s three-storey house was in the middle of a tree-lined terrace. The house was painted pale purple and the window frames were picked out in scarlet. There was a tall, dying limp-leaved yucca in the small front garden and an empty green plastic paddling pool. Janet Headstone opened the door to them both—Reggie giving her a peck on the cheek—and led them through to a modern kitchen-diner. They took their places around a scrubbed pine table set below a massive light recovered from some billiard hall. The walls were painted pillar-box red and the fridge seemed to be made from chrome. Strange tall spiky-looking plants in ceramic pots were arranged in a line on the window ledge behind the sink. Through the window was a garden full of toys and enough equipment for a small park: a slide, a jungle gym, a swing, a seesaw and a Wendy house.
Janet offered them beer or gin and vermouth. Talbot opted for the latter; Reggie chose the beer.
“Shall I fill Janet in on the backstory?” Reggie asked.
“Good idea,” Talbot said. “Is there a serviceable loo, by any chance?”
Janet directed him to a bathroom upstairs. The inside of the bath had been painted blue and there were many etchings on the walls of a mildly pornographic nature. Talbot had a pee and tried to come up with a mental picture of the people who actually lived in this house—Janet’s friends—and failed.
He came down the stairs slowly, feeling weary, wondering if gin and vermouth were a wise choice and, as he stepped onto the carpet, a large mirror in the hall at the foot of the stairs afforded him a clear, angled view of the kitchen through its open door. He saw Reggie and Janet locked in a clinging and passionate kiss; Reggie had a two-fisted grip on her buttocks, rucking up the hem of her dress. Reggie’s face was clamped between Janet’s hands, tongues flickered wetly.
He stepped back, coughed a couple of times and waited a few seconds before strolling nonchalantly back into the kitchen—Reggie and Janet were back in their places, Reggie swigging beer from the bottle, Janet plaiting her ponytail.
“Jan’s had a brilliant idea,” Reggie said, gesturing at her to tell Talbot.
“Do everything on the phone,” she said, though to Talbot’s ears it came out as evryfink on vuh phaon. She was very cockney, he realised.
“How would that work?” he asked.
“Scene one: Emily calls her mum and dad. Cut to Mum answering: hello, darlin’. Cut back to Emily. She says: I’m marrying—what’s Troy’s character’s name again?”
“Ben.”
“I’m marrying Ben, she says. Mum goes bananas. No you fucking ain’t! Emily slams down the phone. Cut back to Mum and Dad and they rant and rage. They try to call her back. She doesn’t answer. Dad throws the phone against the wall. Mum bursts into tears, et cetera, et cetera.”
“It’s brilliant,” Reggie said. “Sylvia and Ferdie get to do their stuff—overact, throw things, weep and wail. Emily sits alone thinking about the bombshell she’s dropped.”
Talbot had to admit it was ingenious.
“Should work. Not even Anny Viklund can object to saying one line into a phone,” he said.
“Exactly—everything’s pretty much as written—but the three of them don’t play the scene together.”
Talbot thought. “Are there any other scenes between the three of them?”
“One other,” Reggie said. “The engagement party in the pub. But we can do the same—Emily never shows up. Sylvia and Ferdie get to vent their fury again. Could be very funny. Emily elopes with Ben. Bingo.”
“Will you run it by Anny?” Talbot said.
“First thing. She just doesn’t want to interact with those two. She’ll be happy with this solution. I know it.”
“By the way, wasn’t it Ferdie Meares who was done for indecent exposure?” Janet asked.
“Insufficient evidence,” Talbot said. “Acquitted.” He took a gulp of his gin and vermouth—it was warm. He asked if there was any ice but Janet said the freezer in the chrome fridge was broken.
Now it was Reggie’s turn to go to the lavatory, leaving Talbot and Janet alone. She stood up and went to fetch another bottle of beer. She was wearing a short black-and-white-striped dress that was a little tight on her, and white PVC bootees, Talbot noticed. A pretty woman who wasn’t looking after herself, he thought: candles being burned at both ends and the middle. He was aware of the silence between them.
“Funny sort of house,” Talbot said. “Who are your friends?”
“He’s a drummer in a rock band called Higher Ground. Quite good, actually.”
“Funny that. My son’s a ‘drummer.’ Timpanist in the Hallé Orchestra.”
“See? We move in different orbits, Talbot,” Janet said, shrewdly.
“I don’t know if I agree,” Talbot said. “We’re both working on the same film, both living temporarily in Brighton.”
“Well, I’m going back to London this weekend. This street is a nightmare Fridays and Saturdays. There’s a club at the end of the road. They all come out at four in the morning, screaming and shouting. Crazy queens.”
Talbot said nothing, but allowed himself a slight smile.
“I think they’ve earned their fun, don’t you?”
“Just because it’s legal doesn’t mean they can destroy my beauty sleep.” She laughed.
“What’s this club called?”
“Ah. The Ice something. The Ice Show. No, the Icebox.”
“Maybe you should get a petition up amongst the neighbours.”
“Not my style, Talbot, old mate.” She smiled broadly at him.
Talbot wasn’t sure if he liked Janet Headstone very much.
“I know you weren’t too happy about me coming on board,” she said, as if sensing his animus.
“Oh, I’m perfectly happy. I just wished I’d been told about it. I was kept out of the picture, that’s what irritated me. Nothing to do with you.”
“Yeah, exactly. Nothing to do with me. Reggie said Yorgos had cleared everything.”
“All water under the bridge,” he said, standing. “Anyway, Janet, I’m very grateful—you may just have saved our bacon.”
“Worth her weight in gold,” Reggie said coming back in, and put his hand on her shoulder, then snatched it away as if her skin were hot.
“I’d better get back,” Talbot said. “Thanks again, Janet.”
“See you around, Talbot. Wait till you see the ending I’ve got lined up.”
Reggie walked him to the door.
“I’ll wait on a bit,” he said. “Block out the new pages with her. We’ll regroup tomorrow. Forge on.”
Talbot resisted the temptation to resort t
o innuendo. If Reggie Tipton wanted to fuck Janet Headstone that was his business. I wonder if Elfrida has any idea, he said to himself.
“Crisis over,” Reggie said.
“This crisis,” Talbot replied. “There’ll be another one tomorrow, no doubt.”
“Onwards and upwards,” Reggie said, and opened the front door for him.
Talbot was driven back to the production office. Joe was there at his desk but otherwise the place was empty; the premature end to the day’s shoot had given everyone an early night.
“Ah, boss, there you are,” Joe said as Talbot came in. “Glad you’re here. Sir Dorian Villiers called. Said it was urgent.”
“The gods descend from Mount Olympus.”
“I stood to attention. He wants you to call back.” Joe handed him a scrap of paper with a number on it. Talbot took it from him, trying to hide his reluctance. What did Dorian Villiers want? He looked again at the scrap of paper. A Brighton number. And now Talbot remembered reading somewhere that Dorian had recently moved to Brighton with his most recent (third) wife, the Italian actress, Bruna Casanero.
He knew Dorian Villiers as they had worked together some years ago on a disastrous YSK film called Cometh the Man, a historical epic about King Alfred the Great. Dorian Villiers was generally regarded as the finest Shakespearean actor of his generation, up there with Burton, Olivier and Gielgud, but the talents that served him so well on stage did not transfer that successfully to the screen. His acting was mannered, declamatory and overemphatic. Cometh the Man had been an expensive film and expensively promoted but was a marked failure with the critics and the public. Bizarrely, despite this conspicuous turkey that they had managed to concoct, Dorian felt the experience had bonded him to Talbot, forcefully, indissolubly, interminably. He had said many times that Talbot was one of his dearest friends, one of the “few good men” still standing. Talbot and Naomi had spent two Christmases with the Villiers (when he was married to Vanessa Halton) at their huge manor house near Cambridge and Dorian was always inviting him to lunch or dine at his club when he was in town. Try as he might, duck and dive as much as he could, Talbot could not cool Dorian’s ardency. And now he had come to live in Brighton…He picked up the phone and dialled.
“Dorian? It’s Talbot.”
“Well met by moonlight, Talbot, mon brave! You bastard—why didn’t you tell me you were filming here in Brighton-town?”
“I thought you were still in Cambridge.”
“That bitch from hell, Vanessa, stole that house from me—and all my goods and chattels.”
Talbot could hear him light a cigarette.
“But here I am, Talbot darling, ensconced in good old Brighton-town and we are having—sweetheart Bruna and I—an anniversariyie partayie,” he put on his cod-medieval accent, “to celebrate us being one year on from our glorious nuptials. We would like to invite you and as many of your fellow thespians as you can muster to join us.”
He gave Talbot more details. Talbot promised to ask Reggie, Anny and Troy. They’d love to come, he was sure.
“What about Sylvia Slaye and Ferdie Meares?” Talbot suggested. “I think you know them.”
“I will not have that disgusting flasher in my house but the good wench Sylvia is more than welcome, forsooth.”
They talked some more. Dorian’s secretary would send out formal invitations; the date would be confirmed, the venue, the dress code (black tie), the starting time and when carriages would be required.
“When the morn, in russet mantle clad, walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill, no doubt. It’ll be the party of the year, Talbot. Can’t wait to see you, my dear fellow.”
Talbot hung up, a mild depression settling on him. No getting out of that one, for sure. Thank God tomorrow was Friday and the weekend was almost there. Which reminded him. He picked up the phone again and called Naomi.
“I can’t make it home this weekend, darling,” he lied. “So sorry. Crisis after crisis here. All hands to the pumps.”
Naomi was silent for a moment.
“It’s Humphrey’s concert on Saturday night. Royal Festival Hall.”
Shit, Talbot thought. He’d forgotten.
“I’ll be there,” he said. “I’ll make sure. I’ll drive up.”
“Don’t let him down,” Naomi said flatly. “He’s expecting you. It’s important.”
“I know. Don’t worry—I’ll be there.”
They said goodnight and Talbot hung up and then slowly let his head fall until his brow was resting on his blotter. He was alone in the office—Joe had left before the call to Dorian Villiers. Now, he arched his back and stretched his arms wide in a tense crucifixion pose, spreading his fingers. There must be an easier way to earn a living, he thought.
The phone rang. I’m not answering that, he said to himself, not at this hour of the night. Go to hell.
He picked up the receiver.
“Talbot Kydd.”
“Ah, Talbot, glad I tracked you down,” John Saxonwood said.
“It’s very late so it can’t be good news,” Talbot said, warily.
“I’ve had the contracts in for The Smell of Burning Leaves.”
“And?”
“Yorgos has stitched you up, old chum. Very, very cleverly. Your name’s all over the place but—to my eyes—it looks like you won’t own a thing.”
20
There were two basic types of alcoholics, Elfrida realised, and she liked to categorise them as “Sippers” and “Benders.” “Benders” were out of control—wholly appetite-driven, consummation was rapid and destructive, swift oblivion was the aim. Days would go by when “Benders” were on their bender—lost weekends—that usually ended with collapse, catatonia or death. “Sippers” on the other hand were more discreet and shrewd. They steadily topped themselves up throughout the day—sipping—aiming to maintain a constant level of potent, satisfying but—hopefully—unnoticeable inebriation. Unlike Benders, Sippers—while effectively very drunk—could still function, conduct a conversation and maybe even hold down a job.
Elfrida poured some vodka into her breakfast orange juice. She wasn’t deluded or in any form of denial, not at all: she knew she was an alcoholic of the “Sipper” variety, and she also knew that the day that she started writing a new novel she would be sober again. That was her particular problem: creative impasse had driven her to drink. It wasn’t her fault or some flaw in her character, no. Many other writers and artists had experienced the same predicament—Ernest Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, poor Edith Everly, Faulkner, Elizabeth Bishop, Dylan Thomas, Morris Hughes, Brendan Behan, Henry Green, sad Malcolm Lowry, Celia Tanson, Evelyn Waugh, Ian Fleming, George Vanderpoel and a good few others whose names she couldn’t currently recall. It was a small exclusive club. Actually, not that small, come to think of it. Pondering her list she realised that most of them were “Benders.” Odd, that.
Yes, she thought, feeling pleased with herself, matters were being brought in hand, steps were being taken, light was spottable at the tunnel’s end, and so forth. She added another dash of vodka to her juice and went to find the telephone number of the Book Nook.
“Hello, I’d like to speak to Huckleberry, please.”
“Huckleberry here.”
“Huckleberry, good morning. It’s Jennifer Tipton on the line.”
“Sorry? Who?”
“You ordered Virginia Woolf’s A Writer’s Diary for me.”
“Did I? Morning.”
“And you sold me a copy of Maitland Bole’s book. Or, rather, pamphlet.”
“It’s all coming back to me, Miss Tipton.”
“Mrs.”
“Mrs. Tipton. What can I do for you?”
She explained that she was telephoning for Maitland Bole’s number, or address, if that were possible. She wanted to congratulate him on his pamphlet—it had bee
n exceptionally useful in her researches into Virginia Woolf.
“I don’t think I can really do that,” Huckleberry said.
“Why not? You told me he lived in Eastbourne.”
“He’s a very private man, you see. I can’t just give out his number. He’d be furious.”
Elfrida had a moment of inspiration.
“Well,” she said, “would you convey to him the information that I’d like to buy fifty copies of his pamphlet? Do give him my telephone number. I won’t be furious.”
“Oh. Right. I’ll see if I can track him down.”
Maitland Bole himself telephoned ten minutes later. He had a rattling voice, much interrupted by throat clearings and dry staccato coughs. It turned out that Bole no longer lived in Eastbourne but in London, in Fitzrovia, he volunteered, vaguely.
“Could we meet?” Elfrida asked. “I’ve got some questions for you, seeing as you’re such an expert on Virginia—and I could give you a cheque for the pamphlets at the same time.”
Bole suggested that they rendezvous at midday the next day at the main entrance to the Tate Gallery on Millbank. He had “private business” to transact there, he confided.
“Perfect. And may I take you for lunch?” Elfrida invited. “The Tate restaurant is one of my favourite places.”
After a fusillade of coughs, Bole agreed.
“How will I know you?” he asked.
She thought for a second: how to describe herself? Tall, with thick dark hair cut in a heavy fringe, red lipstick? Hardly a stand-out in a crowd.
“I’ll be carrying a copy of To the Lighthouse. How about that?”
“See you tomorrow, Mrs. Tipton.”
Elfrida replaced the receiver on its cradle. Her heart was bumping as if she’d run up three flights of stairs. She was sure her life was about to change—and the wine list at the Tate restaurant was one of London’s finest. She would woo Maitland Bole with the very best claret and extract the secrets of Virginia Woolf’s last day from him.
She went upstairs and packed an overnight bag. She wasn’t going to wait any longer—she’d catch a train up to London right away. And she had other business in the city. The morning’s mail had brought enthusiastic letters from agent and editor, both “dying” to hear more about The Zigzag Man. She felt her fortunes were on the turn.