by William Boyd
He looked towards the small shopping parade at the end of the street where his eye was caught by a glimmer of white neon glowing in the encroaching duskiness of the summer evening and he wandered towards it.
The Icebox.
He stood outside, wondering whether to go in. There was a door set below a 3-D, white-neon square box. The name of the club was actually burned into the wood of the door, the letters charred, as if by some sizzling-hot writing implement. Or a red-hot poker, he thought, wryly. A man came out and hurried away, head down. Talbot caught the door before it closed and stepped inside. Stairs led down to a basement landing and to one of those heavy maroon velvet curtains that you found in entryways of French brasseries. Talbot paused again—and then pushed through the thick folds.
Inside the club, soft, jazzy music was playing and the lighting was dim and blue-tinged, somehow, to reflect the club’s name, he assumed. Along one wall was a lengthy bar and tables were arranged around a small wooden dance floor. Beyond the tables against the rear wall were circular booths upholstered in navy blue, but barely lit. It was a cross between a pub and a nightclub, he supposed: you could have a pint of beer or dance or canoodle in the shadowy darkness of the booths, driven by whatever urge had brought you here.
He wandered over to the bar. It was early and there were very few customers. The bluey lighting made everyone’s face a curious, leached-out monochrome. It was almost like being in a black and white film, he thought; the atmosphere encouraging the idea that this wasn’t quite the real world, that you were performing somehow, that it wasn’t really you.
For a moment Talbot thought about turning around and heading back out to the street and the Grand Hotel but the barman—a tubby fellow in a bow tie and a waistcoat—had spotted him and welcomed him with a cheery “Evening, sir, what can I do you for?”
Talbot said hello, both curious and excited in a strange way, and ordered a Scotch and soda. Who was it who had said that the sense of one’s own uniqueness in this crowded world was absolutely banal in the end?…But there was something that made you unique, surely—your sexual life. What you responded to in another person, what your sexual triggers were. Who could analyse this accurately? What explained the attraction of the particular geometry of a face and the myriad examples of human form—the sex, the smells, lips, legs, breasts, buttocks, penises, vaginas, thinness, fatness, hair, the colour and length of hair, the absence of hair, teeth, nails, eyes, and on and on—was unique to you, the person who found all these differing aspects of another person, this precise congruence of detail, stirring and arousing. Why this one—and not that one? Maybe the answer to that question was the key to your human nature, that led you to its unique identity, its idiosyncratic verity, and was therefore the very opposite of banal. Sometimes it could take you by surprise—the curious alchemy of an individual you encountered could trigger emotions and feelings that you thought you were indifferent to, or resistant to. Maybe that was why he felt excited, here in the Icebox. This was the Brave New World for a man like him, of his age and experience, everything was different now—he could be ambushed at any turn and disarmed, his undeveloped heart redeveloped.
Two young men stood at the end of the bar and glanced at him for a second as his eye roved over and past them. Maybe the cold blue light was the masterstroke—everyone looked odder, more other-worldly, in the arctic glow. Shed your old identity and your old inhibitions was the message he was receiving.
He sipped his whisky and continued his scrutiny. Maybe half a dozen men were in the club, some young with long hair and moustaches, some middle-aged. There was an elderly man sitting at a table wearing a covert coat and a bowler hat staring at his drink as if it contained some answer to his particular problem.
“Not seen you in here before, sir,” the barman said. “Live in Brighton?”
“Passing through,” Talbot said.
“Aren’t we all, Talbot?” came a familiar voice from behind him.
He turned, to see George Trelawny standing there. He looked instantly for the colonel but sensed almost immediately that George was alone. They shook hands. George was wearing black jeans and an untucked floral-motifed shirt with a long floppy collar. He took his place by the bar beside Talbot, smiling. Talbot registered again his stockiness, his bullish, barrel physique—a strong, small man.
“Thought I might bump into you here one day,” he said.
“Really? What’re you drinking, George?”
George asked for a brandy and ginger that was duly served up and Talbot asked if the colonel would be joining them.
“No. Not tonight. He has to be in the mood. However, I pop down myself from time to time—he doesn’t mind.”
“I remembered he’d mentioned this place,” Talbot said, as if he had to excuse his presence here, somehow. “I had a meeting up the road, funnily enough. Thought I’d check it out.”
George took two large gulps of his brandy and lit a cigarette.
“It’s a very good club. You make what you want of it. No pressure on you.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“You can come in for a drink on your own—like we’ve done. Or you can come in with a friend and not be ‘bothered.’ Or you can come in here to meet new people.”
“I see.”
George glanced at the two young men at the other end of the bar.
“If you got talking to someone, for example, and you wanted to talk to them more privately, you can go downstairs. There’s a big basement. And the lavatories.”
Talbot took this information in with a vague smile. This was Brighton’s answer to Christopher Street, he supposed.
“What about you, sir? I mean, Talbot?”
Everyone was equal in the Icebox, Talbot realised.
“What about me?” he said.
“Are you here for a drink? Or something else?”
“I suppose you could say I’m on a recce, of sorts…And a drink, of course. I had a trying meeting. Film business, you know. It can be tiresome.”
“Ah, yes, the films.” He paused for a moment, seemed about to speak, then thought the better of it—and then decided to speak. “Did you ever see that film with Dirk Bogarde?”
“I’ve seen many. Doctor in the House?”
“No. That one where he played a lawyer. Posh lawyer. And some young lad was blackmailing him.”
“Yes. It was called Victim.”
“That’s the one. You remind me of him from time to time—that Dirk Bogarde. Just sometimes. A certain expression on your face.”
“He’s much younger than me—and with a full head of glossy hair.” Talbot signalled for another whisky.
“You don’t look like him—but sometimes I see the same expression. Sorry, I’m not making much sense.”
“You mean I look like a ‘victim’?” Talbot said, trying not to sound hostile.
“No. Not at all. The opposite. It’s more like…” George protested and searched his mind for the right expression and Talbot waited out his inarticulacy. “The look you have on your face, sometimes, it’s like…Like you’re seeing through everything. Know what I mean? Bogarde has that look as well. Like you know what’s true—and what’s lies.”
Now Talbot took out his cigarettes and lit one, giving himself time to think. He really didn’t have the slightest idea what George was talking about.
“Well, if you’re paying me a compliment, George,” he said, “I’ll happily take it. Funnily enough,” he said, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, “I had a chat with Dirk Bogarde just last night. Met him at a party. Delightful man. Very open, intelligent, amusing.”
“The circles you move in, sir. Sorry, Talbot.” He corrected himself again and smiled, knowingly. “If you’ll excuse me—I see my friend has arrived.”
He squeezed Talbot’s arm above the elbow, quite hard, still smilin
g. Talbot registered the familiarity, the subtext, of the gesture. In the twenty-odd years he had known Corporal George Trelawny he had never touched him like this. Ever.
“See you around, Talbot. Take it easy.”
“Give my best to Ivo,” Talbot said, vaguely, and watched George go to the maroon curtain to greet a young man in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase. They installed themselves in a booth at the rear. Talbot finished his drink quickly and left.
2
It was most odd, Elfrida thought, but when she was at home in London she had absolutely no idea how much she drank, not the faintest. Whereas in Brighton, in Rottingdean, she measured out her life in bottles of Sarson’s White Vinegar. She exhaled, closed her eyes, felt the room keel over and opened them quickly again—and poured herself another gin. She had run out of tonics but the neat gin was fine, in fact, not bothersome at all. She drank less, though the effect was more intense. Less is more, she thought—a nice paradox when it came to alcohol—more is more, being the norm. Yes, of course, she said to herself, picking up her train of thought, she could always go out to the composting bin in the garden and unearth the bottles that she hid there and do a proper count but—to tell the truth—she couldn’t care. She didn’t actually care—she didn’t give a fuck.
The television was on with the sound off—she liked that, liked its mute flicker—it made her feel less alone in the house, and the Vale of Health was so quiet at night, hardly a car passing. She took a crisp from the bag in front of her on the kitchen table, topped up her glass to the very brim and carried it upstairs to her study.
The pool of light from the anglepoise illuminated her open notebook with its first few sentences of The Last Day of Virginia Woolf. She sat down and read through what she had written and was dissatisfied. She picked up her pen, unscrewed the top, crossed everything out and started anew.
Virginia Woolf was dreaming. There was a dog in her dream—a large dog—and it was trying to lick her face. She pushed it away and then, with a lurch, woke up, her hands tangled in the blankets lying over her. She coughed and sat slowly upright, taking her bearings as full consciousness slowly returned, noticing that a pale rhomboid of sunlight was glowing on her bedroom wall. The weather seemed set fair. Her last day on earth would be a clement one.
Much better, she thought, wondering why she had chosen a “large dog” to be in the dream. It was curious how a novelist’s brain instinctively and instantly supplied these details. She had known that she was going to start the novel with “Virginia Woolf was dreaming” but then the contents of the dream just came to her, like that. Funny…
She took a sip of her gin, aromatic and warm. Ice—that was what she needed. She took her glass downstairs to the kitchen and dug out the ice tray from the freezer, running it under the tap so she could ease the lever device on the top. She pulled the lever back and the ice cubes shattered out, falling and spinning on the kitchen floor. She plopped three cubes into her glass and the gin overflowed. She took two large gulps as a means of lowering the level, feeling the head-reel of intoxication. She was intoxicated to be writing again and the gin, now cold, was better. Colder was better. Less is more and colder is better—let these be her watchwords. She went back upstairs, read what she had written and found it unsatisfactory. She crossed the lines out and started again.
Virginia Woolf was dreaming. A dog—an Irish setter—was jumping up on her, its paws roughly scratching her forearms, its pink tongue lolling wetly as it panted. She opened her eyes and realised it was her own breath coming fast and she panicked, thinking she might be having some kind of a fit. She sat up in bed and drank water from the glass on her bedside table. A lemony rhomboid of sunlight glowed on her bedroom wall. It looked like being a nice day for March. Her last day on the planet would be…
Would be what? She crossed out “It looked like being a nice day for March.” Banal, and she didn’t need to comment on the weather, the sun on the wall said everything required. But the opening still didn’t seem right, somehow. The dog-dream was wrong. And why an Irish setter? Where had that come from? She went back to her very first version, still discernible beneath her scorings-out. Maybe it seemed better, maybe she should stick with her first idea. She crossed the lines out and started again.
Virginia Woolf stirred in her bed, grunted, and opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was a rectangle of sunlight on the wall beside her. She sat up, consciousness invading her, reminding her that today, 28 March 1941, was going to be the last day of her life.
Yes, so much better. More succinct, more telling. “Grunted” was good. Make readers imagine Virginia grunting in her sleep. She liked that image: an elderly lady, sleeping. It made her human, the grunt. Maybe she should fart? No, not quite the right tone. She laughed. The tone of a fart. She picked up her glass and noticed to her astonishment that it was empty. This is what happened when writing took you over. Time, activity, consumption all took place as if on another plane of existence. She stood up and her chair fell over. Fuck it. Carefully she walked back downstairs, glass in hand, feeling a bit unsteady. The sensible thing to do would be to bring the gin and the ice upstairs to her study and eliminate the need for the to-and-fro. Yes, that’s what she’d do.
In the kitchen she nearly slipped on the meltwater from the ice cubes that had fallen on the floor. She should have refilled the tray. No matter. She poured some gin into her glass and suddenly found herself thinking of that vile party in Brighton and Reggie and that woman. What was her name? Janet Something. She felt tears warm her eyes. A young woman—with big tits. And she was a writer, she remembered. That was what hurt, stupidly, not the fact that he’d chosen somebody younger and more lubricious but that he’d chosen a writer. He’d betrayed a writer with a writer. She gulped gin. That was what was unforgivable.
3
DO NOT TAKE MORE THAN EIGHT TABLETS IN 24 HOURS it said on the packet of Equanil. She wasn’t sure how many she’d taken. Six? She was positive it was six as she counted back—so it was all right for her to have two more. Anny went to the little sink in her caravan, ran water into a glass and took the pills. She had to admit she was feeling a little woozy but that was better than raw anxiety. She peered out through the curtains and spotted Shirley coming up the street towards her. She let the curtain drop—she was already in costume so it must be make-up time. She was the only cast member in these upcoming scenes—everyone was waiting for her.
“I’ll be right there, Shirley,” she called when the rap on the door came.
“No. We’re not quite ready for you. There are two men here who would like to talk to you if you could spare ten minutes, they say.”
“It’s not a good time. Tell them to come back tomorrow.”
“They have to speak to you tonight, they say.”
Anny felt the panic attack kick in—the trapped, fluttering bird behind her ribcage. When would the fucking Equanil start working? She thought fast and opened the door.
“Tell them I can talk to them when we wrap tonight. Bring them here to the trailer.” She explained further, a plan unspooling miraculously in her head. She knew why they were here and she knew what she had to do.
“Give them a cup of coffee and some cookies, you know. Say I’ll be along as soon as I get out of make-up. I may be running a little late.”
“Sure. They’re happy to wait, they said.”
It wasn’t a complex series of scenes tonight, Rodrigo had told her. She—Emily—had run off in a state. Night had fallen and she was lost in a strange part of town. She would slowly pick her way along a street, find a doorway, huddle in a corner and fall into a troubled sleep. No dialogue. No Troy. A great opportunity for more great music, Rodrigo said—and then, when she fell asleep they were going to have this amazing dream sequence. A new idea.
“Which is what? Could I know what I’m going to be dreaming about?” she’d asked.
“As soon as
it’s actually written, honeybun,” Rodrigo said.
Night shoots were tedious—so many things could go wrong. Sirens, cars tooting, reflections of headlights from passing vehicles even though the street—the set—was locked down and closed off. Rodrigo ran her through the action. She was to emerge from an alleyway, then be spooked by a passing car that made her hide in a front garden. She would keep hiding as two policemen passed by then she’d make her way along a row of shopfronts until she found a doorway where she could curl up and go to sleep.
“Five set-ups, maybe six,” he said. “Doddle.”
In fact it was more like ten and the longest one was improvised. He had her looking at her reflection in a puddle until her reflection was distorted by spreading ripples from a solitary raindrop.
Rodrigo made two L-shapes with his thumb and forefinger and held them in front of her face, mimicking the close-up frame.
“Your face, upside down. A big upside-down close-up. Imagine. Then ripples and your face breaks up. Far out!”
“Why would I stop and look at my face in a puddle?” she asked. “I’m terrified, no? Running away, lost.”
“Lovely visuals, darling. Academy Award stuff.”
She went along with everything he told her to do, half her mind on her developing escape plan. She huddled in the doorway, pretending to sleep, walking herself through the various stages of her plan, making sure the risk element was minimised. Then Rodrigo said it was a wrap for the night.