Trio

by William Boyd

  “Do you drink alcohol?”

  “Of course. Like everybody else. A sherry before a meal. The odd glass of wine.”

  Dr. Ingham wrote a note on her pad.

  “I think you’re suffering from a form of psychosis,” she said in her blunt, no-nonsense way. “I’d like you to spend some time in an excellent clinic that we use not far from—”

  “Stop right there, Dr. Ingham!” Elfrida stood up. “I’m in the middle of an important new novel. I may admit to a certain amount of stress from overwork but—psychosis? I’ve never heard such rubbish. Maybe my infection is beyond your experience as a GP—or your competence. Thank you for your time—I will take myself and my problem to…To the Institute of Tropical Medicine in London,” Elfrida improvised. She stepped back. “I have contacts there, good friends. Good day to you.”

  Dr. Ingham beat her to the door. She looked at her squarely.

  “It’s your decision, Mrs. Tipton. I can’t force you to do anything. But I can see you’re suffering. So, please, call on me again. I may be able to help in all manner of ways.”

  “I hardly think that will be necessary.”

  Dr. Ingham placed a hand on Elfrida’s shoulder and smiled—considerately, consolingly, Elfrida thought, suddenly annoyed. She didn’t want this woman’s sympathy: she wanted to be angry at her and her absurd presumptions.

  “If you feel any desperation, Mrs. Tipton, remember I am here. There are other interesting options.”

  Elfrida left the consulting rooms in a confused turmoil of emotions. She was both affronted and grateful. How dare Dr. Ingham aver—no, state—that she was hallucinating and at the same time offer some kind of refuge, a safety net? It was all too distressing and maddening.

  She paused at a street corner and took her bearings. Her sense of Brighton’s geography was improving and she realised that, as it happened, she wasn’t that far away from the Repulse. She felt a sudden and great need for the Repulse and the Repulsives, as she termed her fellow drinkers there, herself included in the collective noun, of course. So, she wandered Repulsewards, looking deliberately about her at the houses and the traffic, taking in the pale stucco, Brighton with its bow windows and its balconies, trying to dismiss her sense of upset and disorientation. Everything had been going so well. The new novel was underway; Calder was in the process of doing her deal but now she had gone and contracted this malign, alien infestation of microbes of some type. How come a doctor couldn’t see what she could see?

  Once in the Repulse she became calmer. She found a seat, went to the bar and ordered a large gin and tonic from a young man with long hair practically down to his belt. She realised that even after all this time as a patron of this legendary Brighton pub she had no idea who the landlord—or landlady—was. The bar staff, the bar-lads and the bar-lasses, seemed to change on a daily basis.

  She paid for her gin and took it back to her seat. As ever the pub had very few customers. There were two middle-aged, stout women with their port-and-lemons; a man in a flat cap and a belted raincoat peering at a newspaper held three inches from his spectacles; two delivery men in overalls drinking lager. She settled down in her corner and looked surreptitiously at her scratch. Yes, the little devils were still there, writhing and crawling the pink length of her scratch, just under the skin.

  She reached into her handbag, found her crêpe bandage and discreetly wound it over her scratch, securing it with the safety pin. Out of sight, out of mind—to hell with Dr. Ingham’s injunction to “let the air get at it.” She repeated the phrase out loud in a strong Irish accent and the two stout women looked round sharply. Elfrida raised her glass to them and they turned away, tut-tutting. Elfrida sipped her gin, feeling hungry. Maybe a packet of crisps or a pickled egg, she thought. But, no—a quick drink or two and then back home to continue with the novel.

  *

  Virginia Woolf jerked awake, eyes wide, staring. She had been dreaming—dreaming about the death of a star, somewhere out in the cosmos, a fuming holocaust of incandescence, but it was only sunshine, she realised, sunshine squeezing through a gap in the curtains and printing a lozenge of lemon-yellow light across her pillow. She shifted over a few inches into shade and smiled with relief. And then she remembered: today was going to be the last day of her life and the sun was shining.

  Maybe that was even better, Elfrida thought. Somehow more startling for the opening of the novel. Jerked awake? Lurched awake? How exactly did one wake from that type of disturbing dream? Shudder awake? Yes, one would gasp and shudder. Shudder awake, then. She crossed out “jerked” and wrote “shuddered” above the erasure. She put her pen down feeling a slight headache building. She shouldn’t have had all those gins in the Repulse but, anyway, here she was, back at her desk, back at work, that was the main thing. Maybe she should make herself some cheese on toast, or something.

  She went downstairs to the kitchen thinking, yes, food was the requirement. The incident of the microbes had shaken her up—and then that horrible, judgemental doctor with her horrible, preposterous diagnosis—no wonder she had needed a consoling drink. She searched the fridge for cheese but found none. In a cupboard she found a tin of mulligatawny soup. What sort of beast was a mulligatawny that you made soup from? Some type of eel, or flatfish, or riverine rodent on the large side, like a beaver or a coypu…The very thought made her nauseous. She poured a little vodka into a tumbler and added some water. A sip or two—that would calm her.

  The phone rang. Yes? No? She picked it up. It was Reggie.

  “Hello, honeychild, I’m going to be very late tonight. Sorry. Complicated set-ups.”

  “Fine. Do you want any supper?”

  “No, no. I’ll get something here. A sandwich or a burger.”

  She held the phone to her ear, thinking.

  “Are you all right?” Reggie asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Good. See you later, sweetness.”

  “Bye.”

  She hung up. She knew exactly what he was up to. Time to gather some hard evidence, she thought.

  7

  The sitting room in Jacques’ apartment wasn’t exactly a place designed for relaxing, Anny thought. It was more like a small theatre or an unconventional seminar room. In the centre was a large desk, the size of a double bed, facing two floor-to-ceiling windows that gave on to a view of the boulevard Saint-Germain. There was a single high-backed leather chair at the desk and two angular chrome art deco desk lamps left and right. The walls of the room were entirely bookshelved, filled to overflowing with books. Around the desk in front of the bookshelves were a sofa, a couple of armchairs and a small cane bergère. The floor was blond parquet. When you sat on the sofa or in an armchair it was as if you were waiting for an actor to enter and sit at the desk and proclaim, somehow.

  She hadn’t been in Jacques’ apartment for many months so she was struck anew by its odd, focussed configuration, how the room’s priorities led in one direction—to the desk, to the man at the desk, flanked by his two expensive chrome lamps, and—of course—the great thoughts he might be having.

  She stood up from the sofa and went to sit on the bergère. Nothing really changed: the view was still focussed. So she went to the window and looked out over the street below. Jacques was in the kitchen preparing a fresh mint infusion for her. Off a small hall were a bedroom and a bathroom and that was the extent of the apartment—the main room was the pièce de résistance, with its distant, aslant view of Les Deux Magots and the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Situated here, Jacques was in the swim, she realised. Exactly the kind of swim he wanted.

  He came in with her tea on a tray and set it down on a small table by the sofa. Then he sat at his desk, swivelling his leather chair round so he could look directly at her. She was the audience, Jacques was on the stage—the player. She sipped at her tea. There was also a plate of small oval cookies. She pi
cked one up then put it down.

  “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “Much better. I’m sorry I burst into tears.”

  “It was relief. You’ve done the right thing. And, most important, you’re safe. The FBI or the CIA can try and extradite you, but it’s very difficult here in France. It takes years and years.” He smiled. “I could even marry you—then you’d be a French citizen—and here we don’t extradite our own citizens.” He held up his hand. “We can delay them forever, that’s the main thing.”

  “I know. But I keep thinking about consequences. I keep thinking about the film.”

  “To hell with the film,” he said, making a flipping gesture with one hand. “There’ll be many more films. Better films, here in France. You should never have agreed to do that piece of…of merde britannique.”

  Anny thought about arguing with him about the film but decided against it. She was tired. She’d barely slept in twenty-four hours.

  “I think I need to get some sleep,” she said. “I’m dropping.”

  “You can’t stay here with me,” Jacques said. “This is the first place they’d come to.”

  “Who would come?”

  “The press, to start with. Once this news gets out. Everyone knows about you and me. Open a newspaper, a film magazine. You’re the movie star who dates a French philosopher.”

  “I suppose it’s a point. But they’ll go away.”

  “And then the lawyers will come. And the FBI. And the British police. No, you’ll be much safer with my brother, Alphonse. We need time. We need to see what happens with that con you married. Once they lock him up again maybe they won’t bother you. But, better to lie down for a while.”

  “Lie low, you mean.” She had said it reflexively, but she could see how he bristled at the correction.

  “Apologies for my English. How’s your French, by the way?”

  “Sorry. Non-existent, pretty much. Bonjour, au revoir.”

  “Well my brother speaks a bit of English so you should be OK.”

  “Is he your younger brother?”

  “Older. He’s a bit boring, but nice. He lives alone.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “In the 13th arrondissement. It’s not exactly chic but no one will ever expect you to be there. And it’s good you’re not blonde. Keep dying your hair.”

  Jacques stood and spread his arms for her to come to him. He was wearing a loose t-shirt with the slogan MARXISTE—TENDANCE GROUCHO printed on it in thick, black-stencilled type and grey flared trousers. She went over to him and he held her close and kissed her forehead.

  “It’s exciting,” he said. “Having you here. Hiding you. It’s like the war. We’re hiding you from the enemy.”

  “What war?”

  “The Algerian war. It’s the only war I’ve truly experienced—as a soldier, I mean. But I suppose any war is essentially the same. Terror and boredom. Power and powerlessness. Responsibility and absence of responsibility.”

  “I don’t want to be in a war,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t want to have to hide from the enemy. I just want to be free.”

  8

  It was most unusual for the Applebys to visit him, Talbot thought. He had tried to arrange an appointment in London but was told they would rather come and see him in Brighton. They had come once before, on the first day of principal photography, to the celebratory dinner—Yorgos had travelled down from London as well and the four of them had dined at a Chinese restaurant on the London Road. But this insistence was out of the ordinary, he felt. A certain apprehension overtook him.

  Talbot showed them both into his office. Bob, the younger Appleby, was sallow and burly, wearing a thigh-length camel coat—even though it was a warm day—and what looked like snakeskin shoes. Jimmy was fair and genial, going quickly to fat, with a ready smile and flushed cheeks—rosy cheeks, you would have to say, Talbot thought: apple cheeks. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and a red shirt, no tie. They had been given a courtesy executive-producer credit on the film, because their client was cast in it, but beyond that they seemed to have no real interest in Ladder to the Moon. Yet for all their evident good cheer, the smiles, the two-fisted handshakes, the arms-round-the-shoulders bonhomie, Talbot found them a curiously disturbing, threatening pair. They were brothers who looked entirely different, possessed of a worldliness, a savoir faire, that made Talbot feel naïve, out of his depth, a boy.

  “This is a bit of a shithole, isn’t it, Talb?” Bob Appleby said, gesturing at his office, including the whole house in Napier Street with the sweep of his hands.

  “We’ll be out of here in three weeks. There’s no point in anything pricier. It does what we require of it.”

  “Wrong, Talbot,” said Jimmy. “With respect. It’s all about perception. Crappy office says crappy film. This place does you no favours. It’s all about perception, mate. You should be in a suite in the Metropole.”

  “Next time,” Talbot said. “Point taken.”

  He had been to the Appleby Entertainment offices on the Euston Road, two floors, high in a glass and steel block. Potted plants everywhere, the corridors lined with portraits of their clients and their gold and platinum discs. He had counted seven secretaries on his journey from the lobby to their offices.

  The brothers sat down and gladly accepted the offer of a small whisky. Bob lit a cheroot, Talbot and Jimmy cigarettes. Jimmy leant forward and flattened his palms on the desk.

  “Cut to the chase, Talbot. We need a favour.”

  “Fire away.”

  The brothers looked at each other.

  “We need a song in the film. A Troy Blaze song.”

  Talbot paused.

  “It’s a bit late. We have a composer.”

  “It’s never too late, Talbot. For old friends.”

  “It’s not that kind of film, chaps. Rodrigo won’t agree.”

  “Make him agree, Talbot. You’re the producer.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Just one song. We’d appreciate it.”

  “I can ask. But I can’t promise anything.”

  Bob stood up and walked to the window. He spoke without turning around.

  “Thing is, Talbot, this is not an ‘Is there any vague possibility?’ sort of situation, if you see what I mean. Not an ‘Is there any faint chance of?’ type of enquiry.” He turned. “It’s a need.”

  “It’s a must,” Jimmy added, spreading his hands apologetically. “A definite must.”

  Bob resumed his seat.

  “Troy Blaze needs a hit. Big time.”

  “That’s why we put him in this film.”

  “I see.”

  “They’re all in films now. Dave Clark, Adam, the fucking Beatles, Lulu. But they all get to sing a song. That’s the point.”

  “You never mentioned a song when we cast him,” Talbot reminded the brothers.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy agreed. “But that was because we was concentrating on visibility.”

  “But now we want a song. As well as visibility,” Bob said.

  Talbot realised this was not a negotiation, it was a transaction.

  “Maybe we could put a song over the end credits,” he said.

  “There,” Bob said. “We knew you’d come up with a bright idea, didn’t we, Jim?”

  “End credits is good. Is it?”

  “It’s an ideal place,” Talbot said. “It’s what the audience remembers as they leave.”

  “Let’s drink to it,” Bob said, holding up his empty glass.

  Talbot topped them all up. His mouth felt dry—he needed water, not whisky.

  “You won’t disappoint us, will you, Talbot?” Jimmy said, smiling widely.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Oh, yes. And there’s a Rio in it for you,” B
ob said.

  “A Rio?”

  “A Rio Grande. A grand. Get it?”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “Oh, yes, it is,” Jimmy said. “It sort of cements our…Our understanding.”

  “Anyway, Yorgos is getting one—why not you?” Bob said.

  “You’ve spoken to Yorgos about this song idea?”

  “Yorgos is all in favour. He said you were the man to get it sorted.”

  “Whereupon we come down to Brighton.”

  Bob reached into his coat and took out a fat envelope, placing it on Talbot’s desk. Jimmy pushed it over to him.

  “Have a drink on us. That’s what we call it. A ‘drink.’ ”

  Talbot looked at the envelope.

  “There’s no need for this,” he said.

  “What’s your problem, Talbot?”

  “It’s all a bit corrupt, isn’t it?”

  “Everything is corrupt,” Bob Appleby said, reasonably. “And everybody is corrupt.”

  “Especially in your world,” Jimmy added. “Bloody hell. Talk about corrupt.”

  “But my world is your world,” Talbot said, mildly protesting. “We’re in the same business. Entertainment.”

  “Don’t make me fucking laugh,” Bob said.

  “No, we mean your world. We’re not part of your world,” Jimmy said. He laughed. “Are we, Bob?”

  “Fat chance.” The brothers chuckled to themselves, amused.

  Talbot remembered something he’d once heard—that all Englishmen are branded on the tongue. He saw that, despite the smiles, this wasn’t banter. It was a recognition of the barrier that existed between them—between Talbot Kydd on one side and Bob and Jimmy Appleby on the other. A barrier they would never cross.

  Talbot picked up the envelope, his Rio.

  “Consider it done,” he said. “There will be a Troy Blaze song in Ladder to the Moon.”

  9

  It had been absurdly easy to find out where Janet Headstone lived. Elfrida had called Joe, the source of all wisdom, and said that Reggie wanted to send a book to Janet.