Tomorrow, at last, was his appointment with Tim Carruthers of BBC Films. A preliminary skirmish to get reacquainted while they discussed the script, mulled over casting and Carruthers presented notes on his screenplay. It was all tactics, a game he knew well. If he agreed on the cast they proposed, they might give way on script demands. Extra editorial notes were sometimes included for that reason, inserted as a bargaining chip. Tactics and compromise, he thought. It was not necessarily the best way to produce a good film. But to raise the finance there was always some kind of compromise required.
There had been no recent word from Joanna. Nothing since his reply about the waterfront apartment which had created a flurry of emails between them. The first from her the next morning read:
Received your vote of no-confidence, so I hope you approve of this purchase. I traded in our boring sedan for something a little bit more interesting. See attached digital snap of the latest me — in company with the new occupant of our parking space.
He had opened the attachment and there was his wife, dressed in a bikini for the photo, posed provocatively behind the wheel of a brand new convertible Porsche, looking gorgeous and smugly aware of it. Under the picture was printed: Come home and drive me soon. Amusement had prompted his return message:
I don’t know what was wrong with the boring old sedan, but I must say I’ve never seen a better-looking Porsche and driver.
Which had brought a quick response:
Thank you, kind sir. Paid for out of my own account, so don’t lie awake worrying. In fact, don’t lie awake at all. Sleep soundly and return home soon, with battery charged and in top gear. Signed, the Porsche driver.
He needed sleep, but Joanna’s frivolity gave way to images of his grandfather, and the enormity of a doctor sending a sick man back to the trenches. Somewhere he remembered reading that because of the casualties and lack of recruits, returning unfit soldiers had been common practice. Clearly that also included the shell shocked and mentally disturbed.
He slept at last, and dreamt. He was in Piccadilly, being confronted by a furious officer who was ordering him to salute. He tried to explain he was a writer and film-maker, not a soldier, but the officer said not to be ridiculous. He must salute, and smartly, or he’d be reported, and unless he apologised profusely he would be dispatched back to the war and the front-line immediately.
Patrick told him he should take a look behind him, because he had a bouquet of feathers stuck up his arse. Then, while the officer reacted to this, Patrick turned and ran down the length of the Haymarket and across St James’s Park, a platoon of military police pursuing him at breakneck filmic speed, like a bunch of zany Keystone Kops. As he reached Buckingham Palace and they were about to overtake him, he woke up. To his surprise Claire was curled tightly in his arms, and he seemed to be firmly erect and excited.
‘I had a peculiar dream,’ he said.
‘Feels like it,’ she murmured, smiling.
‘Not that kind of dream.’
‘You want to go back to sleep?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Patrick replied.
Near dawn he woke again. Claire was sleeping blissfully. Gazing at her lying so quietly beside him she seemed soft and vulnerable, and he had a strong recollection of the way Stephen had described Marie-Louise. With it came a moment of realisation that this must end. They no longer talked about it but both knew that soon — much too soon — he’d be going home to Joanna, her Porsche, and the rest of his life.
The BBC television centre is a curious circular building, a short walk from Shepherds Bush, a dishevelled section of London where Spike Milligan began his career in an office above a fruit shop, writing scripts for The Coon Show. Patrick knew the office and the fruit shop were long gone, but the comedy Milligan invented was alive and making each new generation laugh as they discovered it.
At security he was given a pass to pin on his lapel and sent to the fifth floor. There a secretary was waiting to conduct him, although not to the person he had expected to meet.
‘Slight change of plan, Mr Conway,’ she explained. ‘You’ll be meeting Charlotte Redmond. She’s the new head of co-productions for BBC Films.’
‘Not Tim Carruthers?’ Patrick said, startled.
‘Mr Carruthers is no longer with us.’
‘But I spoke to his secretary last week. It was you, wasn’t it? Weren’t you his secretary?’
‘Until they fired him. Now I’m Lottie’s secretary.’
There was no time to discuss it further as she showed him into an office suite. Charlotte Redmond was on the telephone; she nodded and kept talking while pointing him to a chair and miming the secretary to bring coffee. She was young, he noticed, suntanned with sleekly brushed black hair and impeccably groomed; she wore a tailored skirt and a blazer that looked smart and, he imagined, expensive.
The call seemed to take an inordinately long time, to the point of discourtesy, Patrick thought, and if designed to make him feel uncomfortable it was having that effect. On first impressions he had a feeling that he and the immaculate Miss Redmond might not become the best of friends.
Finally, she hung up and gave him a fleeting smile which stopped short of apology.
‘Sorry about that. Rather important,’ she remarked, and Patrick managed a polite nod. From what he had heard it seemed a trivial chat. He tried to avoid the feeling it was a technique she used to assert herself.
‘You’re Patrick, I’m Charlotte. Lottie to intimates, but I prefer it to be Charlotte at this stage.’
‘I gather that Tim Carruthers has walked the plank?’
‘Spectacularly,’ she said, with a lift of an eyebrow that suggested most people must surely know this.
‘What happened?’
‘He had one of his increasingly long liquid lunches, came back and insulted almost everybody. You knew Tim, no doubt?’
‘Only slightly. We worked together at Thames Television, but that was eight years ago. And we exchanged letters on this project, of course.’
‘Ah, yes.’ She opened a folder on her desk and he could see his script with notes attached, as well as ominous coloured markers. A great many notes and markers, it seemed to him.
‘I thought it only fair we should meet at this stage, Patrick, so I can explain the situation to you.’
‘Is there a situation, Charlotte?’ he asked carefully.
‘There’s a change at the top of this department, so obviously it creates a domino effect. I need time to find out which of Tim’s projects I wish to run with. The others will be cut.’ She smiled as if conscious that he was fidgeting. ‘No need to look apprehensive, Patrick.’ It was a brittle smile that seemed to relish her new status: the large desk, the title so recently acquired, and the power which included authority over him and other petitioners. ‘I’ve made no selections yet. But I will be soon.’
‘Have you read the script?’ he asked.
‘I understand your circumstances, Patrick.’
‘My circumstances?’ It was disconcerting she had not bothered to answer the question.
‘Coming all this way from down-under… no doubt there are return flights and other obligations…’ She did not wait for an answer. ‘So my position is this. I’ll be deciding within the next fortnight. That’s if you haven’t made plans to leave before then?’
‘No particular plans,’ he replied, trying to remain unruffled.
‘Good. I’ve already formed certain opinions, but I want to consider them more carefully. And when I have, we’ll have another meeting. Is that satisfactory with you?’
‘Within two weeks?’ He knew it was pointless to argue. It was clear from the way she sat back in her chair with confidence that there would be no other option.
‘Splendid.’ Charlotte shut his folder and put it on a pile of others as the secretary returned. She brought a small coffee tray, on which there was only one cup. He saw this with disbelief; it appeared she’d known it would be a short meeting, or else the corporation’s cost-c
utting had extended to rationing coffee by not serving visitors.
Patrick rose and thanked Charlotte for her time. He left the building in White City and began to walk towards Shepherds Bush. He felt some vigorous exercise might mitigate his anger. In the end he walked right across West London, all the way back to Claire’s flat in Fulham.
New to the brutalities of the film and television business, Claire was indignant for him. ‘What a bitch. What a frightful cow!’
‘Power play. Flexing her executive muscles.’
‘She sounds an utter shit.’
If Claire was incensed, Patrick now felt more detached. The walk via familiar parts of Kensington and the North End Road markets where he’d bought their dinner had proved therapeutic. It was late afternoon, but the sun was still warm. They were having a drink on the balcony, Claire in a cotton shirt and little else except a pair of bikini pants she had changed into after work. A boy riding a bike on the street below looked up and whistled with a cheeky optimism. ‘What’s with him?’ she said. ‘I’ve got knickers on.’
‘Only just.’
‘Tell me more about Miss Charmless. Was she attractive?’
‘What does that have to do with it?’
‘Just checking,’ Claire said. ‘It would be consoling to hear she has buck teeth and a serious squint.’
‘No consolation on that score. I’d even say she’s handsome.’
‘Handsome, eh?’ Claire laughed. ‘Handsome is not always a great compliment to women.’
‘In that case, she’s definitely handsome.’
‘What a pity your friend Tim got pissed and committed professional suicide so successfully.’
‘It is. In fact it’s a bit of a bugger.’
She studied him. ‘You’re as worried as hell, aren’t you?’
‘Uneasy. Not one of the great meetings.’
‘No. The lack of coffee seems particularly alarming. As well as being unbelievably discourteous.’
‘There were other ominous signs. I’m afraid she’s going to muck me about, and it may not have a happy ending. I don’t think I could afford her delaying tactics if I wasn’t staying here with you.’
‘Where else do you want to stay?’
‘Nowhere else. But you might be stuck with me longer than we anticipated.’
‘I can put up with that,’ Claire replied softly, trying not to show her gratitude for this unexpected reprieve.
They were finishing breakfast the following day when the telephone rang. Claire went into the bedroom to answer it. Patrick heard her as she picked up the phone and gave her name. ‘Claire Thomas.’
There was a pause, then came her reply in which he detected a note of surprise, before she returned looking discomforted.
‘It’s your sister,’ Claire said and handed it to him. She began to clear the dishes while he answered.
‘Sally?’
‘Sorry about this,’ Sally said.
‘Lucky you found me here. I’ve just arrived this minute for a script conference.’
‘A conference?’ He could tell there was no point in pursuing this; her disbelief was palpable. ‘Come off it, ducky. I called the hotel because you keep switching off your mobile. And the guy at the Clayborough said you moved last week to this number.’
In the rush to leave the Clayborough, he realised, he’d given Claire’s number instead of his own.
‘Ah, well —’ he began, but she interrupted.
‘Never mind, Patrick. None of my business. I just called to see if Joanna had been in touch.’
‘We’ve exchanged a few emails. Why?’
‘No particular reason. I just thought she might’ve been.’
‘But why, Sal?’
‘Look, it really isn’t my concern, but on the other hand —’ she hesitated, which he thought was unlike Sally.
‘On the other hand, what?’
‘Oh shit, I wish I hadn’t rung now. Look… I bumped into Carlo last night at a party. Carlo, as in your father-in-law.’
‘I do know who you mean. How is he?’
‘To put it bluntly… No, forget it. Tell me about this notebook that belonged to Stephen —’
‘Sally, please!’ he insisted. To put it bluntly, what?’
‘To put it bluntly,’ she said reluctantly, ‘he was over the moon. I got the strongest possible impression from what he said that Joanna is pregnant.’
‘What?’
‘Well, how does this sound to you? In his lovely Italian way he said, “I tell them they only make films, not babies, but I’m wrong!” That’s what he said.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Patrick was stunned.
Claire heard this reaction. It sounded like the kind of call that needed privacy, rather than having her in such proximity. She went into her workroom and closed the door.
‘Is that all he said?’ Patrick asked. ‘Nothing else?’
‘He was with friends. No time for anything else. Look, I might be completely wrong, but it’s been his mantra ever since you got married. However, if Jo hasn’t called you, perhaps I am wrong. Or she’s saving it as a surprise. Or darling Carlo has got it arse-up, or else I have.’
‘Carlo’s not given to stuffing things up,’ Patrick said.
‘Then it must be me. Pat, can we please forget this call and do nothing till you and Joanna talk? In other words, ducky, you did not hear this from me. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Patrick agreed reluctantly, ‘but you’ve sure opened up a can of worms here, Sally.’
A light wind made intricate patterns on the ocean as Katherine sat on the balcony and waited for Sally to finish her phone call. She could see the distant promontory of Long Reef where freighters lay offshore at anchor, held in an aquatic queue because of a customs strike. There was a transcendental hue across the sea from the rays of the setting sun, making it look like the glow of a Stretton painting, she thought. No wonder her daughter had mortgaged herself to the hilt for this. She could hear the rise and fall of her voice as she talked to Patrick, and was quietly glad that after the squalls of childhood her children had become friends.
Sally came out with the last of the white wine, planting a kiss on her mother’s forehead.
‘He sends his love,’ she said, and poured the remainder of the bottle into their glasses.
‘And…?’ Katherine prompted, expectantly.
‘There’s some kind of delay at the BBC, but I’ve a lot to tell you about Grandpa Stephen. It’s just remarkable how Patrick managed to trace Georgina Rickson —’
‘Sally, what about the reason for your call?’
‘He’s heard nothing from Joanna.’ She had already decided not to tell her mother about Claire. ‘Perhaps I made a silly mistake, Mum, about Carlo Lugarno.’
‘You seemed so certain.’
‘All that Italian charm. A noisy party, Carlo waving his hands about. I may have got things a bit muddled. I think we should wait for Joanna to say something — because, after all, it’s her baby, if there is one on the way.’
‘Hers and Patrick’s,’ Katherine pointed out, disappointed at not having confirmation she was to be a grandmother.
Claire was preoccupied all day. It had come as a shock, the call from Patrick’s sister, like a sharp reminder: a caution that these days of happiness were evanescent and he had another life. Disturbingly, Patrick had been rather vague about what was discussed; rather more than vague, she thought; perhaps equivocal was the word. Just a chat, he’d said, dismissing it. What Claire had heard before absenting herself did not sound like ‘just a chat’. There were other elements that troubled her. She knew his was a close family and could not help wondering if they were now speculating about her on the other side of the world. It made her feel uneasy and insecure.
Claire had always had the capacity to be totally honest with herself. She knew the affair was of her making; she’d been lonely and instantly attracted to him in Belgium. Then the book of poems which was an unsubtle way of ensuring they met again. It was t
o be a casual interlude, a week or two of shared liking and lust; that’s what had been intended. Liking and lust — she couldn’t help a smile at the alliteration — but love had not really been on the menu. Claire had been deeply in love only once before, and that, although she hated to remember it, had been a harrowing disaster.
Patrick had immediately tried to ring Joanna at home, where the phone rang until he heard his own voice requesting him to leave a name and number. For a time he tried to concentrate on more of Stephen’s notebook, and found it impossible. Now with Claire spending a few hours on a promised visit to her mother, he tried to reach Joanna again. She was not at the apartment. Her mobile was switched off; he felt it pointless to leave another message, but did so anyway.
‘Jo, it’s me again. I need to talk — where the hell are you?’
Earlier he had left messages with her production office at Fox Studios, who confirmed they’d finished shooting last week. Great wrap party, the first assistant told him, and his wife had been there looking a million bucks, but he hadn’t seen her since then. Probably editing, he suggested, and added they had a beaut movie that might win her another gong at the next awards.
Patrick had already rung Harvey the film editor, expecting Joanna to be working with him, but that had proved fruitless. Harvey relayed the news that Joanna had said she’d be busy, and asked him to work on the edit alone until she got back.
‘Back from where?’ he’d asked.
‘Dunno, Pat. Tough shoot; she was tired. Some of the guys said she’d taken a few days’ relax at the beach.’
Which beach, he wondered, but Harvey said he didn’t think she’d gone to a beach. He was almost sure she was on a lightning visit to America; recently she’d taken a lot of calls from LA about a movie there that was in serious trouble with its director. Harvey thought they wanted to delay the movie and have her take over.
Barbed Wire and Roses Page 20
