Eureka

by Anthony Quinn

  Nell’s mouth had puckered in sympathy. ‘Ooh, I remember that trial. We just couldn’t believe it – Vere Summerhill, a queer! I’d been in love with him since my teens. And you’re still friends now?’

  ‘Of course. I should introduce you to him; he’s almost the last civilised man in Europe, eh, Billie?’

  Billie smiled and nodded, keeping her own counsel.

  ‘How’s the film going?’ asked Tash. ‘Have you finished the script yet?’

  ‘Ha, you’ve heard! It keeps changing. But the director and I have at last settled on key elements in the story. If all goes according to plan it should surpass any Henry James adaptation you’ve ever seen.’

  ‘The Innocents was pretty good,’ said Tash combatively.

  ‘Eureka will be better,’ replied Nat.

  The look she returned now confirmed in Nat a suspicion that had been fermenting almost from the moment he’d arrived. Billie, it seemed, had not invited him here for herself; she was preparing the way for her sister. Tash’s early brittleness must have been down to nerves; she had thawed as the evening proceeded. Well, a shame about Billie; he’d had his hopes, despite the boyfriend. Yet he had to admit, of the two sisters Tash was actually the better-looking. The slope of her neck showed very alluringly in that top, and the dark eyes, smoky with kohl, were those of a sexy witch.

  Returning from a visit to the loo Nat found Billie heading him off before he’d got to the kitchen. She gestured to the living room to indicate the need for a quiet word, and he followed.

  ‘I have to ask you something,’ she began. He read anxiety in her eyes, and wanted to set her mind at rest.

  ‘I fancy I can guess what it is,’ he said suavely.

  Billie squinted at him. ‘So you’ve noticed it, too?’

  Her tone of concern wrong-footed him. This might not be as straightforward as he imagined. ‘Perhaps you should explain.’

  ‘I mean about Vere. He’s been in such a strange mood lately.’ She proceeded to describe their encounter at the studio and his sudden snappishness at her interruption.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Vere at all.’

  ‘I know. D’you think something’s wrong?’

  ‘Probably not. You know actors, my dear – a touchy tribe.’

  They heard enquiring voices from the kitchen. Nat acknowledged Billie’s troubled look. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing – we all have our rough days. But I’ll have a word with him.’

  Nat followed her out of the room. This was not playing out the way he’d anticipated. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was rather slow on the uptake about the lives of his friends. It had been pointed out to him that he was too absorbed in his own affairs to see what was going on elsewhere: selfishness, he supposed, might be the root of it. Freya, never reticent in holding him to account, had once observed that his engagement with people was only fully secured when he saw them as material in waiting. It was probably true. The difference was, he didn’t really consider that a fault.

  Back in the kitchen Nell was making coffee. Billie reminded Tash that she had a favour to ask of Nat: it transpired that she taught design at Hornsey and was in the middle of writing a book about women’s clothes in cinema.

  ‘That’s a good subject,’ he said. ‘Which films have you been looking at?’

  Tash, lighting a cigarette, said, ‘All sorts, from the silents on. Lots of thirties Hollywood, comedies, women’s pictures. Edith Head. Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday. Grace Kelly in Rear Window. Deborah Kerr in Bonjour Tristesse. Beaton’s costumes in My Fair Lady. You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, I should say so. A favour, you say …?’

  ‘I wondered if the wardrobe lady on The Hot Number would be willing to have a chat. I mean, given how much of it is set in a ladies’ fashion department.’

  ‘I’m sure Jeanette would be delighted. I’ll get you a number.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Tash evenly.

  ‘See, I knew he’d help,’ said Billie, with a quick smile at Nat.

  They had talked past midnight, sipping coffee and smoking, when Tash said that she’d better be pushing off. She lived in a flat in Marylebone. Nat, sensing his moment, offered to give her a lift home: he happened to be driving that way.

  ‘Don’t worry, I can manage. There’s a late bus.’

  Nat pulled a face. ‘It’s really no trouble,’ he said, wondering if she was playing hard to get. Billie leaned over the table to her sister.

  ‘Tash, you must. Wait till you see his car.’

  Outside, the road was quiet, the air stilled to a midsummer sultriness. They followed Nat out to where he’d parked the car. Under the sodium glare of the street light he pulled back the hood to reveal its pale-leather interior. Nell let out an incredulous squawk and stared at Nat.

  ‘A Roller! Is this yours?’

  ‘Well, who else’s would it be – the milkman’s?’ said Billie, rolling her eyes.

  Nat, with a lordly chuckle, turned to Tash. ‘As I said, I’m going your way.’

  Arms folded across her chest, Tash seemed the least impressed of the three: he suspected that Rolls-Royce owners weren’t warmly regarded at Hornsey College of Art. But with a tilt of her head she accepted his offer, and a shuffling quadrille of departure ensued. He invested his thanks and goodnight kiss to Nell with the affectionate respect of a potential son-in-law. Billie and he embraced with a familiarity sanctioned by their profession, though he held the moment a little longer to convey, he thought, a phantom wistfulness.

  As the car glided down Kentish Town Road Nat kept up a lively flow of patter. It was a curious thing to him that the less demonstrative Tash was, the more beguiling she became. She was not flirtatious, nor especially friendly either, yet she paid him very close attention. She had a habit of quietly absorbing whatever he said and then pausing before she replied – and the pause grew more disconcerting, for it seemed to create a slightly fatuous echo of each remark he tossed out.

  He raised a silent cheer, however, on learning that she had recently split with her boyfriend. Who cared if she was on the rebound?

  Tash glanced at him. ‘You married?’

  ‘I was. To an actress, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Watch it. My sister’s an actress.’

  ‘Oh, Billie’s in every way a superior being. She’s a credit to the species. And she has some fellow, I gather …’

  ‘Yeah. Jeff. He’s an artist – not a very good one. He’s quite a bit older than Billie.’

  ‘Ah.’ It hadn’t really impinged on Nat before now that he was a fair few years older than Tash. ‘I don’t see why the difference in age should be calamitous.’

  ‘Nor do I. In their case it makes no odds anyway, Billie’s more of a grown-up than Jeff will ever be. Compatibility, well … I think it depends on other stuff. Age is mostly irrelevant.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ murmured Nat.

  ‘How old are you, by the way?’

  ‘That’s a very blunt question.’ He had not admitted the number (the truthful number) out loud before, except to Freya, at his birthday dinner. But since Tash had just conceded that age in a romance was ‘irrelevant’ he felt it would become him now to do so – to be brave. He took a deep breath. ‘I’m forty.’

  He gave her a sidelong look, bracing himself for her sharp intake of breath or, worse, a mocking titter. But Tash merely nodded and said, ‘Uh-huh.’ He took that as a timely endorsement.

  They had left behind Regent’s Park and were turning into Baker Street. Nat fished out a packet of cigarettes from the glovebox and offered it to Tash, who took one.

  ‘Light one for me, would you?’ he said. He had played this scene several times before, himself at the wheel, the woman riding shotgun and passing a cigarette from her lips to his: a feline prelude to intimacy. Tash, however, instead of putting his cigarette in her mouth, had simply ignited it from the tip of her own, and handed it over without comment. It felt disappointing, but then Nat knew that women had their
different approaches; some went all in with the eye fluttering and the hair flicking; and some, like Tash – like Freya, come to that – played a waiting game, matter-of-fact and poker-faced right up to the decisive moment.

  ‘This is me,’ said Tash, indicating the left turn into Blandford Street. Nat drew up outside her building and made a point of switching off the engine. It seemed to give the midnight street a hushed mood of anticipation. For a moment he stared dead ahead, then turned an enquiring gaze upon her. She returned a smile that didn’t crease her eyes.

  ‘So,’ he began, in a tone that suggested there was a good deal more to come.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said, reaching, inconceivably, for the door handle.

  Nat, with a half-laugh, said, ‘Are you not going to ask me in for a nightcap?’

  Tash looked at her wristwatch. ‘It’s rather late.’

  ‘And yet, we have the whole night ahead of us,’ he replied, in a coaxing voice.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I need my kip.’

  ‘My dear girl,’ he crooned, softly taking hold of her hand, ‘you can sleep when you’re dead.’

  She laughed good-naturedly. ‘The thing is, if I don’t sleep properly, come the morning I am dead.’

  ‘Then I suggest you sleep improperly,’ he said, caressing her hand in his. Again, she didn’t invite, but she didn’t resist, either. With his free hand he patted his breast pocket. ‘I have certain mind-altering substances on my person. How about we go inside and shed our … inhibitions?’

  Now she looked at him shrewdly. ‘I’m beginning to sense –’

  At last, he thought.

  ‘– that you’ve got this all wrong.’

  ‘How so?’

  She removed his hand from hers, politely, and paused. ‘This wasn’t meant to – I imagine you’ve been thinking tonight, I might get a bit of a knock with the sister.’

  Nat tucked in his chin. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite so crudely. But I did think I was being – perhaps – “set up”.’

  Tash gave out a little groan, lowering her head. ‘Well, you were, sort of. But not with me.’

  Nat was baffled. ‘Then who? Billie?’

  ‘Oh God. No.’ She looked at him in a mingled spirit of pity and exasperation. ‘With my mum.’

  Nat stared at her, aghast. ‘Your mother? But she’s –’

  ‘Forty-seven. Not that much older than you. You admired her cheekbones, remember?’

  He couldn’t speak. How in the name of all that was holy? He had been charming, as he would be to anyone’s mother, and she had responded in kind. They had got on very well. But he hadn’t for a moment imagined he was being groomed as her suitor. Now he realised the significance of that little conversation they’d just had about age. It wasn’t about the gap between him and Tash: it was the one between him and Nell! Seven years was all, and still he hadn’t made the connection.

  He sensed Tash’s gaze on him. ‘Your mother – Nell – will she be expecting …?’

  She shook her head, with an air of defeat. ‘It’s all right. I’ll tell her you’re – “spoken for”. But you might have to explain it to Billie. She was the one who got it into her head. She thought Mum was maybe, I don’t know, your type.’

  He was too mortified to argue. Your type? How could she be his type when he plainly had more in common with women who were young and lovely and unburdened by the baggage of children and divorce? He wasn’t ready for a mature woman, for he wasn’t yet a mature man. Was he?

  Tash had opened the car door and stepped out. She must have detected something in his stricken expression, because she added, ‘I’m sure it’ll be soon forgotten.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ Nat managed to croak. He watched her let herself in and close the door. As he drove on through the implacable streets he felt that he’d suffered some sort of existential concussion – a flooring coup de vieux. He had been in the dark, and he had been shown the light. Tash and Billie loved their mother; they had only meant to help. But their contrivances had shown him for what he was – a forty-year-old man, single, self-deluding – and now he wished himself back in the dark.

  INT. CHAS’S FLAT – DAY.

  GWEN and CHAS are looking at one another steadily, wondering. After a moment she folds the letter she’s just had from GEORGE and puts it on the table between them.

  CHAS

  (nodding at the letter)

  So … how does he end?

  GWEN

  Oh. That Vereker pressed him to his chest – and invited him to stay there a month. He wants me to join him.

  CHAS

  No, I mean, what does he say about it – Vereker’s secret?

  GWEN

  He said that it’s ‘immense’, and yet it’s simple. (She picks up the letter to quote.) ‘Nothing has been more consummately done.’

  CHAS

  Yes, but what is it?

  GWEN

  You’re not going to like this. He won’t spill the beans until I arrive. He wants to see the look on my face as he tells me.

  CHAS

  For God’s sake … I never knew George could be such a tease.

  GWEN

  I suppose he thinks – she’s waited this long, what difference will a few more days make?

  CHAS

  You’ll go, of course?

  GWEN

  I don’t think I can, not with the state my mother’s in – I daren’t leave her.

  CHAS

  He’ll be champing at the bit waiting to tell you.

  GWEN

  It can’t be helped. But you could go.

  CHAS

  Me?

  GWEN

  Why not? You’re the one who told us about it in the first place. The idea has a nice symmetry.

  CHAS

  You’re his fiancée. It’s you he wants to tell.

  GWEN

  And given that I can’t be there you’re the next best thing.

  CHAS

  Are you sure? Things have rather changed since George and I last spoke. If he knew about what’s been going on …

  GWEN

  But he doesn’t, and you must make sure he won’t. That secret is in the vault – you understand?

  CHAS

  Of course. All the same I feel quite a blackguard …

  GWEN

  It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? ‘Blackguard.’ Honestly, Charles, the things you come out with! I’ll write to George this evening and tell him how things lie here – and that you’ll be the advance party.

  She looks at her watch, and rises.

  I should be going, my mother will be wondering where I am.

  CHAS rises too, and steps across the room. He has an eager glint in his eye.

  CHAS

  I thought you might … stay a while.

  GWEN

  I’m sorry. Not a good idea.

  CHAS

  It seemed a good idea the other night.

  GWEN

  But now I have other things on my mind. So you’ll have to excuse me.

  EXT. CHAS’S DOORSTEP – DAY.

  GWEN is about to step into a taxi.

  GWEN

  Don’t look so glum. Just think – you get to hear about Vereker’s secret first-hand. And Italy’s lovely this time of year.

  GWEN waves and the taxi drives off.

  12

  Freya was in the office late one afternoon when she heard her name being called. She turned to see Delphine Frampton beckoning her over with the stern hooked finger of a headmistress to a recalcitrant pupil. The large rings on her hands looked like fancy knuckledusters. Men had been known to tremble at the sight, but Freya wasn’t intimidated by her brusque manner, or her menacing jewellery.

  The life of the office – phones ringing, colleagues trooping by – barely seemed to impinge on Delphine once she had focused her beam. It was a kind of talent, this resistance to distraction. She would have been a useful companion during the Blitz, briskly getting on with thi
ngs as the ground quaked around them. She began without preamble, ‘Now, that conversation we had about Reiner Werther Kloss – have a look at this.’ She handed over a press release headed by the name of a Munich arts theatre. It announced a celebration of the work of Kloss. A week-long festival of his films and several of his early plays was to be staged; discussions and lectures about the director were also scheduled.

  ‘Rather young to be given your own festival; I mean, he’s hardly Murnau,’ said Delphine. ‘In any event, you might find it useful as background – you’re still researching that piece on him, I suppose?’

  Freya nodded, and told her about the boat trip.

  Delphine’s gaze became beady. ‘Make sure you corner him.’

  ‘I’ll certainly try. My friend Nat keeps on saying what great friends they are and how he’ll get me an “audience” with him. So far nothing.’

  ‘Then you might have to do it by yourself.’

  Freya checked the dates of the tribute week. ‘I’ve never been to Munich before,’ she mused.

  ‘Here’s your chance. See where he shot Hanna K, talk to a few people. It won’t harm you to be there while they’re toasting the local hero.’

  When Reiner had turned down her request for an interview it had simply encouraged her to dig further. At first she thought his disdain of the publicity circus was high-minded and principled; it was the work he cared about, as befitted a true artist, not the industry’s appetite for gossip. Now she wondered if his shunning the spotlight had a different motive: maybe he had something to hide.

  ‘You seem quite keen for me to go,’ said Freya.

  Delphine permitted herself a half-smile. ‘Well, I think there’s a story there. And I would back you to find it.’

  On the Sunday following the dinner at their mother’s Tash had called at Frederick Street bearing gifts: a beaded black cocktail dress and a small clutch bag in sequinned silvery blue, which flashed like a kingfisher’s wings. This last was the sort of unconsidered trifle Tash regularly picked up in junk shops and antique markets; she had an eye for it.

  ‘God, this is …’ Billie said, awed by its loveliness.

  ‘I know,’ said Tash. ‘The dress might be a squeeze. Just don’t make any sudden movements in it.’