Nocturne

by Hurley, Graham

  Sandra sat behind her desk while I finished my health check on the dodgier parts of the budget. Brendan had flown to Los Angeles in pursuit of yet another co-production deal, some other series this time. When I’d finished, Sandra fired up the computer and scrolled through the spend to date. I was quite right. We had money to spare for a good freelance director.

  She peered at me over the desk. The last month or two she’d taken to wearing glasses, the kind of severe half-moons you expect to see perched on the nose of your local bank manager. They suited her wonderfully.

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you want to do it? Why don’t you find the time? It’s your first shoot, for God’s sake. It’s not like you to miss a chance like that.’

  I pointed out that we’d already had a day and a half down in Portsea. I’d directed on that occasion and I was more than pleased with the results.

  ‘Then why not now? Why not Skye?’

  I told her I was exhausted. It was the truth but it sounded pathetic.

  She was beginning to look interested. My bust was even bigger than normal, another departure from the norm.

  ‘I thought you were super-fit?’ She frowned. ‘All those exercises? All that running?’

  I wondered how she knew about the running. I’d never told her, and no one else in the office knew either. I shrugged.

  ‘It must be the weather,’ I said feebly. ‘And it’s been non-stop since January.’

  ‘The weather?’

  ‘No, the work. But the weather doesn’t help.’ I gestured at the line of wilting plants on her window sill. ‘It’s just so airless up here. London’s pure exhaust. It gets to you in the end.’

  Sandra was clearly unconvinced. Finally, she stood up, smoothing the creases in her dress. She was thinner than I’d ever seen her,-a collection of acute angles hung together by a tension you could practically feel.

  ‘You’re pregnant,’ she said abruptly. ‘I can tell.’

  I felt myself colour. I didn’t even deny it. She sat down again, reaching behind her for the little fridge she kept stocked with Tango. She produced two cans, pushing one across the desk.

  ‘When is it due?’

  I heard myself telling her. It was like being in a dream. She could have been my mother, so powerful, so all-knowing.

  ‘Is it Brendan’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you told him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to?’

  Brendan, I was fairly certain, had sussed it already. Partly because of the weight I’d put on, and partly because of the very obvious absence of my periods. At the start, I’d toyed with trying to fake periods but the thought of walking around with a bone-dry Tampax inside me was so repellent that I’d never got round to it.

  Sandra was still waiting for an answer. I told her I didn’t know.

  ‘But you are having it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I see.’

  I looked away, hearing the can open with an angry little fizz. She’d be talking about marriage next, though that was the last thing on my wish list. I’d already seen what marriage had done to Brendan. A coke habit and psychotherapy I could do without.

  I heard her sipping at the can. When I looked back, she was staring thoughtfully at the screen.

  ‘What about the programme? ‘she asked.

  ‘The programme’s fine. I can manage.’

  ‘No you can’t. You’re asking for a director.’

  ‘That’s different. That’s just the once.’

  ‘ So what happens for the rest of the shoot ?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Including Brecon?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She took off her glasses and gave them a polish. According to Brendan, she’d never had a child of her own and I wondered just what difference that made. Was she jealous? Or just pissed off that I was wasting precious budget on something as flippant as a week’s leave?

  ‘Next week the kids are just bedding down,’ I pointed out. ‘The director I have in mind’s first class. Boys prefer men around. I’m adding value here. Everyone wins.’

  ‘That’s hardly the point, dear. The point is, you’re supposed to be coping. You’re supposed to be in there, controlling the bloody thing. That’s why we pay you. That’s what a producer does.’

  I stared at her. It was a clear threat, the shot across my bows I’d been expecting for months. The phoney war was over. My being pregnant had opened hostilities.

  ‘OK,’ I shrugged. ‘I’ll cancel the director and go back to plan A.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I’ll direct it myself. Go up to Skye.’ I gave her a smile. ‘Take control.’

  ‘You can’t,’ she said sharply. ‘You’re exhausted.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Yes you are. You just told me.’

  ‘I was lying. I’m fine. It’s no problem. I can handle it.’

  ‘And the baby?’

  ‘We’ll handle it together.’

  The answer hurt her. I could see it. She almost winced. For a long time, she stared at the Tango can. It was hot in the office and little beads of condensation had formed around the outside.

  ‘I still love him, you know. And I miss him, too.’ She glanced up. ‘Should I be telling you that?’

  I said I didn’t know. It sounded as pathetic as telling her I was knackered. I was looking for an excuse to leave now, though in retrospect I suspect I didn’t need one. What followed did neither of us any favours.

  She put the can to her lips, swallowing barely a mouthful. ‘He’s talented, isn’t he? Clever?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘How do you think I mean?’ She stared at me, then motioned crudely at her lap. ‘Good with it. Skilful. Too good really.’

  I gave her a weak smile, more to invite her to shut up than anything else. Deliberately or otherwise, she ploughed on.

  ‘Does he spoil you?’ she asked. ‘Have you done the honey yet? The yoghurt? The bananas? All that?’

  As it happens, we had, though I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of confirming it.

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,’ I said primly.

  ‘You’re lying,’ she said hotly. ‘Jesus, look at you, sex on legs.’ She paused. ‘Ever wonder why he goes away so much? Why he’s forever late back? Why it has to be Australia, or New York, or Los Angeles? Ever think of all those hotel rooms? Those opportunities? Those big, empty beds?’ She tipped the can of Tango towards me in a mock- toast. ‘The man’s insatiable,’ she said softly. ‘Here’s to baby.’

  I’d had enough. I’d long ago abandoned the moral high ground and I had precious little to lose except my job and whatever shreds of a relationship I still shared with this twisted woman.

  I stood up, looking her in the eye.

  ‘If you’re telling me he gets bored, I’m sure you’re right. The trick is to keep him happy, keep him satisfied. Maybe you should have tried a bit harder. Taramasalata’s good, by the way. Much better than honey.’

  I reached forward, putting my unopened Tango can beside hers. Then I left.

  My friend Nikki returned from South Africa that same week. The night after I’d broken the news about Pinot, I took her out for a consolatory meal. We both got very drunk, ending up back at De Beauvoir Square. I’d promised her a puppy. In fact I think I’d promised her dozens.

  She circled the flat, colliding with various bits of furniture. I’d been describing my run-in with Sandra. The digs about Brendan had got under my skin. Bitch.

  ‘You have to trust him,’ Nikki kept saying. ‘You have no option.’

  ‘I do trust him. I trust him with my life. That’s the bloody problem.’


  ‘What?’

  ‘My life. He’s got it, all of it. I gave it to him.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’re stupid.’

  ‘That’s what Sandra said. In so many words.’

  ‘She’s his wife. She’s bound to say that.’

  ‘I know. But you said it too.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now.’

  The conversation went round and round, dizzier and dizzier, getting us nowhere. The fact that I’d got so hopelessly drunk made me even more frustrated.

  ‘How can I know?’ I wailed. ‘How can I know for sure? Shit, maybe she’s right. She should know. Cow.’

  ‘She’s inventing it. She’s winding you up.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Definitely. Come here.’

  She gave me a big, wet kiss and we staggered off to bed. Next morning, early for once, Brendan turned up from the airport. I was still in the flat. Nikki had left in a taxi. My head hurt and I was feeling extremely insecure.

  I sat Brendan down and made him a bacon sandwich. Twelve hours on the plane from LA had left him in an even worse state than me. I hosed tomato ketchup all over the bacon, sealing the sandwich with a kiss. The smell of it made me want to throw up.

  ‘Here,’ I said, giving it to him. ‘Real food. Make you feel better.’

  Brendan nibbled at the edges of the sandwich before pushing it away. Whenever I looked at him I couldn’t help thinking of all those yawning hotel beds. King sized. Newly folded down.

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Don’t fancy… ?’

  I put my hand over his and felt him flinch. He’d never done that before. I plugged the kettle in, meaning to make some fresh coffee. When I turned round, he was examining the gas bill. Gas bill? Was I that irresistible?

  I circled him warily. Whatever happened next was completely out of my hands. One way or another I had to get to him before the bitch- queen did. Better me breaking the news than Sandra.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to have a baby.’

  Brendan was peering at the bottom of the bill. If you use more than ten trillion BTUs, you qualify for a discount.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’m going to have a baby.’

  He looked up at last. Under the neon strip light, his skin was the colour of putty. Too much indoors, I told myself. Too many hotel bedrooms.

  ‘When?’

  ‘December.’

  ‘But when did it happen?’

  ‘March.’ I smiled wearily. ‘You probably remember.’

  ‘But you told me…’ he frowned, still holding the bill. ‘I was wrong.’ I did my best to keep smiling. ‘But it’s great news, isn’t it?’

  We had our crisis meeting two and a half weeks later. It happened to be the 12th August. I remember that because Nikki had a disgusting boyfriend who went shooting in Scotland and he sent her a dead pheasant care of Interbird or something and she phoned me up and told me. I was about to go into Brendan’s office and she wished me luck.

  Sandra was already there, and so was the company accountant, a grey-faced man from somewhere in the City. His visits to Doubleact, mercifully rare, always spelled big trouble. I joined the three of them at Brendan’s little conference table. They were drinking iced water. Another bad sign.

  Brendan launched off. He hadn’t been away since Los Angeles but I’d seen very little of him. Night after night he’d come crawling in the wrong side of midnight, never hungry, never thirsty, never wanting anything except a deep and dreamless sleep. These days he seemed to live in a fog of near-permanent exhaustion, shrouded against the outside world. I’d tried so many times to get through, it had almost become a joke.

  The file on the table in front of him had the letters CHR in big black Pentel on the front. He opened it and I recognised the letter- head of one of our American partners on the top sheet of correspondence.

  ‘An opportunity has come our way.’ He glanced round. ‘This may be the biggest break we’ll ever get.’

  I tried to focus on my empty notepad, wondering why on earth I’d been invited. With Home Run, I had quite enough on my plate. Was he expecting me to shoulder something else as well?

  Brendan was talking about some agent or other on the West Coast. The agent had secured some big name agreements. In principle, stars of the order of Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise were prepared to talk to us. Not only talk but maybe, just maybe, contract.

  ‘For what?’ the accountant inquired.

  I shot him a grateful look. Someone, at least, still lived in the real world.

  A frown briefly clouded Brendan’s face. Then he glanced sideways at me.

  ‘Celebrity Home Run,’ he said.

  At first, I didn’t think I’d heard him properly. Neither did the accountant.

  ‘Celebrity Home Run,’ Brendan repeated. ‘We’re having to adapt the format. Our sponsors insist. So do the networks.’

  ‘How?’ I asked at once. ‘How do we adapt the format?’

  Brendan steadied himself for a moment and I began to understand why the last couple of weeks had been so conversation-free. He must have known, I thought. He must have known since Los Angeles.

  ‘There’s been a little unease,’ he began, ‘about elements in the mix, chiefly the documentary thing. It’s a great concept, kids from the ghettos, but the worry - understandably - is there. The people out on the Coast are anxious about the thing getting too preachy.’

  ‘Preachy?’ I said hotly. ‘What does “preachy” mean?’

  ‘It means they’re unhappy about having the show issue-based. They’re saying it’s a people-medium, not an issue-medium. And they’re right, of course. That’s exactly what it is.’

  I was thinking about Gary’s gang from Portsea. Dean. Gimble. Crater-face. Jason.

  ‘We’ve got people in spades,’ I said. ‘Real people. People people.’

  ‘No,’ Brendan shook his head. ‘We’ve got a bunch of C2/Ds from the wrong side of the tracks. We’ve got a social issue here and we’ve bolted on a game show to give it a bit of zip. The game show’s no problem. They love the game show, the shoot-out, the Brecon Beacons, all that special forces shit, they think that’s great.’

  ‘I bet they do.’

  ‘Sure,’ Brendan leaned forward. ‘And that’s where guys like Brad figure. They’re queuing up. They’re after part of the action. They want to be in it.’

  ‘With the kids?’

  ‘Instead of the kids.’

  ‘You’re dreaming. Brad Pitt?’

  ‘Sure.’ Brendan wasn’t looking at me any more. ‘The way it works, they’ll each pick their own teams. An American star, an English star.

  They’ll go for fellow actors, more faces, more names, more profile.’ I watched him smile at Sandra. ‘The networks are creaming themselves.’

  I pushed my chair back, meaning to get up and leave. Then I had second thoughts.

  ‘Just say I believe you? What about Gary? And Everett?’

  ‘They think it’s great, too.’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘Of course.’ Brendan was pouring himself a glass of water. ‘It wouldn’t work without them.’

  ‘And they’re happy? Just to…’ I made a hopeless, despairing gesture, ‘… swop boats like that? Mid-stream?’

  ‘Of course,’ Brendan said again. ‘Wouldn’t you? Brad Pitt? Hughie Grant? Ken Branagh?’

  I said nothing. Shock had robbed me of the power of thought. Then the details came seeping back, the small print of the last three impossible months, the little battles we’d fought and won, the kids we’d found, the lives we’d change, the stories we’d lay before an audience of millions. All that was gone? Just tossed aside? Because of som
e fantasy about Brad Pitt?

  ‘We’re on a learning curve here,’ Brendan said briskly. ‘That’s what development’s about. Some things work, some don’t. Lame horses you leave for the Indians.’

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Portsea.

  ‘The kids would have worked. You know they would.’

  ‘Brad Pitt works better.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘The West Coast says. The sponsors. The networks. Everyone.’

  ‘And you ? What do you think ?’

  The question was deeply personal, a challenge, and everyone knew it. Brendan frowned, sipped a little more water, then reminded us all that we were running a business. Sentiment was fine, but it was money that talked. He glanced up at me. I was absolutely welcome to stay onboard, stay in charge, in fact Doubleact expected it. On the other hand, if I found the change of direction too traumatic, there were other options open to me.

  By this time I was on my feet.

  ‘These kids have nothing,’ I said. ‘The Brad Pitts of this world have millions. Where’s the justice in that?’

  ‘Justice?’ Brendan looked briefly pained. ‘Is that an issue here?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Don’t you think so?’

  Brendan wouldn’t answer. The accountant looked at his notes. Sandra was smiling. At length, Brendan closed his file. Those initials again. CHR.

  I bent to the table, my mouth close to Brendan’s ear. In a moment or two, I’d be gone. But not before I’d told him what I really felt.

  ‘Celebrity Home Run,’ I said softly, ‘is a pile of shit.’

  Brendan and I parted the following evening. I hadn’t been to work that day. I spent most of the morning sorting out the things I wanted to take away and by the time I’d finished I was exhausted. I slept most of the afternoon, though by the time Brendan came in I was back in the kitchen, making myself a peanut butter sandwich.

  He’d seen my cases by the door. I could tell from his face that he wasn’t the least bit surprised.

  ‘It’s best,’ I said simply. ‘You don’t want me here.’