A Family Man

by Amanda Brookfield

  28

  Andrea Beauchamp seemed much smaller than the screen version of herself. Even having seen her on the stage, Matt was unprepared for the petiteness of her frame, the tiny, flighty hands – the nails bitten raw, he noticed – and the bony schoolgirl legs, shown off by a miniature leather miniskirt and dark tights with artful ladders up the ankle and thigh. Her eyes, the upper lid accentuated by a thick brush stroke of blue, looked huge for her face, as did her mouth, highlighted by scarlet lipstick and a full set of large, even white teeth. Her hair, which had been hidden by a twenties bob of a wig for the part of Amanda, was streaked blond and brushed into messy peaks, contributing to the impression of a gamine child playing the part of a woman.

  She shook his hand quickly – dismissively – blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke over his shoulder. ‘I’ve ordered you tea.’ She kicked off two gold slipper-style pumps and arranged her legs into a yogic cross- legged position on the sofa. ‘I prefer water.’ She looked at her watch, a huge yellow plastic child’s toy of a contraption covering several inches of her wrist. ‘I have thirty minutes.’

  Matt could feel his carefully rehearsed list of questions slipping from his mind, intimidated not by any sort of suppressed sexual enthralment, but by her sheer brusqueness, the way she couldn’t even be bothered to look at him. In fact, much to his surprise, seeing her close to, he could muster no physical attraction for her at all; there was something at once starved and rapacious about the big red mouth which put him off, while her boyish body looked too angular and fidgety to encourage thoughts of grabbing hold of it.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to —’

  ‘And I’d like the tape running from the start.’

  ‘The tape. Of course.’ Matt fumbled in his briefcase for the micro cassette player he used for interviews and set it up on the table between them. ‘In fact I’m not a journalist as such, I’m a theatre —’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ She waved her skinny arms. ‘Same difference. You all want to know the same things.’

  ‘Probably,’ he conceded, offering her a nervous smile. ‘You’re familiar with the no-go areas, I take it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Basically, you are only happy to be questioned about your work.’

  ‘Got a problem with that?’ she snapped.

  ‘Not at all. In your shoes I would say exactly the same,’ he replied dryly. Matt paused, distracted by the sudden realisation that the last time he had seen this woman had been the very day Kath left. He looked at the date on his watch. Almost fifteen weeks to the day. It was ten past five. At home Josie would be getting Joshua’s tea ready; something with pasta and sweetcorn, she had said; he had been flying out of the door, not concentrating.

  ‘Excuse me? You were saying?’ Matt blinked at her. ‘I’m sorry. I …’

  ‘You were saying?’ she prompted again, her eyes flickering with a sort of amused impatience.

  Matt struggled to compose his thoughts, appalled at his sense of disconnection but unable to fight it either. ‘I was thinking, you are still so young and so successful, with such a celebrity status, the pressures must be immense… I mean, all I have to worry about is juggling a mediocre career with being a single dad to a four year old and yet, boy can life get me down—’

  ‘Oh, I get it.’ She folded her arms, grinning for the first time. ‘It’s called get the girl to talk by revealing snippets about your own woes, is that it?’

  Matt blushed. ‘No, I —’ He leaned forward from the plush silky armchair and pressed the rewind button on the tape recorder. Rubbing his palms together, he made a fresh attempt to appear businesslike. ‘It really was nothing of the sort, I assure you. I’m not that clever.’ The machine clicked back into life. ‘Could we start again, do you think?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Still fifteen minutes to go. Let’s begin with Amanda. How have you enjoyed the part?’

  After fifteen minutes, almost to the second, of questions about her West End run and future projects, Andrea rocked forward over her crossed legs and pressed a chewed finger on to the Off button of the micro recorder. ‘So you’re a single parent, are you?’

  ‘Er, yes, not by choice … that is, my wife walked out a few months ago. The night I saw your play, actually.’ He gave an apologetic laugh and began packing his things into his briefcase.

  ‘My bastard left me too,’ she said slowly. ‘One night he was there and we were good. The next night he…left. Just like that.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘You can write that if you want.’

  Matt stopped rummaging with his things, looking over the top of his briefcase in astonishment. ‘I thought that —’

  ‘I kicked him out? Yeah, well, that’s what I wanted everyone to believe. But now I don’t care. Sometimes I read about myself and I think about how I feel inside and the two are so totally disconnected that I want to freak out. You can print that too.’ She smiled. There was a faint sprinkling of gingerly freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. ‘You’re the first journalist I’ve liked in a long while, Mr Webster. I hope I’ve given you enough for an interesting article.’ She uncoiled her legs and stood up, slipping her feet back into her tiny gold shoes. ‘Ever written anything other than newspaper stuff?’

  ‘No. It’s Oliver Parkin who’s the big literary giant on the paper. He wrote a biography of ’

  ‘That’s what I want. Someone to write my biography, you know, authorised. Someone I can trust. You got a card?’ She took a fresh cigarette from a packet in her shoulder bag and lit it with a flame the size of a blowtorch.

  ‘A card? I think so … somewhere …’

  ‘Will you send me my quotes before you print?’

  ‘Yes, by all means. Here we are.’ Having located a somewhat weather-beaten business card in the bottom of his briefcase, Matt handed it to her. ‘And thank you. I’ll be in touch – with the quotes and so on …’

  ‘I think I am going to like your piece.’ She gave him a teasing smile, puffing on the cigarette but not inhaling, so that the smoke billowed round her lips.

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Matt grinned. ‘I’ve always fancied a chance to write a life story, especially one as interesting as yours.’

  She released a wild laugh. ‘Keep it up, Mr Webster, flattery gets you everywhere.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder and sashayed off in the direction of the main foyer, casting a final nonchalant wave.

  Some forty-five minutes later, still incredulous at the unexpectedly friendly turn the interview had taken, Matt raced up the steps to his front door. Not wanting the bother of digging for his keys, and knowing how Josh loved to answer the door, he rang the bell, resting his forehead against the cold wood while he collected his breath. He had phoned Beth on his mobile in the cab. She had been as excited as he was, teasing him about the necessity of making the article as eulogistic as possible and warning him that Andrea Beauchamp was known both for seizing her own initiatives and getting her own way.

  It took a few moments to register that his ring had prompted no response. Lifting the letter flap and peering inside while he groped in his various pockets for his keys, Matt experienced the first prickle of foreboding. He had left Josie, saucepan on the hob and wooden spoon in hand, overseeing Joshua’s ten-minute reading duty. Sammy’s Dirty Shoes, or had it been Tammy’s? Slamming the door behind him, he strode into the hall, calling Joshua’s name even though he knew, from the echo of his voice in the silence, that nobody was home.

  In the kitchen the tea things were crammed into the washing-up bowl, soaking but not washed up. Bits of sweetcorn and squiggles of soggy pasta floated in the water submerging the plates. Matt, his heart thumping, rushed out through the sitting room to the bottom of the stairs, where he paused, arrested by a vivid flashback of the night Kath had left, hearing again the eerie chime of the empty coat hangers. As his surroundings swam back into focus he saw, with some terror and incredulity, that a note had been propped against the pot on the hall table.

  Felt one of my headaches coming on, (they can be really bad),
so have gone to Sophie’s. Took the old pushchair ’cos Josh was tired. Sorry. Josie.

  Matt sank back on to the bottom stair, trembling at the revelation of how fragile he still was. It was the not knowing, he realised miserably, burying his eyes in the palms of his hands; where Kath was, who she was with, what she really thought. Lifting his head, he peered through the slits in his fingers at the familiar hallway – the picture that always hung crooked, the three cracks above the front door, the wooden floorboards, which they had always meant to get sanded. Perhaps Graham was right, he thought wretchedly; perhaps he should sell up and move on. He could pay off the mortgage and buy somewhere smaller, or move to the country, or move out of the country. Somewhere without memories. Somewhere with schools for traumatised four-year-olds. Somewhere without unanswered questions and guilt.

  Badly shaken, aware that no such place existed, except perhaps, many years down the line, within the confines of his own head, it was a while before Matt could steel himself to leave the house.

  Having got as far as Sophie Contini’s doorstep, he took several deep breaths to compose himself, inwardly cursing Josie for having made the encounter necessary. And for having made gratitude necessary, he reminded himself, fixing his face into a smile in preparation for the sight of the teacher’s stony face.

  ‘Shh,’ Sophie whispered, not looking particularly stony and raising her finger to her lips the moment she had opened the door. ‘He’s asleep. Come in.’

  ‘If you don’t mind I think I’ll just —’

  ‘He only dropped off a minute ago. Look.’ She pointed through the half-open door into her small front room, where Joshua was curled in an armchair among a heap of cushions. ‘Shame to wake him so soon.’

  ‘Maybe but … and where is Josie?’ Matt blurted, all his tension and irritation coming out in a rush. ‘My bathroom cupboard is loaded with analgesics. I really can’t see why she had to come scurrying round here. It’s not fair on you – or me for that matter —’

  ‘Josie gets migraines. When one starts she knows she has about half an hour before she’s so nauseous she can’t stand up. Her vision goes too. They usually last a few hours. She’s upstairs in my spare room. I assure you, coming here was the best thing she could have done. Cup of tea? How did your interview go? Josie said it was with someone very famous, but she couldn’t remember the name.’

  Reluctantly Matt followed her into the kitchen. The clothes stand was in its usual place, decked this time with three sets of brightly patterned socks and a couple of T-shirts. Stepping past it, he made a show of studying some of the photographic collages on the walls. ‘Your family?’ he asked, putting his hands behind his back and staring politely at the pictures, most of which seemed to be of blond, honey-skinned children posing with pets and paddling pools.

  ‘My sister’s. She’s always taking photos. Sends me the best ones every year.’

  ‘And they don’t live in south London by the look of things.’

  ‘Italy. We’re quarter-Italian. I’ll let you help yourself to sugar and milk.’

  ‘Really? I’m about to go to Italy,’ he ventured stiffly. ‘Florence for a long weekend.’

  ‘Yes, Josie mentioned it. A romantic break.’

  ‘Something like that,’ he muttered, the recollection of her outburst about pitying females making him little inclined to discuss the matter further. Crossing the room to the table where she was setting down their mugs of tea, he managed to trip over a pair of trainers. ‘Sorry, I …’

  ‘No, my fault.’ She leaped across the room and seized the shoes. ‘Florence, you lucky thing. My sister’s not far from there – a place called Orvieto. I go there every summer.’ Still wanting to change the subject, he indicated the trainers, which were splattered with fresh mud and looked scuffed and creased from use. ‘Do you take a lot of exercise?’

  ‘I run,’ she said, tapping the soles of the shoes together, making it sound, so Matt couldn’t help thinking, more like a permanent state of being than a hobby.

  He grimaced. ‘My friend in America made me run, on a machine.

  Couldn’t walk for days afterwards.’

  ‘It’s different if you do it a lot.’ She dropped the trainers next to the sofa and gestured at him to take his tea. A few moments of silence followed. Matt watched over the rim of his mug as she fiddled with one long curling strand of dark hair, winding it round and round her finger and letting it drop. He blew hard on his tea, wishing that he had had the sense to scoop Joshua off the sofa and go straight home.

  ‘I suppose you know all about me.’

  ‘No. Why?’ He looked up sharply, all his wariness of her returning.

  ‘Because I saw you with Maria Schofield at Broadlands that day. And if you’re friends with her then —’

  ‘We’re not really friends,’ he began. ‘In fact I haven’t seen her for weeks …’

  ‘I just hate that,’ she continued, ignoring him, ‘when you know people are talking about you, saying stuff when they know nothing – nothing.’

  ‘Look, I assure you —’

  ‘What do you think of me?’ She rounded on him, a swatch of the dark wavy hair swinging over her shoulders, her eyes flashing.

  Caught off guard, wondering at the woman’s capacity for confrontation, Matt could only stammer a response. ‘What do I …? What does it matter what I … I mean, I only know you because of Josie.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that.’ She slapped both palms down on the table.

  Matt put his half-drunk tea down and stood up. ‘I really do not see the point of this.’

  ‘Oh, go on, I bet there’s loads of stuff you’re bursting to say. I was rude to you the other day, wasn’t I? Why not get your own back? Come on.’ She beckoned at him, like a boxer inviting someone to spar.

  ‘Let me see.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I really don’t —’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Her voice was scornful. ‘Be honest. No one ever is these days. No one says what they think. It’s all politeness and crap and thinking things you don’t say. It drives me mad.’

  Matt eyed her levelly, taking a deep breath. ‘All right, then. I think you fill your life with other people’s problems as a way of avoiding your own.’

  The wide hazel eyes held his gaze, only for an instant, but sufficient for Matt to register dismay before she blinked and looked away. He was about to speak again, to qualify, apologise, retract the admission she had forced out of him, when he saw that she was pointing over his shoulder.

  Joshua was standing in the doorway, sleepily rubbing his eyes. His T-shirt was hitched up, revealing the small swell of his belly, and his hair was all flat on one side from being pressed against the sofa cushions. As Matt bent down, holding out his arms to him, he noticed a dark circular stain of damp round the baggy crotch of his trousers.

  ‘Oh, no, Josh you’ve …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ whispered Sophie quickly. ‘Please don’t say anything to him. It doesn’t matter at all. Here, wrap him in this and take him home.’ She pulled a towel off the back of a chair and pushed it into Matt’s hands. ‘He’s exhausted, poor love. And don’t forget the pushchair,’ she added, looping it over his arm once he had scooped Joshua up and got the towel secure.

  Matt murmured his thanks, aware of his blunt words still hanging in the air between them. She was a good woman and he had made her feel bad. ‘Tell Josie I hope she gets better soon,’ he ended lamely, holding Joshua tightly as he hurried back out into the street.

  29

  Letting his sunglasses slide down his nose, Matt peered lazily about him. Tall trees swayed overhead, breaking up the glare of the sunlight and casting dappled shadows across the turquoise blue of the pool. Though scrubby and tough underfoot, the grass surrounding the mosaic poolside was a lush green. Several flowerbeds were inlaid into it, each a bursting palette of pink and purple and yellow. A zigzag path of white stone led up the gentle incline of the hillside towards the hotel, a sweeping whitewashed v
illa of a place, with sloping roofs of rust-red tiles and huge wooden shutters on its windows. Inside, the rooms were high-ceilinged and cool, furnished with huge antique pieces of furniture and tulip-bulb wall lights.

  Turning on his side, relishing the feel of the sun on a new part of his body, Matt watched as a tall dark-haired youth, dressed in an impeccable starched white uniform, trawled a long-handled net through the pool water for perhaps the twentieth time in an hour, catching the few stray specks marring its pristine surface. From his new position he had a better view of the valley rolling below them, its curves lined with mile upon mile of olive trees, ordered like marching armies, and filled with so many different shades of green that he found himself trying to count them. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the farthest band of colour, lay Florence itself. They had circled it on the drive from the airport, glimpsed its famous domes through the trees as the taxi climbed northwards, glinting in the morning sun with a perfection quite unmatched by any of the numerous photographic reproductions Matt had seen of the place. Remembering the moment, Matt reached out across the inches separating their sunbeds and took Beth’s hand.

  ‘I was expecting a cheap pension,’ he murmured, sliding his fingers, oily from suncream, between hers. ‘Somewhere poky with a view of a carpark.’

  ‘I wanted it to be a surprise. Besides, there aren’t any carparks in Florence, they’re all on the outskirts. All the pensions have views of is streets and people and churches.’ She was lying on her back, her head tilted up to the sun, her sunglasses pressed firmly against her eyes. She wore a pink-and-green bathing costume, cut up to her hip bones on either side and with two large ovals stencilled out of its front and back.