by Daisy Waugh
‘Letting down the village?’ she gasps. ‘That’s terrible. But what can I do? I don’t have any – it’ll be very uncomfortable. I’ve got a man called Skid staying. And I don’t even have any coffee.’
Half an hour later, with the TV crew safely ensconced inside, Bertinard sends his wife over with spare towels and sheets, a bottle of pineau, some coffee for the guests’ breakfast, and tucked at the bottom of the basket, a handwritten bill for €65 for the trouble.
That’s the first reason for the delay.
Then Simon Mottram, in a freak moment of munificence, buys a round of beer for his crew and settles down in Daffy’s bar. He insists, instead of heading over to La Grande Forge immediately afterwards, on looking at the material Murray and Len have been shooting in Spain, only to discover it’s been shot out of focus. All of it. Every little bit.
‘Motherfuckers,’ mutters forty-eight-year-old Murray, the director/cameraman, taking a slurp of his beer. ‘Motherfuckingfuckers,’ he says again, casting furiously for someone or something else to blame. ‘I had a feeling that camera was playing up…’
‘Why didn’t you pick it up?’ snaps Simon, who can already smell the cost of the tickets he will have to buy, to fly them both back to Barcelona again. ‘Talk to me, Murray. I don’t get it. What am I missing here? Why haven’t you already looked at this stuff?’
Why indeed? Because Simon always hires the cheapest labour; and between them Murray and Len have been fired from more productions than they’ve managed to finish, and because for most of the week they spent in Spain, at Simon’s expense, they were either too drunk or too hung over to look very hard at anything, least of all Murray’s boring rushes.
Simon calls to update Rosie, who is waiting impatiently at the Bertinards’ to move on to the next leg of her family holiday (she’s discovered some friends with room to spare in their rented villa near Toulouse, about three hours’ drive away). Rosie has to call the pub owners to check availability for a re-shoot, and to organise Len and Murray’s return flights. It takes all of Rosie’s bullying and cajoling skills to get it organised, but finally the Costa Brava pub owners relent on the condition Murray and Len come at once. The men claim to be leaving for a two-month holiday in Argentina in a week.
‘What am I going to do about the Haunts, then?’ moans Simon. ‘I don’t want to miss this opportunity –’
‘Just get them on camera, Simon. Make sure you get a verbal agreement from them that they’ll allow us to shoot. Get that on film – and then get out of there. And Len and Murray can come back on their own next week. But hurry up about it. I want to get going. The children are getting cranky. They should all be asleep by now.’
TEAMWORK
So Murray, Len, Simon Mottram and the beady Monsieur Bertinard finally arrive at La Grande Forge at half past eight that evening, two hours later than they are expected. Simon is in a filthy temper. After brisk introductions they leave Maude and Horatio alone in the kitchen and wander off to recce the house.
After a while, and a particularly long silence, Maude glances nervously at Heck. ‘I think we should stay with them,’ she mutters. ‘We can’t leave them with free reign of the whole bloody house…It’s not the COOP I’m worried about. The COOP’s locked. They can’t get in there. But what if they look at my underwear?’
Heck snorts with laughter. ‘Look at your underwear? Maudie, why on earth would they want to do that?’
She doesn’t reply. Not at once. She takes a large gulp of her wine. Opens the fridge door, as if considering what to cook for dinner. ‘Well I suppose,’ she says, very lightly, ‘if you found yourself all alone in Emma Rankin’s bedroom you wouldn’t be remotely tempted – Oh! As of course you did, not so long ago –’
Horatio groans. ‘Oh please…Good God, what kind of a pervert d’you think I am?’
She slams the fridge door closed. ‘I have no idea, Horatio. I have no idea what you were doing in her bedroom.’
He sighs. She looks, he thinks, as if she may be about to cry. But Maude never cries. Or hardly ever. He crosses the room towards her, knocking his head as he does so on the industrial-sized extractor fan, which hangs like a giant bat over the centre of the room. ‘Maude,’ he sighs, rubbing his forehead, putting his free arm around her. Angrily, she shakes him off. ‘Maudie…This is getting so – This is so boring…You know why I was in her room.’
‘I know why you told me you were in her room.’ She moves away from him, sits down on one of the stools in the middle of the kitchen, and he follows her.
‘Am I ever going to hear the end of this?’
‘Probably not.’
Silence. They sit there, leaning on the kitchen islet, beneath the hated extractor fan – not touching, wrapped in their private worry and unhappiness, loving each other and hating each other, hating the situation. And then Skid comes in. Saunters right into their private kitchen, just like he owns the place. Maude and Horatio look at his dirty leather jacket and his mean, savvy face, and assume he’s part of the television crew.
‘Hi there,’ says Skid. ‘You must be Maude and you must be Horatio. My name’s –’ He stops. ‘My name is Randal Smart.’ And he smiles at them. Straight to their eyes, an intelligent, self-deprecating smile, full of good humour. ‘But the truth is, ever since I can remember, people have always called me Skid. I sincerely wish I knew why.’
‘Skid,’ says Maude, not liking him much. ‘Does Simon know you’re here?’
Skid hesitates.
‘He’s upstairs,’ Maude continues. ‘Rummaging around in Heck’s underpants, I think. Lucky man. Anyway. Go on up. I know he’s keen to get going. He’s probably waiting for you.’
Skid thinks about that. ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I think you may have mistaken me for another Skid entirely. The only Simon I know lives in New York. Or he did last time I heard, which I admit was several years ago. But I’d be surprised if he was waiting for me upstairs.’
‘Oh. Well. Who are you then?’ demands Horatio. Above them they hear Len, Murray, Simon and Bertinard tramping noisily along the wooden landing, turning down the stairs towards the kitchen. ‘What are you doing here? And why do you know our names?’
‘Actually, I’m a great friend of Emma Rankin’s,’ Skid explains calmly, addressing himself to Horatio, ‘and I have a small proposition to make.’ Just then, in a bustle of activity and self-importance, the recce team files into the room. Skid glances at them casually. ‘…But perhaps now isn’t the moment…’
‘Goodness,’ Horatio says tersely. ‘How very intriguing…A proposition! What sort of a proposition?…Perhaps’, he says, glancing nervously at M. Bertinard, ‘you’re inquiring about a room at our little gîte? Maudie, have we got room for one very thin man d’you think? Just for one night? Or are we fully booked?’
Skid says nothing. He smiles almost imperceptibly, tips his thin head to one side, watches Horatio carefully. Horatio continues talking.
‘Can I introduce you, Skid, to, er…Murray and Len. I think Murray’s the one in the orange trousers. Am I right?…And this is Simon Mottram, in a lovely pair of shorts. Yellow. And quite tight, I can’t help noticing, Simon – are you sure they’re comfortable? They all work in television.’
Maude glances at her husband uneasily. He’s sounding nervous, Maude thinks. He needs to shut up. ‘We were sort of hoping for a quiet night tonight actually,’ she says. ‘Weren’t we, Horatio? But if you’ve really nowhere else to stay…’
Still, Skid smirks and watches, but doesn’t speak.
‘All English,’ Horatio continues. ‘As you can probably tell…’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ demands Murray. The one with the cut-off orange waterproof trousers. He’s smiling as he says it. It’s meant to be jovial, but Murray or Len – actually, both – have an awkwardness about them, a prickly distrust which makes everything they say sound faintly aggressive.
Horatio says, ‘Well it means that you all look pretty English. And nothing wrong wit
h that! Oh, and this is Olivier Bertinard, who is French. As you can also probably tell. With his smart pantalon and so on. Also the hair…’
‘Heck,’ mutters Maude. ‘We don’t want a running commentary –’
‘What? No. Of course not. Of course you’re right. I’m so sorry. Len, Murray and Simon are here to make a documentary about our lives. Isn’t that right?’ Horatio says, looking at Simon. ‘God knows why. They’re here tonight to do a little “run through”, as Simon calls it, before he scarpers off for another free holiday. I think this one’s in Toulouse.’
‘Heck!’ Maude manages not to laugh, just. She turns to Simon. ‘Sorry, Simon,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s got into him…’
‘Not at all,’ says Simon, holding up a hand of peace and glancing briefly at his watch. ‘No offence taken at all.’
‘They’re also here to do a screen-test, so I understand, Skid – whatever your name is. Perhaps you’d like to be in it?’
‘Not in the least,’ Skid speaks at last. ‘But I should very much like to watch. Since you’ve kindly offered me a bed for the night…May I do that?’
‘Sure thing,’ Simon says, moving forward, keen to get on. Doesn’t spare a glance for Skid. ‘We’re thinking we’ll set up here in the kitchen. If it suits. Heart of the house, and all that. It’s really just a formality. Insurance type-thing. I know you’re both going to look great on camera.’ He glances at his watch once again. ‘Fab-u-lous,’ he says absently. ‘And we’ve already grabbed the kids upstairs. They were fab, weren’t they, Len? Real stars.’
‘You did what?’ demands Maude. ‘Simon, they’re in bed!’
‘Sure, sure,’ he says. He’s holding his fingers in the shape of a square, looking through it to the breakfast islet where Maude now stands. He beckons Murray to come and have a look. ‘They were pretty cute, actually. Maude, darling – if we can have you just, exactly where you are – that’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. You look stunning. What d’you think, Murray? Can we shoot that? Get her introducing herself – blah, blah, the usual…’
‘Looks good to me,’ says Murray, holding up his small camera. ‘Light’s good…Len, mate, d’you want to mike her up?’
‘Excuse me,’ says Maude, pushing them all away from her. ‘Wait a second. Please. Seriously. Can we pause a moment? Murray. Len. Would you mind putting that camera down?’
Murray lowers the camera. ‘I wasn’t shooting,’ he says sulkily.
Maude shakes her head. ‘I think we need to get one or two things clear before we begin. First of all – and I do mean this – you mustn’t ever, not ever, not once, not for a single second, film either of our children without our express permission. Ever. Ever. Ever. Is it clear? Ever.’
‘All right, Maudie,’ Horatio says. ‘I think they got the message.’
‘NEVER,’ she says again.
‘Sure, sure,’ Simon nods, without missing a beat. ‘No worries. That’s all right with you, isn’t it, Murray? Len? We can do that. Sure, sure. Right then, Maude darling, if you’re happy with that…’
SCREEN-TEST
‘Hello, my name is Maude Haunt. I’m an organic gardener – oh God. Sorry. I feel such an idiot. I really don’t feel at all comfortable doing this. Can we start again?’
Simon grits his teeth. It’s 11.15 at night. For a moment it had seemed that everything would be so straightforward. In the can, two hours ago, they had a small piece-to-camera from Olivier Bertinard; they had the children, smiling and waving from their beds, and Horatio, who for some mysterious reason behaved as if he’d been performing before a camera his entire life. But Maude has proved more difficult. This is her thirty-seventh attempt and she still hasn’t been able to get beyond the word ‘gardener’ without disintegrating into embarrassed giggles, and/or forgetting what she’s supposed to say next. She’s getting worse with each take; Rosie’s started calling him every five minutes, hassling him to hurry up. He’s close to losing it.
‘Not to worry, darling,’ he says. ‘We’ll get there. We’re getting there!’
‘Would it be easier if we wrote the words down for you?’ suggests Len. He wants a drink.
‘No of course not,’ Maude says. She notices Len and Simon exchanging glances. ‘I’m not that feeble. Come on. Let’s do it again.’ She looks at the camera. ‘Oh, God.’
‘Camera rolling,’ Simon says. ‘And…Action.’
‘Hello. My name is Maude Haunt. And…um…oh God. Sorry…’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ snaps Simon off-camera. ‘Keep going. Keep the camera rolling. Just keep going.’
‘Um…’
‘Your name is…’ he prompts.
‘Maude Haunt. My name is Maude Haunt…’
‘And you are…’
‘And I am an organic gardener…’
‘And I am happy…’
‘And I am happy…’
‘…to appear in this programme…’
‘…to appear in this programme!’
‘Et voilà!’ cries M. Bertinard, clapping his hands. ‘Finalement. C’est fait!’
‘You may now kiss the bride,’ comes a laconic voice from the corner. Skid’s voice. He’d been sitting so quietly they’d all forgotten he was there.
MAKING A PITCH
The difference between Mayor Bertinard and Randal ‘Skid’ Smart, at least as far as the Haunts are concerned this evening, is a fairly small one. Both, for quite different motives, present a tacit threat, and both, or so it seems, are willing to barter for it.
But while M. Bertinard is willing to be silenced, or distracted at least, with the prospect of a starring role in a low-budget English reality television show, Skid’s requirements are less simple. Skid wants a new identity. He’s sat quietly through Maude’s screen-tests. He’s waited patiently until Murray, Len, Simon and Mayor Bertinard have finally driven away, and now he’s stretched out on Maude and Horatio’s vine-covered terrace, his sharp-edged bottom on their favourite wicker armchair, drinking the last of their pineau. He’s made his request, and now he’s waiting patiently for a response.
‘…But why?’ asks Maude at last.
‘Oh, you know. I’ve been unfairly accused…’ He waves a lazy hand and smiles. He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence. ‘It doesn’t matter, Maude. You wouldn’t believe me anyway.’
Then she laughs. ‘No, I mean, why are you asking us. What on earth makes you imagine we can help you?’
He looks at her, without smiling. Offers no explanation. ‘Maude,’ he says, staring her out. ‘Don’t fuck with me.’
‘Right,’ says Horatio, standing up. ‘I think we’ve had more than enough of you, Skid – whatever you want to call yourself. So if you would kindly get your repulsive, lanky body off our terrace and out of our house…Now, please. Or I’ll call the police.’
Skid smirks. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says. Nevertheless, he throws back the remainder of his pineau and slowly stands up. ‘I’ll be here for a while,’ he says, looking at them both, ‘…sniffing around. Have no fear, you’ll be seeing me again.’ He flicks them one of his grimmer smiles. ‘I’m staying at the Hotel Marronnier, if you need to find me. In the village. And I shall be for some time…’
‘Go on. Piss off,’ Horatio says. ‘Get out.’
Alone at last, Horatio and Maude look at one another, all their marital confusions temporarily forgotten. ‘Well?’ he says finally. ‘What do you think?’
Maude glances out of the kitchen window, watches Skid ambling away from them, back towards the village. ‘I don’t think he knows anything. Do you? I think he’s acting on something he heard from Emma.’
‘I think if he knew anything for sure he would have told us already.’
‘You know what? I don’t think Bertinard knows anything either. Heck, I think we’re being paranoid. I don’t think any of them does.’
‘Perhaps…Perhaps,’ he says again.
‘…What shall we do?’
‘Nothing,’ Horatio
says at last. ‘Continue exactly as normal. Don’t you think? Carry on with this idiotic TV show –’
Maude nods. ‘It’s a godsend, actually, Heck. I mean if we’re clever about it. If we can show the cameras a version of our lives and if we can make it believable. People seem to believe things when they see them on telly…’
Maude and Horatio don’t sleep much that night. They have a lot to do. With Murray and Len returning to Barcelona in the morning they have at least been granted some time to think; to regain a little control of the situation and arrange a suitable stage for the cameras before the men come back again. But they don’t have much time. Or so they believe.
Actually, Murray and Len always enjoy themselves so well down on the Costa Brava, they tend to find it hard to leave. If their previous record is anything to go by it may be several weeks before they bother to make contact again.
FRENCH LESSONS
Jean Baptiste has come round to the Marronnier first thing every day since Skid moved in. The first morning, almost a fortnight ago now, it had caught Daffy unprepared. The sound of his knocking had woken her up and she had rushed from her new bedroom upstairs without stopping to dress.
After the initial instinctive thud of disappointment that it wasn’t Timothy and her little son come to sweep her home again, she’d grinned at him, delighted. ‘Hello! Bonjour!’ she cried. She was wearing an oyster satin ‘negligee’, absurdly crumpled. It was the only sleeping gear she’d come to France with, and ten years of being a rich banker’s wife had not taught Daffy to improvise.
She felt his quick green eyes scanning her and she stepped back from him, embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ she said, wrapping skinny arms around herself. ‘Sorry. I thought it was Timothy –’ She laughed. ‘Stupidly. I thought it might have been Timothy. Mon mari. Timothy and James. Come in. I’ll just go and get dressed.’
