'He belongs to the big, bad world, Michael. But you have nothing to lose. There's nobody else in Hollywood like you. He'll have to compromise or walk away from the project and I don't think he could bear to do that.'
He gazed at the sea and suddenly he was tired, as though the momentous opportunity she had put before him were at last real, there to be grabbed by someone with enterprise and nerves of steel. She had seen into the future for him, made him its centre, and the idea would seem ingenious to her, a great way for them both to get ahead.
'I have Hilldyard's friendship to lose,' he said, after a while.
She was thoughtful for a moment. 'Doesn't he want to make you happy?'
The question unsettled him. She was scrutinising his relationship with the author.
'My happiness is my business.'
'It could be his gift for everything that you've done for him. How could he deny you that? It's only a film, Michael. Keeping your friendship surely means more to him than keeping the film rights!'
He stared at her. Once again, she reprised Adamson, but in her own commonsensical manner. And common sense could always maintain, in the nicest way, that Hilldyard's objections were ill-founded, aesthetically prim, that turning books into films was no great moral question, and thus the onus was on Hilldyard to be reasonable and accommodating, or forfeit his entitlement to respect. Why should not great writers be subject to the same standards of reasonableness as the rest of us?
He said nothing.
'He can't expect you to stay here for the rest of his life holding his hand.'
'I'm not holding his hand!'
'Don't be offended. I don't mean to offend you.'
He was upset to be depicted in such a way.
'I've told you what we're doing.'
'What are you doing?'
He felt the dampness of the pebbles under his trousers and began to wonder wearily whether he and Adela had anything in common, whether she was challenging him to define himself in terms that she could understand, or subtly undermining his commitment to Hilldyard. He wondered whether the things he cared about could really interest her. She had seemed to be an artist.
Above all he wanted to be understood by her. He clasped his hands together.
'What are we doing?' he repeated. 'We're being true to ourselves.'
'What then?'
'I'll tell you when I know.'
'What will you know?'
'The future.'
She turned to face him in the darkness. 'Well, maybe this is it.'
'This?'
There was a peculiar silence. She was looking at him, but he could not see her clearly.
'What's happening now,' she said lightly.
'Now?'
'Right now.'
He felt something stir inside him.
She inhaled and turned, looking out to sea again.
There was too much silence.
She suddenly turned back and gazed at him. 'Michael . . .'
It sounded like a plea and it made his heart race.
'Listen, will you. You know what?'
'What!'
'You don't . . .'
'Don't what?'
'You don't have to be tragic,' she said.
He was stunned by the word. 'Tragic!'
'Come on. Come with me.'
She reached for a clasp. He heard the zip pull, saw the triangle of skin enlarge as the material divided. She rose quickly, sent the dress to her feet, unfastened her bra, shimmied off knickers. 'Don't look,' she said, making her bare way over the pebbles.
The figure dropped away, a monochrome sylph, intrepidly descending to the surf. He heard a gasp, almost of pleasure, then a splash. She was up to her thighs in water, wading in deeper, moonlight all around her.
He sat, heart racing. The impulse rose and fell.
She flipped and dived, soaking her hair through, twisting and turning in the water.
He pulled a shoelace, gripped his heel.
'It's lovely,' she called, her voice small and clear. She was facing the beach, the twinkling lights, the serrated mountainline way above Positano.
He could see her scooting sideways across the bay, relishing the element, its warmth and buoyancy. She inhabited the water easily. He felt a tingling at the thought of her body, a heat in the heart.
She had changed the subject, all right.
He turned a pebble over in his hand.
The situation, it taunted him, mocked seriousness. He was spare, marooned. It congealed inside him, the ache moulding him. Strength was to feel like this and still carry on. He had nothing to cling to but his unknown destination.
He looked at his hands, joined together, and knew he must not produce the film. He was on a different course, drawn away from such distractions. He saw all that as the outside life, a remote state of being, worlds away from the heart of things.
He pressed the pebble in his palm, glanced at the dark puddle of her dress.
He heard the cry faintly at first, like a seagull's. The surf muffled hearing, was softly deafening.
He rose tentatively to his feet. She was nowhere to be seen. He strained his eyes to see through the darkness, seeking information.
He started off, walking over the shingle, checking the waters to his left. There were no lights, no points of reference.
'Adela,' he called. His voice went into blackness.
There were marks of white and other flecks on the surface that held him up as he scanned across the sea. The pebbles made a bright jingle underfoot, and he halted to hear better.
The beach curved round to a point several hundred yards ahead and Michael found himself attacking the distance with a nauseous sprint that jarred his joints and bruised his feet. He was running too far, not far enough, haring off in the wrong direction.
He heard it again. Cut down to size by distance.
His shirt came off, then shoes. She called again, and the screech in her voice infected him with terror as he tore off his trousers and staggered down the slope to the water's edge. He inhaled violently, bracing himself against the shock, and plunged into the foam, beating out a crawl that smacked into the waves with all his might. The coldness forced air from his lungs, scalded his face and his eyes.
It took him a nightmare of striving to fight through the water's moving mass carrying him back, overthrowing efforts. She appeared, disappeared, vanished into darkness, bobbed up again, not seeming closer.
When he reached her, she grabbed him and he went down under her, mouth and nose filling with water as she threw her whole desperate weight on to his shoulders, her knees hitting his chest, her foot on his shin; and he barrelled and overturned, lungs breaking, and felt a gigantic spasm of terror as if he too would drown, and somewhere in the graspless water found the strength to kick up, breaking surface as she slipped under, lost for a second until his arm caught her and he pulled her to him violently.
She choked up water, and Michael took in great gasps, beating with his legs till they ached. He held her to him, arm around neck, chest heaving beneath her.
An age passed as they fought back against the current. Slowly, he recovered the control of his breath; strength went back into his arms and legs. She spluttered and coughed and clutched with both hands to his forearm, allowing herself to be towed.
They reached the shallows, and he gently released her. She found her depth and coasted in on the tide. He moved to help on the stones but already she was rising from the water. She wanted to be out of the water.
He followed hesitantly. She turned to face him. She was shaking, chin wobbling, teeth chattering.
He flung her his shirt, searched for his other clothes. He patted the pebbles, found one shoe, then another; hopped into trousers.
She wriggled into his shirt and stood there, waiting.
They made their way back across the beach. He took her hand from time to time, whenever she lost balance. She was hunched against the cold. When they reached her clothes, he looked the other way. H
e was all shaken up. His legs felt like jelly.
'Michael.' The voice was plaintive. She was coming out of shock, returning to her senses.
'Sorry.'
She stood there in her green dress, her hair long and slick. He moved towards her, receiving his shirt. She flopped on to his shoulder, and he allowed himself to embrace her.
'I don't know what happened. I . . .'
'It's OK.'
She was shivery.
'Come on,' he said. 'Let's go back.'
Beyond the boarded hotel was a short-cut up to the Viale, a zigzag of innumerable steps. They rose gradually above beach-level, looking down on the roof of the hotel, and were soon in the region of orange groves and eucalyptus trees, panting in the spicy air. On the higher flights Michael became red-faced. His thighs burned. Adela trailed wearily, hand on rail, her dress hanging less immaculately than before.
They gained the top and made their way through narrow alleys towards the Viale. From there it was a short walk to her hotel.
Michael slowed his pace, heard her coming up behind him.
She stopped suddenly, looked across the ravine. With her hair damp and drawn back she seemed more vivid, her eyebrows clearer. She was back in possession of herself. An exerted body stood next to him, exhaling vital energy.
He could think of nothing to say. He was not sure where things stood.
'What time is your flight?' he said.
'What flight?'
'Your flight tomorrow.'
She leaned over the rail, gazed into the ravine. 'Three forty-five.'
There was a silence.
'I'm not going back,' she said.
'You're what?'
'This is more important.'
His chest went off in alarm.
She tilted her head. 'This will be the making of Michael Lear.'
He held her gaze; and then smiled uncomfortably. 'Why should you want to make me?'
She looked back at him serenely. 'Well, you saved my life.'
He shook his head, would not take her meaning.
'I need your help with those Hollywood shysters.'
They regarded each other closely. There was a pause.
'Aren't I enough as I stand?'
She seized on the question. 'Enough for what?'
His jaw moved. 'Enough to be going on with?'
She raised her eyebrows. 'Going where?'
He exhaled away the tension.
She placed a hand on his forearm, applied soft pressure. 'You could be wealthy.'
His eyes were vacant for a moment.
'Money would give you the power to do what you believe in.'
'I can do that here.'
'Hilldyard's successful,' she said. 'There's no harm in success.'
Her upturned eyes were so close, so eloquent. He looked at her breathlessly.
'Michael.' She said it with feeling. 'You have so much potential.'
He stared at her lips. He could not restrain himself; he had earned the right to say this. 'You're beautiful.'
There was a flicker in her eye, of surprise.
She released his sleeve but held his gaze.
His heart rushed away with itself. He cupped a hand to his face. 'You appreciate my dilemma?'
She knew more than she could say. He followed the calculation in her switching eyes.
'I haven't decided, you see.'
She nodded, mouth corrupted by concentration.
'I might not get involved.' He shrugged.
Her eyebrows sailed up vulnerably. 'It can't happen without you!'
'But . . .' He was determined. 'You'd appreciate my reasons?'
She frowned.
He had to be explicit. To care about anything was to be explicit. 'I don't want to be dismissed from your life just because I won't produce this film.'
She looked at him in surprise again, as though the phrase revealed new things. 'But you would have dismissed me!'
He shook his head, denying it.
She looked as though she wanted to hold on to something, the essence of the point. 'I'd have to go back.'
He sought her out; tested the eyes. 'Would you?'
'I can only stay on if this goes ahead.'
'Well . . . I see.'
She blinked. 'Why should I stay otherwise?'
He would not say.
There was a silence of seconds.
'I mean, it's lovely here, but I'm trying to have a career.'
He understood this too. It was becoming clear now.
'You won't detest me then?' he said.
She looked painfully askance. 'I won't be around to detest you. We might never meet again.'
'Can we meet in London?'
'Oh . . . maybe . . . If fate decrees.'
'Would you decree?'
She gave him a look. 'I'd always be interested to know how Michael Lear was getting on in his parallel universe.'
'I'm not in a parallel universe!'
'You're in another world!'
'No!'
She looked at him curiously and then incredulously, her loveliness affected by an emotion she could not conceal. 'Then where the hell are you!'
He took her hand, pressed it between palms and looked at her before he kissed her.
Her lips were dry.
'You know I've got a boyfriend,' she said tonelessly.
Michael enfurled her in his arms, and this time their lips parted as they kissed, and he could feel the softness and fullness of that mouth, a luxurious sensation. He put everything into his hug, a big squeeze that went into the soft pad of her front.
He released her, and she gave him a look, then sidled around him.
He came after her, wanting her lips again.
She responded consummately, as if passion were ready, taking his face in her hands, kissing him with all her mouth then sending him back with a twisted, lovely smile. 'Good-night.'
He held her hand for a moment.
'I'm off tomorrow.'
'Adela!'
She pulled her fingertips across his outstretched hand.
'Call me.' She was sliding away.
'Don't go.'
'Thank you for rescuing me.'
She drew off down the passage, spinning on her heel, all waist and derrie`re, a brisk clip past the sleeping houses and shuttered pensioni.
'Oh,' he said softly, to the disappearing figure. Soon she was gone.
Chapter Twelve
He sat outside on the terrace of the hotel. He felt trapped, as if held in check, everything but his pulse frozen into a position of sculptural fixity.
He stared at the necklace of lights on the mountain opposite and felt a craze of sensations.
She had attacked his mouth, a cannibal kiss, a flesh-eating kiss, all lips and juice, and the squeeze of her hand on his cheek was tight as a prayer. He had felt all the desire in her.
He exhaled jaggedly, letting out steam into the autumn air. He had the peculiar sense of being askew to everything, in a strange relation to the chairs, tables, the flowerpots, the local darkness, the ambience of a place he had previously worn like a coat. He could not begin to think.
Michael released a soft vibrant little moan, the fragment of a tune. It was strange to discover what lay beneath his sensible surface. The trapped ardour scalded him.
In his hotel room he was surprised to see a fax from Adamson on the bed; and a message that Rick Weislob from Coburn Agency had phoned him and would call back.
He read the fax with curiosity. And then the phone rang.
Adamson had already contacted Weislob. He had tried to draw him out, offering open-palm discussions on the project. In the fax he proposed that Michael touch base with Weislob as a prelude to formal negotiation. At all events he was supposed to phone Adamson before taking Weislob's call. They needed to shape tactics.
Michael was astonished.
He picked up the receiver. After the click there was an American voice on the line.
'Mr Lear, I have Rick Weislob
for you.'
He frowned.
Rick Weislob: the turd bullet.
Shane's agent.
'Hello,' he said.
There was no doubt about it, the man on the line was pure agent, absolute agent: the token preliminaries, the pressure of time in the tone, the asides to people in his office, which failed to distinguish between the immediate realm of his will in LA ± where he could kick ass personally – and the ear of a man thousands of miles away. Weislob was used to the long-distance business call; used to cutting deals and inflicting pain across time-zones. One heard the hard drive of a man committed to seventy calls a day. He was on the line, in the line, leaning into the call. He needed to make deals and get results and lived acutely in the mouthpiece of the present.
He had a seesaw, airy tone well cadenced with false reasonableness. He could wax predictable for a couple of sentences, striking easy notes of concern and common sense, and then go hard, control the call.
'We have ears,' he was saying, 'little birds that tell us things, and we've heard about you and your company and your conversations with Nick Adamson.'
He was still arranging himself, getting a pillow between the small of his back and the bedstead. He had been intercepted by a total stranger.
'Nick has spoken to you?'
'Oh sure.'
'You know Nick?'
'We know everybody. That's what we do here. Know what's going on.'
He had taken Weislob's call in spite of himself. He did not need either Rick Weislob or Nick Adamson in his life.
'Can I be straight with you, Mr Lear? Your enquiries on The Last Muse are causing a little concern over here.'
Adamson's overtures were represented as Michael's enquiries.
'My enquiries?'
'I think you know what I mean.'
He sensed what was coming. He was fascinated.
'Seems your a ways behind on the history of the project.'
There was a pause. He felt his heart beating.
'I don't think so.'
'Let me tell you. Last Muse is under confidential submission to Coburn Agency. We have a six-month first refusal on the movie rights through Curwen Associates. During that window no other entities have right of access to the manuscript. This novel is absolutely not in the public domain.'
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