'What if I fall in love with you?' He was surprised to have said it.
For a moment she was strangely absent. 'And what if I fall in love with you?'
He was almost moved, though possibly he was meant to be moved.
'Why would you?'
She did not catch his meaning.
'Date Shane and you'll be at all the right parties. You'll be on magazine covers.' He could not restrain himself. 'And where your career is concerned you have to be smart.'
'I have to be smart,' she said angrily, twisting away from him, 'because I've got no heart, no feelings. I'm just a desperate actress ready to shag anybody who'll put me up for a job. Is that what you think?'
He absorbed her anger, wanting to believe it.
'D'you know what it's like being an actress? D'you know what it's like being sized up by directors and then passed over, auditioned and rejected, patronised and sexually harassed, made to feel like you're meat on a hook? You have no idea what we go through! What we wouldn't do to escape the cattlemarket soullessness of being in competition with thousands of other talented good-looking women, struggling for a living. Don't you see what a break this is for me? It's divine intervention. The chance of a lifetime! And what I need from you is a little understanding and flexibility about what I need to do for both our sakes. God, if this film gets made I don't want an egomaniac fucking actor on my hands. Give me a break. I don't deserve your moral superiority. I'm trying to make something work.'
He was always impressed by her when she was pushed to the limit, as though it were her fate to be unfairly suspected by people and her burden to have to defend her integrity with outbursts so forceful nobody could doubt her.
'And what about him?' he said, on top of it now. 'If he's serious about you?'
She screwed up her face. 'Would you rather I deceived him or you?'
'I'd rather you deceived no one.'
She hesitated for a second and then found the answer. 'We don't have the choice.'
This was it, he thought. His feelings were the best thing about him, not to be trammelled or squandered. He hesitated and then came out with it. 'If you are prepared to deceive one of us, why should either of us trust you?'
She frowned, as though she had not foreseen the angle and it checked her.
'How do I know,' he said, his moment of truth come round at last, 'that you aren't playing me along till the film deal's signed?'
She crumpled on to the chair in the corner, legs drawn together, head flopping on a hand.
He felt that he had betrayed her trust but knew the feeling of unkindness was the only alternative to suspicion and anguish and he was not deterred by the awkwardness of it.
There were glittering tears in her eyes. She shook her head slowly.
He pitied her; but even her silence was ambiguous.
'You don't know you're born, Michael Lear.'
'I know one thing. If Hammond's after you, I'm not producing this film.'
Her face was so pained.
'Somebody else can have a go at Hilldyard.'
Her hair wept over the chair-arm. 'Oh, I wish I hadn't told you!'
He sat there, gaunt with sorrow for himself, for Adela.
'Christ, we've only slept together once. How can you load me up with all this obligation?'
It was a fair question and he could not help seeing things from her point of view. The perspective changed things, required honesty. He spoke quietly because he wanted to sound definite. 'You're my redemption, Adela.'
'What?'
His heart fluttered with the nearness of confession.
She rose forward in her chair, curious and distraught at the same time.
He felt overcome by the need to be honest, because honesty would shed light over everything, and Michael was exhausted with the murky and uncertain and it struck him with an adrenalin twist in the heart that he had no idea how she would react.
'What are you talking about?'
He adjusted his position so he could look her straight in the eye. He wanted to make his confession as a gesture of trust, to show her that they both deserved honesty. The words would be simple, would go to the heart of the matter like the edge of an axe.
'I haven't got the rights.'
Her eyebrows sailed up in unconcealed astonishment.
'He changed his mind.'
'Oh my God!'
'Nothing I could say would persuade him.'
She shot to her feet, electrified. 'You lied to me!'
He flinched at the accusation.
'After all this talk of deception you lied to me about the option!'
'You gave me no choice.'
'To get me into bed!'
'To stop you leaving!'
She had the tempestuous colour of an enraged heroine, as though she were throttled by impossible confusions of feeling. And yet it was not rage he saw, but overwhelmed horror.
'Oh fuck! Oh Jesus!' She pounded the travel bag. 'Michael, you are utterly insane!'
He flinched again but honesty had given him strength and he made no half-hearted attempt to cut in. Her panic was the fright of an actress whose great chance is threatened. He expected as much and would let her burn off the shock before calming her down and moving her into the reality of the situation.
She subsided on the edge of the bed in a hair-torn weep of anguish. 'Shane will go ape.'
'Not if you don't tell him.'
'We can't not tell him!' Her face collapsed with the awfulness of it. 'Oh Michael, what have you done!'
He rose slowly. He was ready to tell all.
'I've organised the elements. Bluffed and lied and done a deal with the agents. Shane's coming, and I'm about to find out whether this wonderful project is for real. If it is, I'm lined up for three-quarters of a million dollars and a producer credit.'
'You what?' Her jaw dropped.
'If Shane and I agree.'
She was delirious. 'You don't have the rights!'
'I'll get them.'
'What?'
He had the initiative now and he could see in her eyes a total dependency on what he would say next.
'I've learned something about James.'
There was a pause. She seemed to respond.
'You have?'
He frowned.
She came like quicksilver off the bed, stood before him. 'What?'
'You don't need to know.'
She was instantly fascinated, her mind grappling with the implication. 'You wouldn't?'
She had understood instantly.
He gave a half-nod. 'It would be the end of our friendship.'
Adela averted her face, shocked by the realisation of many things. Michael could tell that he was being re-evaluated and that she saw what he proposed from his point of view, even from Hilldyard's. She would also sense that if Michael proposed something like this, he meant to execute it; though with no certainty of success. Of one thing only could he be certain. The endeavour was unconscionable, steeped in betrayal and dishonour.
'I owe Hilldyard everything.'
'Yes.' She was almost depressed now.
There was a pause and he saw her brow tightening. She knew what was coming.
'I can only sacrifice his commitment for yours.'
Her features were in shade now, and the light through the window was tinted with blue.
'I can swap his love for some kind of chance with you. But to betray him just for . . .'
She captured her face in her palms and sat liquidly down on the end of the bed. He remained standing, watching the effect of his words.
She looked up at him with piteous incredulity. 'You'd do it for me?'
He knew what the answer was but his certainty seemed strange. To say that he was in love with her was to say nothing. Adela was his salvation, although it was not a salvation he would have on any terms. But he would do surprising things, and what he needed now was a view of her hand. He wanted the truth in so far as the truth could be compressed from his relationshi
p with Adela. That would be his only insurance.
'For you, yes.'
'But, Michael.' She laughed nervously. 'How can you be so sure about me?'
'It's proving to be hard.'
'How can I . . . I can't make promises.'
'I don't expect promises.' He was soft. 'But if you think there's nothing between us, what I have to do would be on your conscience.'
'Oh.' She drooped.
'He's an old man.'
She sighed deeply.
'I'm asking you to be frank.' He realised he was calm.
'And if I leave you in six weeks?'
He looked at her keenly. She was open, natural. It was an idea she could contemplate generically.
'Then we'd better part now.'
She caught his eye. She saw that honesty had given him power, that he had entered into the situation on his own terms and that it was for her to meet him on the terms he sought. For a moment, she looked as though she had no choice, but then seemed to understand what that would mean. He saw her examining her conscience, as if there were too many feelings to be sounded, as if this final question eluded calculation and Adela could only respond to the challenge by impulse.
'I won't leave you,' she said.
'Come tonight.' He swallowed.
She was unprepared.
'After your dinner with Shane. Come to my hotel.'
'Michael, don't be silly! I haven't seen him in ages! He'll probably keep me up all night.'
'Come when you've finished.'
'It's far too risky!'
It was the only proof he could think of.
'Make an excuse.'
'Don't you trust me?' she said.
'I will then.'
She looked about her, filled with the drama of it, as though the moment of truth were something one had to endure whatever the consequences.
'I'll keep the option agreement until 2 a.m. If you haven't come by then, I'll tear it up.'
She looked at him in a certain way. She was learning new things about him. For a moment she simply digested the ultimatum, taking in its pressure and adjusting to the new demands on her resourcefulness. And then she tossed her hair back and started gathering her things.
Together they hefted her case and baggage and made their way along the corridor and down the stairs.
Outside it was dusk, and the hybrid illumination of the lanterns and the failing sky cast a strange light on the street.
He dropped her case inside the porch of the Sirenuse Hotel.
'I'll see you later,' she said, deferring the kiss but smiling. 'With the option agreement this time.'
Chapter Twenty-two
The rain had started at five o'clock, well after sundown, and the black mantle that hung about the town, the smothering of mountainside darkness, was suddenly alive with windless rain falling heavily and spatteringly on roads and terraces, hard on roofs, mercilessly on passing unfortunates caught in the downburst. The weather collided with Positano, as if Positano were too high on the hill or too close to the sea to dodge punishment. It took the teeming brunt face on: a frigid rebuke to the sunshine hopes of a thousand seaside villas.
Raindrops crackled on the windy road, water glazed the tiled patios of boutiques, weltered off awnings, dribbled around car wheels. As he climbed the medieval cascade of steps, hiking from the Viale to the alley by Hilldyard's villa, he took shelter from the walls and the overhanging trees, though his jacket was soaked and his shoes squidgy from the plaited rivulets that swizzled down the steps. A sopping cat puttered by, lost for a hideout. A saucepan on a back-door step was brimful.
He had bathed in his hotel; then tidied the surfaces in his room and arranged his shirts in a drawer. He placed Hilldyard's manuscript on the desk, in parallel with the laptop. And then he lay back on the bed and reclined with his hands together and thumbs conjoined and waited for certain sensations to settle. On his return he had found another note from Hilldyard. He could delay no longer.
Outside the rain played wet havoc.
The door opened almost immediately, as if Hilldyard were waiting in the hall.
'Have you seen Frances?'
His thin hair was ruffled, almost rakish, and his eyes held Michael's without the ceremony of a greeting. 'Get inside.'
In the hallway, under light, he saw Hilldyard's high colour. His cheeks were flushed, his eyelids sore.
'I thought you might be her,' said the author.
'Where is she?'
'God alone knows.'
'Shall we go in?'
Hilldyard clutched his forehead with childish perturbation. 'She's messed up my front room.'
'Frances?'
He seemed feverish.
'James, let's get a drink.'
'I can't endure this.'
'Endure a drink.' Michael got his hand to the door.
'Don't go in there!'
The door swung wide, revealing the living room.
His first impression was that the room had been ransacked by burglars, everything strewn around in the search for valuables. The sofa was on its back, the side-tables tipped over, the rug ploughed up by the passage of a chaise she had driven across the room. Pieces of crockery and broken glass, and cushions and periodicals lay on the floor. She had cracked a reproduction picture over a chair; swept clean the bureau so that notebooks, a glasses case and the telephone lay scattered on the floor by the window.
The author shuffled by him. 'Let's get a bottle and get out.'
'It's pissing.'
'We'll go to my room.'
Hilldyard put on a coat, and Michael took an umbrella, and they made their exit into the rain, and made their way across slippery stones, and down the steps and through the door leading to the private passage and along to the author's den, and as Michael crossed the threshold and Hilldyard switched on an Anglepoise lamp and fumbled two glasses off the shelf, he could not believe what he had come to do.
He stood by the shelves and saw the blocks of Thackeray, Dickens, Trollope and Hardy, editions of poetry by Longfellow, Yeats, Words-worth,WilliamCowper,paperbacktrovesofGrahamGreene, Virginia Woolf; essays by Strachey, lectures by Nabokov, French editions of Stendhal, Balzac, Proust, Apollinaire.He sawthemanuscript paper on the desk, the bifocals and coffee mug, the cuneiform handwriting that marked the papers with fresh jottings, the DNA of a new novel.
They could hear the sound of the rainfall.
Hilldyard gave him the whisky bottle so that he could make himself useful. He bent down and switched a bar heater on at the wall.
'What's the matter with Frances?'
Hilldyard answered him with a drained expression and took his glass to the wicker chair and sat down in front of the window. He gazed through the blur of his reflection into the night. His breathing became thick and slow, as if the impact of events had passed its crisis and left him exhausted but calm, in post-operative stasis.
The writer had no ready means of expression. In due course his attempt to answer the question failed completely, and Michael was left with the sight of a man chewing his forefinger.
'That bad?'
He left it a while. He had to go slowly.
'What's she going to tell me, James?'
Hilldyard closed his eyes.
'We're all human,' said Michael, dry-mouthed.
There was a grunt.
'You're close, you two.'
Hilldyard's face seemed to crack with pain, not private pain, but the agony he could now offer up to Michael's regard, as if, feeling so monstrous, he could no longer control the sense of his plight and had to make it over, inflict it on someone else.
Michael saw the puckered brow and pleading eyes and felt suspense lurch into pity. Hilldyard was experiencing an internal débâcle. Something long suppressed came out in his queerness of expression.
Michael feared what he might learn. He was about to become a man's confessor and wondered if he had the nerve to hear him out and still stick to his plan.
Hilldyard stood. He l
aid thick hands on the cool window. His breath condensed on the glass.
What he had to say was gathered.
'I have never told a single soul because I could never believe anybody would forgive me. I have never forgiven myself.' His voice was thin, light and frail, though the words found their way with steady release. 'I can only try to explain how the thing that happened took me over.'
There was a lengthy silence.
'When Joan fell sick, to begin at the beginning, I did everything I could not to show my fear. She was heroic, not showing hers. We had doctor's orders, a medical regime, things to do and not to do, and the hopes one clutches on to with that kind of illness, which came from nowhere and might as well go to nowhere. I tended her, read to her when she was bed-bound; and when she was stronger we'd drive across the hills, which seemed more immediate in those short months than ever before. She wanted open air and birdsong. She wanted to see it all exactly as we had loved it, and we'd find new places, heaven-sent views and rolling Tuscan fields, knowing that each day was the last of its kind. The last May day. Oh yes, the last green gauze she would see on the trees; the last bright spring warmth she would feel on our terrace. And each night, I lay in the room with her on the bed. And I would listen to her deep-breathing sleep knowing this innocent rest was a prelude to oblivion and that one day soon she would be sleeping for ever.'
Hilldyard turned from the window and faced Michael, his hand raised and softly clenched.
'Frances wrote to us from England. Offered her services. The kindest letter. She was at that certain age, bright and selfless, with an English schoolgirl's complexion. One feared for her future because she seemed perfect then, like a magnolia flower. Joan, of course, wanted to see her niece, and Frances would only come if she came for a while, and privately I was grateful to have the support. We had our locals, the village, but I never came to Italy for friendship, and if there were people to tend Joan, there was nobody to put up with me in the way I need putting up with. I think she was with us for a couple of months. She was a help, brightened the place up. She could cook and clean and iron. Not that we asked her to. She seemed then a remarkable, strong girl, a fine young person with none of my brother-in-law's cantankerousness. And then one day . . .' He caressed his forehead. 'She and I were sitting on the terrace, Joan was resting indoors, and I quite forgot that I was talking to a fifteen-year-old girl. Oh . . . she was abreast of it all. The dear thing had taken it all in. Our situation. She was full of the gentlest awareness and yet, somehow, not heavy-hearted or intrusive. She was spring-like, a new season coming into being surrounded by a real season unfurling colour all over the landscape. And I realised then . . . it appeared to me . . . I was . . .' He paled. 'I had been living with death, and here was life.'
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