‘I think I can detect a little bit of irony there.’ He sounded playful, all of a sudden, as he leant forward in his chair and looked deep into my eyes.
What was it with this looking-in-the-eye business? I used to do it when I was a child, to intimidate my friends, but I had given up because once we all started to wear make-up, I ended up too involved in checking how they’d made up their eyes. ‘I mean it, though,’ I said. ‘I really need to find some of my old absolutes. So how do I go about it?’
‘But what I’d like you to see is that it’s precisely this obsessive need for what you term absolutes which led to your breakdown in the first place. Of course it’s frightening to go out and face the world unshielded, undressed if you like.’
‘Not frightening,’ I said. ‘Just confusing. I’m confused, that’s all. Wouldn’t you be if you suddenly realised that you’d spent the best part of your life reading the instructions upside down?’
He said he would be. I was glad we agreed on something. He told me that I had to go out there and start making decisions again.
‘I thought I might find someone extremely bossy to make all the decisions for me, have a little rest.’
‘So you think that’s the solution? Returning to some childlike state of dependency?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I said. ‘I was actually a very independent child. Someone had to make the decisions about the place and, like most children, I worked out early on that my parents certainly weren’t up to it.’
The therapist leant forward and looked sternly at me. ‘Either you want to get better or you don’t.’ He didn’t wait for me to decide which I wanted before going on, ‘So I want you to make at least two decisions every day. They don’t have to be big ones, but they have to be firm.’ He glanced at his watch and taking the hint I stood up immediately.
Anthony Peel smiled and shook my hand. ‘See you next week, Esther.’
‘That’, I said, ‘is surely in the hands of the Almighty.’ I walked out of the office feeling that somehow, in spite of my best efforts, we hadn’t really bonded.
As it was, I didn’t see Anthony Peel again. I got home that day and poured myself a Whisky Mac, one part whisky, one part ginger wine. I had a couple more after that, then I wrote a piece on psychotherapists and faxed it straight to Chloe at the office. It came right back with Unpublishable and probably libellous written across it and the words but thanks anyway added at the end. Still, I decided, I had made a start; I had written a sharp, decisive piece, a little too sharp, perhaps, but it was erring on the right side, and I had the Whisky Mac to thank for that, not Anthony Peel.
In the next couple of days I drank a lot more and I wrote a story for Modern Romance. That too was returned. Too explicit, the comments read, not to say pornographic. And quite frankly, I’m sure that none of our readers would even contemplate putting a razor blade there!? Oh well, I thought, Rome wasn’t built in a day.
‘You’re drinking.’ Posy wrinkled her tiny, perfect little nose at me or, as it seemed to me at the time, her two perfect little noses. Then her large eyes grew sad and brimmed with tears. ‘I can’t believe Angus left like that just when you needed him most. I’ve written and told him exactly what I think of him.’
I wished I could do the same, but I didn’t know what I thought of him. In fact, I thought about him very little. I had tried to ask Anthony Peel about it. How it was that a man with whom I had slept quite a few times, a man whom I had watched Ingmar Bergman films with until he begged for mercy, a man I had spent a weekend and a bank holiday in a rented country cottage with, could up and quit my life leaving barely a trace in my heart.
‘You feel betrayed by his leaving?’ Anthony Peel had asked. I had told him: ‘Yes.’
‘So you’re hurt?’
‘Angry,’ I had explained.
‘You’re angry because you’re hurt,’ Anthony Peel had informed me.
I had contradicted him: ‘No. I’m angry because he proved himself to be a spineless little shit and I can’t believe I wasted any time on him.’
‘So you’re hurt?’
‘No,’ I had explained patiently. ‘I’m angry.’ Then my time was up.
‘But you’re drinking,’ Posy repeated. I told her she was right and asked her if she would like a Whisky M. She said she wouldn’t. ‘What’s a Whisky M, anyway?’ She sat down opposite me at the kitchen table.
‘It’s a Whisky Mac with an ever-decreasing amount of Mac in it,’ I elucidated, pouring myself one, six parts whisky, one part ginger wine.
‘How revolting.’ Posy frowned at the glass in my hand. I was about to point out to her that she was not to blame the drink for being drunk, I mean, it didn’t seem fair, when she handed me a letter. ‘Read this. Daddy showed it to me, it’s from one of his constituents.’ (Posy’s father had been elected Liberal Democrat MP for Sunning and Tyne in the recent by-election.) The letter was handwritten and as I squinted at it, trying to decipher it, Posy snatched it from my hands.
‘You can read it when you’re not pissed. I just thought it was the kind of story that might interest you. You heard about Stuart Lloyd’s plans to build what he calls a People’s Glyndebourne on his Kent estate?’ I nodded but I soon stopped, it made my head hurt too much.
‘Well, George Wilson and his sister Dora, both in their seventies, are the victims of these grand ideas. They own the cottage which is being demolished to make way for an access road. It’s all here in the letter.’ She waved it at me. ‘You want right and wrong, well you’ll get it in this story. I told Daddy I’d get you on to it; power of the press and all that.’
‘You hate the press.’
Posy nodded. ‘I know. Who doesn’t?’ She had a point there. ‘But you have your uses.’
‘Like a kind of laxative suppository,’ I suggested. ‘No one likes it, but you’re grateful for it when all other avenues are blocked.’
‘If you like, yes.’ Posy gave me back the letter.
I read it a couple of hours later, having had nothing to drink but coffee and water. I went over to the office and looked up everything I could find on the Stuart Lloyd project and the Wilsons. I also got the name of the firm of architects: a European firm by the name of Keppel & Rooth. Back home again I phoned Posy’s father and got some more information about the plight of the two old people.
‘Three generations of Wilsons have been born in that cottage,’ Posy’s father said. ‘The cottage might not look much to an outsider, but to George and Dora it’s their whole life. George only managed to buy the place a few years ago; until then the family had been tenants. They’re baffled, Esther. Old George came to my surgery and he said, “But we own the place now. It’s ours. How can they just take it from us?” It’s enough to make you weep.’
Next I called Chloe at home. I told her the basics and asked if the Chronicle would be interested in a story. She said they would if it had teeth. I told her it would have a serious mouthful. Which is how I came to be in Stuart Lloyd’s office the following morning.
Part Three
Fourteen
It was a Tuesday in late April and the kind of day which gives that month its bad name: blustery, wet, with moments of brilliant sunshine teasing through the clouds just long enough for you to put away your umbrella. Right now I was trying to get to see Stuart Lloyd at his office at Terra Nova Enterprises. His secretary was firm, which didn’t surprise me, but polite, which did because I always imagined mothers up and down the country cautioning their small offspring never to be rude, unless, of course, they’re dealing with a journalist.
‘As I said, Ms… ?’
‘Fisher. Esther Fisher.’
‘As I said, Ms Fisher, Mr Lloyd is tied up in meetings all morning. I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment. The next available one is…’ she ran a polished fingertip along the pages of a large desk diary ‘… two weeks Monday. Ten o’clock.’ She looked up at me with the contented air of someone who’d just put a spoke in somebody else�
�s wheel, but she remained polite. ‘Sorry.’
‘Come on’ – I peered at the name plate on her desk – ‘Ms Morgan. It’s not as if I’m asking for a hip replacement. I just want two, no, five minutes of his time. I’ll do this piece about the People’s Glyndebourne one way or the other but would prefer to hear both sides of the story first. I like to be fair.’
‘I’m sure that’s very laudable, Miss Fisher, but as I said, Mr Lloyd is tied up.’
Just then the door to the inner office opened and a tall, fair man stepped out, followed by a shorter man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, Stuart Lloyd.
‘I’m Esther Fisher from the Chronicle.’ I hurried forward, barring their escape. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about your proposed building of an opera house on the land adjoining your estate, Dora and George Wilson’s land.’
Helen Morgan rose from her desk. ‘I’m sorry, Stuart. She got past the front desk somehow.’
Stuart Lloyd flashed a smile at me before turning to his secretary. ‘That’s OK, Helen. I’ve got a minute.’ He turned to the fair-haired man, who, I noticed, was gawping at me. ‘You don’t mind if I talk to Ms Fisher?’ The man, a very good-looking man if he’d only shut his mouth, shook his head. Then he opened his mouth and laughed. Well, not so much laughed as giggled, high-pitched and abandoned. Dear oh dear, I thought, the man is a moron. A beautiful moron, maybe, but a moron all the same. Stuart Lloyd, however, didn’t seem fazed by the noise – I suppose he’d heard it before – but I noticed Helen Morgan flinching at her desk. Just a small, discreet flinch, but a flinch nevertheless.
‘Esther Fisher, I can’t believe it.’ The moron had stopped laughing. ‘Not Audrey Fisher’s daughter?’
I nodded, mute.
‘So you’re the cross English girl?’
Well, that was one way of putting it. ‘How do you know?’ Then I corrected myself. ‘I mean, how do you know of me? And my mother? Are you a friend of hers?’ It wasn’t impossible. Audrey had got a veritable little salon going in her room these days.
‘What’s going on here?’ Stuart Lloyd looked at us both, a small frown on his bearded face. He was the kind of man, I thought, who liked to be in charge at all times, the sort who had probably remained in the driving seat even while making love in his first car.
‘This is extraordinary,’ the blond man went on, ignoring Stuart Lloyd’s question.
‘You two have obviously met before,’ Stuart Lloyd said.
I shook my head. ‘No, no we haven’t.’
Stuart Lloyd looked confused, then took charge again. ‘Let’s go into my office.’ He waved us towards his door. ‘And Helen, could you bring in some coffee?’ Helen nodded, but she didn’t look pleased. She knew a snake was being let into the bosom of her office and now she was asked to give it coffee too. I shot her an apologetic smile over my shoulder as I disappeared into the other room.
My mother’s odd friend turned and gave me a heart-stopping smile, extending his hand to shake mine. ‘I’m Linus Stendal. Olivia’s stepson. You must have heard about me? I’ve certainly heard about you. For years and years.’
‘Good God!’ It was all I could say. And who was gawping now? I clamped my mouth shut. Then I opened it again. ‘Good Lord! Don’t tell me you’re the architect.’
‘That’s me.’
I took a deep breath. ‘I have to tell you both that my paper is entirely opposed to the building of the opera house on this particular piece of land and that we are doing everything we can to publicise the plight of George and Dora Wilson.’
Stuart Lloyd threw himself down into one of the two large cream leather chairs which flanked a glass-topped coffee table. Now he looked up at me with a small, tight smile. ‘Well.’ He jabbed at his thigh with the tip of a pen. ‘At least we all know where we stand.’
I glanced across at Linus Stendal who looked as if he had no idea where he was, let alone where he was standing. ‘But if you’ve made up your mind,’ Stuart Lloyd continued, ‘why bother to come to me with questions?’
‘Because I believe in giving both sides of the story, regardless of my opinion on the subject. I must give our readers the chance to make up their own minds with as much material as possible at their disposal.’
‘Are you telling me that you actually believe things you write?’ Stuart Lloyd shook his head.
I gave him a stern look. ‘Yes, I do. I believe in all kinds of things and one of them is the right of two old people to remain in their home however inconvenient this might prove to be to you and your company.’ Stuart Lloyd just smiled and went on shaking his head.
‘I know I’m a journalist, Mr Lloyd,’ I said. ‘But I live by my principles.’ At least I would if I knew what they were, I thought.
In the corner by the window Linus Stendal stirred and I felt his gaze on me. ‘I live by my work,’ he said in his faultless English. ‘This is going to be a beautiful building.’
Stuart Lloyd was looking at me, his head a little to one side, his small dark eyes alert. ‘I tell you what. Seeing as you two almost know each other, why don’t we all have lunch together. See if we can find some common ground, Miss Fisher. And I’d really like to explain what we’re trying to do here.’
I wasn’t fooled by that old ‘Let me take you into my confidence’ trick. But I smiled and said, ‘Love to,’ adding a ‘Hej, hej’ to Linus. This was Swedish for hello and about as much common ground as I could muster for then.
On my way out I thanked Helen Morgan for her help. She had been absolutely right to find me a pain.
We went to an Italian restaurant right near the offices of Terra Nova Enterprises. Once seated, Stuart Lloyd made it clear there was no time to dither over menus, so I said I’d have what he had so as to be decisive and make someone else responsible, both at the same time. Stuart Lloyd ordered grilled vegetables for us, followed by cod in a herb crust. Linus looked at the menu as if it had some hidden depth that no one else had noticed, before ordering pasta with four cheeses, followed by breaded veal.
‘You eat veal?’ I said.
Linus opened his grey, dark-lashed eyes wider. ‘Shouldn’t I?’
‘Doing what you’re about to do, I suppose you should.’
‘I don’t quite follow you,’ he said in that almost too perfect English of his.
Luckily my glass of wine had arrived. I thought of giggling prettily and saying something like ‘Gosh, am I the only one here drinking’, but I was never very good at that kind of thing and anyway, I didn’t want to waste time. I took a deep gulp from my glass of red house wine and said, ‘You evict defenceless old people from their lifelong home and turn their land into a hymn to elitist culture, so it figures you should eat veal.’
‘Now, now,’ Stuart Lloyd said. ‘You’re being just a bit unfair there. Linus is the architect chosen to design my opera house. He has nothing to do with acquiring the land. And I can’t agree with your term elitist culture. The whole point with this development is to bring culture to people who might otherwise feel excluded. And the building itself, Linus’s design, is a quite spectacular merge of art and functionalism. Think about it; that building will be there for countless generations to enjoy. Anyway, you’re forgetting that it’s the council who’s evicting the Wilsons, not Terra Nova Enterprises.’
‘Surely that’s the height of hypocrisy on your part. If it weren’t for you and your promise of jobs and tourism, let alone the huge sum of money you’re no doubt offering for the council-owned land adjoining the Wilsons’, the council would not be slapping a compulsory purchase order on the place.’
‘It’s all legal and above board, I can assure you, Miss Fisher, Esther. We’ve had our lawyers crawling all over those papers.’ He picked up his glass of water and drained it. Then he leant back in his chair and looked at me, his head a little to one side, his keen eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Do you really believe that the whole of that part of the country should suffer because two stubborn old people don’t know what’s good for th
em?’ he asked.
‘May I quote you on that?’ I enquired. ‘Or is this off the record?’
‘Nothing is off the record. I’m here to answer any concerns you or your readers may have about this business. Still, I’d prefer, as we are having lunch, that you didn’t use a tape recorder.’
I was about to haul mine out of my tote bag but instead I brought out my notebook and pen. ‘So the rights of the individual count for nothing?’
‘I’m not saying that. But I really do fail to see what the fuss is all about. The council is offering to pay the full market price plus the cost of the move. I’ve seen the place. In my view, anything would be better than that rat-infested hovel.’
I made a note of rat-infested hovel. Stuart Lloyd looked at my glass; it was empty. ‘More wine?’
I nodded decisively. Hadn’t the therapist told me to be decisive?
Stuart Lloyd turned to Linus, who had been sitting happily doodling on the napkin like a large backward child, until you looked closer at the doodlings, that was. ‘What was that you said to me this morning about the architect’s task?’
As Linus opened his mouth to answer I nodded towards the napkin and said, ‘That’s not paper, you know.’
Linus turned bright pink and muttered ‘sorry’, pushing the napkin away, then changing his mind and placing it on his lap. ‘It was Alvar Alto, the Finnish architect and designer. He said, “The architect’s task is to restore a correct order of values… it’s still the architect’s duty to attempt to humanise the age of machines.”’
‘I would have thought that was the worst possible quote for you all to use,’ I said.
‘They’re good words,’ the godlike moron insisted.
‘So you’re saying that the correct order of things is throwing two old people out of their home to make way for your design? That’s your way of humanising our age?’
‘No.’ Linus looked at me. ‘No, I’m not.’ The sudden vulnerability I glimpsed in his dark-grey eyes gave me a jolt. ‘Stuart asked me to repeat the quote, that was all.’ He looked away.
Frozen Music Page 20
