by Adele Geras
What was it in Lou’s voice that alerted Phyl? A warmth in the words as she spoke of a ‘friend’. Did she, could she mean a man? Ought she to ask? She decided to risk it.
‘A girlfriend?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Have you … Do you …’
‘Don’t be coy, Mum. You’re asking if I have a boyfriend and the answer is very much no – but I might take a male friend.’
‘Oh,’ said Phyl, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘Not at all, really.’ Phyl started to ask Lou about her work but was interrupted.
‘Gotta go, Mum, sorry. I’m going out for a meal.’
‘With the same person who isn’t a boyfriend?’
‘Don’t be so nosy!’ Lou was laughing.
‘Okay, bye,’ said Phyl, suddenly feeling quite optimistic. Lou sounded really upbeat. That had to be a good thing.
*
Plastic air. That’s what hotels had circulating through them, Nessa thought, lying in her single bed in a room that, even though it hadn’t lived up to Mickey’s dream of an idyllic country retreat, didn’t seem all that bad from the outside. It wasn’t bad on the inside either, not really, but somehow most of the expenditure seemed to have been directed at the public rooms and the bedrooms had missed out. For a moment, Nessa followed a daydream of the kind of place she’d have if she owned a hotel. She’d make sure that the rooms were both luxurious and simple. Lots of white. Pale grey and apricot perhaps for the curtains. Printed velvet, chenille … something that you wanted to touch. Lots and lots of Paper Roses flowers everywhere. It could be a feature of the place: unreal blooms in every room. Could you get away with something like that? She sighed and sat up, turning on the bedside light to reveal the beige and scarlet décor, the flouncy pelmets, the too-fiddly lampshades, and wondered whether it was worth getting out of bed to make a cup of tea. She was finding it hard to fall asleep. Being naked might have something to do with it. She was restless. She’d been to the loo only a moment ago and got into bed again, but now she was wondering whether a drink might help.
Mickey was in the room next door. The hotel was suspiciously empty when they’d checked in, even taking into account the fact that it was midweek and this was the depths of the countryside. No one said anything about them having no luggage. Dinner was lovely. Just being able to sit quietly and talk to someone who wasn’t on her case was restful. Mickey was funny and asked all the right questions. They’d talked about everything: the divorce, Tamsin, Justin, and Ellie, too. Maybe, Nessa thought, Mickey’s still awake like me. Perhaps I’ll text her – that might wake her up if she’s asleep. But she usually goes to sleep late.
She was still debating what to do when her own mobile, which she was holding in her hand, trilled into life. She dropped it at once, and it fell on the floor near the bed. For a moment, she felt a chill of fear. Had something happened to Tamsin? Who on earth could be texting her in the middle of the night? She read the message: U awake? M. Mickey, thank heavens. She texted back Can’t sleep and bored. Do come and visit. N.
Soon, there was a knock on her door. Nessa wrapped herself in the flowery bedspread and went to open it. Mickey stood in the corridor, bearing a bottle of wine and a tube of Pringles. She was wearing her coat, a sort of trenchcoat-style mac, and she was, Nessa realized, completely naked under it, just as she was under her bedspread.
‘Midnight feast,’ Mickey whispered, and Nessa opened the door wide to let her in.
‘Where did you get that bottle?’
‘I went down to the bar and sweet-talked the barman.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yup.’
‘Before or after you undressed?’ Nessa giggled.
‘Oh, after, of course – gave him a flash of my boobs as a reward.’
‘I’m full of admiration. And a bit shocked too. It would never occur to me to do that. Thanks so much. Just what I need. I can’t sleep.’
‘No, nor can I,’ Mickey said. ‘Can I get on the bed?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll pour the wine first.’ She went into the ensuite bathroom and brought back the glass. ‘We’ll have to share, I’m afraid.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Nessa said. She was already in bed, suddenly very conscious of her body, feeling the sheets on every inch of her bare skin.
Mickey handed her the glass and said, ‘You first.’
She went round to the other side of the bed and stretched out next to Nessa.
They lay there for a while, not saying anything, but passing the glass between them, and drinking the wine rather too quickly.
‘Pringle?’
‘No, thanks,’ Nessa spoke quietly.
‘Are you feeling sleepy?’
‘Not really. I’m a bit pissed, I think, what with the wine at dinner and now this … Mickey?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Are you stroking my hair?’
‘D’you mind?’
Mickey’s hand felt wonderful on her hair. She’s caressing me, Nessa thought, and closed her eyes. She is. I haven’t been caressed for years. Had Gareth ever touched her hair like that? Her mind was becoming more and more fuzzy, but she couldn’t remember an occasion when he had … Oh, it felt good, so good.
‘Should I stop?’ Mickey whispered. She’s turned over on her side, Nessa told herself. I can feel her breath on my cheek. She shook her head.
‘No, don’t stop.’
Nessa didn’t dare to open her eyes, in case the whole of the scene vanished like a dream: she and Mickey on the bed, Mickey stroking her hair, the wine warming her, the bedclothes lying on her body. Mickey’s fingers seemed to be moving over her face now, tracing her profile and lingering on her lips, and down over her chin until they reached the bedclothes. What now? Would she – would she go on? What do I do if she asks me? What if she says something now? How will I answer? Nessa found herself shuddering into gooseflesh … Oh, please don’t stop, she said soundlessly. Go on. Touch me there … and Mickey did. Oh, God, she’s touching my breast … oh …
‘Nessa.’ Mickey’s mouth on her ear. Nessa thought she would faint. ‘I want to touch you all over. Can I? Can I touch you all over?’
Nessa couldn’t speak; didn’t want to say anything. Saying something would be dangerous. She’d have to admit how this was making her feel: as though she were melting. Her body like a lit candle, parts of her liquefying, on fire, singing at the touch of Mickey’s fingers. The fingers – they were hard and soft at the same time – how could that be? How did she do that? The hands touched and touched till Nessa’s whole body was inflamed, and throbbing and then Mickey peeled back the covers and went to crouch between Nessa’s legs and all at once there was a sound erupting from her throat that was a shout and a sob and she was electric all over, struck by lightning, and then limp and wet and crying properly now, clinging to Mickey, who lay with her head on Nessa’s shoulder, her naked body intertwined with hers.
‘Nessa?’
‘Mmm.’ Nessa had no idea what she ought to say. No clue what she was supposed to do now. She didn’t even want to open her eyes because she didn’t know where to look, so she lay with her them firmly closed.
‘Look at me, Nessa.’
‘Must I?’
‘Don’t you want to?’
Nessa said, ‘I don’t know what … I’m not sure …’
‘You should look at me. Speak to me.’
Nessa opened her eyes. ‘Oh, Mickey …’ she said.
Mickey brought her mouth close to Nessa’s ear and whispered, ‘Are you embarrassed?’
Nessa nodded. ‘A bit. I’ve never – I didn’t know …’
‘You’re going to say you’ve always been straight, never been attracted to a woman before, don’t know what came over you, it was the wine talking. Stuff like that, right?’
‘I have always been straight but …’
‘But what?’
‘Oh, Mickey that was so good. I felt – I don’t think I’ve ever felt – and you, you’re so dear to me, Mickey. You’re my very best friend, you’ve been that for ages. It’s so confusing. I’m confused. I don’t know what to think or what I feel, but it was so lovely, Mickey. I thought I was going to die of bliss.’
‘Don’t think too much, Nessa. Not now. It’s late – time to go to sleep.’
‘You’re not going back to your room, are you?’ Suddenly Nessa found she was dreading the thought of being all alone in bed again.
‘D’you want me to?’
Nessa shook her head.
‘I love you, Nessa,’ Mickey whispered.
‘Don’t say that, Mickey. Please don’t say that!’
‘Why not? It’s true – I do. I’m not afraid to admit it. I fell in love with you the very first time I saw you. But you were married and straight and I wasn’t about to … Well, we were good friends and I’ve had to let that be enough. But tonight – I couldn’t help it, Nessa. I’ve been wanting you so much for so long. It’s been awful.’
‘You should have said.’ Nessa turned so that she was lying alongside Mickey, staring into her blue, blue eyes.
‘You’d have run a mile. I bet you still think there’s something disgraceful about being with a woman. Admit it.’
‘I do, a bit. I feel as though I’m being extra specially wicked – it makes it more exciting, though, in a funny way. It’s like having butterflies, a bit. In my stomach.’
‘I’m going to kiss you now, Nessa. Have you ever kissed a woman before?’
‘No,’ Nessa breathed. Their mouths were very close together. She could feel the breath coming from between Mickey’s lips, fluttering on her own skin. She closed her eyes and felt a hand on her neck, pulling her gently till their two mouths were touching, softly. Nessa opened her lips, and let herself be absorbed into the kiss. She could taste Mickey. Feel her. It was nothing, nothing like being kissed by a man. Mickey smelled of herself: a combination of skin and soap and the perfume she always wore: Vivienne Westwood’s Boudoir. Her flesh was soft, and her slim body smooth and her hair was silky when Nessa touched it. That’s what I’m doing, she thought. I’m touching her hair. I am. She was hugging Mickey tightly, wanting to fuse their two bodies, wanting to be swallowed up herself and then suddenly wanting, oh, wanting overwhelmingly, so, so much, to be the one who touched; the one who did the caressing. Nessa moved her mouth to Mickey’s breast and began to lick it, and it was Mickey’s turn to moan and sigh and Nessa felt powerful and loving and went on touching and touching and stroking and caressing till Mickey shivered into her own orgasm and lay back against the sheet, smiling.
‘Now,’ Nessa whispered, leaning over to kiss Mickey lightly on the mouth. ‘Now’s when I could murder some Pringles. And there’s still a bit of wine left, too.’
7
The blossoms on the tree outside the library window had fallen from the branches and for a while had lain on the ground below like a scattering of confetti. Lou was trying to concentrate on the book in front of her, making an effort not to look at the pale green mist of leaves pressing against the glass. She blinked. It didn’t matter how many times you read about it, or saw it in movies and TV series as different as Empire of the Sun and Tenko, the realities of Japanese prisoner-of-war camps were so horrendous that it was hard to take them in. As if the crushing heat, the lack of food and water, the unhygienic sanitary arrangements, the insects, the inadequate shelter and bedding, the dirt and mud when it rained were not enough, on top of all that, there were the guards. The pleasanter ones were rigid, stubborn and unreasonable. The worst ones were horrifically cruel. The commanders of some camps gloried in the humiliation of their charges, giving out the most sadistic of punishments for tiny little infringements of the rules. Everyone knew about this on some level and Lou, though she wanted to make sure that the background details were exact, was quite certain she didn’t want her screenplay to be simply another catalogue of atrocities.
It’s about Peter, she said to herself. His life there, his problems, the people he’s dealing with. It’s a human story. That’s what I’m interested in and that’s what the movie’s about. People. There would be some extras needed, of course, but Lou had limited her main cast list to nine people: Peter, Annette, Dulcie, Derek and Nigel, two more boys with speaking parts, and two other women in the camp, called Marjorie and Shirley. All the names were from Grandad’s book, which solved one problem for Lou.
The smaller the cast, she knew, the cheaper it would be to make. It would only need one set: the camp, and that, she imagined, could be reconstructed almost anywhere. For a while, she’d seriously considered flashbacks, both to the colony in the days before they were ‘in the bag’ as they used to say: imprisoned. Or perhaps to France, now that she knew more about where Grandad’s real mother came from. She’d decided against it in the end, not only for economic reasons (more than one set, possible location shooting) but also because she was going to be using some voice-over and having both wouldn’t be a good idea. She sighed and closed the book and looked at her watch. Only another half hour and she’d have to go and pick up Poppy from nursery.
Lou had gone to fetch her from her parents’ house the weekend before their proposed visit to Paris, but that hadn’t happened in the end because Dad had to do something urgent at work. They still hadn’t been to see Mme Franchard and neither had she, but they all still intended to go, she knew. Poppy had now been with her for three weeks, and Lou had to admit that in so many ways it was lovely to have her home. Who am I kidding? Lou thought, and felt guilty at once. Of course she’d been thrilled to have her daughter safe in her cot at night, and there all the time to cuddle and chat to and take care of, but it was all so – so relentless. So unending. So every-day-with-no-time-off-for-good-behaviour. She wasn’t cut out for motherhood. That, at any rate, was what she thought when she had to get up in the middle of the night. Bathtimes, mealtimes, cuddling times were fine and fun and there was, thank heaven, the three-hour space every morning when Lou’s time was her own.
That was how she’d managed to finish the screenplay. She’d done it. Typing in THE END was fantastic. She’d felt out of breath, elated, and wanted to go out into the corridor and yell the news at the closed doors of the other flats. Because she’d kept the writing so secret, there was now no one she could phone. Not one of her friends knew about it, nor did her family. She told Poppy in the end.
‘I’ve finished, finished, finished,’ she sang, blowing raspberries into her baby’s soft stomach while she was dressing her. ‘I’m a screenwriter, I am. A proper writer. I’ve finished, finished, finished.’
Poppy, caught up in the excitement, started saying: ‘Fish, fish, fish …’ which was quite close, considering how young she was.
The elation lasted one whole day and then that night, when Lou opened up the laptop, dread washed over her for no good reason she could see. What if it’s awful? What if I only think it’s good and it isn’t? Everyone will say it’s mawkish. Sensational. Plain old bad. She took a deep breath and started reading it. She’d gone through it about ten times since that night and now she was almost as convinced it was good as she had been on the day she’d finished it.
There came a time when you had to stop re-reading. She’d now done the final, final edit, making it as good as it could be, she’d taken it to be printed out, and had re-read it on paper, where somehow it looked different. Next week, she was going to do something which made her feel faint with fear whenever she thought about it: she’d decided to take it round to Ciaran Donnelly’s house and pretend that Harry had sent it in for the great man to look at. She’d been wondering for ages what to do with the screenplay once it was written. She wanted a sympathetic reader, but not one who knew her and whose opinion might be swayed by their opinion of her. Harry was the obvious person to show it to, but she worked for him, apart from anything else. Having him assess her screenplay was a no-no. She wasn’t about to put him o
n the spot.
Taking it round to Ciaran Donnelly had occurred to her in the middle of the night, but there were problems with that, too. If he hated it, he’d get back to Harry and say hey, how come you took the trouble to send me over such a crappy screenplay? and Harry would say what screenplay? Her deception would be uncovered. What would the consequences be? What if Harry never forgave her for not going to him first? For not trusting him with her secret? For not allowing that he might be in a position to vet what she’d written before she went thrusting it under the nose of a top Hollywood producer? She’d have to plead girly foolishness, not thinking properly, etc., etc., but she’d be so contrite that he’d forgive her, she was sure. He wasn’t the kind of person to be angry for a long time and upsetting him was a risk she was prepared to take.
Why had Harry chosen this particular time to go off to the States for a month just when things had started to go so well? Never mind, he’d be back soon and meanwhile there were the emails. They wrote to one another every couple of days. Lou’s instinct was to answer his messages by return, but she’d forced herself not to. It wasn’t exactly like You’ve Got Mail (a ridiculously soppy and romantic movie which she’d never have admitted she liked), but sort of the same, because for the last couple of weeks she looked forward to opening her laptop every single morning. Harry’s messages were typical of him: short, quite funny, and with no hint of the sort of vibes she’d been getting from him the last couple of times she’d seen him, when he seemed to her to be working up to the point of actually making it clear he was interested in her in a more than just friendly way.
Lou had almost asked him to go to Paris with her, but her nerve failed her at the last moment and then he’d flown off to what he called, Hollywood-style, ‘the coast’. That had allowed her to invite him by email and she’d spent almost as long on composing that message as she had on writing certain parts of Blind Moon. She knew it by heart:
