by Adele Geras
I’m thinking of going to visit Mme Franchard in Paris soon – would you like to come with me?
Lou smiled when she thought of the variations on those few words she’d worked through before she was ready to press ‘send’. So many of them contained words that could be double entendres: ‘come’, ‘coming’, ‘fancy’, even ‘being with you’. It was exhausting and reminded her of being a schoolgirl again. In those days, she used to spend hours analysing every single note, phone call, word, that some boy she liked had said to her, or sent her. Nothing had changed. She rejected: How about you come with me? What about making a weekend of it? How’d you fancy coming? It’ll be so much more fun if you’re there. Fancy coming with me? I fancy you … She’d actually written that at one point and then stared at it for ages before deleting it. Even after it had disappeared for ever, it hung around in her head. Do I fancy him? she asked herself and came to the conclusion that yes, she did, and if he fancied her, she wasn’t going to put up a struggle. Harry would never hurt her, she was sure he wouldn’t, and since she’d started working at Cinnamon Hill, she found herself thinking about Ray less and less. Sometimes, in the dark hours, when she was trying hard to get to sleep because she was going to have to get up properly in a couple of hours and it was really, really important not to stay awake, nasty little ideas popped into her mind. Ray was lovely to begin with. He was lovely for a long time. He only became violent and horrible later. Harry might be like that. No, he’s not, he’s not. He’s really gentle. No one says a bad word about him in the office.
She’d sent the message in the end, and he’d replied. What he’d written in the subject line of the email made her laugh, because it was so typical and so sweet: We’ll always have Paris. Harry and herself: Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca— nothing to choose between them! She’d printed out the message and pinned it to the noticeboard in the kitchen where it made her feel happy every day: Sure thing, kid. Anytime: Can’t wait. Harry x.
That had been the first ‘x’ and since then, she’d added the letter to her signature and it had appeared after his, every time he wrote to her. It was her inner schoolgirl thinking but she attached an enormous weight to that ‘x’. Was she mad? She knew lots of people (e.g. Nessa, when she wrote, once in a blue moon) who added an ‘x’ to their name automatically and to whom it meant nothing and less than nothing. What if Harry was one of those? I don’t care, she thought. I mean my ‘x’ to be a kiss and I’m going to imagine he does too, until I know he doesn’t.
Nearly time to fetch Poppy. Lou closed the library book she’d stopped reading ages ago and went to put it back on the shelf. After lunch, she told herself, we’ll go to the park. We’ll feed the ducks and I’ll work out what I’m going to say to Harry in my next email. I’ll write one tonight. Then tomorrow, I’ll take the screenplay to Ciaran Donnelly. If I dare.
*
Matt read the letter twice. The message had been clear enough the first time, but better to make sure. His secretary had opened it and brought it straight in, before processing the rest of the morning’s post. She must have been attracted to the thick cream paper of the envelope and the fact that it looked like a proper letter and not a circular of some kind.
‘I think you’ll want to see this,’ she said, putting it down in front of him. ‘It looks interesting to me.’
The letterhead was as impressive as the paper it was printed on. GOLDEN INK, it read, and there was a little logo of an inkpot with a pen sitting beside it. The implication was that the words GOLDEN INK had just that minute been written in … wait for it … golden ink. As puns went (and Matt was fond of puns) it wasn’t bad. The letter was from someone called Jake Golden. The address was somewhere in Bloomsbury.
Dear Matthew Barrington,
I very much hope that you are the person I think you are. I am on the trail of the son of the late John Barrington, who wrote a novel called Blind Moon (as well as several others) in the 1960s.
I came across a copy of Blind Moon in a second-hand bookshop some time ago and learned from the author biography that John Barrington was a solicitor in Haywards Heath. The internet did the rest and now I’m writing to ask whether you are, as I assume, John Barrington’s son.
If you are, I would very much like to meet you to discuss the possible reissue of your father’s fine book. We are a small firm, but I think I can say we’ve made our mark, in a world increasingly dominated by the search for the next bestseller, as being a company more interested in the quality of the text than the dazzling effect of the bottom line.
I’d be happy to speak to you at any time, and my numbers are …
Matt frowned and allowed himself a moment of something like glee. If he’d understood it correctly, this chap – this Golden chap – was offering (or might be offering) to republish his father’s book. There would be money in this for Lou if that happened, and he found himself ridiculously happy at that prospect. He took out his mobile to talk to her. He wasn’t going to go through the office switchboard, even though there wasn’t anything secret about this. His reason for keeping it to himself was superstitious. He didn’t want to jinx what was perhaps about to happen.
‘Lou? Hello, darling,’ he said when she answered. ‘I want to read you a letter. Can you talk now? Good, so listen to this.’
He read the letter, then listened to his daughter’s questions.
‘Yes, yes, I know. I’ll check up on the firm, don’t worry. But may I give this Jake chap your number? I’ll tell him that the copyright belongs to you and then we’ll see. He’ll no doubt be in touch. Okay? Fine. Got to go, darling. I’m going to see Justin – no, no, nothing much. Going to see his new flat, that’s all. Right. Take care. I’ll phone Jake Golden right now.’
He rang the number for the mobile given on the letterhead and waited for Mr Golden to answer with a rising sense of excitement. He wasn’t about to let himself get carried away, though. Many a slip …
*
Lou arrived early at the nursery, and sat on the wall outside, trying to take in what had just happened. Perhaps she’d been dreaming. No, it was true. Dad’s number was still on her mobile. From what she could make out, this person called Mr Golden wanted – or maybe wanted – to reissue Grandad’s book and Dad was going to give him her number. She had no idea of how the timing would go. She didn’t know how long it took to get a book published, nor what it entailed, but for a few moments, she allowed herself to daydream. Imagine if the book and a movie made from her screenplay came out at the same time! No, that wouldn’t happen. Movies took ages. She had so many hurdles to leap that just thinking about them depressed her. Even if Ciaran Donnelly liked it, and that was a big if, it wouldn’t necessarily get made. An option was the best she could hope for. But, of course, very few screenplays were optioned so why should hers be? Then even if you did get your work optioned, that was often the end of the story. So few optioned screenplays got made into movies that the possibility was only a little more likely than a win on the Lottery.
She didn’t know much about publishing, but was aware of various initiatives to get out-of-print books back into the shops. She’d bought several gorgeous silver-jacketed Persephone books, which came with their own bookmarks, and this Golden Ink – that must be a pun on Golden Inc., surely – was probably a bit like that. Grandad’s book was easily as good as the Persephone reissues, so the idea of it being available again, on the bookshelves once more after years of neglect, didn’t strike her as particularly unlikely. I ought to have thought of it, she told herself. If I hadn’t been so taken up with writing the screenplay, I could have approached publishers myself. I could have made it my business to find out who might have been interested in it. Her mobile started ringing and she scrabbled for it in her handbag.
‘Hello? Yes, this is Louise Barrington. Who? Oh, I’m sorry …’
The phone almost slipped from her hand. It was Jake Golden. Amazing. Dad had only just phoned her an hour or so ago. Jake Golden was American. That was a surprise. He
sounded like Clint Eastwood: a quiet voice.
‘Miss Barrington, I’ve just spoken to your father and he tells me that you’re John Barrington’s granddaughter and the owner of his copyrights?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Then I’m honoured to talk to you. I’m a great admirer of your grandfather’s books and I’d very much like to meet with you to discuss them.’
‘Umm … yes, of course. That’d be – I mean, I’d love to.’
‘Great. I don’t mean just a literary discussion, you understand. Much as I’d enjoy that – they’re such unusual books – no, I mean I’d like to talk about the possibility of reissuing Blind Moon. I’m going to be in the States for the next while, but may I phone again when I get back? We could have lunch one day. How would that be?’
A publisher wanted to take her to lunch! Lou tried to sound nonchalant, as though this were something that happened to her all the time.
‘Sure,’ she said. The Clint Eastwood thing was catching. ‘That’s fine.’ Another thought occurred to her. She added, ‘Is your company based in America?’
‘No, it’s based here,’ Jake Golden replied, laughing. He had a lovely laugh. ‘But I’m wanting to open an office in New York. I do have international ambitions, but I’ve lived in London for ten years and I love it.’
They said goodbye and he promised again to be in touch. Lou put her phone back into her bag, not quite able to believe what she’d heard. She couldn’t wait to tell Harry about it on email. Possible publication! She wondered what Jake Golden looked like. She imagined someone a bit like Leo McGarry in The West Wing. Wishful thinking, probably. But he’d be about Dad’s age, for sure.
She looked at her watch. Time to go and fetch Poppy. A couple of other mothers were already going through the glass doors.
*
‘Say something, for God’s sake. Bloody hell, Matt, this is hard enough without you clamming up like that. Why don’t you say anything?’ Justin was fidgeting. He was standing by the window, almost hopping from foot to foot, running his right hand through his hair over and over again.
Matt continued staring at his stepson and kept his mouth shut. Serve the bastard right, he thought. I’m not speaking till I know what I’m going to say. Let him sweat. He felt winded, as though someone had aimed a kick at his stomach. He’d stopped breathing for a moment but now he was gazing at the lines of golden parquet in Justin’s flat, and they stretched away to the window, the chevrons in which they were arranged growing and shrinking in an optical illusion in front of Matt’s eyes, the way a sheet of netting sometimes did. He’d rung Justin earlier in the morning, asking whether he could come round and see him. The matter of Justin had been on his mind for the last couple of days, ever since someone at the bridge club had said, in passing, ‘Goodness me, Matt, you didn’t waste much time. I see Milthorpe House has been sold.’
It had taken all Matt’s training as a poker-faced lawyer to remain calm, to stop himself from asking for further details. He’d muttered something non-committal and moved away quickly. He phoned Justin the minute he got home and now here he was and the story, which he’d tried to persuade himself was mere rumour, had been confirmed. Matt was good at saying nothing. He could keep it up for a long time. He’d been trained for it from his very earliest childhood. Constance didn’t do tantrums. She simply wasn’t prepared to tolerate them, and Matt learned quickly. There hadn’t been more than two or three occasions when he’d lost it. How old could he have been? Four? Five? Very young anyway. He’d screamed and wailed and drummed his heels on the floor and couldn’t for the life of him now recall why. What was still vivid in his mind was his mother’s reaction. She’d taken him by the arm, not roughly, but firmly and had led him to the back staircase, the one that led from Miss Hardy’s room down to the kitchen. The whole staircase was dark, even when the dim light was turned on. In fact, it was even worse then. The bulb made shadows gather in the corners and these seemed to Matt deeper, more full of monsters and other unthinkable things than any shadows he’d ever seen before. Constance had pushed him down on the first step and said, in a chilly sort of voice: ‘You’re to stay here, Matthew, till you realize that screaming and shouting are not the way to attract my attention. I’ll return for you in a little while and from now on, we’ll talk in a grown-up way without raising our voices, d’you understand? Without tears, especially. Boys do not cry. I’m sure you’ll understand my point of view in a little while.’
She’d gone and there he was, sitting on the linoleum shivering with fear at the dark and the silence and filled with rage at his mother and guilt at feeling the rage, and tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t help crying but his mother said boys do not cry. He wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve and sniffed and sat there and sat there, his arms and legs so cold he could scarcely feel them. No one came near him. Where was Miss Hardy? For a moment or two he wondered if his father might rescue him but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Dad worked in his study in the morning and no one was allowed to disturb him. No one at all.
The time had gone by in the end and after what seemed like hours, Constance came back to release him from his punishment.
‘No more tantrums, Matthew. Do we understand one another?’
He nodded. He’d already made up his mind never to make his mother cross again. If he wanted things to go smoothly, if he wanted his mother’s approval, he’d have to become quiet. He’d made up his mind on that day never to scream, never to yell, never to cry unless it was for a broken arm or something, and he never had, not even today.
He looked up at Justin. After what he’d just been told, he reckoned a bit of shouting wouldn’t be in the least out of order. He glanced at his hands. He wasn’t, had never been, a violent person, but a wave of fury swept over him and he clenched his fists. Hitting Justin won’t help. It won’t make any difference was one thought that kept running through his mind. But it would make me feel better was another. No, of course it wouldn’t. Matt closed his eyes. Could he risk speaking? He said, ‘Justin, I’d like you to tell me the facts of the matter again, please. I’ve had time to take in what you said, but I want the details. Facts, figures. That sort of thing.’
‘I’m useless at that stuff, Matt. You know that. Why don’t I just get my accountant, or better still, Eremount’s accountants, to get in touch with you? Explain the deal.’
‘Later. I’ll speak to them later, of course.’
Justin gazed down at his own feet. He can’t meet my eyes, Matt thought. He’s a coward as well as a fool. He went on, ‘For the moment I’d like to hear from you why you thought it was a good idea to get rid of our family home.’
‘I didn’t get rid of it, I sold it. To Eremount. I’ve explained all this, Matt. They’re going to turn it into a very high-end health club and spa.’
‘High end? God, Justin, speak English why don’t you?’
‘It means posh. Superior. High class.’
‘I know what it bloody means.’ Matt could feel himself getting even angrier, could hear the volume rising when he spoke. He swallowed. ‘Okay, high-end spa. I get it, completely. Why did you want to turn Milthorpe House into a health club? What was the matter with it as a house? A home, even.’
‘Matt, it’s not that I didn’t love Milthorpe House …’
Of course not, Matt said to himself. You couldn’t wait to part with the place. Fat lot of love that shows. Justin went on, ‘… but they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’
‘Spare me The Godfather clichés, please. You could refuse. You should have refused. You should at the very, very least have consulted me.’
‘Don’t shout at me, Matt.’
‘I’m not shouting.’
‘That’s what it feels like to me.’
Matt sighed. ‘If I’d been shouting at you, Justin … if I let you have even a tiny percentage of what I’m feeling, you’d be on the floor and unable to pick yourself
up for a week.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘No, no … what good would a threat be? You’ve done it now, without telling a soul. In fact, if I hadn’t heard rumours at the bridge club and asked you about it, I daresay you’d not have come clean even now.’
‘I would have told you in the end.’
‘Exactly. In the end. You just didn’t have the courage to let this matter be discussed in the family. You sold the family home. I still can’t take it in. My family home. The place I grew up in. How much did they give you for it?’
‘I don’t have to tell you that. A considerable amount of money. And it’s not yours, Matt. After Constance died, it became mine. To do with as I thought best. And don’t give me that family home shit. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in Milthorpe House.’
‘Because I thought the place was safe, you fool. I don’t believe what I’m hearing. It nearly killed me when Constance left it to you if you must know …’
‘Oh, I do know. Believe me, we both know. Me and Nessa just didn’t count when stacked up against your precious Lou. That was obvious. Well, too bloody bad, Matt. Constance left the house to me. No one else. Just me. And I didn’t need the hassle of taxes and so on, did I? I didn’t have to consult you and I didn’t have to get your permission and I’m glad I went ahead and sold because now, instead of sitting there like a stonking white elephant that everyone gets all sentimental over but no one actually wants to live in, it’s going to be a jewel in the crown of the Eremount empire and I’m going to be almost three million quid richer and I don’t give a flying fuck what you think.’
He sank down on to the sofa, exhausted by this outburst. Matt stood up. He’d long ago decided, not because of anything Constance had done in his childhood, but after years of dealing with hysterical and sometimes abusive clients, that it was quite pointless to go on trying to discuss something with a person who’d become foul-mouthed.
