One May Smile

by Penny Freedman

  Can’t I persuade you to read for Hamlet? I heard several yesterday but none of them was really what I want. You would fit my conception exactly.

  Would it make any difference to your decision if I told you that I’m planning to cast Sophie as Ophelia?

  Yours

  Adam

  – – – original message – – –

  From: James Asquith

  To: Adam Barrie

  Sent: 6th May 2011 07.45

  Subject: re: Playing the Prince

  Dear Adam,

  I am most flattered that you should think me right for Hamlet. At any other time I would be delighted but the imminence of Finals is concentrating my mind wonderfully and I should like to keep it that way.

  Yours,

  James

  After that came an exchange with Sophie Forrester.

  – – – original message – – –

  From: Adam Barrie

  To: Sophie Forrester

  Sent: 6th May 2011 23. 29

  Subject: James

  Sophie darling

  I’m so delighted that you’ve agreed to play Ophelia. Now can you use your undoubted influence with James to get him to say he’ll play Hamlet? Conrad is breathing down my neck and I’m getting desperate.

  xxA

  From: Sophie Forrester

  To: Adam Barrie

  Sent: 7th May 2011 10.17

  Subject: re: James

  Dear Adam

  I’m so excited about doing Ophelia and I shall do my utmost to get James on board. Communication between him and me is a bit hit and miss at the moment as his head is somewhere in Arabia and it won’t come out until the horrors of Finals are over. I think he will do it but you may not get an answer for a while. Can you bear to wait?

  xSophie

  Scott ran his eyes down the subjects of the remaining emails until he found another headed re: Playing the Prince. It was dated 10th May.

  From: James Asquith

  To: Adam Barrie

  Sent: 10th May 2011 07.45

  Subject: Re: Playing the Prince

  Dear Adam,

  I can see that there will be no peace between Sophie and me until I give you an answer about Hamlet. She is terrified that she might end up playing opposite Conrad and I can see that this is not a consummation to be wished. I will, therefore, say yes, I will do it as long as I am not required to think about it until after June 18th.

  My apologies for sounding so ungracious but you will understand that I need a First or I fall at the first fence.

  Yours,

  James

  Adam celebrated this news, Scott noticed, by emailing Conrad almost at once.

  – – – original message – – –

  From: Adam Barrie

  To: Conrad Wagner

  Sent: 10th May 2011 09.04

  Subject: Hamlet

  Hi Conrad

  Sorry about the delay in letting you know about Hamlet. It’s not easy juggling the parts and getting the right balance in the casting. In the end, I am afraid, after a lot of agonising, I decided to offer Hamlet to James Asquith. It’s a matter of how the other characters fit around him, really. I know this will be a big disappointment to you, but this will be a great project to be involved in, I hope, and it will look good on a CV, so I’m wondering whether you would be prepared to play Rosencrantz for me. R and G are underrated characters, I think, as Stoppard made us realise, and I want really good actors in those roles. Marianne Gray, who is AD on the production, is going to play Guildenstern and I think it will be possible to work up an interesting relationship between the two of you.

  Yours

  Adam

  – – – original message – – –

  From: Conrad Wagner

  To: Adam Barrie

  Sent: 11th May 2011 00.16

  Subject: re: Hamlet

  Hi Adam

  I am very disappointed at your decision and feel that you may be making a serious mistake, but it’s your production, of course, and I accept your decision. I am a team player and I’m willing to understudy. I’m ready to play Rosencrantz if that’s what you feel the part needs.

  Yours

  Conrad

  After that came a group of emails all headed ‘A Royal Pair’.

  – – – original message – – –

  From: Zada Petrosian

  To: Adam Barie

  Sent: 8th May 2011 10.16

  Subject: re: A Royal Pair

  Darling Adam

  Thank you so much for your email which lifted the gloom of this horrid term considerably. Of course we would LOVE to play Claudius and Gertrude at Elsinore – it would be marvellous. Sickeningly, though, there is a hitch. When I mentioned it to my parents, there was great rending of garments and tearing of hair because they were planning to take Jon and me on the yacht with them round the Greek islands – a post-Finals surprise! I’ve persuaded Daddy to try and change the date and he’s going to have a go but it means cancelling complicated business meetings and such like, so I don’t know how hard he’ll try.

  Sorry to be such a nuisance. PLEASE don’t give the parts away yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.

  Lots of love

  Z

  – – – original message – – –

  From: Jonathan McIntyre

  To: Adam Barrie

  Sent: 9th May 2011 08.15

  Subject: re: A Royal Pair

  Dear Adam,

  I gather Zada has already written to you – rather precipitately from my point of view – so I thought I should make my own position clear. As far as I’m concerned, I’d rather miss the Second Coming than the chance to play Claudius, so whether Artos Petrosian reorganises the jaunt or not, please count me in.

  Yours,

  Jon

  – – – original message – – –

  From: Zada Petrosian

  To: Adam Barrie

  Sent: 11th May 2011 11.22

  Subject: re: A Royal Pair

  Adam, darling.

  We can do it! All is rearranged and I am at your disposal!

  I would love to talk to you about the part if you’ve got the time. Will you be in the library? I have sworn to go into the Bod to revise every day. If you come and take me out for coffee I shall be even more devoted to you than I am already.

  xx Z

  Below this in the inbox was a series of messages with the same arresting subject line.

  From: Adam Barrie a.barrie@ox.ac.uk

  To: m.gray@ox.ac.uk; k.mahon@ox.ac.uk; j.asquith@ox.ac.uk; j.mcintyre@ox.uk; z.petrosian@ox.ac.uk; s.forrester@ox.ac.uk; d.underwood@ox.ac.uk; c.wagner@ox.ac.uk; s.pienkowsky@ox.ac.uk; t.yeoman@ox.ac.uk

  Sent: 11th May 2011 23.17

  Subject: naked and in the dark

  Hi Everyone

  We have a company! And I’m sure we’re going to make a fantastic team. It’s a great cast and we have the beginnings of a good backstage team – Marianne Gray as AD, Tom Yeoman doing great stuff with the music and Kelly Mahon stage managing. HOWEVER you will be performing naked and in the dark unless I can find someone to take on costumes and lighting, where I’ve drawn a blank so far. If any of you have any ideas for filling those roles please let me know asap.

  I’m going into purdah now, re-emerging after June 18th, and I’m sure you’re all doing the same.

  Break a leg, all of you!

  Adam

  – – – original message – – –

  From: James Asquith

  To: Adam Barrie

  Sent: 12th May 2013 08.30

  Subject: re: naked and in the dark

  Dear Adam,

  I know a chap who might be able to do lighting, I have forwarded your message to him so he has your email and will be in touch.

  Yours,

  James

  – – – original message – – –

  From: Raymond Porter

  To: Adam Barrie

  Sent: 12th May 2011 10.12

&nbs
p; Subject: in the dark

  Hi Adam

  Jim Asquith tells me you need someone to do lighting for your play, I can’t pretend I’m an expert but I did a bit of stage lighting at school and I know what I’m doing around electrical stuff so I’m willing to have a go.

  We should meet and talk when your exams are done, maybe you can meet James and I for a drink some time.

  Ray Porter

  – – – original message – – –

  From: Marianne Gray

  To: Adam Barrie

  Sent: 12th May 2011 10.32

  Subject: re: naked and in the dark

  Hi Adam

  I think I could persuade my mother to do costumes. She did them for a production my sister directed and they were pretty good. I’ll tell her it’s only fair she does them for me!

  Leave it to me.

  xx M

  Scott leaned back in his chair assembling his thoughts. He would have liked some time for silent contemplation but if he didn’t start talking Gina would be doing it for him, telling him what he was supposed to think. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Adam is quite an operator, isn’t he? He obviously regards women as a soft touch. You have to admire the way he deals with Conrad, don’t you – bigging up Rosencrantz as a really important part.’

  ‘Aren’t you glad now,’ she said, ‘that I made you watch the Branagh film the other day? Now you know who all the characters are.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘And it would have been nothing without your informative running commentary. I do like my films to come with additional features for the hard of understanding.’

  She ignored him. ‘That bit about building up his relationship with Annie as Guildenstern sounds a bit dodgy,’ she said. ‘It’s almost pimping.’

  ‘Apart from that,’ he said, ‘you can see the strains in the two relationships – James and Sophie, and Jon and Zada. It’s not surprising that they’d fallen apart by the time they got here. And Zada is with Adam now, did you say? Well that was on the cards. Sophie sounds quite cheerful, doesn’t she, in spite of James having his head in Arabia? Presumably she didn’t know she was pregnant then.’

  ‘Presumably. But that’s character and situation. What about language? Not what they say but how they say it? What did you notice there?’

  And here we are back in the seminar room, he thought, except I’m a class of one.

  ‘It could be the stuff of nightmares,’ he said, ‘being your only pupil.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. What did I notice? I noticed that James sounds like a stuffed shirt. You’d think he was a middle-aged academic already.’

  ‘Exactly! That’s what I mean about that text message to Sophie. Now there’s a difference between emails and texts for some people, I know – they think of an email as a kind of letter and a text as written speech, but I don’t believe that anyone who writes an email like that, with the commas after Dear Adam and yours and no short forms – no I’ms or you’res – would ever have written something so slapdash and ungrammatical in a text.’

  ‘So does your textual analysis of these messages tell you whose style it is?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve got a sort of idea but I can’t make sense of it yet. There are two more people I need to tell you about, though – nothing to do with the emails.’ She pulled the laptop across to her and closed the lid. ‘Karin and Jonas Møller. I’ll tell you about them over dinner. I’m hungry now.’

  ‘Do you think we should try the American barbecue?’ he asked. ‘I think the foams might have lost their entertainment value.’

  ‘OK but it’s not good for you, all that chargrilling,’ she said as they left the room. ‘Still, we can have blueberry pie for pudding to make up. Blueberries are superfoods, you know.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he said.

  15

  DAY EIGHT

  Oh villain, villain, smiling, damnéd villain. 1.5

  It is quite wrong to be feeling so cheerful while the young are laid waste all about me – one dead, one comatose, one in hospital and one in a police cell – but I can’t help it. I suppose it has to do mostly with the wide bed and the blue room and the windows open to the song of the sea. I’ve had a song running through my head since yesterday, when they were playing it in the butik where I bought my dress. The lyrics are mostly terrible and the tune banal but I was grabbed by the second verse and asked the girl in the shop whether they could play it again:

  I close my eyes for a second and pretend it’s me you want,

  Meanwhile I try to act so nonchalant.

  I see a summer’s night with a magic moon

  Every time that you walk in the room.

  Nonchalant! Do you know another pop song that manages to fit nonchalant into its lyrics? Well, I’m making that my justification for enjoying the soppiness and sloppiness of the rest of it. I googled it later and found out that it was sung by The Searchers, one of those sixties groups that keeps going, like the Stones, and the CD I was hearing was recorded live a few weeks ago at a concert in Sweden. Hence its appearance in a Danish clothes shop, I suppose. Yes, I know it’s a song for adolescents and that Searchers’ concerts these days are attended by sixty-somethings and it’s all incredibly naff, but there you are – you can’t help an ear worm, can you?

  Anyway, it suits my mood. I am pleased in general with yesterday’s shopping and grooming expedition. I am pleased with myself for not spending the day sulking about David’s attentions to Susan Forrester and for resorting instead to the classic makeover. I’m delighted with my hair and I’ve got the new dress on again today. Getting a manicure may have been a step too far, though; I’m really not the polished type.

  This morning, in my new persona of svelte woman in her prime, I go to the station after breakfast to wave goodbye to my family. Ellie, Freda and Ben are getting the train down to Copenhagen and flying home this afternoon. I’m glad they are taking Freda home. I’ve heard nothing more from Anders Mortensen about questioning her as to my movements on the day of Sophie’s fall, but I shall be happier when she’s safely back in the UK. David drops me at the station and goes off on some mysterious errand. Annie has come down to see them off too, and when we have bought provisions for the journey, taken Freda to the loo, hugged, kissed, waved and watched them disappear, she says, ‘Come back to the house for a bit, will you? All the parents turned up this morning and we don’t know what to do with them.’

  The new me feels that it’s beneath her to slum it on the bus, so we get a taxi to the villa, and I take the opportunity during the journey to borrow Annie’s complicated phone and ring my mother; one of the nagging worries about having my phone impounded is that she might be trying to contact me. She very rarely rings me, in fact, but if she did it would be because something was wrong. Nothing is wrong, though, except that a mini heatwave is playing havoc with her garden. She has given up watching the TV news and rarely reads a newspaper so the carnage here, though it has been of interest to the British media, has passed her by. Her world has become a very small place, I realise, since she returned home from her stay at my house. She asks how Freda is and I tell her she’s on her way home, and then we run out of things to say.

  ‘Well, take care of yourself,’ I say, lamely.

  ‘And you,’ she says. And that’s it.

  It’s thirty-six hours since I was last in the villa and it feels changed. An air of desolation hangs about it and its untidiness is no longer the vigorous clutter of young people too busy to pick things up but the listless mess of the dispirited and displaced. And they do seem literally to have been displaced; the verandah, always the hub of the house, has been taken over by grown-ups. I see what Annie means. There are eight of them, sitting in two groups, in hailing distance but ignoring one another. The groups are not hard to work out. With Susan Forrester are a couple who can only be the McIntyres, he bald with a bristly gingery moustache and she with fading fair hair and quiet blue eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses. Their clothes ar
e unmistakeably British, his grey flannels and white shirt worn with no jacket but with a tie, hers a white blouse tucked into a neat pale blue linen skirt. Also sitting with them, I see, is a surprise guest – the kind you wish you hadn’t opened the door to – my ex-husband, Andrew. All the parents turned up, Annie said. She couldn’t have been more specific?

  The other group are on sofas, facing each other across a coffee table: two tanned, fleshy, successful looking middle-aged men and two younger, blonde, decorative women. It’s not hard to tell who’s who though. Even if he didn’t have a protective/possessive arm round Zada, I could have identified Artos Petrosian simply from Zada’s account of him. He is an enormous man with a heavy, mournful, dark face and a head of suspiciously black hair. He has the huge shoulders and deep chest that can only, surely, be acquired from hours spent in a private gym, and he is gesticulating with a heavy, hairy arm that glints with gold as he speaks. The other man, by contrast, looks deskbound. He may have decided that Florida beach wear was appropriate for the north Danish coast – floral short-sleeved shirt and sandals, but he has an indoor pallor and serious spectacles. Edith Wharton describes one of her minor characters as ‘a man with a business face and leisure clothes’; well, that’s Jacob Wagner. Nor could the two stepmothers be confused with one another: the third or fourth Mrs Wagner may or may not be an actress, since I imagine everyone who lives in Hollywood looks like an actress. She too has adopted the beach wear option and is wearing a halter top and Capri pants, teamed with impeccably tanned legs, an ankle chain, tiny sandals and toenails like rubies. The Honourable Alicia Petrosian, on the other hand, has opted for something with more of a yachting motif – classily cut navy trousers, leather deck shoes, white cotton sweater gleaming with just a touch of silk, discreet jewellery and hair caught back with tortoiseshell slides.

  I watch them from the doorway. Artos Petrosian is doing the talking in his group, with the three women smiling and nodding, for all the world like his backing group. Jacob Wagner has gone into some sort of internal exile, intent, it would seem, on the boats out in the Sound. Adam is sitting next to him, perhaps because he feels it’s his duty, perhaps because he hopes to get noticed. He’s an ambitious lad is Adam, but he doesn’t seem to be doing that well. As I hover, lacking an entrée to this group but unwilling to face the unwelcome surprise in the other one, Zada spots me and leaps up.