That asshole, Moira says, is Conner Jeffrys. Bald as a stone. So now that I've supplied the denouement, maybe you could turn off the TV. But by now she's already picked up the remote from the arm of the chair and there's just a tiny white dot where Frank's entertainment had been. No further discussion necessary. She sits on the arm of the chair, then drops the remote onto the floor - gives it a little kick so that it slides across the parquet to the edge of the hearth rug. That's that, she says. Now this. She shapes her hand around the rim of Frank's glass and pulls it gently from his grip. Time to stop now Frank, she says. She leans across Frank to set the glass on the little table at his left elbow, so far reserved for his steadily-filling ashtray. As she does this, the towel slips from her breasts, so that when she perches upright on the arm of the chair again, the towel pools into her lap. She's close enough he can smell chlorine; just by moving his right arm he can touch any part of her, every or any curve and secret fold. He could turn his head, lean out and take a nipple in his mouth. But Frank does nothing because he doesn't feel a goddamned thing. He hasn't had an erection since… oh, at a rough guess, the day he was accused of being a predatory paedophile. Of being the monster. The Diablo. Even so, he slips his arm around her waist, lifts himself forward to place a light kiss on her shoulder, tasting the chlorine, kissing in a way which has nothing to do with sex, which is where, after all, the monster lurks. Which is home to the Diablo. Which is Frank's state of mind - this fucked-up way of thinking.
It's not that I can't stop, he says (talking about the whiskey) - absurdly close to tears, his words mercifully (relatively) free of slurring - it's that I don't want to.
So what about work Frank, Moira says. When are you going to get back to work?
I will, Frank says. Don't worry; I will. He doesn't believe it though.
Let's get out of here Frank, Moira says. Let's pack up and get the hell out. That business with Juanita - it's hanging around here, hanging around us, like a bad smell.
Which is not something Frank's going to argue with. He notes - drunk as he is - that Moira had used Juanita's name, as if somehow it might draw the poison from the situation. That hard, coke-fuelled Moira, the Moira of "Spanish trash" and "brats in the pool" is, as I say, just a memory now - and Frank feels something like a parent whose child had been through a hellish, volatile adolescence but is now all grown up and factory-finished. Only later, of course, will Frank come to realise that this change of tack, heart, tone - call it what you will - comes under the general heading of Expediency.
Moira, Frank says, do you believe me when I say that I never touched a single fucking hair on their heads? This is the first time the subject - the Bad Thing - has been mentioned since Moira came home that Monday afternoon, the Monday following, and said to Frank: I've paid the bitch Frank. Paid in full. And you know what, she'd added, she tries that on again, I think I might just have her killed. Which Frank had taken as rhetoric. But now, as I say, Frank does mention it.
Yes Frank, Moira says. I know. I always knew. I was just so damned angry. At the situation - but also, I'm going to be honest, at you. For walking so fucking blindly into her trap. Playing around with those kids in the pool the way you did. Jesus Frank, things have changed. You've got to be careful around other people's kids.
But Moira, Frank protests, I didn't do anything. I mean, I didn't do anything.
I know Frank. I know, Moira says. But I bet it was the pool, that stupid game, that gave that - that gave Juanita - the idea for her little surprise. But I was angry with myself as well. Really. For going out that night and leaving no witness to what you didn't do. If I'd stayed around she never would have dared to pull that stunt. Oh, she'd have still set it up. But she took a gamble that I'd leave you alone with them. Which is why she was so interested in where I was that Friday night. Which is why so pleasant and chatty and fucking effusive on the Saturday morning, even while Luisa was throwing that fit. Which is why she took until Sunday to pull her little stunt. Because she was making absolutely sure in her own mind that all the pieces were in place. No, that the pieces were scattered. And I felt that all we'd worked for - everything - I felt it all ready to break and crack and fall down around us. I thought we were going to lose everything Frank, and all because - I felt at the time - you made a habit of playing in the pool with those two kids.
But you wouldn't have let that happen, Frank says. Not you. You were on top of it. You were in control of the situation. You're always in control of the situation.
But it could have happened Frank, Moira says. So easily. Our assets. Our reputations. Thrown to the fucking dogs. (At this point she sighs, a real artist, then goes on in confessional mode…) On top of that, I just get so goddamned mean when I'm on that stupid coke. It's either I've done too much, which makes me mean, or I need another fix, which makes me meaner. And then it all just goes around and around and around ….
Which is when she breaks off to kiss Frank on the forehead. Which is why I had to stop, she goes on. Listen, she says: I want to start over. I want us to leave, to try again somewhere else. This place, Jesus. If it hadn't been that it would have been something else. This place is eating us alive. I'm not proud of the way I've behaved. I've made little secret about my lovers Frank. And there have been a lot of them. Two of them dead - and what did I do? What did they do, that they deserved that? It's this goddamned town. I'm a small-town girl Frank and this place dazzled me. It sucked me in. But I don't want it any more. Let's get out while we can. I've got … listen Frank, I've got a real fucking crazy idea. You want to hear it?
Sure, Frank says. Even sober, less sleepy, more himself, he would still have been so easily disarmed by the frankness of Moira's confession. Let's not forget that Frank loves his wife. Even after the Bad Thing.
As she eases over to straddle Frank the towel slips from her right hip so that now it's between her legs and her foot chinks the whiskey bottle against the soda siphon which seems to bring the whiskey to mind because once she's settled all cosy and face to face with Frank she reaches for the glass. I think maybe I need some of this, she says, and takes a couple of sips. She sucks at her bottom lip, kind of pensive, as she reaches the glass back onto the table. Then she takes Frank's face in her hands. Firstly, she says, I really want us to get out of this place.
Which you've mentioned, Frank says, finding himself looking closely into those blue eyes - really looking - for the first time in a long time, seeing the gold and grey motes and flecks radiating out from her irises. The other thing though - her hands placed there at the sides of his face like that brings to mind the night of the Bad Thing - that kiss which had somehow smoked old Frank right out of the world - either into - what? - some kind of goddamned fugue, some kind of impossibly deep sleep, or else into the nightmare realm of the monster, the Diablo. Or neither. Because whichever way you cut it it didn't make sense. Frank had been tired, that was all, and on top of that the whiskey he'd drunk that night had been more than he'd previously admitted to himself. But either way, that was then and this is now and now, feeling Moira there, feeling her even through his shorts, through his ash-stained, sitting-around-the -house-in-terminal-malaise pants, feeling her through the beach towel, he is suddenly aware of her, and, almost with a wince, he realises that he's gained an erection. Which, as it turns out, is an apposite state of affairs for Moira's "real fucking crazy idea".
Frank, she says, I think I'm ready for kids. Our kids.
But neither Frank nor Frank's erection know quite what to do about this unexpected piece of intelligence. He doesn't say anything for some seconds - long, long seconds, gazing into her eyes - and when he does, it's this: Moira, he says, I'm fifty-fucking-four years old.
Yes Frank, she says, yes you are. She kisses him, this time right on the lips, which is something his erection does know how to handle. He's got his hands on her ass by now and he squeezes and strokes the round smoothness of her flesh as she kisses him.
You think I care how old you are Frank? Moira says.
I love you, that's enough. She breathes the last into his ear and the warmth of her breath, the sound of her breath, makes his cock strain so hard against all that impeding fabric that it hurts.
Listen, he says, listen. I can't figure this out.
What's to figure, she says, saying it right into his ear.
All of it, Frank says. Any of it. Guides her gently away from his ear so that he can talk to her. You know I'm not crazy enough, he says - not self-deluded enough - to think that you really get the hots for a guy with a Donald Rumsfeld haircut, a goddamned - look at it - this goddamned paunch; plus a walk like a fucking penguin. No. Can't be that. Money? No. For a while I thought maybe that was it, but if you ever did need my money, you certainly don't any more. (By which Frank means her writing cut from Trams, plus, even better, her royalties from The Suzerain, which was a novel now gaining ground in both critical and financial terms.) You could cut and run and still be wealthy on your own terms - and that's before you even file for divorce. No. You were sick when I found you, Frank goes on, and I guess I grew to believe that that was it. Back then I just felt so goddamned blessed to have you that I just didn't care. Now I wonder. I wonder all the time. And now that you're not sick any more, I just figure that you're full of regret.
At this point, because he can only say the serious thing if he introduces a note of levity, Frank squeezes her ass, both hands, and says, You know, you don't always behave like my number one fan.
We're a team Frank, Moira says, raising her head again to look him in the eye. Look at what we've accomplished together. And we can do so much more. And you're right. I've been a bitch. A real fucking bitch. But I want to start over Frank. Please say we'll start over someplace else.
She's nuzzling up and kissing Frank's face now, which of course is a thing that compromises his objectivity. It's a plan I'm willing to think about, Frank says, though the truth is he knows that the part of the plan which has them hoist anchor and sail away to a new land is the only way out for him. That or a slow and soulless death in front of the TV - which is not a way Frank wishes to go out.
You're a man Frank, Moira says. You've got experience. You've done things. You're not like those kids, those air-heads down there. And I love you for it. It really is that simple.
None of which changes the fact that I'm fifty-four, Frank reminds her.
It's just a number Frank, Moira says. That's all. She's kind of grinding against him now which only makes Frank pull her in all the closer, all the harder.
Just a number, he says, a gasp hitching a ride out on the last syllable. No, he says, it isn't. You wait. You'll see.
No Frank, Moira says. Don't say that. I'm never going to get old. And neither are you. You're in a funk, that's all. We just need to sober you up. Then it'll all look different. Just say yes, and in the morning I'm going to show you something wonderful. And you know something else Frank? I love this. I love it when you fuck me. And when the time is right, I want you to fuck our babies right into my womb. That's where I want you Frank. Right there!
Which is pretty much the way the rest of the evening goes.
So just what was this "something wonderful" that Moira had to show Frank? It's a late start the next day, which is something that helps reduce the depth and breadth of Frank's hangover. Plus, because of Moira's intervention the previous night he'd drank only half of what had become his standard measure of indulgence (to wit, as they say, one bottle of scotch) and even then he'd sweated out a good deal of alcohol during sex. Which is by way of saying that when Moira wakes him with juice and coffee and buttered toast - a slice of which he actually manages to cram down - Frank feels half-way alive for a change. He doesn't even protest at Moira's "Come on sleepy-head, times a-wastin'" cheeriness. She disappears into her work room and Frank, once he's fumbled his way into his clothes, deciding not to expose himself to the bracing effects of a shower and all that soap-in-the-eye business just yet, joins her there. She's wearing a silk kimono and smoking a cigarette with her coffee. Frank opens the window. Moira taps the ash impatiently into the ashtray. Viola! she says, when Frank has finished fussing with the window catch, her open palms ushering Frank's gaze to her PC in the corner of the room. He hadn't noticed that it had been booted up, because, like I say, Moira works on a type-writer for everything except the final draft of a book. Mostly she uses the PC - and it's only a lap-top - for the internet, which means it's kind of wedged in a corner on a little fold-down table. He studies the images on the screen for a moment. Then he says: So what the hell is that? Is that a French chateau or what? Because on the screen are four pictures of what look like the same house - three showing different elevations of the exterior, plus one showing a grand-looking but pretty dour interior - a lobby or hallway where you can see the bottom of a wide staircase.
No Frank, Moira says. Devon. England.
England? Frank says, last night's conversation starting to play back in his head. He'd been thinking Canada. He'd been thinking Mexico. He'd been thinking Michigan or Delaware. He'd been thinking in a dreamy, half-assed kind of way which had little to do with reality, more to do with memories and stories and fishing. Whatever, safe to say that England had not hoisted a banner anywhere near his thoughts.
Yes Frank, Moira says. England. Buckingham Palace, Beatles and Stones, Epsom races, changing of the guard, Winston fucking Churchill. That England.
Gee, Frank says, matching her sarcasm, now that you mention it - yeah, I do seem to remember hearing of such a place. So, he says, I'm looking at some pictures of an English house. An English country house no less, judging from the background. What I don't understand, he says, is why?
Because, Moira says, we're going to buy it. Aaaaaannd we're going to live there.
Woah - Frank says, hold on -
But Moira cuts him off. Oh Frank, she says, a little testily, please don't plead amnesia on me. You remember last night's conversation, right?
Sure, Frank says. He remembers the conversation in the living room and he remembers the promises he'd given in the night. What he doesn't remember is any talk of England.
Well, Moira says, this is it. This is the place. This is the house.
You're sure about this? Frank says.
Trust me, Moira says. I know this house. You remember I told you that when I was a student I spent a summer in England? We wanted the whole deal, the wild moors, the Bronte romance. Instead, we burned out in London. But after that we headed out to the West Country and we stayed in this house for an entire week, just to chill. I didn't want to leave. It's beautiful Frank. It's got a great - really, you should see the view. It was a hostel back then. Now it isn't.
Frank - who doesn't remember being told anything at all of Moira's student days, much less a trip to England (which bothers him) - says: I bet it needs a hell of a lot of work.
Maybe, Moira says, but we don't have to run the whole race in a day.
Jesus Moira, Frank says. I don't know. Can we even afford it?
No sweat. Best of all though, Moira says, is that the way the market is over there - you don't like living there? - then we make at least a half mil or so just by moving in and out. Crazy but true.
It still ties up a lot of capital, Frank points out.
Frank, honey, Moira says - all business, capital B - that's part of the attraction. If we're not careful you're going to sink all of your own damn money into another project. You've never been in a better position to attract finance - not since Trams took off in Japan - so why not use your money, our money, for something else. Why not use it for this? For us? For our kids?
Frank says nothing to this. Up until last night - and in so far as he'd thought about work at all this last month - he'd pretty much considered himself retired. As for kids, whatever promises he'd made in the night, this is still something he needs to think about. But before he can gather his thoughts, Moira's off again.
Plus, she says, you know as well as I do that your future career is in Europe. From this house - and I've done my h
omework on this Frank - you can be in Madrid in three or four hours. Five tops. Hell, you can visit for the day from this house.
We could also just go live in Madrid, Frank points out dryly.
Yes. Yes we could. But I won't live there Frank. I want to live by the sea.
And what would it hurt to look at the place? A little impromptu trip. All his time in mainland Europe, Frank's never been to England, always too busy to make that insignificant detour. And what else was he going to do? Stew slowly to death in LA? Okay, he says. I'm going to take a shower. Then we'll talk about it some more. Okay? Why don't you see if the place is even still available.
No need, Moira says. Because I already know about that. It is and it isn't.
Which is a riddle I'm really not up to solving, Frank says.
You promise you won't be angry, Frank, Honey? Moira says.
Frank takes a deep breath. Okay, he says, what crazy, rash, fool-hardy, lamentable, mother-fuckingly regrettable thing have you done?
I've already put down a deposit, she says. If we want it, and I really want this house, then it's ours.
Frank can choose to go ballistic. This is a big deal after all. But the truth is he'd be faking it. For better or worse, Frank's called the shots his whole life - don't forget, pun intended, he's a director - but he finds himself thinking now, that just for once, and to switch metaphors, he'd like someone else to take the wheel. See where they end up.
Which is why he says: In that case, you better get to work on the web; see what the fishing's like over there.
This is the second biggest mistake of Frank's life.
That night it rains. Frank wakes to find that Moira is standing by the full length window, the rain patterns running shadows over her body. Moira, he says, come back to bed. When she settles her head on his shoulder he feels the wet of her tears. He strokes her cheek.
Suzerain: a ghost story Page 25
