by Jon Teckman
With that, she turned and marched out of the kitchen, leaving Matthew laughing, Helen crying, and me digging myself ever deeper into a situation which smelled a whole lot worse than my silly socks.
By the time I’d finished cleaning up the kitchen and dragged the children upstairs for an unwanted bath and then bed, I was too tired even to think about eating, so I plonked myself in my favourite chair in front of the TV. When Natasha arrived home, I was fast asleep next to a half-finished glass of wine which itself was next to a half-empty bottle. She woke me with a brusque knee to my left shoulder. The football I’d been watching had long since finished, replaced by some obscure activity involving men in Lycra body stockings locked in a cage beating each other senseless.
Natasha turned it off and turned on me. ‘So why didn’t you tell me about Olivia Finch?’ she asked without any preamble or welcome home pleasantries. I didn’t have to feign confusion. I’d been rudely awakened from a dream in which I’d been rushing up and down Fifth Avenue searching for presents. I’d already bought more fake scarves and handbags than I could carry but was desperate to buy more, as if I had a whole harem of wives and mistresses to cater for. ‘Let me put it another way.’ Natasha continued, ‘when were you planning to tell me about what happened in New York?’
‘I … I … I …’ I was trapped. A kaleidoscope of fear whirled inside my head, forcing out rational thought. That image of the future appeared again, projected onto the screen behind my eyes. My children daddlylessly living out their lives, while I lurched familylessly through mine. I didn’t have a clue what the next word of my reply was going to be – but I knew that my whole life depended on it. I gulped in air like a diver with the bends, scouring my brain for the right words to use – words that might yet save my marriage.
Fortunately, just as I was going down a third time, Natasha filled in the blanks for me. ‘I have just had the embarrassment of sitting at my bloody book group while everyone talked about what happened in New York and I – whose husband was actually there – knew nothing about it. Poor Sandra Bennett just sat in the corner completely distraught. I mean, she knows her toe-rag husband has had the odd fling in the past but never anything like this. This could get into the papers and everything. And you – Mr See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and definitely Speak No Bloody Evil – didn’t even bother to tell me about it. Bennett and Olivia Finch – it’s unbelievable! Does everyone at work know?’
I fought to gather my composure, taking a large swig of wine to steady my hands and nerves. ‘Oh that! Um, yes, I think so. Pretty well everyone. Amanda, his PA, went up the bloody wall! Polly and the rest of the girls were full of it, loving it. But, you know, it is only a rumour. He completely denies anything happened.’
‘But you were with him, Joe! You must know what happened. You’re not telling me that Joseph Bennett slept with the world’s most gorgeous woman and forgot to mention it to you. He isn’t capable of keeping something like that secret. And what do you mean “Amanda went up the wall” – what’s it got to do with her?’
Reasoning that this was probably not a good time to offer up another juicy snippet I’d failed to mention for the past few months, I ventured onto a different track. ‘Well, I wasn’t with him the whole time, was I? And he swears blind he didn’t do it. He reckons it’s one of Buddy’s guys having a laugh at his expense – or maybe even attempting to blackmail him. I guess that’s why he told Sandra. Surely he wouldn’t have told her if he really had done something, would he?’
That stopped Natasha in her tracks and, after pouring herself a glass of wine, she allowed me to tell her the whole story – the sanitised version of the story at least. Looking back on it now, that was the time when I should have told her everything – and taken the consequences – but the truth is that I didn’t have the guts. So, instead, I told her what I understood had happened from Bennett’s perspective, right up to the latest e-mail exchange. And once that moment had passed, it was too late. I was like a downhill skier who’d started his descent and then changed his mind –there was no going back now. All that lay ahead was a long and bumpy ride to the finishing gate.
‘And what do you think?’ Natasha asked when I had finished spinning my yarn. ‘Do you think he did it?’
‘There’s really no telling with Bennett,’ I said, ‘but I’d have thought she had better taste.’
The wine had a thawing effect on Natasha and she quickly forgave me for leaving her in the dark. She sat down beside me on the couch, almost on top of me in fact, and snuggled up. She hadn’t had a chance to welcome me home properly yet and it seemed that she was keen to put that right.
‘Well he’s welcome to her, if you ask me,’ she said, speaking into my neck as she moved even closer. ‘By all accounts she’s a Grade-A Bunnyboiler. I’ve read about her in my magazines: once she gets her talons into a guy she never lets go. You know, there are times when I am really glad I married a steady, reliable bloke like you, Joe, who would never dream of sleeping with someone like Olivia Finch. We might not have as much money as the Bennetts – you should have seen the watch he brought Sandra back from New York! – but at least I know I can trust you. You wouldn’t want to sleep with Olivia Finch, would you, love?’
How the hell do you answer a question like that? The whole point of people like Olivia Finch is that people like me want to sleep with them. That’s why she’s paid millions of dollars a movie. Sure, they have to be able to act a bit but the film industry is built on the idea that ordinary people will pay to watch beautiful people do extraordinary things, then go back to their humdrum lives to pretend to be them or be with them. Of course I wanted to sleep with Olivia Finch. I just wish to God I hadn’t.
‘Well,’ I began, and allowed the pause to linger long enough for Natasha to readjust her position away from the cat-like comfort into which she had poured herself in the expectation of an easy conversation. There’s a world of worry in a well-delivered ‘well’. ‘Yes, at one level obviously I find Olivia Finch attractive. I mean, she is very beautiful. Aren’t we supposed to lust after people like her and dream we could have them one day?’
‘But it’s different for you,’ Natasha said her tone quite different from a few moments earlier. ‘You do get to meet people like her, don’t you? You have met her.’
‘You could hardly call what we did meeting each other,’ I replied, trying not to sound too defensive. ‘We said “Hi” once as she was pulling her dressing gown back on after a shoot and again at the party. That doesn’t exactly make us best buddies, does it?’
‘Oh yes, I forgot. Not only do you get to meet Olivia Finch, you get to meet her naked. Doesn’t that give you some advantage over the sad old bloke fondling himself in the back row of the Odeon?’
‘But it’s not like that, Nat. It’s part of my job, isn’t it? I’m not likely to start playing with myself in the middle of a meeting or if I’m at the studio on official business, am I?’
‘I don’t know – are you? I don’t have a clue what goes on at your work or inside your head these days, Joe. All I know is that you’ve now told me that you dream about shagging someone other than me. Is that why you didn’t tell me about Bennett? Because you didn’t think you’d be able to tell me without showing how cut up you are that he got to fulfil one of your fantasies?’
‘So, are you telling me that you’ve never lusted after anyone on the telly?’ I countered. ‘Never fancied jumping into bed with George Clooney or Brad Pitt? It’s funny how you suddenly discovered an interest in soccer whenever David Beckham was playing. Remember how you were when you saw Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice? Dripping wet. And you were even worse when you saw him coming out of that pond. Come on,’ I said, ‘I’m a professional accountant who just happens to work in film. Looking at an attractive young actress means no more to me than looking at a well-put-together fixed asset register. It’s just part of my job. You know I only have eyes for you and a complex consolidated balance sheet.’
‘You’re a blood
y liar, West,’ Natasha said, more accurately than she knew. ‘Just make sure you keep your hands on the books and off the talent. And,’ she added gathering up the empty wine glasses – ‘if George or Brad or Becks ever do pop round offering to re-pave our driveway or stick in a bit of double glazing, you make yourself scarce. OK?’
CITY OF LONDON
I made sure I was in early the next morning, only to find those who had arrived even earlier rapt in conversation about the only story that mattered: had he or hadn’t he? As the nearest thing to an eyewitness, I was in great demand for my observations and it took me a while to reach my desk. When I got there, I was surprised to see Bennett perched on the edge, absent-mindedly flicking through the papers in my in-tray.
He looked at his watch as I arrived and hung my coat on a hook on the wall. ‘Ah, Mr West, I’ve been expecting you,’ he said in unwitting parody of a Bond villain. ‘For about half an hour, actually. Still, never mind that. Come with me to my office. I’ve had another bloody e-mail from that mad woman. ’
I did as instructed and stood behind him as he opened his latest electronic billet-doux. He twisted in his chair so I could see the screen over his shoulder:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
RE: RE: WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON?
Oh, so that was just a bit of fun, was it? Well, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself asshole because I’ve done nothing but cry since I got back to LA. Perhaps you should have thought about staying cool before you went too far in the first place. And what the hell do you mean we should keep this professional in future? Do you want to pay me? What the hell do you take me for? Or maybe you think I should be paying you.
I am just so confused, English. I really thought we made a serious connection that night but now it seems I was just another conquest for you. Bet you’ve been getting big kudos from all your homeys for screwing Olivia Finch, haven’t you? Well, I’ve kept it a secret so far but I’m warning you if I don’t start getting some answers from you real soon, I’m going to tell Buddy exactly how you’ve treated me.
Please write and tell me this is all just some kind of misunderstanding. What was it your guy Churchill said about the Limeys and the Yanks being separated by a common language? I’m really hoping he might be right. Listen, English, I’ll be in London soon for the European premiere. Why don’t we meet up and talk it over? I don’t want to fall out with you, and I’d hate to see you get hurt like you’re hurting me.
Olly xxx
‘Wow!’ I thought to myself, not clear now whether Olivia wanted to marry Bennett or have him kneecapped.
‘So, what do you make of it, West?’ Bennett asked without looking away from the screen.
‘Shaw,’ I replied.
‘Sure what?’ said Bennett. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘It was George Bernard Shaw who said that about the British and Americans being two peoples separated by a common language. Not Churchill. Common mistake …’
‘I hardly think that is the most pressing or pertinent issue right now, is it, you moron? The pertinent question is what the fuck am I going to do about all this nonsense. Well, West?’
I was all out of answers, so I tried a question instead. ‘Are you going to reply?’
‘Nah,’ Bennett replied. ‘I’m going to let this one pass and see what happens. Give it the old slow-play. If it is someone messing me around, then hopefully they’ll get bored and pack up. If they are out to get me, they’ll have to show themselves at some point – and then I’ll tear them a new arsehole. As far as Amanda can make out, there isn’t anyone at the studio with a name anything like CaddyMac and it’s not from their server, so it could be coming from anywhere. And if it really is this Finch woman, then she’s got more problems than I have because I most definitely did not bonk her that night. That’s one thing I’m absolutely sure about. I may have been a bit wasted but I would not have forgotten that!’
For the next few days Bennett received a series of e-mails from CaddyMac, each sadder, more confused and more vitriolic than the last. And then it went quiet. Perhaps his strategy had worked. We would find out soon enough. Buddy and his team were flying into London the following week for an important meeting and we were all invited to the London premiere of the film.
BRENT CROSS, NORTH LONDON
That weekend I spent as much time as possible with the children, taking on double daddy duty both to make up for the time I had missed but also in an attempt to expiate my guilt – to banish the images of that separate future that had haunted me on the plane. I took them swimming on the Saturday morning, then, on the Sunday, we went to the Brent Cross shopping centre. I gave them some money to buy themselves a small toy each and bought them comics – flimsy publications they never actually read but wanted only for the cheap plastic toys stuck to the front cover – and myself a copy of the Sunday Times. Thus equipped, we went to one of the myriad coffee bars that had sprung up all over the centre, displacing the small retailers and meaning that the weary shopper was never more than a few yards from a cappuccino and a croissant or triple chocolate muffin.
I took Helen’s and Matthew’s drinks and snacks orders then found a table where I could keep an eye on them from my place in the slow-moving queue. I smiled pleasantly towards the three baristas as they collectively served the customer ahead of me – one to take the order, one to make the coffee and one to take the money and work out, after much umming and erring, something approximating to the correct change. Then I waited as they held a brief conference to discuss their previous adventure in the world of beverage-dispensing – perhaps it was company policy to review each transaction and identify what had gone well, what could be improved upon and what might be learned that they could apply to their next encounter with a customer. This particular review was focussing on an assessment of the poor choice of clothing of the previous customer, not least because of her ‘enormous arse’. I waved a ten-pound note casually in the air in the hope that I might catch one of their six eyes. When this proved fruitless, I smiled again – the smile that had so recently melted the heart of a Hollywood superstar – and coughed a small, throat-clearing cough.
‘What?’ barked one of the girls behind the counter.
‘One regular cappuccino, one hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows, this orange juice and two pain au raisins, please,’ I asked.
‘In a minute,’ replied the girl. ‘Can’t you see we’re busy?’
Rather than lose my temper, I tried the winning smile again, turning it up a few megawatts and lacing it with a drop of my newly discovered irresistible charm.
‘And stop looking at me like that, you creep, or I’ll call the fuckin’ manager.’ She turned to resume her conversation with her colleagues and I distinctly heard the word ‘perv’ above the babble of voices and screeching laughter. After several more minutes, during which the queue behind me grew ever longer, she turned around again, looked at me as though she had never seen me before in her life and asked me what I wanted. I placed my order and handed over the exact amount of cash for the transaction together with the correct loyalty card for this particular establishment, carefully selected from the half dozen or more I always carried with me.
I took the drinks and pastries back to the table and sat down. When I looked around I noticed that each table was almost exactly the same as my own: a hassled dad sitting with one, two or three children – toys and comics strewn across the table, an unopened newspaper silently mocking the parent from a spare chair or a stationer’s carrier bag on the floor, the coveted sports section tantalisingly out of reach as spilled drinks were cleared up, chocolate wiped from faces, broken free gifts mended or spirited away with promises of replacements, arguments settled and fights broken up. There was a chance that, like me, these men might have been holding the fort while their other halves shopped or relaxed at home, but I didn’t think so. There was an air of desperation about many of them, too much effort being p
ut into making sure that their charges wanted for nothing, that every moment was as good as it could possibly be, that the memories of this morning would sustain them – all of them, father and child alike – until they met again the following weekend. Same time, same place, same things said and left unsaid. This, I reflected, was what divorce looked like. This was what happened to men who couldn’t sustain their loyalty to one woman any more than they could manage it for their favourite coffee-seller.
CITY OF LONDON
The gang from Los Angeles arrived right on time, their black Mercedes pulling up outside our building exactly five minutes before the meeting was due to start. It took great precision – and teams of well-paid assistants – to arrange their lives so they could board a flight on the other side of the world, walk off it into the waiting seats of a plush hire car and into the coffee-and-Danish land of the meeting room just as the clock announced the appointed hour.
This visit was vital to our continued good relationship with Printing Press Productions and we had pulled out all the stops to make Buddy and his team feel welcome and important. They were shown into the very plushest of our executive suites, with its antique oak table inlaid with mahogany marquetry and soft burgundy leather chairs that moulded themselves around every contour of the incumbent. While sipping hot drinks served in our best china and nibbling on their pastries, they could enjoy unrestricted views out over the City of London, taking in St Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower of London and, away in the distance, the sketchy outline of the London Eye.
After the usual pleasantries had been exchanged, we took our seats – Americans on one side of the table; Brits on the other. Both teams arranged themselves in a predetermined order: Head Honcho in the middle and the rest of the group fanned out on either side in order of importance, like the top table at a society wedding. For them this meant that Buddy took the alpha male seat in the middle, with his Finance Director Mike Abrahams on his left and Len Palmer to his right, followed by Diana Lee next to Len. On our side, our senior partner Bill Davis was the silverback, with Bennett on his right and me on his left, opposite Len. Next to me was a young guy called Andrew Johnson who I was training up to take more responsibility for my film portfolio. He looked stricken with nerves despite Di’s best efforts to relax him with a friendly smile from the seat opposite. Bennett stared at Len and Di as if peering into their souls, searching for signs of guilt.
