by Maeve Haran
‘Thanks, Oliver, you’ve been a lifesaver.’
‘I could get my air rifle out,’ he suggested hopefully.
‘Just stick to praising UKIP. That should do the trick. And maybe let their tyres down in the night.’
By the time they got to Suze she was already standing outside waiting for them.
‘All hail the Dorothy Parker of Camley.’
‘What are you talking about now?’
‘You. The new queen of the one-liner. Your comment about Cameron Keene’s liver. It’s gone viral.’
Stella decided she needed to sit down. She really didn’t understand the digital world and Matthew still prided himself on writing actual letters rather than sending emails. ‘If people really need me, they’ll find me,’ was his proud pronouncement.
‘So what does that mean exactly?’ Stella asked, gratefully receiving the large glass of Pinot Grigio Suze poured them both. Matthew piously shook his head. ‘I’d forgotten you never imbibe in the daytime.’
‘What it means—’ Suze was interrupted by Stella’s phone, which she had set to ring like an old-fashioned Bakelite one.
It was Jesse. ‘Gran, you’re not going to believe this. You’re trending on Twitter. Wow, Gran, you’re famous!’
‘Oh dear,’ Stella replied anxiously. ‘Explain to your old gran how all this works.’
‘Probably someone from the press thought it was funny and posted it and the ball started rolling like that.’
‘Oh God, poor Cameron. I didn’t mean to make him into a laughing stock.’
‘As you put it so succinctly yourself,’ Suze interrupted, ‘he’s got a tour to promote. We’d better go and sort out your sleeping arrangements. You won’t mind sheets that have only been slept in for three nights, will you? Only laundry isn’t exactly my speciality.’
Stella said goodbye to Jesse while Matthew looked around Suze’s house, not even trying to disguise his distaste, his sense of adventure clearly evaporating faster than the dregs of red wine in the glasses that gaily dotted the living room. Suze was a confirmed singleton. You could hardly call her a spinster as that would conjure up images of doilies and cats and Suze went in for neither. Her style could only be described as eclectic, which meant that her small house was full of the dark wood furniture she had inherited from her parents (Suze hated throwing anything useful away), plus the IKEA coffee tables and Billy bookcases (ah, Billy bookcases, thought Stella, remembering all the friends’ flats they had adorned) which Suze had taken enormous pride in assembling herself. Bunches of once-fresh flowers in enormous vases were in an interesting stage between dead and desiccated. Eccentric objets that had caught Suze’s eye gave the room a certain individuality. Not everyone could claim ownership of both an intricately painted Chinese screen and what appeared to be a 1940s American petrol pump.
‘Don’t worry, Matthew,’ Suze teased, noting a certain reluctance on his part to sit down, ‘remember what Quentin Crisp said about housework. After four years the dirt doesn’t get any worse.’ Matthew smiled weakly. ‘Anyway,’ Suze reassured him, ‘I spring-cleaned the February before last.’
By late afternoon, and the progression to the second bottle, Suze’s boho style was proving too much for Matthew’s desire for order and he announced his departure to the Premier Inn round the corner. ‘At least the sheets’ll be clean,’ he muttered.
Guiltily Stella felt a huge relief.
‘He isn’t as bad as that at home.’ She held out her glass for some more wine. ‘Well, not quite as bad.’
‘You don’t have to convince me.’ Suze winked. ‘I’ve known him nearly as long as you have.’
‘Why is it so hard to be married for forty years? I mean I approve of marriage. I think people are made to live in twos, like with Noah and the Ark.’
‘Don’t you mean Adam and Eve? And look what happened to them. You know what I think the problem is?’
‘OK, Ms Relate Counsellor who’s never had a relationship for longer than five minutes, shoot.’
‘The very thing that attracts people to one another ends up annoying them. They don’t notice so much while the children are around to dilute things, then the children leave, and they give up their jobs and, hey presto, all they’ve got is each other. And suddenly they can’t imagine what they’ve been doing together all these years.’
‘So they split up and they’re lonely and miserable,’ Stella took over the story, ‘not to mention broke, and they fall and break their hip and there’s no one to help them and they die on the floor of their hall with the cat meowing because nobody’s fed it. And then their husband meets some nubile divorcee who’s popped round with a consoling quiche and three months later he’s married her and she stops his children ever seeing him again.’
‘Bloody hell, you really have been thinking about this, haven’t you?’
‘Never occurred to me in my life before.’
They both hugged each other and would probably have become quite teary and hysterical had they not been interrupted by another phone call.
‘Oh God, what is it this time? I hope some horrible journalist hasn’t got hold of this number too.’
But it was only Oliver, their neighbour in Camley.
‘Thought you ought to know. An enormous vehicle has arrived and parked right in your driveway.’
‘Not even in the road outside? That really is too much!’
‘Indeed. I think this is one for my son Archie, now, don’t you? Or I could go and wave my air rifle round a bit?’
‘No, no, Oliver.’ Stella could see the headlines if Oliver managed to wing a reporter with an air pellet. ‘Get Archie. And I think I’d really better come back. Are the reporters still there?’
‘They seem to have given up the chase. There’s just this big bugger now. Probably the television chappies are holed up inside like that thing in Greece.’
‘What on earth’s he on about?’ whispered Suze.
‘I think he means the Trojan horse,’ Stella whispered back. Then, in a normal voice, she added, ‘I must admit, I do think you’re right, Olly, this is harassment. I’m coming over right now.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Suze offered. ‘For moral support?’
‘No no, I’ll be fine. I wonder how I’m doing on Twitter. Maybe I’ll overtake Kim Kardashian’s bottom.’
‘I think you’re enjoying this.’
‘Makes a change from painting pugs, I’ll say that for it. You could call Matthew at his hotel for me. Tell him what’s been happening.’
But when Stella arrived home to find that she couldn’t park in her own front drive owing to the arrival of a vehicle that looked like a giant toaster, enjoyment was not uppermost in her mind.
She spotted Oliver walking towards her with a younger carbon copy of himself. Stella held out her hand. ‘You must be Archie.’
‘Yes, hello, Mrs, er . . .’
‘Ainsworth,’ supplied Oliver.
‘All highly irritating for you,’ sympathized Archie. ‘The curious thing is, there doesn’t seem to be anyone inside.’
‘You don’t think it’s a trap?’ Stella suggested. ‘Some mad Cameron Keene fan out to get revenge on me, and the whole thing’ll blow up when I go in?’
They both looked at her a little strangely. ‘No, no,’ Oliver assured. ‘I was in Aden and Cyprus, and they didn’t blow up anything as expensive as this. Take a look inside. It’s quite a revelation. If it belongs to these news chappies they certainly know how to live. It must be the BBC.’
‘If it were the BBC,’ his son protested, ‘they’d have a satellite on the roof. This thing’s like the Café Royal on wheels. And where’s the car that towed it here?’
Unable to resist, Stella climbed into the curious vehicle and looked around. From the purple velvet banquettes to the green satin cover on the bed, and the stained glass of the myriad cupboards that lined every inch of spare wall, the tiny space shone like an amethyst caught in sunlight, a veritable hippie nirvana. There was even a cha
mpagne bucket by the bed with a beautiful bottle of Perrier-Jouët Belle Epoque, adorned with intricate Art Nouveau decoration.
‘Who the hell does this belong to?’ Stella finally demanded, stunned.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ Archie grinned. ‘I have to say, I wouldn’t mind going camping in this little number. It’d beat a tent in the Peak District any day.’
They climbed back out and stood on the pavement none the wiser.
‘The strange thing is, if it isn’t anything to do with journalists or news teams, what on earth is it doing in my driveway with no one inside it?’
Oliver was no longer listening but watching the progress of an unfamiliar figure, who was walking down the street towards them in sunglasses with a lion’s mane of hair which he shook as he walked. The stranger, they all noted in silence, sported the unconventional combination of a brown tweed jacket with orange corduroy trousers, a yellow scarf knotted in the European manner, and yellow Nikes, somehow managing at once to evoke both the masculine immediacy of Jon Bon Jovi with the camp grace of Oscar Wilde.
‘I wonder,’ speculated Oliver, ‘if this gentleman might have anything to do with the mystery.’
‘Oh my God.’ Stella’s hand flew automatically to her face. ‘It is. It really bloody is. It’s Cameron Keene!’
Four
————
Stella and Cameron stood three feet apart, transfixed, their eyes fastened upon each other, as if both were stunned into temporary silence. And then the years fell away.
‘Stella Scott, my God, you’ve hardly changed!’
‘Cameron Keene, ever the romantic, of course I have!’
He took her hands in his as he scanned her face. ‘A few lines here,’ he touched the crow’s feet around her eyes and ran a tentative finger along her lips, ‘and here. Time’s wingèd chariot’s been kind to you, Stella.’
‘I didn’t make it run as much as you did, Cam.’ She shook her head, conscious of mixing her poetic references, hardly able to believe they were both standing here, outside her house.
And then, suddenly, she remembered that they weren’t alone.
Cameron turned to Oliver and Archie. ‘This is quite a reception committee,’ he commented, as if well used to reception committees. ‘Would you all like to see around my remarkable vehicle?’
They all followed, dumbstruck, and crowded into the tiny space while Cameron, as smooth as a caravan salesman, enlightened them about the salient features of his beloved Airstream. ‘Hate Winnebagos, the height of vulgarity, driven by overweight Americans. She’s twenty-seven feet long, thirty-nine gallons of water on board, plenty for a shower, awning at the side you can pull down if it’s sunny, which, of course, in this country it never is, TV, Blu-ray, satellite. The décor was devised by Debora, my first wife, who has a knack for these things.’ He treated them to his wolfish smile. ‘I designed the fridge.’ He pointed to an enormous, gleaming refrigerator which seemed bigger than the adjoining closet, and proceeded to open the door, revealing it to be full of nothing but Perrier-Jouët champagne and a very small piece of cheese. ‘Roxy, my current wife, is not a great eater.’
Stella felt as if she had wandered into a strange and curious dream and decided it was time she woke up.
‘But do you live here? In a caravan?’
‘Stella,’ he replied, shocked, ‘what sacrilege! An Airstream is not a caravan. It’s a top-of-the-range trailer. By the way, I believe I have to congratulate you about the press and Twitter.’ Cameron gave her the benefit of his most charming smile. ‘I gather you’re a sensation on both sides of the Atlantic.’
‘Oh, Cameron, I’m so sorry!’ Stella said, meaning it. ‘This reporter was supposed to be doing a story on our campaign to save the high street and instead he did it on me and you. Then I opened the front door and found all these reporters here. I just said the first thing that came into my head.’
‘And very witty it was too. Not to mention extremely astute. My doctor is as concerned as you are about my liver.’
‘Oh, Cameron, it was just a joke!’
‘No, no. I was wondering how to come across after all these years hiding in America. You have given me a role. The raddled charm of Keith Richards, the wisdom of Leonard Cohen, with perhaps the common touch of Springsteen. And the liver of Dean Martin. Thank you.’
Stella realized her audience was watching them both, riveted.
‘Cameron, it’s wonderful to see you, but what on earth are you doing in my driveway?’
‘The thing is, Stella, I loathe hotels. I tend to be nocturnal by nature and resent the reluctant response I get to four a.m. requests for room service, so I stay in my own accommodation.’
The fact that Cameron might be expecting to stay here in her drive had suddenly occurred to Stella. ‘I see, and what are your plans while you’re here?’
‘Oh, Duncan deals with all that. I just go where I’m sent.’
‘He’s still with you, then?’ Stella felt a flash of shame at the mention of Cameron’s friend. Tall, slight and bespectacled, at first he had seemed so much in Cameron’s shadow that you could almost walk straight through him, and then, when Stella had refused to go to America with Cameron and he’d disappeared without a word, it had been Duncan, witty, self-deprecating Duncan, who had comforted her. Briefly that comfort had flowered into something more, but Stella had known almost at once that it was a mistake. Duncan’s shy caresses were no match for Cameron’s. And then Duncan had gone too.
For obvious reasons neither of them had mentioned it to Cameron.
‘Oh yes, I don’t even breathe unless Duncan tells me to.’
Stella became conscious of how ridiculous it was to have four people standing in the tiny space of Cameron’s curious conveyance. ‘Cameron, why don’t we go and have a drink in my house.’ The other two looked deeply disappointed not to be included in the invitation. ‘Cameron and I have a lot to catch up on.’
Cameron removed the Perrier-Jouët from the ice bucket and brought it with him. ‘Let me look at you again,’ he remarked suddenly. To Stella’s embarrassment they all turned and studied her. ‘I nearly had a heart attack when that DJ said you might be a grey-haired granny. How old are you?’
‘Sixty-four, almost sixty-five, and don’t quote the Paul McCartney song. Everyone does.’
‘You’re still beautiful, Stella.’
‘I don’t look in the mirror if I can help it.’
‘Nor me.’ Cameron grinned. ‘In fact, I’ve banned mirrors in here. Though I find cleaning my teeth quite a challenge.’ He gave a comical little demonstration of looking into a spoon instead of a mirror.
Stella found herself laughing in a way she hadn’t for years.
Cameron began to laugh as well. The old attraction between them was clearly still there. Suddenly she wanted him to herself, to catch up on all the lost years since she’d seen him last.
She turned gratefully to her kind neighbour. ‘Thank you, Oliver, for keeping an eye on the house. And, Archie, let me know if I owe you anything.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ Archie insisted. ‘Meeting a genuine rock legend!’
Cameron bowed as if this tribute were no less than he expected. Once inside Stella’s house, Cameron surveyed the interior with a critical gaze. ‘I like your house,’ he announced as if surprised. ‘A bit bare and chilly, though. Debora definitely wouldn’t approve. She’s very fond of chintz.’
‘Don’t use that word to Matthew, my husband. He’s obsessed with Arts and Crafts. I promise my studio at the bottom of the garden is much cosier. So what happened to Deborah?’
‘Deb-or-a, no “h”. A backing singer.’ He began to open the Perrier-Jouët.
‘You mean Debora with no “h” was a backing singer?’
‘No, a backing singer is what happened to Debora. I fell for one.’ He stopped to reminisce. ‘Japanese African-American. Her name was Halle, short for Hallelujah.’ Stella tried not to giggle. This was all so far from p
ainting pets in Camley. ‘Gorgeous girl. Anyway, Debora was prepared to put up with Halle but Halle wasn’t prepared to put up with Debora.’
‘I like the sound of Debora.’
Cameron ignored this and filled up her glass. ‘But then I met Roxanne.’ He sighed as if life had somehow unfairly ambushed him.
‘Another backing singer?’
‘A mistake, though she’s a lovely girl. She’s too young for me. Her mother called her after that song by Sting.’
‘Goodness me, I bought that; she must be young.’
‘She was twenty. She’s twenty-one now. Stella,’ he shook his head tragically, ‘you can’t imagine what it’s like living with someone who thinks Cream is something you put in your coffee.’
‘Instead of a band with Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker and . . . ?’
‘Jack Bruce, RIP.’ Cameron bent his head in reverence at his departed hero. ‘And then she wanted to have a baby.’
‘And you didn’t?’
‘I’ve already got five children.’
Stella felt a fleeting relief that she and Cameron hadn’t married. Wives seemed somewhat dispensable.
‘I’m too tired, Stella. And I want another hit.’ He grabbed her hands and held them in his. ‘I need to be re-inspired, that’s why I wanted to find you. You were so sweet and hidden – what was that bit of poetry? Like a flower that blushed unseen!’ he announced, proud to have located this cultural titbit from the empty fridge of his memory.
‘Gray’s “Elegy”. I love that poem.’ Stella tried to remember the lines. ‘“The plowman homeward plods his weary way . . .”’
‘And haven’t I known just what he feels like after a heavy night,’ Cameron mused.
‘The funny thing is, Cameron, you told me that song wasn’t about me.’
Cameron shrugged endearingly. ‘I’m a man, Stella, what can I say? Men don’t like admitting how much women mean to them. Anyway, that poem always made me think of you; I didn’t want you to be unseen! I wanted you to be there with me.’
Listening to him, Stella felt a flicker of response. There might be something sweetly comical about Cameron but he still had the old magic.
