by Penny Feeny
‘Thank you,’ she said, though she’d barely noted the content. ‘That’s given me enough to be going on with. Your production values are very high.’
‘Absolutely essential,’ Grant said. ‘We don’t cut corners. We hire the best actors and I think we have an inventive take on direction. I can guarantee that viewers will not be bored. Did you read our testimonials?’
‘Doesn’t this make you expensive, though? Don’t you find your competitors undercut your fees?’
Grant sighed. ‘Don’t you find, Helen, that in life you get exactly what you pay for?’
‘Let me make my position clear,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be hiring you directly, but if I thought it appropriate I could recommend you to my clients. I really need to be sure that you can deliver what you’re offering and it seems to me you’re not quite up to speed here.’ She indicated the boxes and the stacks of files.
‘All under control within a couple of weeks,’ he promised. ‘As soon as Mandy’s back from leave I’m signing the lease on the office space.’
Liddy couldn’t help being distracted by his mannerisms, by their odd similarity to Jake’s: tossing his fringe and letting his eyes rest upon hers with intense sincerity. Grant was like an etiolated version of the man she’d known – as if an impression of the original Jake had been taken and rolled out to near transparency: a faint, cloned shadow.
‘A couple of weeks?’ she repeated. ‘And what’s happening at the Australian end?’
‘We’ll keep that ticking over for the time being.’
‘We? Who are your other business partners?’
‘We have backers in Sydney who’ve invested in us. Sleeping partners. And then . . .’ With one hand Grant pinched the bridge of his nose. The other was piercing a piece of paper with a pen. Liddy waited, horrified. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You hit a raw nerve. It’s the reason I’m sitting here right now, actually. Back in the old country.’
‘You’re English?’
‘Yeah. My partner was English, too. Jamie and I set up the business when we grew tired of being a couple of beach bums. We took it a helluva long way.’ As if realizing this was not a topic to be expected at a business meeting, he added, ‘Sorry for going off target, Helen. This is not what you came to hear.’ The pen had stopped piercing. His grip around it was so tight his knuckles blanched.
‘Jamie?’ said Liddy. ‘Was English? What happened?’ She couldn’t help her eyes straying to the back of the photograph frame. Grant lifted and regarded it before showing it to her. She knew what he was going to say before the words came; she knew with complete conviction that the worst thing she could possibly imagine had already taken place.
‘There was an accident.’
‘What sort of accident?’
‘Not while we were filming, you understand. We have very high health and safety standards. He wasn’t on location. It was a personal trip. Kayaking. Not long after this picture was taken.’ He paused. ‘Jamie got into difficulties and we couldn’t rescue him in time.’
‘He drowned?’ If Liddy shut her eyes she could see them all in the boat: herself, Helena and Jake, Mimmo, Bobo and Sara. She could feel the water rocking beneath her, glittering and treacherous. They’d laughed at her for being scared, but she’d been proved right. Small boats were dangerous things.
Grant bowed his head. ‘Two and a half years ago.’
She’d wanted to draw a line but she hadn’t expected it to be this final. During the past few months, since meeting Allie, memories of Jake had surfaced and tugged at her. She could see him spinning turntables, lighting a cigarette, lying on the tumbled bed in one of his black moods. Sometimes she could hear his persuasive charm; feel the deft play of his clever fingers. For so long she’d looked out for him, wondering whether she might see his face on a screen or his name in the credits, or read an interview in a magazine. That wouldn’t happen now. Jake wasn’t part of anyone’s life. He’d been dead for over two years.
‘That’s terrible,’ she said, because all useful words had forsaken her.
‘It was tough,’ Grant said. ‘We put so much energy into setting up the business and he was an ace director. Losing your other half is kind of difficult to overcome. But hey, I’m conquering new territory here, that’s what it’s all about. Come back home and make a new start . . .’ He crumpled his ravaged paper into a ball and hurled it at the wastepaper bin. ‘Strewth – how d’you get this stuff out of me? I didn’t mean to be, like, so unprofessional.’
‘It’s how I get the full picture,’ said Liddy. ‘Listening to people.’ And ferreting about in their accounts and their filing systems and their desk drawers; forever breaching the defensive barriers they put up when they suspected someone was coming to spy on them. Sometimes she hated what she did.
‘Well, I’ve already said too much. I swear to you we’re a going concern. New projects lined up and a handful in the final stages in the editing suite. You’ve caught me at a moment of hiatus. The new website goes live next week, but meantime let me find some copies of our brochure for you. They should be in the back office.’ He shambled out again.
Liddy was sifting his words, examining them as if they were three-dimensional objects, as if from a different facet she might get a different analysis. Had she heard correctly? ‘My partner . . . a couple of beach bums . . . losing your other half.’ She’d classified Jake as one of those intriguing itinerants who can’t bring themselves to settle down, but clearly he and Grant had been long-term lovers. It irked her that he’d chosen a stringy pipe-cleaner over soft, curvaceous womanhood – but it was nothing compared to the tragedy of his early death. Poor Jake. For all that he’d appeared to promise, what had he left behind? A handful of workplace DVDs, soon to be superseded. No glory.
This was too much to take in. When Grant returned with a fraction more colour in his cheeks and a pile of A4 folders, her stance was still rigid, frozen.
‘I have to apologize,’ he said, ‘that you found me in such disarray. To be frank, I wouldn’t have made the appointment if I’d remembered Mandy was going to be off. We could have sorted all this on the phone.’
He was right. She’d been foolish. She forced herself to speak. ‘I like to make a point of meeting new contacts face to face. I hope you don’t think I’ve taken advantage of your . . . um . . . circumstances. I’d be happy to reconvene when you’re more organized.’ This wasn’t true. She had no intention of keeping any association. Future emails would be deleted, unanswered.
‘And I hope, Helen, that you’ll think our work speaks for itself. I can assure you I haven’t let standards fall. That DVD I’ve given you is a new one. Jamie wasn’t the only talented director in our stable.’
‘It’s so sad when talent is cut short. And it’s my turn to apologize’ – she had to say this, however difficult it was – ‘if I probed too far into your personal life. I didn’t mean to. It’s just . . .’
‘Are you okay, Helen?’
She seemed to be glued to her seat. She rested her hand on her abdomen as the nausea rose in her throat. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine. It will pass in a moment. To tell you the truth, I’ve always been afraid of water myself.’
‘Oh, but Jamie didn’t have much fear. And if he did, he’d face it head on. Exorcize his demons, as it were.’
Liddy swallowed. ‘Did he have many? Demons, I mean.’ They both wanted to talk about him, that much was obvious: she and Grant Fielding and heaven knows how many other lovers. Grant smiled again, the smile that transformed his face from nondescript to handsome. It contained within it an echo, a fragment of Jake. ‘Hundreds,’ he said.
Shaking his hand on departure, noting its dry warmth, she marvelled at the power of touch, its ability to awaken other fleeting memories. She had to get back home, to something that resembled reality. She didn’t know which direction to take for the Tube and she couldn’t see a taxi. Perhaps she should ring for one. As soon as she switched on her phone, several text messages rumbled into her inbox. There was
also a voicemail, surprisingly agitated, from Allie.
26
Helena had fired up the kiln she kept in her garden studio and was waiting for it to reach the required temperature. Summer was tipping into August. There was a languorous feel to the hawthorn hedge and the high grass was rampant with clover. The apples were reddening and starting to drop. She’d come home determined to harness a spurt of creative energy, to produce a ceramic collection that was shockingly gaudy – in complete contrast to her meticulous restoration projects. She thought she would welcome an uninterrupted period of concentration, but already she longed for distraction. She was finding Bryony Cottage, a square, detached twenties house with quirky Arts and Crafts touches, a little too quiet. It was different in term-time, when charming overseas lodgers turned her kitchen into an international canteen (she’d never relished the nuclear family unit, not even during those relatively stable years with Ian) and promised reciprocal hospitality should she find herself in Tokyo or Tangiers or Buenos Aires – which was most unlikely to happen.
She wondered whether it was too early to ring Simon in Chicago. The plenary sessions wouldn’t have started. He might be eating breakfast. Pancakes and maple syrup? Soufflé omelette with bacon rashers so crisp they crumbled on impact? He might not be alone. He might have picked up another delegate. You couldn’t rely on them to be frigid blue-stockings, particularly not in criminology. She imagined a Californian with long, red fingernails and platinum hair. Or a Brazilian sitting astride his lap with her toffee-coloured legs outstretched. Her pace quickened as she crossed the lawn and re-entered the house. She picked up the handset, sat at the foot of the stairs and dialled the number of his hotel. At the reception desk they tried but failed to put her through to his room. His mobile didn’t appear to be functioning.
Really, this was stupid. What was she going to say to him anyway? I didn’t expect to miss you? She was chiding herself for her impatience when the phone rang in her hand before she’d had a chance to replace it on its rest.
‘Faultless timing!’ she exclaimed. ‘How do you manage it?’
‘Mum?’ said Allie. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘Telepathy,’ said Helena without missing a beat. ‘I’ve been waiting to hear from you.’
‘You have?’
‘You upset quite an apple cart.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Well, I suppose Liddy had a hand in it too, but you should have told me what you were up to. I shouldn’t have had to call Bobo bloody Baldini to find out where you were. Plus, the other day when I was at your place, this bloke, this complete no-mark, comes on the line and starts interrogating me . . .’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember his name! As if it’s any of his business. And God knows –’
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Allie. ‘Are you angry with me?’
Helena flexed her shoulder blades, straightened her spine; she was no longer bored. ‘Of course I’m angry – with the pair of you for cooking up this expedition behind my back. This is only the second time you’ve contacted me since it all blew up.’
‘I emailed. Didn’t you get my email?’
‘I don’t think so, but I’ve been in the studio. Which account did you send it to?’
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Allie, and it was at this point that Helena detected a flatness, a dull monotone that was quite uncharacteristic and which could not be explained by the physical distance between them. ‘I’m phoning you now because there’s stuff I need to know. Like why did you lie to me?’
‘Lie about what?’
‘The guy . . . The man who . . . my father.’
The day was muggy. Thunder flies drifted in a black cloud in the open doorway. Helena said, ‘I cannot possibly have this conversation with you on the telephone.’
‘Well, we’ve never managed to have it any other way. I thought it might be easier if you didn’t actually have to look me in the eye.’
‘Allie, what’s got into you?’
‘I just want to know.’
Helena was taken aback by the hostility she could hear in Allie’s voice. She took the phone into the sitting room and launched herself on to the sofa, scattering cushions. ‘We’ve managed pretty well up to now, you and I. You need to think carefully about what you’re asking.’
‘I have thought. I’ve been super-sensitive. I’ve never pushed this before. But, the fact is, I have a right.’
‘If you yell at me, Allie, I’ll cut you off. I’ve already told you this isn’t the subject for a phone call.’
‘Why? You’re at home, aren’t you? It’s not like you’re walking down the street with everyone listening in.’
There were no background noises at Allie’s end either. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in an apartment in a district of Rome called Prati. It belongs to someone you used to know. Fabrizio Verducci.’
She should have guessed this would happen: she had instilled in Allie the value of perseverance. She punched one of the cushions but it gave her no satisfaction. ‘What on earth are you doing there?’
‘I was invited by his son.’
‘Mimmo?’
‘Max. I already told you about him.’
‘You only said he was lending you his mobile. And I couldn’t get back in touch with you afterwards.’ She could sense an incipient headache. She held the handset a little further from her ear. ‘So you’ve actually met Fabrizio, have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is he, the bastard?’
‘I think he’s probably still a bastard,’ said Allie.
‘I used to be fatally attracted to the type,’ Helena said. ‘You should know I was only trying to protect you.’
‘Actually, he’s agreed to take a DNA test.’
‘Really? They weren’t easy to come by in those days.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ Allie said, ‘is why you gave me all that bollocks about the romantic, feckless, left-wing musician. Where did he come from?’
Helena stood up and stared at her reflection in the mirrored overmantel: the lines that bracketed the upward tilt of her mouth and crimped the corners of her eyes. It was not a miserable face, nor a defeated one. If your will was strong enough you could deal with all kinds of flak and come through cheerful.
‘Mum, are you there?’
‘It was a solution of sorts,’ said Helena. ‘When you’re stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea. Creative licence.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You weren’t going to meet him, after all. A charming, talented wastrel seemed to fit the bill and isn’t far off the mark anyway.’
‘You made him up? You invented him! Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘Why would somebody lie about a person’s father?’ Silence stifled the line. At length Allie said in bewilderment, ‘Unless he was a murderer or a rapist or something. Oh shit . . .’
‘You see!’ exclaimed Helena. ‘That’s exactly why we need to talk this over in person. You’re making things worse than they need be and whatever I say now you won’t believe. You’ll think I’m fobbing you off.’
‘Try me.’
The thermometer on the kiln would be rising steadily, building heat. The blast when she opened the door would be awesome. She should be getting back to the studio. ‘You have to remember that my dates were confused because of the pill. The simple fact is that I didn’t know who got me pregnant.’
An astounded pause. ‘You didn’t know!’
‘I don’t believe I ever sprouted wings,’ said Helena.
‘No but . . .’
‘It didn’t seem so outrageous at the time. I’d met Fabrizio soon after I arrived in Rome – the practice was sponsoring an exhibition we had to visit – and I daresay I got involved with him too quickly. There was a period when I tried to break it off – because he was married for goodness’ sake – and I had a short-lived fling with someone els
e . . . When you were born and Fabrizio refused to acknowledge you I thought it was because of the palsy. You can’t believe how angry I was.’
‘Someone else?’ demanded Allie. ‘Who?’
‘An English actor called Jake Knight.’
‘So I’m not half-Italian?’
Many of Allie’s friends had such a rich cultural heritage they were like one-man multinationals. She was bound to be disappointed. ‘Possibly not.’
‘An actor?’
‘You won’t have heard of him. He slipped under the radar years ago.’
‘Did he ever see me?’
‘No. He left Italy before you were born. Got some bit part in a film on location in Spain. We didn’t keep in touch.’
‘But you could track him down now, if the DNA . . . I mean . . . ?’
‘Well, that would be your prerogative, though I’m not sure it would be a good idea. Look, Allie, I’ve had some crap boyfriends, but actually you were lucky with Ian. He was a much better dad than either of your supposed biological fathers would have been.’ Fourteen years of compromise was how she saw it now.
‘You know he left us because he wanted his own kids. And that was your fault.’
At times like this, Helena regretted she no longer had a twenty-a-day habit. The buzz of nicotine (or something stronger) to kindle her brain, the primitive comfort of her mouth sucking the filter. ‘Yep, that’s me, responsible for all the shit in the world. Shoot me, why don’t you? Or you could just come home . . . Darling? Please.’
‘I have to go,’ said Allie abruptly. ‘I’m running late.’
In fact she was early. She’d thought about not turning up at all, but she didn’t want to earn an undeserved reputation for bottling stuff. She wasn’t a bottler; she faced things head on. She scanned the tables set out in front of the restaurant, all occupied by strangers. She’d expected Max to arrive before her, but he wasn’t in the smoky interior either. She accepted the waiter’s invitation to dine in the back courtyard and was placed at a table that rocked on the uneven paving and was a little too close to the drains. She spent ten minutes trying to translate the menu, wondering how long she should give him and whether he’d be able to find her.
