Postscripts

by Claire Rayner

  At once Brazel and his interests, the film, everything, vanished from Abner’s mind and he looked at her and then picked up his cup of coffee to pretend to drink the thick cold dregs. I mustn’t say it, he was thinking. I dare not say it. Oh, Christ, how can I not say it?

  ‘Do you have to?’ He said it as casually as he could.

  She was looking over her shoulder, trying to catch the waiter’s eye to ask for the bill and she sat very still, her head still turned away.

  ‘Go home? Of course.’

  ‘I just wondered,’ he said, still very casual. ‘I could offer hospitality of a sort and you could go and see about your trip to Amsterdam tomorrow, couldn’t you? I’ll be able to phone early to sort out when I’ll be there and — ’

  ‘Stop it, Abner,’ she said and turned back to the table as the waiter arrived. ‘Just stop it. I haven’t even agreed to Amsterdam yet.’

  He swallowed. ‘You have. You must. I’ve set my heart on it.’

  She managed to laugh at that. ‘Oh, I see. You’ve set your heart on it, so that means it has to happen?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, and she stared at him and he looked down at the table.

  ‘I’m going back to Oxford. Now,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘If you prefer,’ he said then. ‘It was just a suggestion. I’m trying to make things easier for you.’

  ‘Nothing’s easy for me,’ she said with a sudden savagery in her voice. ‘Things that are so simple and normal for other people are hell on earth for me. I thought you understood that. Or some of it.’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘And I’m — no, I’m not sorry. I’m sad. There’s no need to be afraid of me, you know.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you, damn you,’ she flared. ‘You ought to know that by now! It’s nothing to do with you. Let me have that bill, for God’s sake!’ And she almost snatched it from the hand of the slightly startled waiter who had been hovering.

  He said nothing as she reached into her bag and pulled out a wallet and the notes to pay; it was touching to see she used neither cheque book nor plastic, and that underlined for him the narrowness of her life in a way that made his throat tighten. She had had a dreadful time before him; and was still having it, was still a frightened child who needed nursing through her bad dreams.

  ‘It’s all right, Miriam,’ he said gently. ‘Everything’s going to be fine, I promise you.’

  She looked up at him briefly and he saw her eyes were glittering with the threat of tears. ‘Is it?’ she said. ‘Is it really? How can you promise anything?’

  ‘I can and I do — and what’s more I’ll make it all come right. Believe me. Tonight go home to Oxford. Drive like an angel, please, and get there safe. And next week Amsterdam. Hang on to that, Miriam. Because that you really are going to do.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. I am, aren’t I?’

  Twenty-eight

  Not until the plane actually took off and was banking steeply over the reservoirs and ticky-tacky houses around Heathrow did he believe it would happen. The whole project had been so fraught with uncertainty that he had almost lost sight of why he had wanted to go to Amsterdam in the first place.

  Sorting out the job with Dave Shandwick had been no trouble at all. Abner had taken in his edited film, after a fruitful morning in an editing suite in Charlotte Street, and Dave had run it through his playback and grunted his approval.

  ‘Can’t beat a pro, can you, Abner? They’ll love it. What’s more, they’ll want more. I’ll dub in music tonight. I thought for the dog shots, we’d use a bit of “William Tell” — hunting and all that you know? They’ll like that. And we can take it down behind the girl’s spiel — and that’s some pair of tits, for Christ’s sake, ain’t it just? You should see her in some of the blue stuff she does — incredible!’

  ‘“William Tell”,’ Abner said and almost groaned. ‘Come on, Dave, can’t you think of an even bigger cliché than that?’

  ‘Good, ain’t it?’ Dave said complacently. ‘Think like the common man, that’s the whole secret of success. Well done, my old friend. Here’s the cash I owe you and how about a bit more?’

  ‘Seven hundred and the Pulitzer Hotel and you’re on for your rubbers commercial,’ Abner had said and then grinned at him. ‘Come on, Dave, it’s a bargain! Apart from anything else, I thought about the brief, and you don’t even have to use paid presenters or performers.’

  Dave’s eyes had brightened. ‘I don’t?’

  ‘No — opportunistic stuff, that’s what we need. Wander round the place with a good crew and your eyes open and there’ll be lovers, lots of ’em. Just film the bits of scenery they happen to be in, is all. As for the flowers on the water, the breeze in the trees and the rest of the schlock, who needs any extra cash for that? And I can cod a light in a window without paying for the privilege! I’ll be cheap at seven hundred. Anyone else’d want actors, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Anyone else wouldn’t get ’em. Make it six hundred.’

  ‘Six seventy-five and that’s my last. And I want to do Amsterdam first, London later. OK?’

  And Dave had sighed a deep lugubrious sigh and then they’d laughed and the deal was on. And Abner went off with details of where he was to meet his crew in Amsterdam and a handsome advance on the job in his wallet. He was beginning, he told himself, as he clattered down the stairs into the street, to feel like a real man again. And had whistled softly between his teeth as he loped off towards Monty Nagel’s office.

  There, all had been very smooth. The secretary had greeted him by name with a wide smile and showed him through into Monty’s inner sanctum and he thought sourly of the way money made a man visible. Last time he’d come in she’d had scant use for him, but now there were smiles all round. And he looked at her coolly and refused her offer of coffee and felt better.

  The contract Monty had waiting for him was all he’d promised; a model of careful detail and, as far as Abner could tell, very well thought out. Every time he remembered some detail he ought to look for, drawing on his memories of previous tussles over contracts, there it was in a sub-section to a paragraph somewhere, and he took out his pen at last and initialled and signed wherever Monty pointed; and then shook hands with him and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Well,’ he had said. ‘So far, so almost good. Now I have to make sure I come up with the sort of story he wants, and that I want.’

  ‘Finished stories,’ Monty had said, and rearranged his belly surreptitiously over his too tight waistband. He looked to have gained a few pounds even since Abner had seen him last, he thought. A rich life, being an agent. Beat directing hands down, if it was money you were after. ‘He was very hot on that, was M.M.’

  ‘What sort of guy is he?’ Abner had asked curiously. ‘All I know is he’s got a lot of money, and seems good at making more and likes painting and music.’

  ‘And theatre and books.’ Monty lifted expressive brows. ‘He’s always been a pushover for companies that deal with the arts. So he’s got fingers in a lot of pies. But I’ll tell you this: he never puts a foot wrong. If he takes over a publishers and chooses the books, then he gets bestsellers. Not schlock, you understand. Heavy stuff. Booker winners, the whole bit. You got to admire him.’

  ‘Oh, I admire, I admire!’ Abner had said. ‘But tell me, where does he come from?’

  ‘Come from?’ Monty was puzzled.

  ‘Yeah, where was he born and all that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Monty said. ‘Why should I? The guy lives here, so I imagine he was born here.’

  ‘Like hell! Even I can see that London’s as big a melting pot as Manhattan ever was. I’ve met enough people here to know that half of them come from some place else and the rest are immigrants.’

  Monty had laughed. ‘You’re right there. My lot came originally from the haim — you know, the Pale. My father always said he was a son of Neptune, born on the boat between Hamburg and here. They meant to go to America, the grandparents, but they got
this far with a sick premature baby so they waited till he was fit to make the rest of the journey and there it was — they never got no further. So, punkt! Here I am. And to think I could have been one of your real high priced LA agents — enough to make you cry.’

  ‘You’re doing all right,’ Abner had said dryly. ‘Was M.M. like that?’

  Monty looked slightly shocked. ‘One of the old timers, the ones that came over on the onion boats? Never think it! He’s a real top drawer type. Old fashioned, you know? Very cultured. Real public school stuff.’

  ‘I thought with a name like Mayer, he was a Jew, too,’ Abner said. ‘But it — ’

  ‘You can’t tell a thing from names,’ Monty said. ‘Why do you ask? Is it important?’

  ‘No, it’s not important,’ Abner said. ‘I suppose. It’s just I’m a curious guy. I like to know all I can about the people I work with.’ He grinned then. ‘I know a bit more about you now, don’t I?’

  ‘Yeah. And I take size eleven in shoes and a seventeen and a half in collars and I dress on the right. Satisfied?’

  ‘Satisfied enough. I’ll get to know the rest some other time. Over dinner, maybe.’

  ‘Sure. You can afford it now, right? I’ve sorted out the business side with my own bank. Tania will give you the information — you can shift it to your own bank if you like but believe me they give good service and there’s a branch only just round the corner, which is handy. So what’s the next step?’

  ‘A bit of combined operations. I’m going to Amsterdam to make a sexy commercial for Dave Shandwick and while I’m there I’ll do some research.’

  ‘Oh?’ Monty said and looked at him sharply. ‘Why Amsterdam?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll be there anyway and Dave tells me there’s a great museum there. The Jews of Holland had a bad time in the war. Enough of them went to the camps. I might pick up something useful.’

  ‘But you’ve no specific lead there?’ Monty seemed eager for an answer and Abner looked at him, his brows raised.

  ‘Not anything special. Why? Does it matter?’

  ‘Oh, not at all, not at all,’ Monty said. ‘I was just interested. Listen, enjoy it there. Don’t smoke too much funny tobacco and keep away from the Waterlooplein — ’

  ‘Where the ladies offer their wares in the windows, yeah, yeah, I know. If anyone else tells me about that, I’ll spit! In the coffee shop this morning where I had my breakfast I said, “Amsterdam” and they were all drooling, and then a guy in the train I got talking to — everyone seems to think I’m sex-obsessed to be going there.’

  ‘We can all have our dreams,’ Monty said and grunted to his feet. ‘So, listen, good luck. Come back as soon as you’ve got some stuff for M.M. and we’ll fix another meet. Get back soon’s you can, now. You’ve got some real work to do — not these tuppeny-ha’penny commercials.’

  ‘Just a few days,’ Abner had promised. ‘Just a few days.’ And had gone away to make some highly satisfactory arrangements at the bank, and then to buy a couple of new shirts and a pair of light trousers and phone Miriam. So far, so good.

  The plane settled down to a steady grumbling roar and he turned his head and looked at her. ‘They’ll fetch coffee and drinks soon,’ he said. ‘What’ll it be?’

  She shook her head, peering down at the ground through the window beside her, clearly absorbed in all she saw, and he looked at the line of her cheek and tried to relax. They were here, and considering how hard she had wriggled, how strongly she had at first denied that she had ever really intended to go, that was amazing. He had had to go down to Oxford and almost drag her out to the travel agents so that together they could book the flight and their hotel rooms; and she had protested hard all the time. But not hard enough. He had been determined, keeping firmly in his mind’s eye that moment at the Greek restaurant in Camden Town when she had replied to his question about really going to Amsterdam. ‘Yes,’ she had said. ‘I am, aren’t I?’ and had reminded her of it every time she tried to protest.

  They had bought the tickets, and he left her to pay for her own, feeling not only that it was important for her own self-esteem that she do so, but that it carried a form of insurance that she would go. Parting with that much money added a compulsion of its own; but he could have cheerfully strangled the girl behind the desk who, when she handed over the packet of tickets had said brightly, ‘There’s a twenty-four hour cancellation facility — they can always shift these tickets to stand-by passengers, you see.’ But then Miriam had looked sideways at him and burst into laughter, enjoying the look on his face, and that had been a good moment.

  Booking a hotel had been a little more difficult. The girl had taken it for granted they wanted a double room, making Abner almost spell out in words of one syllable what they wanted, but at last understood and with elephantine tact said she’d look for hotels that offered single accommodation — ‘though there aren’t many, not these days.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter that much,’ Abner had said then between tight teeth. ‘I’m not that hung up on saving a few bucks. Just telex the Pulitzer, will you, and see what they can do?’

  He’d heard of the hotel from the man in the train that morning. He’d stayed in Amsterdam often, he’d told Abner, full of traveller’s excitement, and waxed lyrical about the hotel made out of several of the old Amsterdam merchants’ houses, on the Prinzengracht.

  ‘They’ve got these concentric canals, you know,’ he’d said earnestly. ‘The King’s canal, that’s the Kaisergracht, and the Princes’, the Prinzengracht, and the Gentlemen’s — and that’s the Herrengracht. The Pulitzer’s on the Prinzengracht just down from the Ann Frank House, and really it’s super. All “olde worlde”, you know?’ In spite of that gut-wrenching description, Abner took the risk; it was the only hotel name he knew of outside the ubiquitous Hiltons and their ubiquitous coffeeshops and blank anonymous rooms, and anyway, it had a glorious sound full of good omen. Pulitzer, the prize for excellence. So, he had signed the booking form and then handed it over to Miriam, mute at his side, and she had signed it too, and he had watched her anxiously. It was important she wanted to go, important that she enjoyed this. If she only made the trip out of some sort of obligation to him it would be hell for both of them. And as soon as they were out of the travel agents and standing in the bright wintry sunshine of Carfax he said so to her.

  ‘This is supposed to be fun for you, Miriam. You’re carrying on as though I’m trying to get you to book seats on a tumbril, Madame La Guillotine next stop.’

  She had stood there with her hands in the pockets of her new coat, her collar up about her ears and stared out across the bustle of Carfax to the other side, her face long and still.

  ‘I’m doing my best,’ she had said then. ‘I really am. Don’t ask me to go dancing and singing as well.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, and risked sliding one hand into the crook of her elbow. She tightened against it but didn’t move away, and he left his hand there, resting gently, not moving. ‘I promise I’m not. Just assure me you want to go. That this is just — just stage fright.’

  She looked at him sideways. ‘It’s stage fright,’ she said. ‘I’m doing my best, Abner. I told you that. I really am.’

  They stood there a while longer as the people eddied round them, ignoring them as a brace of lamp posts would have been ignored. ‘Is it me you’re scared of, or the — or what?’

  She considered that. ‘All of it,’ she said at length. ‘I’ve never flown, you know that? This is the last decade of the twentieth century, and I’ve never been in a plane. It somehow never happened. When I was small they never went anywhere and after she died…’ Her voice dwindled away and then gathered strength. ‘And there’s you. I don’t know where I am with you. You seem to — you’re very kind.’

  Now she did look at him and he couldn’t help his hand tightening on her arm. ‘I’m not so stupid that I don’t know when men fancy me, and I think you do, and that scares the shit out of me. Other times, with othe
r people, it just makes me mad. I’m not mad, but — ’ She shrugged.

  ‘So get mad,’ he said as flippantly as he could, though it wasn’t easy. To have this girl admitting this much about her feelings for him in the middle of Carfax at the busiest time of the day was an impossible situation to be in. ‘If it’ll help.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Then don’t.’ He had smiled at her. ‘Just do what you want. As for me — I’m no trouble to anyone. House-trained, haven’t jumped up and bitten the neighbours since I was a pup. Trust me.’

  ‘I’m trying to,’ she had said, and then had turned sharply and started to walk in long strides along the pavement, almost dragging him behind her, and pushing people aside as though she hadn’t seen them, appearing to be totally unaware of their occasional protests. And then they’d gone to have lunch and not another word had been said. But he hadn’t stopped worrying about whether she would actually show up at the airport when the time came.

  And he hadn’t stopped wondering, either, about how he would cope. Was he setting himself an impossible task, staying with her in a hotel in a romantic city well away from home, wanting her so badly? Was this whole trip going to turn out to be the most disastrous mistake he had ever made?

  The plane banked again, making his ears tighten against the change in air pressure and suddenly she turned her head to stare at him and it was as though she had been changed by some sort of magic. Her eyes, which had been shadowed and dull, avoiding his gaze ever since they met this morning in the lounge at Heathrow, were glittering with excitement, and she seemed to be glowing.

  ‘Abner, I’ve just remembered! It’s the most stupid thing! I was looking down there and I was thinking — that’s Amsterdam. I’m really looking down at Amsterdam though it’s all cloudy really and then it just popped out. That was what Brazel wanted to look for. That was why I remembered him the other night when we were in that restaurant, only I forgot almost as soon as I remembered. You said Amsterdam and that made Brazel pop up and then just now, I remembered again.’