‘Circumstances?’
‘Losing my sight. Blindness I was already imagining as a capsize. The boat I’d taken for granted was sinking. Pavel was my lifejacket, something to keep me afloat in the years that would follow. In my twenties, thank Christ, I made it my business to go and find truly beautiful places I’d remember for ever. Maybe it was an unconscious thing. Probably not. All the warning signs were there, my dad, my uncle, my niece. I was really close to my dad and after he’d gone blind I remember him telling me how he regretted not ever seeing the Grand Canyon. Me? I can live without the Grand Canyon, but I had a list of other places – mainly cities – that I wanted to store away for later in case it ever happened.’
And so a younger Paul Stukeley took cheap flights to sundry corners of Europe. Venice, disfigured by tourists, was a disappointment. Paris he adored already and it never let him down. But the real revelation was Prague.
‘It was love at first sight. I went in late October. It was 2015. I’d been in a relationship for a while, several years, but it had come to a very ugly end and I needed to get away. Prague became my new mistress, just like that, and being alone helped enormously. Smoky dusks. The first cold breath of winter. The river the colour of steel as the light began to die. Wet cobblestones in the lamplight. Little bars it was impossible to pass. Until that week I never realized how despair and regret and disappointment and all the rest of it could bleed into something so delicious. I stayed until my money ran out.’
As the light began to die.
In the restaurant, after Pavel had magically summoned the waiter and asked for the bill, I asked him when – exactly – he’d lost his sight. He told me it had happened that same year, 2015, but mercifully after Christmas.
‘Why mercifully?’
‘Because I went back to Prague. Just to make sure I hadn’t imagined it.’
‘And?’
‘It was beautiful. It was unforgettable. It even snowed. I was still alone but that didn’t seem to matter. It was a kind of consummation. That was the moment I became Pavel Sieger.’
‘And the blindness?’
‘New Year’s Eve. I went to bed fully sighted and woke up in darkness. I knew at once what had happened, of course, but the odd thing was that it still took me by surprise. Even with all the clues, all the warnings, you never see blindness coming.’
You never see blindness coming.
That single phrase – so simple, so clever, so right – is the very essence of Pavel. He knows how to condense some of life’s trickier propositions and put them on the page. This, believe me, is a very rare talent. I sensed it the moment I first read the radio script and I know it now. But this is also a man with a highly developed sense of how life can hurt him. He has the weightlessness of the true nomad. Which is why, this morning in my flat, he doesn’t want to hang around and wait for H to arrive. Very sensible.
THREE
Hayden Prentice and I have little in common except our son, Malo. Malo was the result of a drunken night aboard a super yacht in Antibes eighteen years ago. I was a young jobbing actress. ‘Saucy’, as he was then known, had made a fortune from the wholesale importation of cocaine, laundering the money through a string of canny investments. The yacht belonged to a mate of Saucy’s. The following day I took a train down the coast to the Cannes Film Festival and met the man who soon became my husband, and Malo’s assumed father. Seventeen years later, my marriage over, a DNA test turned all our worlds upside down.
By this time Hayden Prentice had become ‘H’ rather than ‘Saucy’, and he was delighted to discover the son whose existence he’d never once suspected. Malo fell in love with his new dad, with Flixcombe Manor and its hundreds of acres of prime west Dorset, and with the kind of golden life chances that brought him windfalls like Clemenza.
In H’s eyes I, too, am cast as a windfall. H is a proud man. On only three occasions has he been drunk or desperate enough to admit that he wants – needs – me full time in his life. A whole floor of my own awaits me at Flixcombe Manor any time I fancy it. H will give me anything that money will buy. Yet at the same time, deep down, he knows that I’m not for sale. Is he in love with me? Yes, a little. Would it ever work out? No, never. This, I know for certain, H will never accept. Hence, perhaps, his sudden interest in movie-making.
He broke the news on the phone three months ago. He’d been paid a visit down at Flixcombe by a young London-based producer looking for locations for a series set in the West Country. H had scented an opening to a world he knew belonged to me and the young man had stayed for dinner. H poured expensive wine down his throat and learned a great deal about the insane economics of movie-making.
Nine out of ten projects are duds. They cost a lot of money and lose even more. But that tenth movie – that golden script that ends up in the right directorial hands – can open the door to a kind of immortality, something beautifully shaped, artfully realized, that will be around as long as people have eyes to see. This phrase, as you might guess, came from Pavel, which is where the trouble began.
On the phone, H sketched out his idea. He’d been doing a little reading and had discovered, to his delight, that a significant number of English stately homes owed their very existence to dodgy money. Smuggling, piracy, tobacco and the slave trade built some of the nation’s finest estates, and within a single generation a bunch of hooligans had become pillars of the community. This, in H’s parlance, proved that nothing talked louder than serious moolah, a fact that is still incontestable today. So far it was easy to understand H’s interest. He, too, was a hooligan. And he, too, had money to burn. What he didn’t have was a story. What was this film about?
At this point, he seemed to lose his thread. He said he’d found the perfect location. He had in mind all kinds of Tudor mischief. He wanted me to find someone who could mix all the usual ingredients together – greed, violence, sex, loss, death, lots of swash, lots of buckle – and stick it in the oven. Everyone knew that American audiences killed for those fancy olde-England yarns. Find the right story, get the right bloke on the case, and we’d all be rich.
‘Richer,’ I remember saying.
‘Yeah.’ He’d chuckled before ringing off. ‘Bring it on.’
By now, I’d met Pavel. In the shape of Going Solo I knew he was a scriptwriter of real talent with a proven track record. I told him a little about H, enough to know he wouldn’t be wasting his time, and in due course I engineered a meeting down in west Dorset. Normally H adores showing off the house and the surrounding estate, but the fact that Pavel is blind robbed him of the opportunity. Instead he had to fall back on statistics – three hundred-plus acres, a multitude of outhouses, a swimming pool, membership of the local hunt, blah, blah – which didn’t begin to do the job.
Something else bothered him, too. Like Pavel, H trusts his instincts. He’d taken a hard look at the pair of us and didn’t like what he saw. Late that night, once I’d got back to London, he phoned me. Under these circumstances, H sees no merit in any but the bluntest of questions.
‘You’re at it, aren’t you?’
‘Who? What?’
‘You and the blind bloke. Is he there now?’
‘Of course he’s not. And even if he was, so what?’
‘Put him on. I want a word.’
‘I can’t. He’s not here.’
‘Give me a number, then.’
‘No.’
This is a word H genuinely hates. When the mood takes me I can be surprisingly stern. I told him he was out of order. I told him my life was my own. The one thing we shared, the one thing we had in common, was Malo, and if Malo ever dared behave like this, I’d give him a slap.
‘But I’m his father,’ H growled.
‘Exactly. So act your age. Pavel happens to be a friend of mine. He also happens to have the talents you need.’
‘We need.’
‘Exactly. So give us a little space. Is that too much to ask?’
H was deeply uncomfortable with this proposition, but the
businessman in him knew that I was right. I also suspected that deep down he couldn’t imagine yours truly in the sack with a blind man. How wrong could he be?
Last night, Pavel confessed for the first time that he’d asked specifically for me to be auditioned for the lead role in Going Solo. Before blindness struck, he’d watched me in a film I made in Nantes called The Hour of Our Passing. This was a movie set during the darkest days of the wartime occupation of France. I was much younger then and I think it was the first performance that made me feel I might have a real future as a screen actress, not because I was especially brilliant, but because the film itself was so well conceived and written.
In a scene towards the end, I make love to the male lead whom the audience already know is doomed. It was my first taste of full nudity on set and it went far better than I’d ever imagined. I saw it again last year and marvelled that bits of me were once so firm, so sleek, and – lucky me – so perfectly lit. Curled on the sofa, waiting for Pavel’s Uber to arrive, I asked him about that scene.
‘You were very natural. That’s hard to do.’
‘You liked it?’
‘Very much. I liked the film, too, if that’s your next question.’
It wasn’t. Chemo is behind me now and I’m looking forward to an imminent CT scan to see whether it worked or not. A little drunk, I asked Pavel to describe what I looked like in the Nantes movie.
‘We’re talking your face?’
‘If that’s what you’d like.’
‘Then come here.’
I moved towards him, took his hands in mine. Pavel explored everything through his fingertips. I’d seen him doing it to countless objects over the past few months. Now it was my turn.
His fingers tracked softly across my face. I had my eyes closed. From time to time I heard a soft murmur of appreciation. When I finally opened my eyes, it was obvious that he was getting excited.
‘Well?’ I asked him. ‘Is this the face you remember from that scene at the end?’
‘It is. Have you ever walked the South Downs Way?’
‘Never.’
‘There’s a feature called Ditchling Beacon. Back in the day I had a friend who lived in Brighton. In the summer I’d stay with her sometimes. She’d make us a picnic and we’d take the bus inland and climb the hill right up to the summit. On the south side there’s a hollow. It’s out of the wind. The sun’s on your face. You can lie back against the warm turf and see right down to the coast. I was sighted then and I’ll never forget that view. Your face reminds me of those afternoons. It feels like touching a memory. Life couldn’t have been more perfect.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘It is.’
I smiled. I reached out for his tinted glasses and put them carefully to one side. We both knew this was the first time I’d seen his eyes properly. They were a pale shade of blue, opaque-looking and slightly milky around the edges.
‘I feel naked,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
His fingers had returned to my face, tracing the curve of my lips. His eyes were closed again, his head tipped slightly back.
‘I think we should cancel the Uber,’ I said. ‘Give me your phone.’
FOUR
Pavel has been gone for more than two hours by the time H arrives.
‘A million US,’ he tells me the moment he steps into the apartment. ‘By fucking Monday. What do these people think we are? Stupid?’
It turns out that he’s made a detour en route back from the airport. Ten minutes on the phone to Malo in a tailback on the M4 had taken him to a handsome property in Belgravia where Clem’s father, Mateo, had been only too glad to see him. To the best of my knowledge Señor Muñoz is a businessman, fabulously wealthy. H says I’m not wrong.
‘Bloke’s my size exactly, same build, probably the same background. He’s been around a bit. He made a bundle on various deals in Bogotá, mainly property, and spread the winnings around before the last election. He was expecting the embassy in London, because that’s where his daughter wanted to be, but it never happened, so he treated himself to a nice address and decided to take a couple of years off. Top man.’
‘And Clem? Does Señor Muñoz have any thoughts about his daughter?’
H ignores my question. He’s prowling around the kitchen. He says he didn’t have time for a proper breakfast this morning. He’s starving. I find eggs and a handful of mushrooms and start work on an omelette. Looking for the jar of capers, I ask him whether the kidnappers might be Colombians, maybe some kind of cartel.
‘I asked the same.’ H has found a packet of Florentines. ‘Mateo says not. He already pays off most of the serious criminals back home and the rest have trouble getting up in the morning. No, he thinks this must be a local job. London dealers looking for easy money. She was always a target, that girl. Rich daddy. Out all hours on the bike. Real looker. No wonder they helped themselves.’
‘And Malo?’
‘All over the fucking place. I told him to get a grip. I told him we’d sort it. I just hope he was listening.’
‘Has your new friend been to the police?’
‘No way. Mateo got the message, too, and he believes them.’
‘So he’s paying up? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘You have to be joking.’ H is peering at the omelette pan. He wants more mushrooms. ‘The bloke’s like me. Can’t stand the thought of dead money.’
Dead money. Not the kindest phrase under these circumstances.
I unearth the last of the mushrooms from the tray at the bottom of the fridge. H is telling me a little more about Clem’s father. Back home in Bogotá, he says, kidnaps are ten a penny. Criminal gangs, political crazies, they’re all at it, and each one follows the same script. First you keep the police out of it. Then you reject the kidnappers’ opening bid and fence off the days to come for some heavy-duty negotiation. Money, H says, got Clemmie into this shit and money will get her out of it.
‘But not a million dollars?’ I enquire.
‘Nothing like. Life’s all conversation. Back in Bogotá, Mateo says everyone works on getting these people down to a tiny percentage of the upfront demand. A million US? On a good day that could end up at fifteen grand. Once you start talking, people see sense. Maybe fifteen or twenty was what they wanted in the first place – who fucking knows? All that matters is getting the girl back in one piece. We can save the rest for afters.’
‘Afters?’
‘These people are out of order. There are things you do and things you don’t. Be careful who you piss off, eh?’
H has settled at the kitchen table. The news that I don’t have any brown sauce puts a scowl on his face.
I want to know more about Malo. When he’s up in London he always stays over at Clem’s place, a rather nice Chelsea mews house that was evidently a present from her dad.
‘Malo has the key?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And he’s there now?’
‘Yeah.’ He’s staring at the omelette. ‘Salt?’
I do his bidding. Where, exactly, did Clem disappear?
‘This morning.’ H has his mouth full.
‘I said where.’
‘No one knows. According to Malo, her last job was a pick-up in Maida Vale. She never showed.’
‘No word from her after that?’
‘None. Mateo has contacts in the comms biz. He says her work phone has been switched off since 11.59 so no one was able to track her. Same with her private phone.’
‘No peep at all?’
‘Not a dicky.’
I nod. My list of obvious questions is more or less exhausted. I’ve never auditioned for a part as a private investigator and the real thing is beyond daunting. H will doubtless have ideas of his own about what happens next and that, too, is worrisome. I’m debating whether or not to counsel caution when he wipes the plate clean with a slice of bread and pushes the plate to one side. A coffee, he thinks, would be nice.
I�
��m about to tell him to make it himself but he grunts something about taking a leak and disappears. With some reluctance, I fill the kettle. This is my apartment, my castle, and I’m uncomfortably aware that Clem’s disappearance has given H a fresh opportunity to barge over the drawbridge and into my life.
The coffee is instant. The single mug is starting to cool on the table and there’s still no sign of H. I find him standing in the open door of my bedroom, staring in. There’s a gurgle from the loo down the hall.
‘Company?’
I’m standing beside him. He’s gazing at the pinkness of a single Stargazer lily lying on my pillow. Pavel must have smuggled it in there before leaving. He must have plucked it from the vase on the windowsill. He can probably smell flowers like these at a thousand metres. Part bloodhound. Part scriptwriter. Remarkable.
H takes a tiny step back and turns to look me in the eye. In some moods, like now, he can be truly scary. ‘Script conference, was it?’ He offers me a thin smile. ‘Or just research?’
FIVE
Later, early evening, I walk to Clem’s place in Chelsea. I have the address from Malo, whom I’ve phoned, but I’ve never been there. Catastrophes of whatever dimension have a way of warping your view of the rest of the world. I know this from my own experience – those numbing hours after I first got the news that my brain tumour might kill me. Did the skinny young man handing out free copies of the Metro outside the Tube know that I might be dead by the end of the week? And if not, why not?
I have the same feeling this evening. I want to stop passing strangers in mid-conversation, tell them about Clem, explain that she’s somewhere deep below the surface of this teeming city, held against her will, a hostage to opportunity and greed and maybe bad luck. But every eye I catch, every brief moment of curiosity or maybe alarm, is quickly gone. The truth is that everyone else’s life is an irrelevance. Spare me, please, your grief.
The mews address is harder to find than I’d anticipated. I search for the address on my smartphone and try to make sense of Google maps. The lines are blurred. Nothing relates to the torrent of traffic down the Fulham Road. Then I remember that years ago Pavel had a bedsit around here. Those were the days when he wanted to become a poet, to get his work into print, to raise his voice above the clamour of the crowd. Blindness had yet to happen, and so had the showers of serious money that can come with scriptwriting.
Sight Unseen Page 2
