by William Boyd
“Last orders please!” the barmaid cried.
Elfrida finished her gin and went to the bar to order a final drink and a packet of peanuts. That would have to do for lunch.
6
Anny and Troy sat in the banana-yellow Mini on the cliff of Beachy Head, in a warm stupor of sunlight, looking out at the refulgent English Channel, glinting silver. High in the sky above them a perfectly straight white contrail split the blue.
“Nobody suspects a thing,” Troy said. “You’re brilliant. You’re so calm. What’s the word? Impressive.”
“Impressive or impassive?”
“Both. Yeah. You look so cool with those sunglasses on. No one could tell you were madly in love with me.”
“Ha-ha.”
Troy had his hand on her leg, slipping his fingers under her short skirt, and she could feel the heat of his palm on the inside of her thigh through the mesh of her ivory-coloured tights.
In front of them was an entire film crew surrounding a large camera mounted on a crane. Even though it was a sunny day, powerful arc lights burned strongly. The first assistant director was shouting at them through a loudhailer.
“Turning over! Action!”
Anny and Troy climbed out of their respective doors, joined hands and ran towards the camera. When they separated—each of them going a different side of the camera—they stopped. Anny knew that the next scene, shot from behind, would feature their stunt doubles who, hand in hand, would leap over the cliff and fall six feet into a net rigged below the turf’s edge. It would be the penultimate scene of the film.
As for the final scene of the film, Anny had no idea how they would do it. According to the script, instead of falling to their deaths Anny’s and Troy’s characters would fly miraculously upward into the heavens, disappearing from sight—like those rockets they launched from Cape Kennedy, Anny thought, lost to view forever.
Rodrigo Tipton stepped round from behind the camera and wandered over.
“Fab,” he said. “Can we do it just once more without the shades, please, Anny?”
“I don’t want to do it without sunglasses,” she said without really thinking.
“We probably won’t use it but it might be an interesting option. Just to have it in the can, you know.” Rodrigo smiled.
Anny thought about refusing—normally she would have refused—but for some reason having Troy beside her made her think again.
“OK.”
After she had done the run to the cliff edge twice more without sunglasses Rodrigo said everything was great and now they would do the scene with the stunt doubles. Their day was over. Anny quietly told Troy that he should go and she would stay on a while. It would look better if they didn’t leave together. Troy agreed.
“Yeah, but I’ll come to your room tonight,” Troy said. “Midnight.”
“No.”
“Yes. No one’ll see me.”
“I might not be there at midnight.”
“You’ll be there, babe.”
He wandered off to his car and driver. Anny asked her assistant, Shirley, to get her a cup of tea as she stood behind the camera with Rodrigo watching the alternative Anny Viklund and Troy Blaze fling themselves off Beachy Head. What a way to go, she thought, remembering her macabre early-morning question to herself. Maybe, in a funny sort of way, it had in fact happened. She had indeed “died” today. The idea was strangely liberating and she began to think about Troy and his visit tonight. He was very sure of himself, but in a nice way, one that—“How’s everything going, Anny?”
She turned to see who was speaking and saw a tall, bald man ambling over towards her. It was the producer, she realised. Tony? Terence? She had only met him once or twice so she decided not to risk a guess and said simply that everything was great, really good, thanks, everyone was being so nice.
“Good, excellent, very pleased,” Tony or Terence said. He had one of those classic clipped, dry English accents, she thought. How do they speak like that, hardly moving their lips? No one can really know what they’re thinking or feeling, everything sounds the same. He might as well have said, “Bad, terrible, I’m shocked.”
He stepped a little closer to her and lowered his voice.
“We had a strange phone call in the office this morning. It was the police. They asked if a man called Cornell Weekes had tried to contact you.”
Anny felt sweat form instantly in her armpits and on the palms of her hands. Just hearing his name had that effect on her. Cornell: her demon-lover, her one-time guru, her nemesis.
“No.”
“Cornell Weekes is your husband, isn’t he?”
“Cornell Weekes is my ex-husband.”
“Ah. Right.”
“He’s in prison,” she said.
“Not any more, apparently.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know the details…” He pronounced the word “deetays,” she thought, seeing him glance around to make sure no one could overhear. “But it seems that he absconded during a routine parole hearing. They think he made his way to Canada. To Montreal.”
Anny began to calm down.
“Why would they think he was in England?” she said. “He was in prison in California.”
The tall, bald man smiled in a kindly way.
“Apparently they found a map of London in the hotel room he was staying in. In Montreal.” He shrugged. “A logical assumption. Why was your ex-husband in prison, if I may ask?”
“He tried to blow up a federal building.”
“Right.” He scratched his nose. “I’m sure it was a routine enquiry, you know.”
“Cornell is a weird kind of fucked-up guy, but there’s no way he’d come to England. He’s never been to England.”
“Reassuring.” The man gestured at the film crew. “It’s all going so well.” He turned back and looked at her shrewdly. He must be sixty or seventy, she thought, like my grandpa. He was still quite a handsome man, she saw, lean and upright, despite being old and bald.
“My name is Talbot, by the way. Talbot Kydd.”
7
At the end of the day Talbot sat in the office with Joe.
“What’s up tomorrow?”
“We’ve got Sylvia Slaye and Ferdie Meares in for their costume fittings.”
“Jesus Christ. Both on the same day? Is that wise?”
“Yes, boss. Short and sweet. Two birds with one stone is the idea. They’ve already sent in a list of their ‘requests.’ ”
Talbot squared his shoulders reflexively as if expecting a blow, thinking. Old troupers. Former big stars. Now fading stars. Difficult people. The worst. He lit a cigarette.
“Joe, tell me. Do we have any idea how the last scene is going to be filmed?”
“Ah. Well. There’s been talk of…Of animation. Some animation. Somewhere. In some shape or form.” Joe almost squirmed in his seat as he said the words.
He was a decent young chap, Talbot thought. Should keep him on, somehow.
“We can’t afford animation,” Talbot said, calmly. “And animation would be so wrong, anyway. All wrong at the end of this film in particular.”
“You’ll have to talk to Reggie—sorry, Rodrigo—guv’nor. He seems to have some sort of animated fantasy sequence in mind.”
“But it’s not in the script. It’s not budgeted for.”
“The script’s being rewritten.”
“What? No, it fucking isn’t!”
“Sorry. It was just that I heard Rodrigo was bringing in Janet Headstone. So I sort of assumed…”
“News to me.”
“Apparently Yorgos gave him the thumbs-up.”
Talbot felt his anger build. Yorgos was his producing partner. What were these people playing at? He exhaled. One day at a time. Stay calm, he told himself
, there is always a simpler explanation to be found, somewhere.
He went to the cupboard, took out his bottle of whisky and poured himself an inch into a glass—all in the interests of reaching this new mental state of calm indifference, of Zen-like remove from the irritating, scratchy details of the life of a film producer.
How wise the Japanese were, he thought to himself, remembering that there were two words in Japanese to describe the self. Or so he thought: who had told him this? Apparently there was a word for the self that existed in the private realm and another, completely different, word for the self that existed in the world. Why didn’t the English language have this sensible division? He abandoned his public self and, sipping at his whisky, retrieved his private self, happy to be absorbed in the plans he had made for the weekend. The travails of Ladder to the Moon would be erased from his mind—his private self would hold sway for a day or two.
8
Anny lay still in Troy’s arms. His breathing was shallow and regular, his breath warm on her right shoulder, and she wondered if he was asleep. She had a slight headache and felt wide awake even though it must be past two in the morning now, she thought. She shouldn’t have drunk the red wine that he’d brought. When she mixed alcohol with her pills it always made her sleepless—and those pills were meant to help her sleep.
The news about Cornell and his escape had really disturbed her—made her feel jumpy and suddenly insecure. And concerned. How had he escaped? And why were the British police calling the production office? Cornell had never been to England in his life, as far as she knew, so why would he now make this his destination? Because he knew she was in England, she supposed. The film had been announced, she had been photographed arriving at Heathrow airport. Cornell would have known: he followed her career, even though he claimed he wasn’t interested in “movies.” She brought his face to mind, effortlessly—lean and handsome, frown-lines permanently seamed in his forehead, deep between his eyes. How he used to spit out that word—“movies!” His features were so vivid even though she hadn’t seen him since their divorce, an event she could hardly remember. They had kind of stumbled into divorcing each other, she thought. Why had they divorced? She remembered a fight in which she called Cornell a “sheepish anarchist.” The slur had enraged him and he’d left home for a few days. When he returned he apologised but then insisted she quit the movie she was about to shoot, Hotel Nights, and she refused, asking him how he thought they would live without her fee. So he left home again, calling her a traitor. Then he spontaneously filed for divorce and, weary of the turmoil, she agreed, and it duly happened. She didn’t hate Cornell, she realised, she just didn’t have it in her to cope with him and his impossible ideals. She didn’t have the energy to be married to Cornell.
But the trouble was, since the divorce, since the bomb outrage, her name was now always being linked with his. Every article or interview about her always mentioned her marriage to the “urban terrorist,” Cornell Weekes. She told journalists that their marriage had lasted a few months, well short of a year, but it seemed to make no difference—Cornell Weekes was now inextricably part of her biography. She inhaled and bit her lip, feeling like crying all of a sudden. Why had she married him? What had she been thinking? Yes, he was handsome and had that charisma that visionary people seemed to possess, as he talked endlessly about “the American Reich,” whatever that was. She had been so young when she met him, twenty-three years old, but Mavrocordato’s Aquarius Days had just come out and suddenly she was a big star, a name. The unheard-of girl from Minnesota. Film after film offered, the money flowing in. Then Cornell Weekes stepped into her life.
He wasn’t in the movie business, that was it. He hated the movies and Hollywood—the entertainment division of the American Reich, he said. He was older, grey-haired—wise, or so it seemed to her until she wised up in turn. And he reminded her of her father. That should have been the warning, that should have been the—
“Anny?” Troy said softly. “Can I ask you something personal? What’s your real name?”
Another Troy question. This time she was glad of it, happy to be stupidly distracted. She turned in the bed to face him, pleased he was awake.
“Anny Viklund. It’s my real name. Anny Makjen Viklund. Why?”
“Most people I know—in this business—don’t use their real names. Same with me.” He began to list them: Billy Fury, Cliff Richard, Adam Faith, Danny Storm, Tommy Steele, Bobby Hero, Georgie Fame, Mickie Most.
She kissed him gently.
“You know, I never for one second thought Troy Blaze was your real name,” she said. “Though I like it.”
“Well, it’s better than my real name. Tell you that for nothing.”
“What’s your real name?”
“I don’t want you to know. I want to be Troy to you.”
“You’ll always be Troy to me. What is your real name?”
“Nigel Farthingly.”
“I like it. Maybe I’ll start calling you Nigel.”
“I should never have told you.”
“I’m just kidding. Nigel.” She kissed him again. “Sorry. Troy. I can see that it might be kind of hard being a pop star called Nigel Farthingly.”
“Exactly. That’s why the Applebys made me change it.”
“Who’re the Applebys?”
“My managers. Jimmy and Bob Appleby.”
“Is that their real name?”
“Oh, yes.”
His hand was on her breast, fingers touching the nipple. She reached down to feel him. Hard, rigid. A young man—so different from Cornell who always said he had “libido issues” as a result of his unhappy adolescence. He never went into details.
“I can’t sleep,” Anny said, putting on a baby voice. “What will we do?”
9
After she’d left the Repulse, Elfrida had bought a bottle of Tio Pepe amontillado sherry from an off-licence—part of her clever Reggie subterfuge, or so she reckoned. She had a taxi take her back to the house in Rottingdean that the film company had rented for Reggie. It was inconvenient living in a village at the edge of Brighton: taxis had to be called all the time as she didn’t have a driving licence and she wondered why Reggie had agreed to this particular accommodation. When she had complained to him about the hassle and the bother that living in Rottingdean necessitated he had said just ring the production office and they’ll send a unit car—it’s all in the budget. But she never liked using unit cars—the drivers were all intensely curious eavesdroppers and compulsive gossips. They sat around all day exchanging bits of fruity information, she knew. How could she ask a unit car to come and collect her from the Repulse?
In fact the house was fine—better than fine. It was a big three-storey Victorian villa, grey brick with red-brick trimmings, called, oddly, “Peelings.” Maybe a family called Peel had built and lived in it, she wondered. Peelings was set in a sizeable garden with two huge monkey puzzle trees at the front. There were five bedrooms and three bathrooms, a capacious sitting room and dining room, a “modern” kitchen—even a billiard room—all far too big for two people and, what with Reggie’s near-constant absence on the film, most of the time she felt she was living in this vast villa on her own, like some dowager in her dower house being kept out of the way of the family.
Good point, she said to herself, that was probably precisely why he’d chosen Peelings—so she could be kept at a distance. Usually when he made a film or a TV programme they stayed in a hotel but with this film with its stupid title—Emily Bracegirdle’s Extremely Useful Ladder to the Moon—he had said it was a question of prestige. It would cost the production a lot to house him like this and consequently they’d treat him with more respect, so he claimed. You have to play all the angles, darling, he had added—whatever that meant.
Elfrida sat for a while in the garden on a bench in the shade of a big chestnut, drinking some of her new
vodka that she’d decanted into the Sarson’s bottle, as she read a letter forwarded from London from her brother, Anselm. It was his annual round robin to family and friends (always despatched on his birthday) and she could barely read beyond the first page such was the remorseless, breezy tedium of Anselm’s life as an eminent orthopaedic surgeon in Vancouver. Much of the letter was given up to the sporting exploits of his two sons, Jerold and Roldan, her strapping nephews, who seemed never off the pitch or the court or the slopes or the rink. After the death of their parents—within three months of each other in the limbo period leading up to the publication of her first novel—Elfrida imagined that she and Anselm (he was seven years older) would draw closer, inevitably. But he promptly emigrated to Canada, married, and Jerold and Roldan swiftly appeared. They rarely saw each other and family bonds were preserved out of duty, not fondness. Hence this round-robin letter. He could have been writing to his bank manager, she thought, and crumpled it up, throwing it on the lawn at her feet.
However, letter-reading inspired letter-writing and she fetched pen and paper and wrote to her literary agent and to her editor at Muir & Melhuish requesting an appointment for the following week. She bluntly told her agent, Calder McPhail, that she needed money. She was deliberately candid—they had known each other a long time—and she was emboldened by her vodka and tap water on top of her lunchtime gins. She said to both agent and editor that she wanted an advance on a new novel that she had almost completed, called The Zigzag Man. That’ll make them sit up, she thought.
She watched the television news in the evening, made herself some supper—baked beans on toast—and then, at about eight o’clock when she was expecting Reggie to return she poured herself a small glass of Tio Pepe, leaving the barely touched bottle ostentatiously on the sideboard and, at the same time, made herself an exceptionally powerful vodka and water, a quadruple, in a tall tumbler. Consequently, when Reggie did return, late, after ten o’clock, she felt wonderfully sure of herself.
