Feeling miles better, I arrived home, where Emily professed herself to be in love with her new T-shirt. I’ll wear it tonight. Will you come out for a drink later?’
‘And play gooseberry with you and Lou?’
‘Lou?’ she said scornfully. ‘He can get lost with his flowers and his phone calls – does he take me for a total idiot?’
‘So who’s going out tonight?’
‘Me. Troy.’
I managed a short, bitter, ‘Hah!’
‘Oh please, please don’t be like that. Troy sleeps with everyone and he stays friends with them.’
‘I’m obviously very old-fashioned, then,’ I said stiffly.
‘Please come out with us.’ She was a knot of anxiety.
‘Who’s inviting me? You? Or him? And be honest!’
‘Both of us.’
‘Did he say anything about me?’
‘Urn…’
‘Don’t lie!’
‘No, I suppose he didn’t.’
Hurt though I was, I could see some good in this; if he was planning to avoid me for the rest of my visit, it would cut down on opportunities for me to feel humiliated.
‘You go out,’ I urged. ‘Enjoy yourself, you’ve been working all day. And before you ask again, I’m FINE.’
Off she went, and though I had numerous invitations – the fable-telling evening on one side of me or watching a digitally remastered Rosemary’s Baby on the other – I parked myself in front of the telly, defiantly wearing my ‘Boys are Mean’ T-shirt. To pass the time, I planned scathing put-downs for Troy, unable to decide between maintaining a dignified silence or shrilly berating him for his alley-cat morals. It was extremely enjoyable.
At some stage the news came on, with a piece about the Irish peace process, and I got the fright of my life: for a moment I thought the colour on the telly was broken. Everything was grey, and the Irish politicians were so pallid, as if their skin had never seen sunlight. And as for their teeth…
Oh dear. I’d crossed the invisible line: now I thought glowing skin and expensive dentistry were normal. With a sigh, I resumed my imaginary conversations with Troy.
Some time later, a car screeched to a jarring halt outside, a door was slammed, then came the clatter of heels on the path. I listened to them, wondering where they were going, and located them just as they burst into the room, bearing a mussed and distraught Lara.
‘Where’s Emily?’
‘Out with Troy. What’s wrong?’
‘Oh my God!’
‘A glass of wine?’ I suggested.
She nodded and followed me into the kitchen.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked again. Had she been mugged? Or in a car crash?
‘It’s Nadia. She called me tonight, and on my new caller display panel her number came up as “Mr and Mrs Hindel”. Can you believe it – Mr and Mrs Hindel! She’s married. The bitch is married!’
I poured the wine faster and said, ‘It could be a mistake. She might have been married once but they could be separated now.’
‘Oh no, she admitted it all.’ Lara caught sight of herself in the mirror and groaned. ‘God, I look like twelve miles of rough road.’ In fairness, I’d seen her looking better: her lovely tan was mushroom-coloured. ‘She was totally up front about it – she was just a sexual tourist having an adventure.’
After a painful gap, Lara squeezed out, ‘She was just using me.’ And she began to cry in a contained, dignified way that brought a lump to my own throat. ‘I really liked her,’ she wept, the way women usually weep about men. ‘It hurts just as bad when it’s a girl.’
‘I know, I know.’ Well, I knew now, didn’t I?
‘I thought she was someone special.’
‘You’ll meet someone else.’ I stroked her hair.
‘I won’t!’
‘Shush, you will. Of course you will. You’re beautiful.’
‘I feel so bad.’
‘You do now, but you’ll get over it. She wasn’t the one for you.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ With a watery smile, she said, ‘I’ll give myself a week to obsess about her, then I’ll get over her.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ I encouraged.
‘Thanks.’
Foreheads almost touching, we shared a rueful, can’t-live-with-them-can’t-shoot-them look and, all of a sudden, she was taking my face in her hands and kissing me softly on the lips. I was startled, but even so I noticed that it wasn’t unpleasant.
That was the moment, of course, that Emily chose to come home. I saw her shock before I saw her face; white and appalled, it loomed through the night-time window at me. In more of a hurry than usual, she burst into the house and looked, in confusion, from Lara to me.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘You’re not going to believe this.’ Lara began her tale of woe.
Both Emily and I listened intently to Lara, but we weren’t meeting each other’s eye much. Not at all, in fact. We didn’t even exchange words until eventually I said, ‘I’d better go to sleep. I need my full fourteen hours.’
Then Emily called after me, ‘Troy says hey.’
‘Does he? ‘Night.’
I went to bed and shut my eyes and for once I wasn’t thinking about Garv. I wasn’t even thinking about Troy. I was thinking about Lara.
30
The next morning, in the time between chopping the bananas for my first-thing smoothie and putting them in the blender, we were informed of Emily’s salvation – Larry Savage had bought her screenplay!
Naturally enough, she nearly screeched the house down with relief. And nothing, not even the proviso that she had to rewrite the script to include Chip the dog, could dent her joy.
‘I’il change my entire cast to orang-utans if he wants!’ Emily declared. ‘So long as he gives me the money.’
‘How much will you get?’ I asked, feeling pretty uplifted myself.
‘Writers’ Guild minimum, the stingy bastard,’ she said airily. ‘It’s nearly an insult!’
But an insult that ran to almost six figures. With the promise of half a million dollars if they actually made the movie.
The thing was, though – would they make it? I knew from my own small experience that this was impossible to gauge; no matter how enthusiastic a producer was, they still had to convince the studio executives and the Green-Light Guy that it was a movie worth making. And that was easier said than done. But still, we wouldn’t worry about that today…
‘And play gooseberry with you and Lou?’
‘Lou?’ she said scornfully. ‘He can get lost with his flowers and his phone calls – does he take me for a total idiot?’
‘So who’s going out tonight?’
‘Me. Troy.’
I managed a short, bitter, ‘Hah!’
‘Oh please, please don’t be like that. Troy sleeps with everyone and he stays friends with them.’
‘I’m obviously very old-fashioned, then,’ I said stiffly.
‘Please come out with us.’ She was a knot of anxiety.
‘Who’s inviting me? You? Or him? And be honest!’
‘Both of us.’
‘Did he say anything about me?’
‘Urn…’
‘Don’t lie!’
‘No, I suppose he didn’t.’
Hurt though I was, I could see some good in this; if he was planning to avoid me for the rest of my visit, it would cut down on opportunities for me to feel humiliated.
‘You go out,’ I urged. ‘Enjoy yourself, you’ve been working all day. And before you ask again, I’m FINE.’
Off she went, and though I had numerous invitations – the fable-telling evening on one side of me or watching a digitally remastered Rosemary’s Baby on the other – I parked myself in front of the telly, defiantly wearing my ‘Boys are Mean’ T-shirt. To pass the time, I planned scathing put-downs for Troy, unable to decide between maintaining a dignified silence or shrilly berating him for his alley-cat morals. It was extremely enjoyable.
At some stage the news came on, with a piece about the Irish peace process, and I got the fright of my life: for a moment I thought the colour on the telly was broken. Everything was grey, and the Irish politicians were so pallid, as if their skin had never seen sunlight. And as for their teeth…
Oh dear. I’d crossed the invisible line: now I thought glowing skin and expensive dentistry were normal. With a sigh, I resumed my imaginary conversations with Troy.
Some time later, a car screeched to a jarring halt outside, a door was slammed, then came the clatter of heels on the path. I listened to them, wondering where they were going, and located them just as they burst into the room, bearing a mussed and distraught Lara.
‘Where’s Emily?’
‘Out with Troy. What’s wrong?’
‘Oh my God!’
‘A glass of wine?’ I suggested.
She nodded and followed me into the kitchen.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked again. Had she been mugged? Or in a car crash?
‘It’s Nadia. She called me tonight, and on my new caller display panel her number came up as “Mr and Mrs Hindel”. Can you believe it – Mr and Mrs Hindel! She’s married. The bitch is married!’
I poured the wine faster and said, ‘It could be a mistake. She might have been married once but they could be separated now.’
‘Oh no, she admitted it all.’ Lara caught sight of herself in the mirror and groaned. ‘God, I look like twelve miles of rough road.’ In fairness, I’d seen her looking better: her lovely tan was mushroom-coloured. ‘She was totally up front about it – she was just a sexual tourist having an adventure.’
After a painful gap, Lara squeezed out, ‘She was just using me.’ And she began to cry in a contained, dignified way that brought a lump to my own throat. ‘I really liked her,’ she wept, the way women usually weep about men. ‘It hurts just as bad when it’s a girl.’
‘I know, I know.’ Well, I knew now, didn’t I?
‘I thought she was someone special.’
‘You’ll meet someone else.’ I stroked her hair.
‘I won’t!’
‘Shush, you will. Of course you will. You’re beautiful.’
‘I feel so bad.’
‘You do now, but you’ll get over it. She wasn’t the one for you.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ With a watery smile, she said, ‘I’ll give myself a week to obsess about her, then I’ll get over her.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ I encouraged.
‘Thanks.’
Foreheads almost touching, we shared a rueful, can’t-live-with-them-can’t-shoot-them look and, all of a sudden, she was taking my face in her hands and kissing me softly on the lips. I was startled, but even so I noticed that it wasn’t unpleasant.
That was the moment, of course, that Emily chose to come home. I saw her shock before I saw her face; white and appalled, it loomed through the night-time window at me. In more of a hurry than usual, she burst into the house and looked, in confusion, from Lara to me.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘You’re not going to believe this.’ Lara began her tale of woe.
Both Emily and I listened intently to Lara, but we weren’t meeting each other’s eye much. Not at all, in fact. We didn’t even exchange words until eventually I said, ‘I’d better go to sleep. I need my full fourteen hours.’
Then Emily called after me, ‘Troy says hey.’
‘Does he? ‘Night.’
I went to bed and shut my eyes and for once I wasn’t thinking about Garv. I wasn’t even thinking about Troy. I was thinking about Lara.
30
The next morning, in the time between chopping the bananas for my first-thing smoothie and putting them in the blender, we were informed of Emily’s salvation – Larry Savage had bought her screenplay!
Naturally enough, she nearly screeched the house down with relief. And nothing, not even the proviso that she had to rewrite the script to include Chip the dog, could dent her joy.
‘I’il change my entire cast to orang-utans if he wants!’ Emily declared. ‘So long as he gives me the money.’
‘How much will you get?’ I asked, feeling pretty uplifted myself.
‘Writers’ Guild minimum, the stingy bastard,’ she said airily. ‘It’s nearly an insult!’
But an insult that ran to almost six figures. With the promise of half a million dollars if they actually made the movie.
The thing was, though – would they make it? I knew from my own small experience that this was impossible to gauge; no matter how enthusiastic a producer was, they still had to convince the studio executives and the Green-Light Guy that it was a movie worth making. And that was easier said than done. But still, we wouldn’t worry about that today…
