Elegance and Innocence (46 page)

He stalks away, head bowed. ‘“I write without stopping to catch my breath, like a man running a relay race on his own. I can’t help it. Well, I ask you, what is so wonderful or beautiful about that? It’s a hellish existence. Here I am talking to you and getting all excited, and all the time I can’t forget that there’s a novel I haven’t finished waiting for me.”’

He points to the sky. ‘“I see a cloud shaped like a piano. Straight away I think, I must remember to put that in a novel or a short story, the fact that a cloud looking like a
grand piano floated by. I smell heliotrope. Immediately I make a mental note: sickly smell … flower the colour of a widow’s dress … mention when describing a summer’s evening.”’

He wheels round violently. ‘“I can’t escape. In order to bring honey to the masses, I am taking the pollen from my most beautiful flowers, in fact tearing those flowers from the ground and trampling on their roots. I am burning up my life. I must be insane.”’

I gaze up at him with a look I hope is full of uninhibited yearning and adoration, though in fact I was simply waiting for my next line and trying to keep my right leg from going numb. (These speeches are so long.) I borrowed one of Imo’s floaty floral dresses for inspiration; when it comes to dressing like a virgin, she’s the expert. But now it’s wrapped itself round my ankle. I struggle to stand up and almost fall over. I’m neither delicate nor romantic.

Lindsay observes me disdainfully.

I finally regain my balance.

‘“Yes, but surely when you’re inspired, when you’re actually writing, you can get moments of real happiness?”’

He stoops down, plucks a daisy from the lawn. ‘“Yes, I enjoy the writing. I even like reading the proofs, but it’s … it’s as soon as the stuff is in print that I can’t bear it. That’s when I see that I’ve got it all wrong, that the whole thing’s a mistake and that it should never have
been written at all … I feel suicidal …”’ He pulls the petals off one by one. ‘“depressed … Then the public reads it and they say: ‘Charming, shows talent … very nice but not quite Tolstoy’ or ‘A fine piece of work but Turgenev’s
Fathers and Sons
is a better book.’ And that’s all I’ll ever hear until the lid of my coffin is nailed down: ‘So charming … so clever.’ Until when I am finally dead my friends as they file past my grave will say: ‘Here lies Trigorin, quite a good writer, but not as good as Turgenev.”’

I take the flower (or what’s left of it) and playfully jam it into the lapel of Lindsay’s omnipresent tweed jacket. ‘“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand you. You’ve obviously been spoilt by success. In return for the joy of being a writer or actress I would be prepared to sacrifice the love of those I care for, I would face poverty and disillusionment … live in a garret and eat nothing but dry bread. I would endure being dissatisfied with myself and knowing my own imperfections.”’ I throw my arms out, spin round, the blue sky races above my head. ‘“But in return I would demand fame … real earsplitting fame! My head’s spinning … oh!”’

I collapse into his arms.

We stare into each other’s eyes.

He leans forward, brushing my hair from my face.

I tilt my mouth towards his. His lips softly part.

‘And scene!’ he barks, releasing me.

I land abruptly back on the ground.

We walk back towards Camden Town tube station together. Conversation has never been easy between us. In the two weeks we’ve been working on this scene, we’ve barely spoken at all. I decide to take this opportunity to build up some chemistry between our on-stage characters.

‘So, how do you think it’s going?’ I ask, smiling brightly.

He nods his head vigorously about thirty-two times. ‘Good.’

Maybe the best thing to do is stick to the material.

‘Do you have any idea what they’re talking about?’

‘Sometimes.’ He looks at me. ‘A little.’

We walk on in silence.

‘They sure do talk a lot,’ I add, after a while.

He laughs, his narrow, formal features softening and for a moment he’s almost handsome. ‘Yes, that’s true,’ he agrees.

I smile back. We’re nearly there now. ‘Do you want to be famous, Lindsay? Or just well respected?’

He pauses.

We’re standing outside Camden Town tube station, all around us the seething alternative existence of Camden Lock swarms, with bizarrely dressed people peering and pawing over home-made jewellery stalls and hand-printed T-shirts, weird wooden furniture, New Age bookshops; someone’s playing a didgeridoo and the powerful scent of patchouli incense perfumes the afternoon air.

Lindsay smiles again, carefully removing the damaged daisy from his lapel. He hands it back to me. ‘Good night, Evie.’

It’s only 3.30.

He’s so odd, I think, making my way into the station, twisting the tiny flower between my fingers. How can Imo love him when he’s so odd?

The escalators are steep and treacherous, rickety old wooden steps, descending slowly into the bowels of London. I slide in behind a pack of young girls on the right-hand side. And there’s more music, echoing from the floor below, a busker playing ‘Norwegian Wood’ only at twice the speed; a racing, driven ode to lost love.

I can see him now, twisting and turning on the platform below. His clear, bold voice slices through the murky half-light of the crowded tunnels. Coins clink in the open guitar case at his feet. The schoolgirls in front of me giggle, searching eagerly in their purses for spare change. I fish in the pocket of my jean jacket. He finishes the song and they applaud wildly. I look up.

It’s Jake.

The escalator ends and I stumble forward.

He catches me.

‘Have you started drinking without me, then?’ His hands linger, wrapped round my waist; holding me as if I belonged to him.

Blushing, I take a step backwards and he releases me.

‘It’s such a surprise to see you …’

‘Is that for me?’ He grins, nodding to the coin in my hand.

I’d forgotten about it. It’s not a pound coin; I’m certain of that. I just pulled out whatever was left in my pocket. What if it’s a ten-pence piece? Or worse, a two-pence piece? I fold my fingers into a tight fist. ‘I had no idea it was you,’ I’m apologizing in advance.

‘So, you’re not impressed with my singing?’ He’s teasing me now, pushing his black hair out of his eyes.

‘No, of course I am!’

An endless tide of people swells around us.

‘So.’ He touches me gently, pulling my wrist forward. ‘Shall we see how much you enjoyed it?’

I clench my fingers together even harder. ‘Before you do this, I just want you to know that I’m a huge fan of “Norwegian Wood” and I was particularly taken with your interpretation …’

He laughs, prises open my fist. ‘Ah! Fifty pence!’

He’s genuinely pleased.

‘Well, this will buy you a lot more than a song!’ He pulls his leather jacket over his T-shirt and jeans, then bends down, collecting the rest of the spare change. He jams it into his pockets. ‘It’s not every day I’m given such high praise. So, where shall we go to celebrate?’

I’m staring at him. ‘Pardon me?’

He places his guitar carefully back in its case and snaps
it closed. ‘Did you think I’d let you off that easily?’ He speaks with confidence, looking into my eyes, holding my gaze.

He smiles. ‘I think I owe you at least one drink …’

Here he is, the man I think of constantly; the man whom I shouldn’t be thinking of at all … the ghost of my waking hours …

‘Or am I being cheeky?’ He tilts his head to one side, puts on a posh accent. ‘Perhaps you have another engagement?’

‘No! Oh, no!’ I assure him. Suddenly I’m unable to keep pace with my life. It’s as if someone’s pressed the fast forward button. I’m left stumbling in the wake of great events; moments I wish were preserved in amber, so I can wonder over them in secret, again and again.

‘Well, then.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Shall we?’

I place my hand in his. It’s warm and smooth, calloused in places. And he leads me down, through the tunnels.

‘Where are we going?’ I’m intoxicated with excitement, like a small child, but doing my best to hide it. ‘All the pubs are closed on Sunday afternoons.’

‘I have a cunning plan,’ he promises, pulling me down another flight of steps.

‘So, is this what you do? You play in the Underground?’ We’re weaving through the swarms of people.

‘Exactly.’ He manoeuvres me to the end of the platform. ‘There’s good money in it, if you hit the right station
at the right time. Until the band takes off, of course. Nice dress.’

I’m blushing again. ‘It’s not mine. I borrowed it.’

‘I meant it as a compliment, Raven.’

‘Oh …’ How horrible. How embarrassing and horrible. ‘… that’s another thing.’

There’s a warm blast of air as the train rushes into the station. I brace myself. ‘I have to tell you, that’s not my real name.’

‘Really?’ He laughs again. There’s the most charming dimple on his right cheek ‘Are you operating under an alias?’

This is so humiliating. I try to sound breezy. ‘A girl can’t be too careful. Especially on a blind date. Anyway, it’s not Raven, it’s Evie. Raven is just … just a name Robbie came up with …’

We force ourselves, side by side, into the crowded aisle. The doors close.

I reach up and grab the handrail, swaying as the train shoots into the darkness.

‘So, the girl with the borrowed dress and the borrowed name, who wants to be an actress when she grows up. How will I know when you’re telling the truth?’

I look at him sideways. ‘Is the truth awfully important to you, Jake?’

He smiles. ‘Now that you mention it, no, Evie. If, in fact, that’s your real name.’

We get off at Charing Cross, surfacing on the Strand.

‘There’s only one place to take a soon to be famous American actress.’

Ten minutes later we’re in the lobby of the Savoy Hotel.

The head concierge materializes, dressed in a morning suit. He stations himself across our path. ‘May I help you?’

Jake flings an arm round my shoulder. ‘No, mate. I think we’re OK.’

‘Really.’ He curls his lip at us.

‘Really.’ Jake smiles.

‘If you’re temporary staff,’ the man persists, ‘you should be using the back entrance.’

Jake’s eyes narrow. ‘We’re meeting some people in the American Bar. It’s through there, isn’t it?’ He takes a step forward but is blocked again.

‘There is a dress code in the American Bar, sir,’ he informs us stiffly.

‘Well, then.’ Jake raises an eyebrow. ‘Lucky I bothered to dress.’

‘And are these guests of the hotel, sir?’

Jake stops.

And stares at the man for a full minute.

‘You know,’ he says, turning to me, ‘I’m really sorry. In fact, I can’t tell you how sorry I am I brought you here. Sometimes this place is OK and sometimes it’s so fucking amateurish I want to scream. As for you.’ He swings round.
‘Are they guests? No! They’re not guests! They’re complete fabrications of my overactive imagination!’

‘Please, sir …’The concierge scans the lobby.

Jake ignores him. ‘They flew in this morning from LA. Joel Finklehymen and Barry Inglesnook. From EMI. Do you want to look them up on your system? Can you spell Finklehymen or do you need me to do it for you? What’s wrong? Never seen anyone in the music industry before?’

The man blinks, backing away. ‘No. No. Of course, sir. It’s fine. I apologize. The American Bar is through there.’ He gestures feebly. ‘Would you like me to check your guitar, sir?’

Jake clutches the guitar to his chest. ‘Are you kidding? I don’t want you going anywhere near my guitar! Do you know what this baby is worth? No? Of course you don’t! You don’t have a fucking clue who I am, do you?’

‘No, sir,’ he admits, casting his eyes downwards. ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

Jake shrugs his shoulders; lost for words. He turns to me in disbelief. ‘Raven, can you believe these people?’

‘Honey …’ I pat his arm placatingly. ‘not everyone watches
Top of the Pops
.’

He stands, amazed, in the middle of the foyer. ‘Look,’ he says at last, ‘I don’t have time for this. I have a meeting and now I’m late. Here.’ He presses a twenty-pence piece into
the mortified man’s hand. ‘Buy yourself a fucking newspaper and next time, mate, do your homework.’

We make a grand exit, swaggering down the mahogany-lined corridor to the American Bar. I’ve never seen anyone with so much front. Except for Robbie. It’s exhilarating. And, for a moment, even I’m completely convinced of our sudden rise to stardom.

‘Well, my dear,’ Jake says, as we near the doorway. ‘Welcome to the Big Time!’

We step inside.

It’s empty.

Dark, plush and subdued, the only glimmer of the bright sunlight outside filters in through small stained-glass windows tucked discreetly into the corners. The walls are lined with mirrors and prints of famous faces; but there’s something House of Horrors-ish about the constantly reflecting surfaces, the swirling design of the carpet and the squat little glass tables.

‘Looks like Barry and Joel have stood us up,’ I say.

‘Bastards.’ Jake throws himself down on one of the bottle-green velvet banquettes and I perch across from him on a black upholstered cylinder.

A kind of ancient walking corpse drags himself from behind the bar. He would be bald if it weren’t for three very carefully placed strands of white hair. ‘And what can I get for you?’ He moves so slowly, it looks like he’s sleepwalking.

Jake examines the drinks menu, his eyes widening with dismay. ‘Two lagers, please,’ he says at last. ‘Is that all right with you?’

I nod.

‘And some peanuts,’ he adds.

The corpse blinks. ‘We don’t actually have peanuts, sir.’

‘Really? What do you have? Olives? Onions? A packet of crisps?’

‘We have very small crackers, sir. In the shape of fish.’

‘I see.’ Jake pulls a face. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘I could see if the kitchen have any nuts, sir. Some almonds, perhaps.’

‘Yes, speak to the kitchen, my good man.’

When the drinks arrive, Jake pays for them entirely with small change, a process which takes about five minutes and includes several stops and starts but doesn’t seem to faze the corpse at all. A few minutes later he returns, placing a small silver dish of blanched almonds on the table, elaborately arranged with sprigs of parsley between each one.