Eureka Read online

  Her mother began rubbing her hands in a little mime of thrilled anticipation, then stopped abruptly. ‘Is Jeff coming?’ she asked warily.

  Billie rolled her eyes. ‘No. He’s going to some boring concert with his mate. It’s just you and me tonight.’

  Nell’s face brightened again: her feelings were quite transparent. ‘All right! I’ll tidy up here first and then make meself presentable. Why don’t you give the Agra a ring and see if they’ve got an early table?’

  Nat, who rarely visited Islington, had chosen a restaurant beyond the ken, and the purse, of most of its inhabitants. Freya had heard of Carrier’s, a posh new place in Camden Passage, though she had yet to dine there; she tended to go to the fish and chip shop on Upper Street. They had been meaning to get together for weeks, but Nat had fallen so far behind schedule on the Eureka script that even now he felt nervous about taking a night off. He kept the engine running outside Freya’s house at Canonbury Square, tooting the horn in summons. She laughed on seeing the drophead Rolls.

  ‘Look at you. Like a proper movie mogul,’ she said, folding her long legs into the passenger seat. He leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘I used to dream about driving one of these,’ he said, pulling out of the square. ‘I couldn’t imagine anything more … splendiferous.’

  Freya noticed passers-by staring as the car purred along the street. ‘Isn’t it rather expensive?’

  ‘Put it this way: the monthly repayments alone are more than my rent. But d’you know, I can’t do without it. The illusion it gives me of being protected is like no other.’

  ‘Protected against what?’

  He shrugged. ‘Misfortune.’

  ‘So you’re living an illusion.’

  ‘Aren’t we all? I mean, one depends on the illusory to make life bearable. It’s funny, I’ve often had the impression that the car is very kindly giving me a lift.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could ask it to park right there. We’ve arrived.’

  The restaurant was small, with swagged curtains and honeyed lighting at the tables. On being seated Freya watched Nat steer his gaze about the room; it was not just for the cuisine he had made the trip. He halted in mid-surveillance. Discreetly, he dipped his head towards her and said, sotto voce, ‘Don’t look now, but the lady dining at the next table along …’

  Freya, impatient of dissembling, sneaked a glance and saw a dark-haired woman of about her own age, Spanish-looking, sultry. ‘She seems familiar, but – you may recall – I’m rather short-sighted.’

  ‘Ava Gardner,’ he whispered.

  ‘Gosh. The West End really has come to Islington. She’s very lovely. Are you going to say hello to her?’

  ‘I am perfectly content with the loveliness I have in front of me,’ said Nat, with a suggestive slow blink.

  She smiled back at him. ‘You’re nice. Not everyone thinks so highly of me. I’ve just had a letter from Didier, the man I was … in Paris? He’s very sore about my vanishing act. I can’t really blame him.’

  Nat scrutinised her. ‘I’m rather eager to hear about this. Perhaps when I’ve secured us a drink.’

  He commanded the attention of the waiter, and over a bottle of the Widow Clicquot she recounted the story of Didier and Claire and her disastrous flip-flopping between them. Nat’s face as he listened was hawkish in absorption; delight danced in his eyes, and Freya privately considered the likelihood of certain details from her story resurfacing in one of his plays. He was quite ruthless about cannibalising his friends’ lives, and he always professed to be baffled when anyone took offence. He had no concept of writerly discretion: for him, life was merely the uncooked dough of art.

  ‘I’d love to have seen the look on the mother’s – Odette’s? – face when she caught you and Claire in flagrante.’

  Freya made a shuddering noise. ‘God, if looks could kill.’

  Nat narrowed his eyes. ‘Odette, where is thy sting?’

  Freya laughed. ‘I have an impression that I might be hearing that line again some day.’

  ‘Brother and sister, though. You know, I rather wish I faced both ways. I have a fancy that men are more receptive to the swish of a cane; perhaps it comes from schooldays. Unfortunately I am repelled by the sight of male genitalia.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky. It’s much simpler to swing one way or the other. What happened with that girl you were seeing?’

  ‘Naomi. In something of a froideur at present. Last time we met she decided to give me a piece of her mind: said I was conceited, snobbish, egocentric. Oh, and a has-been. We haven’t spoken since.’

  ‘“Has-been” is a little harsh,’ said Freya, which drew a pained smile from Nat. ‘And there’s no one else?’

  ‘Well, there’s a young actress I’m – but no, I mustn’t. I haven’t the time for one thing. They’re badgering me daily for the script.’

  They hadn’t finished the champagne, yet Nat had ordered another bottle to go with the starters, brandade of smoked trout for her, fruits de mer in aspic for him. He’d also asked for a jar of caviar on the side. Freya, who had seen the prices on the menu, hoped Nat would be paying. Nat himself, a natural spendthrift, only ever worried about money when his accountant called for a meeting.

  The waiter had poured, and departed.

  ‘Puligny,’ Nat supplied, unable to stop himself giving the glass a pompous swirl and sniff. ‘When you dream of France, you’re really dreaming of Burgundy.’

  ‘Delicious,’ said Freya, taking a sip and wondering if that would do as a wine-note. ‘This is all a bit extravagant for a Wednesday night.’

  Nat stared at her. ‘For you it’s just a Wednesday night. For me, however …’ He watched as her puzzled expression cleared.

  ‘Oh, Nat, it’s your birthday. I’m so sorry! Why didn’t you remind me?’

  He spread his palms in a beatific gesture of forgiveness. ‘It’s not a number I’m especially keen to celebrate.’

  Freya went pop-eyed. ‘Forty!’

  ‘Shhh, for God’s sake,’ he hissed. ‘I’m trying to keep it low-key. You’re the only person I’ve seen all day.’

  Freya tilted her head. ‘Come on, it’s not as bad as all that. I should know – I’m forty-two.’

  ‘Yes, but you look about thirty. Some mornings I check my reflection in the mirror and wonder who put Auden’s mug there in its place.’

  ‘Nat, you’re in the prime of life. How many others can say they’ve won an Oscar by the age of – the age you are?’

  But he only sighed. ‘Seven years ago, now. Since then it’s been one anticlimax after another. There’s a smell starting to hang around me’.

  ‘A smell of what?’

  ‘Of failure. That’s why I need this film to be a hit, else they’ll forget about me altogether.’

  ‘Of course it’ll be a hit,’ said Freya, sensing the need to buck him up. ‘What do you think of Herr Kloss, by the way?’

  ‘I was rather taken with him. When we first met at lunch I thought, Who’s this dishevelled youth? But he’s very self-possessed, and well mannered. Amazing English, too. He claimed it wasn’t good enough to write a screenplay, but that’s balls. I’m pleased to say he was also a fan of The Hot Number – “it hit my funny bone”,’ he said, in a drawling imitation of Reiner’s accent.

  ‘Yes, he told me his English wasn’t up to much; it’s his excuse to avoid being interviewed. But I’m going to write about him whether he likes it or not. There’s something mysterious about Kloss.’

  ‘Mysterious?’

  Freya proceeded to recount her investigations – in particular the ‘lost’ film, The Laudanum Waltz, possibly destroyed by his own hand, and his stand-off with the film company over its editing and release. There had been rumours of previous run-ins during his time as a theatre director; it seemed that Reiner had little use for people who challenged his authority. If he didn’t get his way, things would quickly begin to unravel. Entire productions had been known to come to a stand
still.

  ‘Where’s he from exactly?’ asked Nat.

  ‘Oh, a spa town near Munich. Bad something.’

  ‘Bad Vibes? Bad Karma?’

  ‘Something like that. I gather he was quite a promising athlete.’

  That nudged Nat’s memory. ‘Yes, he told me he played football for the local team, and would have got a trial with Bayern but for some disobliging coach.’

  ‘What would really help me is a face-to-face. D’you think you might be able to engineer a meeting with him?’

  Nat stared off uncertainly. ‘I’ll try, of course. I’m pretty sure Reiner won’t allow a journalist onto the set. The problem is he’s clocked you already – he knows you’re on his case.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. Maybe you could get him round to Albany one day and I could drop in entirely by coincidence.’

  They both had the chicken Kiev for the main course; Nat remarked it bore no resemblance to the dish of that name he had recently eaten in Moscow. He had been out there to a premiere of one of his early plays.

  ‘A very congenial audience. Laughed in all the right places, too, which surprised me. But oh, the boozing! Vodka, vodka everywhere, and not a drop undrunk. Neck or nothing with that lot. I suppose it’s the only thing that gets you through those Russian winters.’

  ‘And you’ll be off again on location?’

  ‘Yes, Sussex and the Ligurian coast, with a few days in Rome. There was talk of India – where George Corvick has his revelation – but they couldn’t get the money for it.’

  A mumble of voices had risen around the adjacent table. Ava Gardner and her date were just leaving, and the restaurant manager had come to bid them goodnight. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the perfumed presence to waft among them. As she started to move Nat, watching her intently, half rose from his chair, like an iron filing leaping to a magnet. If she had even glanced his way he would have addressed her, but her gaze didn’t deviate an inch, and in a moment she was gone. He slumped back on his seat.

  ‘I thought you were going to introduce yourself,’ said Freya.

  ‘I was,’ he said, with a little wince. ‘I lost my nerve. She wouldn’t have known me.’

  ‘You could have explained. Told her about your Oscar.’

  But Nat’s thoughts had run on. The ‘has-been’ barb had stuck in his skin and festered. He’d had a sudden vision of Ava greeting his name with a polite look – a blank look. It couldn’t be endured. After a clenched pause he muttered, almost to himself, ‘Christ, I need a hit.’

  She had insisted on paying, and when the bill came she quickly smothered the shock with a look of nonchalance. Nat, with twenty years’ experience of her facial tics and tells, pulled a sympathetic grimace.

  ‘Oh dear. Why don’t you let me have it?’

  He extended his hand, which she slapped away in dismissal.

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s your birthday. Anyway, it’s not so outrageous,’ she said airily.

  Nat looked at her. ‘That is a lie.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is,’ she agreed, and they laughed. It was a little embarrassing that he’d raided the top end of the wine list all evening: he had been expecting to pay. As she peeled off the notes from her purse she added, ‘Just think of me eating tinned soup for the next month.’

  EXT. STREET – DAY.

  CHAS walking through Mayfair, his stride purposeful. As he goes we hear:

  GWEN (V.O.)

  … to say how pleased I was to receive your letter, Charles. Down Deep was a book that cost me many sleepless nights, so to hear of its effect on you was very gratifying. You write with such insight and warmth about characters who for three years were as precious to me as a close friend …

  EXT. FRONT STEPS OF BUILDING – DAY.

  A sign announces it as ‘The University Women’s Club’. CHAS enters.

  INT. DINING ROOM – DAY.

  GWEN and CHAS are seated at a window table. They have just been served drinks by a waiter, and face one another. CHAS looks round interestedly.

  GWEN

  I’ve been a member since I came down from Cambridge. I don’t see why men should have the run of every club in Mayfair.

  CHAS

  I’d never heard of it.

  GWEN

  I suppose you belong to some rather grand place.

  CHAS

  No. Only thing I’ve ever joined is the Scouts. And I think my membership there has lapsed.

  GWEN

  (laughing)

  You should get George to put you up for the Turf.

  CHAS

  I’ve relied too often on George’s patronage. Have you heard from him?

  GWEN

  He wrote to me last week. He’d just attended Holy Mass at St Peter’s.

  CHAS

  You’re joking.

  GWEN

  Oh, he’s always had a little tendresse for Catholicism. Didn’t you know?

  CHAS

  George? Well, I’ve heard him talk about it, but I didn’t know he’d gone native.

  GWEN

  Do you suppose he’s seeking divine intervention?

  A beat, as CHAS considers the possibility.

  CHAS

  I shouldn’t think he needs it. As long as I’ve known him he’s always got what he wanted.

  GWEN

  (with a slow smile)

  Has he? I wonder …

  CHAS

  Did he mention Vereker at all?

  GWEN

  He did, as a matter of fact. He told me he’d just pitched a book proposal to Antrobus – a study of the novels of Hugh Vereker. They commissioned it within the week.

  CHAS

  (surprised)

  He kept that quiet. Does that mean he’s going to talk to the author?

  GWEN

  No. At least, not until he’s unlocked the secret.

  CHAS

  Hmm … Vereker believes no one ever will.

  GWEN

  Then there’ll be no book.

  CHAS fiddles with his cutlery. He has something to say, but seems nervous of beginning.

  CHAS

  It’s odd – you remember I went round to Vereker’s house that time to apologise for blabbing? He said something then that was, well, maybe the only clue he’d ever slipped me.

  GWEN

  (leaning in)

  Really?

  CHAS

  I confessed to him that I’d discussed his secret with you and George. I explained who you were, and that you were probably going to marry one day (sorry). On hearing that he said, ‘That might help them.’

  GWEN

  How? How would being married help one to solve it any more than being single?

  CHAS

  I don’t know. He said, ‘We must give them time.’ That was all.

  GWEN

  What did George say about it?

  CHAS

  I didn’t tell George. To be honest, until now I’d forgotten about it.

  GWEN stares at him for a few moments.

  GWEN

  Forgotten? I think he might find that hard to believe.

  CHAS shrugs, not quite able to catch her eye.

  CHAS

  You can tell him now.

  A waiter arrives with their food, and the conversation is left hanging.

  INT. DINING ROOM – DAY.

  The remains of lunch on the table. CHAS is lighting a cigarette for GWEN.

  GWEN

  Seen anything of your friend Jane Burges?

  CHAS

  We ran into one another a few weeks ago. She invited me to a weekend party at her place in Sussex.

  GWEN

  Are you going?

  CHAS pulls an uncertain face.

  If you did go, would you be able to bring a friend?

  CHAS

  You? I couldn’t guarantee Vereker would be there …

  GWEN

  Do you see an ulterior motive in everything?

  CHAS

>   Most of the time. I wouldn’t think you’d want to go merely for the splendour of Jane’s country seat.

  GWEN

  Perhaps I’d like to go just for the pleasure of your company. What would you say to that?

  CHAS

  I’d say you were probably teasing me. But I’ll ask Jane if I might bring a friend all the same.

  GWEN

  (smiling)

  You’re too kind.

  8

  ‘Quiet on the set. Roll camera.’

  ‘Turning over.’

  ‘Speed.’

  ‘Scene nine, take one,’ said the clapper, and hit the sticks.

  A loaded pause, and Reiner called ‘Action’.

  The first week’s shooting on Eureka was nearly over. Billie, sweating under the arc lights, gathered herself for the last scene of the day. It had been a trying introduction. She had known that film-making involved a lot of hanging about and kicking your heels, a glacially slow pace of doing things that could test one’s boredom threshold to the limit. She wouldn’t have minded that; it sounded better than the dreariness of fetching and carrying all day at the hotel. But this was something different. The long stretches of inertia, the mind-numbing delays, were suddenly punctuated by bursts of activity that demanded the most intense concentration. It was like being woken from sleep at random hours of the night and asked to recite by heart a poem, over and over, a task made no easier by people interrupting and telling you to try it again. At times she felt close to tears, because the lines she thought she had learned would, under this constant barrage, dry on her tongue or else vanish from her mind altogether. She knew she must hang on and not give way, though she noticed the scowls of the assistant director when she blanked her lines again. Even Jürgen, Reiner’s phlegmatic cameraman, had looked faintly puzzled at her muffing yet another cue. She really wondered if she was up to the job.

  Reiner himself had been very sweet to her. Having rehearsed the first scene she was to play in, he had given her arm a little shake and said, ‘You will be fine.’ His voice suggested that he knew something about her that she didn’t. Once filming was under way, however, Reiner was too busy with other things to be able to give her special attention. She quickly understood that in the grand mosaic of the production she was only a tile, and maybe not even that. A shard. When Julie the script girl happened to sit down next to her Billie cast an eye on her notes – the position of the furniture, the angle at which a character stood in a scene, even the length of ash on a lit cigarette. Get these details wrong and the continuity was shot. Amid so much concentrated activity, the toing and froing, who cared if Billie felt lost?