Eureka Page 2

  She still fought against his grip, but from the panicked shiftiness in her eyes it was clear she wasn’t going to scream after all. Reddening with the exertion she muttered, ‘You big bully.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be like that, we were getting on so well,’ said Nat, who now pulled her wrist away and inserted his other hand into her pocket. He felt around for a moment, ignoring her outraged protests, and deep in the skirt’s folds found what he’d been looking for: a wad of ten-pound notes. He held it up for her inspection.

  ‘That’s mine,’ she said sulkily. ‘Savings.’

  Nat half bleated a laugh. ‘Of course. Which you always carry on your person. Well, you mentioned the police – let’s have them decide which of us it belongs to.’

  He began to strong-arm her towards the door, and felt her struggling intensify. She pulled against his hand. ‘Wait, wait. Please – don’t turn me in. I only took it because I knew you could afford it.’

  Nat stopped, and cocked his head. Her innocence, so convincing a few minutes ago, had been but a mask. ‘How d’you know I can afford it?’

  She gave him an unillusioned once-over. ‘You’re Nathaniel Fane, aren’t you? The writer.’

  Nothing could have been better calculated to mollify his bruised vanity. He knew it, and almost laughed at himself for succumbing. He let the manacle of his hand loosen on her wrist. ‘I suppose you’ve seen me on the telly.’

  She protruded her lip in casual affirmation. ‘I saw a couple of your plays. When I was at RADA.’

  ‘Ah. Enjoy them?’

  She pulled a considering expression. ‘They were fine.’

  Nat, despite himself, burst out laughing. ‘Now isn’t that the faintest praise!’ He scrutinised her. ‘RADA … At least your training hasn’t gone to waste. That little display of fellow feeling back in the lounge was masterly. You looked fit to bawl. It had me fooled – for a minute.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘What gave it away?’

  ‘Ha. It was the moment when you looked at the wallet and asked if they’d “really” taken everything. The really was the tell – it suggested, implicitly, that you knew the thief had left something in there. A tenner, in fact.’ He paused for a moment. ‘So: you do this for a living?’

  ‘What, thieving?’ Her tone was offended.

  ‘I meant waitressing.’

  She nodded heavily. ‘It pays the rent, just about.’

  ‘And the stage?’

  ‘I’ve done the odd thing. Some club theatre. Nothing you’d have seen.’

  Nat raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve no idea what kind of things I’ve seen.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m a bit too busy to go chasing after a policeman. Consider this a reprieve, but I’d advise you not to make a habit of it. Others may not be so lenient.’

  She held his gaze for a grateful moment. ‘Thanks.’

  He was moving off when he thought of something, and halted. ‘By the way, why didn’t you take the lot?’

  She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t leave you without a bean. That would’ve been cruel.’

  For a moment he thought she was joking, but her expression wore no trace of humour. He gave a little shake of his head as he exited the yard. The Good Thief, he mused. He might be able to make something of that.

  Back at home he prepared for the evening with a bath, from which he emerged without Archimedean enlightenment, but soothed at least, and cleansed. As he dressed he listened to his favourite long-player of the moment, a series of duets by Coltrane and Johnny Hartman, whose velvety voice sounded almost like a tenor sax itself. How anyone could sing ‘Lush Life’ and stay in tune was beyond him. He made a phone call to check that he was still expected, then packed an overnight bag with a change of clothes, a bottle of ’59 Latour and a couple of magazines he hadn’t yet read. He briefly wondered if his hostess would provide the necessary, and, deciding not to leave it to chance, packed two Venetian carnival masks and his riding crop.

  Before he left he hovered at the typewriter, contemplating his title. Was EUREKA! quite right? It had been nagging away at him. Opening his bottle of Tipp-Ex he carefully blanked out the screamer, so that it now read

  EUREKA

  He allowed himself a satisfied nod, as if he had just concluded a proper day’s work.

  EXT. NEWSPAPER BUILDING (‘THE MIDDLE’), LONDON – DAY.

  Camera, fairly high, watches as a young man, CHARLES PALLINGHAM (CHAS), walks through crowds on Fleet Street and enters the building. We see him through the glass doors talking to a woman on reception, who points him in the direction of the lift.

  INT. LIFT – DAY.

  CHAS in the lift next to a pretty girl, to whom he gives the eye. The girl gives him an ambiguous once-over. Lift stops, opens and another man enters: he and the girl know one another and share a few moments of whispered flirtation. CHAS tries not to look crestfallen.

  INT. NEWSROOM – DAY.

  The room is bustling with staffers preparing to put the late edition to bed. CHAS weaves between them, nosily taking it all in. Camera tracks behind him and we see, through an open door, an editor in his office. He spots CHAS, and though he’s on the phone he beckons him in with a fond smile.

  INT. OFFICE – DAY.

  Books everywhere. The literary editor’s domain. GEORGE CORVICK still on the phone.

  GEORGE

  … Call it our little secret. Yeah, OK … bye. (Rings off.) Chas, my boy! I knew I could count on you.

  CHAS

  A friend in need –

  GEORGE

  – is a pain in the neck, I know. Have a seat.

  CHAS sits down. GEORGE rummages in a stack of books until he finds the novel he’s looking for. He slides it across the table. CHAS examines it with a frown.

  CHAS

  Vereker. His new one? I thought you’d be doing this.

  GEORGE

  And so I would, only I’ve been ‘called away’. To Paris.

  CHAS

  Oh?

  GEORGE

  (affably)

  So we need a thousand words on it by Tuesday.

  CHAS

  Right. I feel honoured …

  GEORGE

  You ought to! You’re the one chap, other than myself, I can trust to nail Vereker down.

  CHAS

  (nodding)

  You mean, greatest novelist of his generation, that sort of thing –

  GEORGE

  No, no, none of that good-better-best stuff. That’s for prize marrows, not for senior novelists. I want a review that brings out the sense of …

  CHAS

  The ‘sense’ of … what?

  GEORGE

  My dear boy, that’s what I want you to say!

  CHAS

  (uncertainly)

  I’ll do my best. So – Paris?

  GEORGE

  A mission of mercy. You know Gwendolen Erme?

  CHAS

  The novelist? Down Deep?

  GEORGE

  That’s her. We’ve got to know each other a bit. She’s in Paris with her mother, who’s been taken ill. Telephoned me in tears, so I thought I should ride to the rescue.

  CHAS

  You think the mother will rally on seeing you?

  GEORGE

  (laughing)

  Oh, you’re a wag! I’ve a feeling Mrs Erme may not be long for this world, in which event I should be on hand to comfort her only daughter.

  CHAS

  You’re that keen?

  GEORGE

  She’s a catch. But I may have to wait it out.

  CHAS

  Good luck.

  He stands, picks up the book, and GEORGE comes round to shake hands.

  GEORGE

  See you on my return. And thanks again. (He nods at the book.) I know you’ll get it.

  CHAS

  The sense of it.

  GEORGE

  Precisely.

  CHAS leaves the office, watched from behind by GEORGE.

  2

  Billie
, tired from work, descended the steps at Frederick Street to find Monty on top of the bin, gnawing on some unidentifiable bit of food. His fur, whose shade, depending on the light, changed from carroty to marmalade and then to ginger, had a somewhat oily aspect this evening. When she lifted him off she noticed a graze across his face where another cat must have swiped him.

  ‘Have you been fighting again?’ she asked.

  Monty looked away, as if he didn’t want to talk about it. She unlocked the door and the cat traipsed in after her. She put a shilling in the meter and looked through the post while she brewed a pot of tea in the kitchen: circulars, a couple of things for Jeff and a letter for her, which she opened.

  Dear Miss Cantrip,

  Thank you for your application of 15 March. I regret to inform you that the vacancy has already been filled. We will, however, keep your name on our books and contact you should another position come up in future …

  She sighed, ripped the letter in half and tossed it in the bin. She searched the shelf for a mug, but all three were in the sink, amid a heap of dirty plates and dishes. It was almost a point of honour to Jeff that he never did any washing-up, or any other sort of cleaning. He affected not to notice the mess, and scoffed at her for caring, though when he first moved into the flat he had been quick to remark on how run-down the neighbourhood was. Billie had done her best to brighten the place and keep it tidy. This week she had put a little vase of primulas on the kitchen table, and decorated the windowsill with an arrangement of her mother’s painted clay pots. The walls were covered with Jeff’s stuff and her posters of Impressionist favourites. In the bedroom she had hung purple velvet curtains that puddled on the floor, and put down a paisley rug, though it was hardly more than an offcut of carpet. She would tie a silk scarf over the lampshade to lend a touch of Continental raffishness. The cramped confines of the bathroom, however, seemed beyond remedy, and lines of clothes hung over the tub like flayed skins, wrinkled and somehow imploring.

  She washed the dishes, and dried one of the mugs for her tea, which she carried into the bedroom. Carefully sliding a single out of its sleeve she put it on the Dansette’s turntable and dropped the needle on its revolving edge. It was the Beatles’ new one, which she had played so many times the night before that Jeff had eventually stormed in and shouted at her. It was a double A-side, which meant that both songs were supposed to be as important as each other. She wasn’t sure about ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’, with its woozy key changes and its glistening, secretive air of possession, though, oddly, it had caught Jeff’s interest. Having disdained pop for as long as she’d known him, he condescended to stay in the room while this one was playing. But it was ‘Penny Lane’ that had grabbed Billie. She had never really heard a pop song that made the noticing of everyday life its point – barbers, bankers, fire engines, rain, blue suburban skies – going like a flurry of bright snapshots, one after another. It was jaunty and sad at the same time. She lay back on the bed, entranced. Here came her favourite bit, about the nurse who, though she feels she’s in a play, ‘she is anyway’ – another of the song’s riddles, the way it seemed both real and yet a dream. She loved that; she loved all of it.

  She had just put it on again when the phone rang. It was Nell.

  ‘Are you all right, darling? What’s that noise?’

  Billie leaned down to the Dansette and cut the music. ‘Beatles’ new one – just bought it.’

  ‘Ooh yes, I like that one!’ cried Nell, her voice rasping from the day’s cigarettes. ‘I saw them on telly the other night. Isn’t Paul gorgeous?’

  ‘I prefer George.’

  ‘Hmm. Trust you to go for the moody one. So did you hear from the agency?’

  She cushioned her head against the pillow. ‘Yeah. It’s already gone, but they said they’d keep my name on file, blah blah …’

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry, love. How disappointing. Though being a secretary to that bitch might not be such a marvellous thing anyway.’

  ‘I s’pose.’

  ‘Why don’t you come over? I’m just putting a macaroni cheese in the oven.’

  Billie glanced at her watch; it was tempting, she had to admit. Her mum was a good cook, and at her kitchen table she would be certain of a sympathetic ear.

  ‘I can’t, Mum, sorry. Jeff’s going to be home any minute. He’ll want some dinner.’

  ‘He could make something for himself,’ she said bluntly. When this provoked no response Nell let out a deep sigh. They couldn’t keep having this argument. ‘Well, shall I see you at the weekend?’

  ‘Yeah. See a film, maybe.’ They then had a little debate as to whether Billie would go up to her house in Kentish Town or else meet in the West End. Without anything being said she knew Nell would prefer not to come to the flat and have to talk to Jeff. A few minutes later, they said their goodbyes. At the threshold of the bedroom Monty stared at her, expectant. She went to the fridge and poured out a saucerful of milk, which he began slowly to lap.

  Billie had begun to wonder about her mother. She’d noticed Nell ringing her more often these days, rather plaintive for her company. After two failed marriages, she had been living on her own for about five years. Her first husband, Johnny, she’d met when they were at the Slade; their seven-year marriage had produced two daughters, very few paintings and a legacy of bitter recrimination. Johnny, hopeless and alcoholic, had died of liver failure in an Earls Court bedsit when Billie was eleven. Roy, her second, was an itinerant Irishman who had been one of their lodgers, not an alcoholic but an ill-tempered gambler, inclined to bullying. They had weathered a few storms, including a long period when it emerged that he’d been stealing from her (his betting habit had run away with him). She stuck it out and endured the knocks until the day Roy lashed out not at her but at Billie, whose head happened to be nearest to him. Nell threw him out, though not before she delivered a smack to his head. The guilt she felt over these misalliances was expressed in a disproportionate wariness of her daughters’ boyfriends; she didn’t want them making the same mistakes.

  Billie was listening to ‘Penny Lane’ for perhaps the twelfth time – even Monty looked a bit sick of it – when she heard the key scrape in the lock. She cut the record short, jumped off the bed and went out to greet him. It was hard to tell whether Jeff was in a good mood or not these days. The set of his mouth was lugubrious, and his shoulders stooped in a way common to people who didn’t enjoy being tall. He wore his brown hair mid-length with sideburns, all the Edwardian rage, but had recently shaved off the Beatles moustache, to her relief. His cool, unkempt look – hipster pants, suede jacket – was offset by a wide navy tie whose artlessness rather touched her; it meant he had manners enough to smarten up for his round of the galleries. Jeff made collages which he spent hours hawking about. The result of today’s enterprise she awaited with something close to dread.

  ‘How did it go?’

  Jeff glanced at her as he sat down at the kitchen table and yanked off his tie. He put his Rizlas and tobacco on the table, ready to roll up. ‘Huh,’ he began. ‘The new ones I was trying to flog?’

  ‘Yes?’ She was uncomfortably holding her breath.

  ‘Mapleton’s want to take them – all six.’

  She covered her sharp intake of breath with an exuberant whoop. ‘Jeff! That’s absolutely – oh, congratulations!’

  Jeff allowed himself a wry smirk as he lit his rollie. Billie plumped down on his lap and kissed him. She felt a tremendous surge of relief, and behind it surprise, for secretly she had doubted that his collages were any good. They seemed to her dark and brooding and ungainly; a bit like Jeff. But here was affirmation of his talent.

  ‘So Mapleton loved them?’ she asked, once she’d recovered herself.

  ‘He wasn’t there. It was the manager I dealt with.’

  ‘Does he have the say-so?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s all above board. He said he’d get a cheque to me sometime next week.’

  ‘How much?’ she asked nervously
.

  He tucked in his chin. ‘Never you mind. But enough to treat you to a “slap-up meal” as they say in the Beano. So get your coat.’

  ‘What, now? I was going to do us some fish.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t want to celebrate? After what I’ve been through?’

  ‘No. I mean yes,’ Billie said quickly, ‘let’s go out.’

  What he had ‘been through’ was rejection; nothing out of the ordinary for an artist, though few were as prickly as Jeff. Whenever a gallery turned down his work he would go into a long sulk, railing against what he saw as a conspiracy to deny him his due. Billie did her best to assuage his injured feelings, but it was a struggle: Jeff clung to his legend of being neglected, wronged, sold short. It was his perverse badge of victimhood. As they ambled along the Gray’s Inn Road he talked with an enthusiasm she’d hardly known in him before. Thanks to this he could probably afford to rent his own studio, another step, he reckoned, in his mission to be taken ‘seriously’.

  Billie hesitantly suggested he should wait before making that kind of investment. Their finances were still quite precarious, and a room, even round here, wouldn’t come cheap.

  ‘You might show a little faith in me,’ Jeff replied, with a short irritated laugh. ‘This game’s hard enough without your nearest and dearest reminding you how poor you are.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I said. All I mean is that there are bills to pay before we can risk the extra expense of a studio.’

  Jeff scowled at this, and fell silent until they reached the Italian on Caledonian Road. Once they’d been seated at a little window table and had a carafe of red brought over his good mood returned, and he became voluble about his new patrons and their amazing commitment to him. As he continued Billie wondered at his almost childlike self-absorption, his ability to talk, exclusively and without interruption, about the all-consuming struggle of Being Jeff. Perhaps what had prevented her from noticing it early on was her utter besottedness with him. But she did notice it now.

  They had met when she was at drama school and he was lecturing part-time at an art college. They had had to be secretive about it at the start because Jeff was already in a long-term relationship with an older woman, Gloria, a painter who rivalled Jeff in her self-absorption – and eclipsed him in her liking for a tantrum. Billie had heard enough about her to know that this was a woman who would not go quietly. Jeff kept putting off the day he’d ‘drop the bomb’, possibly out of fear, until Gloria eventually found out for herself and stormed round to Billie’s digs. Jeff, who happened to be there, took the brunt of it, but Billie caught a few verbal sideswipes during the encounter. ‘So this is the little cunt I’ve been tossed over for,’ she hissed, on first clapping eyes on her. A russet-haired fiend in beads and hooped earrings, she looked Billie up and down. ‘I’m surprised – I thought at least she’d have a pair of tits.’