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  For months afterwards the volcano of her rage bubbled and spat, sometimes down the phone, sometimes in personal visits to the street, when she would sit in her car and wait for one of them to come out. Jeff finally had to get the police onto her. At the time it had rather impressed Billie that he was prepared to ride it out for her sake; he later said that she, Billie, was the only woman alive he could have done it for. It had brought them closer, knowing that together they’d stared Medusa in the eye and not been turned to stone.

  That was two and a half years ago. Since then, she had come to realise that Jeff was no picnic either. Neither of them had made much professional headway since their college days, but Jeff took his professional setbacks very personally. The abrasive manner he adopted with those who might help him was unfortunate. Billie felt his dissatisfaction as an atmosphere in the flat, like the fug of his roll-ups; it was hard not to inhale it. Now, perhaps, his luck was turning. She took a long swig of the wine and tried to concentrate.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jeff said, refocusing his gaze, ‘what else is happening?’

  This was her cue to talk about something other than him. ‘Oh, I had a letter from the agency. The job’s gone, I’m afraid.’

  Jeff frowned. ‘The secretarial thing? Would have been a waste of time anyway.’

  ‘Not completely. It would be something to tide me over while I wait. And better paid than what I’m doing now.’

  ‘No need to worry about that. With Mapleton’s cash we’ll be sitting pretty.’

  Billie smiled, but felt cautious. ‘I know, that’s great, but I want to be earning my own money.’

  ‘Running around after that old bitch?’

  ‘Funny. That’s what my mum called her.’

  ‘Takes one to know one,’ Jeff muttered.

  ‘That’s not very kind,’ said Billie, bristling. ‘If you made a bit more of an effort with her –’

  ‘Look, she can’t stand me, so what’s the point in trying? I can’t help it if she’s bitter.’

  Billie, hearing this, paused for a moment. ‘If she is bitter, she’s got reason to be. People – men – have let her down, quite badly. Doesn’t mean she’s a bitch. You could be nicer. If not for her sake, you could do it for me.’

  Jeff raised his face heavenwards in a show of long-suffering disbelief. ‘God, what is this? I have one bit of good fortune that I’d like to celebrate, and instead we end up having to talk about your mother. Are you determined to put a downer on this evening?’

  She looked away. There were all sorts of things she could say to him at this moment – truthful, hurtful things – but she took it as her unspoken role in life to keep the peace. She paused for a few moments while the waiter filled their glasses, then she changed the subject, coaxing him round, smoothing the creases.

  They met at their usual corner of Leicester Square. Billie, preoccupied with the film listings in What’s On, looked up as Nell approached.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she cried, bending to kiss her daughter and trailing a scent of Je Reviens, white spirit and Player’s Medium Navy Cut. She still had a sweat rag in her hair and paint flecks on her hands. She wore a close-fitting black jumper with holes at the elbows and a pair of blue slacks. Nell, in her mid-forties, hadn’t lost her looks, though Billie wondered if a little more attention to her grooming might enhance her romantic prospects. Like a taxi, her mother roamed about with her light ‘on’.

  ‘Right, there are two here I like the sound of,’ said Billie, tapping the magazine. ‘There’s Blow-Up, or Accident.’

  Nell pulled a comical frown. ‘They sound lovely. Sure there isn’t one called Catastrophe?’

  ‘Dirk Bogarde’s one of yours, isn’t he?’

  ‘Hmm, I’ve gone off him a bit,’ said Nell, as if there had been some personal falling-out. ‘Didn’t like him in the one where he was a servant.’

  Billie, who knew about these things, said, ‘OK, then, Blow-Up it is.’

  Inside, a muffled aroma of dust and burnt coffee hung about the dark. Motes danced in the projector’s thick wand of light. They had arrived in time for the adverts, which always encouraged her mother to comment – a little too loudly – on the hollowness of a slogan or a woman’s outfit or some other absurdity that tickled her. Billie thought this chuntering might be related to her loneliness – Nell, working on her own all day, perhaps just needed to hear herself speak – but it embarrassed and vexed her nonetheless. She sensed others around them listening, and judging. A couple of film trailers followed, one of them featuring Terence Stamp.

  Nell gave vent to a breathy erotic moan. ‘God, he’s gorgeous, isne?’

  ‘Mum. Shh.’

  Billie felt bad for this prissy reprimand, and worse when, from the corner of her eye, Nell turned meekly towards her and whispered, ‘Sorry.’

  A hush descended, the lights dimmed, and the sombre black certificate flashed up the title with its thrilling ‘X’ rating. Now she was safe to lose herself, tilt her gaze and soak up the colour and sound pouring off this giant aquarium of light. At her side Nell settled into her seat. They waited together like votaries at the altar of a dark and all-powerful cult.

  ‘What I’d like to know is –’

  ‘Christ, Mum! I’ve sat through exams that asked me fewer questions than you just did in there.’

  Billie, exasperated, was stalking through the foyer, Nell lagging a few paces behind. Afternoon had turned to evening since they’d been inside, and street lamps blotched the square in amber. The smoke from a chestnut stall briefly blinded them.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry but I just couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’

  ‘Yeah, I gathered.’

  Still feeling guilty for shushing her before the lights went down, Billie had been prepared to put up with a few of Nell’s interruptions. They started out quite simple (‘Who’s he? Who’s she?’) before bewilderment properly took hold and every knight’s-move of the plot, such as it was, prompted another urgent query. That Billie herself hadn’t altogether grasped what was going on put a fine point on her irritation. After a while she had leaned over and hissed in her mother’s ear, ‘I’ll tell you afterwards,’ which at least had the desired effect of shutting her up. It didn’t stop her fidgeting, though, or muttering beneath her breath.

  I’ve got to find her a boyfriend, thought Billie.

  She slowed her pace to allow her mother to catch up. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat,’ she said, trying to soften her tone. Tucked behind the other side of Charing Cross Road was a little wood-panelled bistro, Chez Solange, where they ordered croque-monsieurs and beer. Billie, feeling calmer with a drink in front of her, looked across at Nell, blithely munching on her food. It was like being with a child. She took a deep breath.

  ‘OK. I’m ready for your questions.’

  Nell gave a demurring ‘huh’ in reply. ‘You don’t have to humour me, you know. I’m only your mother after all.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  Nell waited a moment, then said, ‘All right. The photographer, did he – had he discovered a murder in that park?’

  ‘Yes. No. Maybe.’

  ‘Oh well, that clears it up.’

  ‘It’s ambiguous. That’s the whole point. You’re never sure what’s real and what’s imagined. I thought we were in for a thriller when he blew up those photographs and started to piece the clues together.’

  ‘Yes, I enjoyed that bit,’ said Nell thoughtfully. ‘That, and the wind rustling the leaves, when he’s in the park.’

  ‘It built up this sort of intrigue. But nothing follows from it. His studio gets burgled and then he just goes swinging round London, getting stoned, going to the club. It was like two different films happening at once.’

  Nell nodded, though bafflement still clouded her face. ‘Mm … but what was it really about? What were we meant to think?’

  Billie sighed, looking off into the distance. ‘I dunno. I suppose it’s about … illusion. Not being able to connect with anything.
With anyone.’

  ‘Me laddo seemed to be connecting all right during that orgy. And Vanessa. Though I’m surprised they were allowed to show her fanny.’

  ‘I think that was Jane Birkin. Vanessa only showed her top.’

  Nell protruded her lower lip in a conceding way. Billie could tell she hadn’t really satisfied her curiosity. She sometimes read the film crits in the Observer, when Jeff bought it; but they didn’t seem that clued-up either, and quite often they gave the plot away, which she didn’t like.

  ‘I don’t think you should get worked up about what it means. The important thing is whether it’s entertained you.’

  ‘But if you’re sitting there scratching your head …’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You can like something – love it, even – without “getting” it, can’t you? It’s not always about a thing making sense, it’s about the effect it’s having on you. You’re an artist – you must see that?’

  ‘My things are quite straightforward. I look at a jug of flowers, or a garden through a window, and try to paint it.’

  The restaurant was filling up with a Saturday-night crowd, young couples in the main. Something was going on fashion-wise, Billie noticed. A girl and a boy were standing side by side at the bar in front of them, both wearing paisley shirts, jeans, both with the same brown hair down to the shoulders. They were nearly identical! Nell had ordered more drinks, keen to eke out the evening until she must get the 24 back to Kentish Town and let herself into an empty house.

  In a changed tone she said, ‘Talking of painting, how’s Jeff?’

  She must be in a chipper mood to volunteer that, thought Billie. ‘He’s fine. Actually he had some good news this week. A gallery – you know Mapleton’s? – they bought six of his … things.’

  ‘Oh. That must have pleased him. They’re great. Mapleton’s, I mean.’ This last unsubtly implied that the same could not be said of Jeff’s collages.

  Billie continued, with a lightness she didn’t feel, ‘Yes, it’s quite a relief. I don’t think he could have taken much more rejection.’

  Nell half laughed. ‘It’s like Van Gogh – an occupational hazard.’

  ‘I know that. Anyway, he deserved a bit of luck.’ She paused, wondering if she should risk it. ‘He thinks – he says – he’s going to use the money to rent a studio.’

  Nell pulled a doubtful expression. ‘Really? I thought he’d got a place.’

  ‘No, he used a friend’s until they sold up. And my flat, well, you know how small that is.’

  ‘But can he afford it on top of the rent he pays?’

  Billie didn’t want to get into a discussion about Jeff’s finances, which were chaotic. He had run through a small inheritance years before they met and had contrived to lose his only reliable job – lecturing – through sloppiness (he’d kept missing his own classes).

  Her brief hesitation caused Nell to sharpen her gaze. ‘He does pay you his half of the rent?’

  ‘Whenever he can.’

  ‘Oh, Billie, you’re going to …’ She shook her head. Be ripped off just like me was the unspoken warning.

  ‘We get by. And this could be the start of something. I don’t – I don’t want to discourage him. His confidence has been low.’

  ‘Then maybe he should do something else, because it’s a tough living. You need a thick skin. Nobody asks us to paint, you do it cos you must. Helps to have talent, mind.’ That was her mother: she could switch from virtual child to flinty grown-up in an instant.

  ‘Jeff’s got talent,’ Billie said with indignant loyalty, though in her heart she lacked conviction. Nell responded with her most philosophical shrug. The maddening thing was that she had earned the right to talk like this. Even when she was being robbed or abused by some man, or had failed to sell a painting for months, she kept the home together with cleaning jobs, secretarial work or a bit of modelling. She had gritted her teeth and ‘got on with it’, making sure Billie and her older sister were clothed and fed and at school on time. Nell had made some terrible choices in her life, but as a mother she had never let anyone down.

  After dinner they walked up Charing Cross Road to wait at the bus stop. The West End traffic honked and growled on its way to who-knew-where. They talked a little about Billie’s next move, now that she’d been turned down for the secretarial job.

  ‘I sometimes think I should jack the whole thing in, try something else. What you were saying about a thick skin … I’m not sure I could cope even if I made it.’

  Nell put a gentle arm around her. ‘Course you will. It’s just you have to wait for the break. Waiting’s the hardest part. In the meantime, here.’ She thrust a ten-shilling note into Billie’s hand.

  ‘Oh, Mum, don’t.’ It was irritating, because she could do with it.

  ‘How else should I spend my money?’

  Billie smiled. ‘You could treat yourself to a new jumper,’ she said, fingering the hole at her elbow.

  Nell gave her a playful slap. ‘I don’t need smart clothes. Who would I be trying to impress, anyway?’

  It was lightly said, but the tentative yearning behind the question caused Billie a tiny jolt of unhappiness. Then a bus rumbled into view, which spared her the trouble of having to supply an answer.

  INT. DRAWING ROOM OF BRIDGES, A COUNTRY HOUSE – DAY.

  About twenty guests at leisure after lunch, reading, playing cards. CHAS is among them, closely watching an older man talking to their young hostess, JANE. This man is the novelist HUGH VEREKER. Moments later she escorts him across the room to introduce him to CHAS.

  JANE

  Hugh, this is my friend Charles Pallingham.

  VEREKER and CHAS shake hands and trade greetings.

  Chas writes for the papers. About books.

  VEREKER

  Ah. Read anything good lately?

  CHAS

  As a matter of fact I’ve just finished your latest –

  JANE

  Already? But it’s only published this week.

  CHAS

  I had an early copy.

  JANE

  Actually there’s an unsigned review of it in the Middle. Have you seen it, Hugh?

  VEREKER

  I don’t believe I have …

  JANE hurries off, leaving the men together for a moment.

  CHAS

  I wonder, do you get nervous around publication?

  VEREKER

  Not any more. It’s a pleasant surprise nowadays to meet young people who’ve even heard of me.

  CHAS

  (shyly)

  As a matter of fact, um –

  JANE

  (interrupting)

  Here it is! ‘Melancholy roar of an English lion.’ Shall I read it you?

  VEREKER, laughing, plucks the newspaper out of her hands. CHAS watches him with an eager eye.

  VEREKER

  I’ll take it upstairs with me, if I may – I’d rather do my suffering in private. See you at dinner.

  He nods to them. Exits.

  CHAS

  How tantalising. I was really hoping to see his reaction.

  JANE

  Oh, why? It’s not a bad review he’s got.

  CHAS

  I know. I wrote it.

  JANE

  You did? Oh … You’re a sly one. Why didn’t you tell him?

  CHAS

  I was about to, but – fate intervened.

  JANE

  Golly! Chas, just think of it, reading your little piece.

  CHAS shrugs, with a sense of his review’s diminished lustre discernible in his face.

  INT. DINING ROOM, CANDLELIT – NIGHT.

  Camera pans along a dinner table, where about twenty-five people sit in evening dress. Stops at CHAS, seated between strangers, looking uncomfortable. Opposite him is JANE, vivacious, beautiful, commanding. Time passes, and while pudding is being served JANE snags the attention of VEREKER, who sits across from her, and two seats away from CHAS.

  JANE

>   Did you get to read the Middle’s verdict then, Hugh?

  VEREKER

  Yes, it was fine. You know, the usual twaddle.

  JANE’s gaze shifts naughtily to CHAS, who looks embarrassed, and keeps silent. At his side, an earnest young woman, MAUD, picks up on the conversation.

  MAUD

  So it doesn’t do your book justice, Mr Vereker?

  VEREKER

  Oh, it’s a charming piece. All I mean is, the reviewer doesn’t see –

  CUT TO: A dish is passed in front of him, momentarily interrupting the talk.

  MAUD

  Doesn’t see what?

  VEREKER

  Doesn’t see anything, I’m afraid.

  MAUD

  Oh dear. What a clot!

  VEREKER

  (laughing)

  No, not a bit. Nobody does. I don’t blame him.

  MAUD

  (solemnly turning to CHAS)

  Nobody sees anything.

  CHAS

  I’ve often thought so.

  Across the table JANE smirks at him, being the only other person in the room who knows the identity of the ‘clot’.

  EXT. LAWN – NIGHT.

  House guests milling about on the lawn, lit from the long French windows. CHAS, saying goodnight to a couple, makes his way towards the house. VEREKER, spotting him, breaks off from his little group to hail him. CHAS, reluctantly, stops to talk.