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  Naomi tried to reason with him. He saw other women, didn’t he? Nat replied that he did not, at least not in the way she meant. But she’d been there when another woman was in bed with them! she protested. Yes, but they were mere bit players to be shared, he wouldn’t dream of seeing another woman outside of her company. So she was supposed to be monogamous, was that it? He shook his head sadly, no; it was just that he had assumed he was enough for her. Naomi was quiet for a few moments, before she asked how would it be if one of her fellers joined them for a night together? But there was no way on earth Nat would go for that.

  Things between them had not been quite right since. Though he hadn’t returned to the conversation, he tormented himself with images of her being pleasured by a faceless half-dozen others. Naomi must have picked up these tremblings of disquiet because this evening she turned up at his door with a young friend of hers Nat hadn’t met before. Melissa, tall and slender, greeted him with a crooked smile. She wore a white cotton blouse with a yoke collar and a gauzy chiffon skirt that showed her long legs to advantage. While his guests settled themselves on the velvet couch Nat mixed them each a Tom Collins. He found it difficult not to stare at Melissa, twiddling her straight blonde hair. Her prettiness was distracting, and faintly unreal.

  ‘And how do you ladies know one another?’

  ‘I met Naomi when she was at the agency,’ said Melissa in a girly voice that irritated him.

  ‘Mel’s a full-time model,’ Naomi supplied. ‘She’s got the best legs since Cyd Charisse.’

  ‘Funny, that’s exactly what they said about mine, too,’ said Nat.

  Mel looked at him and frowned. ‘Naomi says you’re a writer.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t deny it.’

  ‘What sort of writer?’

  Nat gave a little sigh of resignation. ‘Oh, the disreputable, indolent, early-to-decay sort.’

  ‘He writes plays,’ said Naomi with a sidelong look, ‘and film scripts. Square in the Circle, came out a couple of years ago?’

  ‘I didn’t see that,’ said Mel.

  ‘Nor did anyone else,’ he snapped. ‘Now, shall we get on with the business of the evening?’

  He was aware of being brusque, unable to hide his annoyance that Naomi had brought along a stranger without asking him. She had obviously intended this to be a peace offering after the revelations about her other men, but Nat saw it as bad timing, and a deplorable lapse of taste. Nothing he could do about it now; it would be ungrateful, not to say ungentlemanly, to throw the package out. In the bedroom he and Naomi took the roles of a duke and duchess who are offended by the drunken behaviour of their housemaid, a part Mel had evidently prepared for, stripping down to reveal a pair of loose Victorian knickers with a slit at the back. Ordering Mel – renamed ‘Maud’ in their playlet – to assume the position, he gave her twelve stingers with a cane, watching as her buttocks crimsoned after each stroke. Her whimpers of pain excited him, somewhat against his will.

  The game changed when he announced that the duchess too was to be chastised for having wasted his money on a new dress. Now Melissa watched as Nat produced a whip and roughly pulled down Naomi’s knickers. He delivered twelve savage strokes to her backside, making her count each one aloud. As she lay there, exhausted and panting, Nat felt a spark of malice leap within him; seizing hold of her hair as if it were a bridle, he dealt her another half-dozen cracks until he saw a thread of blood open on her flesh. She had stopped counting by the time he had finished. Fagged with his exertions, and slick with sweat, he collapsed across the bed.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Naomi gasped, wincing as she touched one tenderised buttock to find the tips of her fingers red. Mel, he noticed, was agog at his display of brutishness. ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘As one sadomasochist said to the other,’ said Nat with a half-laugh. ‘Did I not mention there’d be whips?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. You don’t grab my hair, ever.’

  He had been expecting an argument, but this was a surprise. What was it about women and their hair? You could thrash them till they bled and not get a peep of protest – but dare touch their precious locks and they’d turn on you, snarling. Mel was standing over him, swishing the cane like some Regency buck practising his swordplay. Well, he’d earned this one for sure.

  ‘Start counting,’ she said, her arm raised. The instant before the cane descended he was shaken by a quiver of ecstatic apprehension. The point of the experience for him resided in exactly this anticipation, and in the warmth afterwards. Pain, from the impact of hand or whip, was no part of his thrill; it was simply the price demanded for the pleasure that preceded and followed it. Mel was dealing it out with interest, grunting like a weightlifter with the repeated effort of her swing. He had counted to sixteen or thereabouts before she quit, then Naomi took over. Whatever grievance she had been harbouring towards him she more than repaid, wielding the cane across his backside with vigour and purpose. Nat couldn’t help thinking of Molesworth in the headmaster’s study at St Custard’s (Kane descend whack gosh oo gosh oo gosh) and let slip a giggle. Pausing for an offended moment, Naomi seemed to redouble her efforts, cursing as she thwacked him, so carried away that at one point the cane flew out of her sweating hand. She took it up, wiped it down and continued.

  By the time she came to a halt, Nat’s flesh was on fire. They lay there spent, lungs heaving, unable even to speak. Melissa conducted a cooing inspection of their striped hindquarters. Nat palpated his stinging arse: he would usually have been ready to have sex at this stage, but he could raise no part of himself upright. For a while he dozed, half listening to the girls chat away. When he came round the air was thick with the burnt-rubber odour of cannabis. Naomi, resting on her elbow, was drawing on a fat spliff.

  Something had happened in that last hour, some new territory had been staked out between them; he wasn’t sure if it was for good or ill. They hadn’t hurt one another with such fierce intent before. Was he in deeper with her than he knew? The last time he had become possessive of a woman it had ended very badly. She turned to catch him looking at her, and handed him the joint.

  He dragged on it and let the smoke plume down his nose. In a faraway voice he said, ‘So we beat on, canes against the buttocks, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’

  Mel wrinkled her nose. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh, just my little misquote. The Great Gatsby.’

  ‘Who’s he? A magician?’

  Nat stopped, mid-puff, and stared at her innocent face. ‘My God, you’re not even joking. Are you acquainted with the world of literature?’

  ‘Don’t be patronising,’ said Naomi. ‘We haven’t all had a university education.’

  ‘University’s got nothing to do with it.’ He turned back to Mel. ‘The Great Gatsby is a novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald. You’ve not heard of him either? Tell me, my dear, have you ever read a book – I mean, other than the phone book?’

  Mel, not sure whether she was being teased or told off, said, ‘When I was at school I read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.’

  ‘Right. Anything else in the – what – ten years since?’

  ‘Nat, shut up,’ said Naomi. ‘What’s it to you? Not being a reader doesn’t make you a bad person.’

  ‘No, merely an ignorant one.’

  Mel made a little moue of objection but said nothing. It was Naomi who had girded herself for a counter-attack. ‘Don’t worry, love, despite all his airs and graces he’s no great shakes himself. You should see what the papers say about him.’

  Nat, wrong-footed, spluttered out a laugh. ‘What on earth d’you mean by that?’

  ‘I’d rather not embarrass you with it,’ she said with a dismissive glance.

  ‘No, please, do tell. I read the papers avidly and see little of good or bad about myself.’ He half thought she was bluffing; the remark could simply be a malicious stab in the dark, but he had to make sure.

  Naomi gave a sly laugh and roll
ed off the bed. She began to dress. ‘Matter of fact it was in yesterday’s Standard. You didn’t see it?’ He hadn’t, nor had his agent told him about it, which was ominous in itself. He shook his head, impatient for her to continue. ‘Oh, just a paragraph about the state of your career. I wouldn’t have noticed it but for the photo of you at the top. Well, that and the headline.’

  Nat waited. It seemed she was going to draw the moment out. ‘And the headline was?’

  She paused in the middle of rolling up a stocking, distantly seeking out the exact words. ‘“British theatre’s youngest living has-been”.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mel, sympathetic in spite of being insulted.

  Nat, stung, tried to recall the names he knew at the Standard. Which viperous scribe had spat that poison? If he did have an enemy there he was at present unaware of it. Yet he’d also flinched at Naomi’s relish in reporting the slight. It was as though she’d been waiting for the moment to make her thrust. He’d thought of her as a pal, a sexual playmate, maybe even a potential girlfriend, but the tone of voice she’d used just then had nothing of affection in it. Maybe she was still brooding over his recent violation. Melissa, following Naomi’s lead, had also started to get dressed. Nat felt the night slipping away from him.

  ‘Ladies, there’s no need to rush off. Forgive my offence –’

  ‘Which offence d’you mean?’ said Naomi. When he hesitated she shook her head. ‘You don’t get it, do you? Poncing around like everybody should know you … You’re so full of yourself you don’t even notice how rude you are. Instead of listening to people you talk over them. If they don’t suck up to you and acclaim your “greatness” you despise them. When I first met you I thought your conceit was an act. But it’s not, it’s who you are. And it’s a drag.’

  Nat was so taken aback by this sudden broadening of her assault that he was, for the first time he could recall in years, lost for words. The girls were both in their clothes by the time he managed to order his thoughts and find his voice.

  ‘I had no inkling of quite how wretched a specimen I must appear. My faults must be grave indeed for you to speak so uninhibitedly. It’s true, I was trained from a very young age to be a show-off. My mother thought me a genius! So I decided that people should take me at the same estimation, and for the most part they have done. This should not excuse my conduct. One cannot reach the age of thirty-seven and still be blaming the parents. But it may begin to explain it, and I hope that you, in time, may pardon it.’

  He let his head drop in humble submission. They had listened, Naomi for her part stonily impassive; Melissa, who had perhaps never heard such a mea culpa, looked only bemused. They exchanged glances, and finally Naomi said to him, in an even voice, ‘Well, then. Would you mind calling a taxi for us?’

  Nat, somewhat deflated, said quietly, ‘Of course.’

  He was on his way to the phone when Naomi called after him, ‘By the way, Nat, you could turn over a new leaf by being honest. I happen to know you’re forty this year.’

  INT. BEDROOM – DAY.

  A montage of CHAS at work on the novels of VEREKER, stacked on the bedside table. Camera cranes above him as he lies on his bed, reading; the passage of time is indicated by his changing position, the white coverlet of his bed a clock face, and CHAS’s dark-clothed body the clock hands. So he begins (1) at twelve o’clock, head against the headboard, knees pulled up, book in his lap; (2) at quarter to three, lying sideways across the bed; (3) at six o’clock, head now at the foot of the bed; (4) at quarter to nine, sideways, head on the other side; (5) back to twelve, only now face down, exhausted, book splayed on the pillow (we can see the author’s name on the cover).

  Montage is repeated, in reverse direction. Occasional close-up of CHAS’s face, passing through stages of absorption, amusement, wonder, deep enquiry, frowning concentration and bewilderment. We have the impression of him nagging away at VEREKER’s novels, trying to winkle out their unifying ‘secret’.

  Montage is repeated once more, music more insistent and anxious now, as CHAS reads on. Finally, he is back where he started, head leaning against the headboard, his expression blank. Music slows to a halt. CHAS, face on, thoughtful, holding a book in his hand, throws it directly at the camera, where it spreadeagles with a ‘splat!’

  INT. THE MITRE TAVERN – DAY.

  Lunchtime crowd in the pub. CHAS and GEORGE sit together at the bar.

  CHAS

  So you’re back. Mission accomplished?

  GEORGE

  No chance. Gwen’s mother is back too.

  CHAS

  I thought she was at death’s door!

  GEORGE

  She was, until I arrived. Then she rose from her bed and walked – like Lazarus.

  CHAS

  Gwendolen must be relieved, though. And you’ve earned points for dashing over there and helping them home.

  GEORGE

  Yeah, but I’m back to square one. No use in my popping the question while the mother’s alive – Gwen won’t just leave her.

  CHAS

  The dutiful daughter. Well, it’s a good test of your loyalty –

  GEORGE

  Mm, enough of the domestic travails – I want to know about Vereker. I can’t believe you just ran into him!

  CHAS

  Jane knows everyone. I got lucky.

  GEORGE

  What did he say about your review?

  CHAS

  Funny you should ask. He said I got nowhere near to it –

  GEORGE

  He’s right there –

  CHAS

  – but nor has anybody else, according to him. You see, there’s something in his work, a sort of buried treasure, that has eluded every critic who’s written about him.

  GEORGE

  I knew it! That day you came to the office, remember, I told you there was something about his work, some sense –

  CHAS

  (ironically)

  I remember. The ‘sense’. Which I failed to identify.

  GEORGE

  So what is it, then, this thing? Is it a point of style, a philosophical motif, what?

  CHAS

  Damned if I know.

  GEORGE

  But … you must have asked him?

  CHAS

  Of course I did. And he took great delight in refusing to tell me.

  GEORGE

  Oh! So it’s like that. (He pauses.) In that case, I must go digging for this ‘treasure’ myself.

  CHAS

  He told me not to bother, it’ll never be found.

  GEORGE

  I bet he did. Hoarding his little secret! Well, if that isn’t a challenge to the enquiring mind I don’t know what is.

  4

  Rue Montalembert, Paris

  17 April 1967

  Dear Nat,

  I gather from your agent that you weren’t best pleased about my failing to mention you in that little item I wrote about Reiner Werther Kloss. ‘He’d like it known that it isn’t just “someone” writing the screenplay, it’s Nathaniel Fane, award-winning playwright.’ Ooh! Rapped knuckles. All I’d say in my defence is that I did ask who the screenwriter was and nobody at the press conference seemed to know. But you may not want to hear that either.

  Kloss is an odd fish, by the way; very articulate, not without charm, but ticking to a different beat from everyone else. He reminded me a little of my brother, one moment solemn and self-possessed, the next minute laughing like a hyena. He has the most amazing smile. I managed to corner him for two minutes outside, but he turned down my request for an interview. Maybe you could help there.

  I’m coming back, sooner than planned, probably this Saturday.

  Love &c

  Freya

  PS How’s the car?!

  Freya had caught the boat train back from Dover and arrived at Canonbury Square so early the milkman was still on his rounds. She bought a pint from him. Unlocking her front door she found a scree of accumulated post resisting he
r push. Once in the hallway she paused a moment, taking in the still, stale breath of the house, its apparent indifference hiding a shy welcome. In the three months she’d been away the trapped light of the interior had wrought subtle alterations, thinning out some colours – or the memory of them – while intensifying others. Her footsteps through the rooms felt tentative, as though she were a visitor, not an owner. This strangeness would wear off in the next hour, so she had to make the most of it.

  In the bedroom a navy jumper she had forgotten to pack hung over the armchair. On her bedside table a novel she had been reading waited, a bookmark planted halfway in like a promissory note. In the wardrobe, one half of it denuded, wire hangers shivered. The cheval mirror, starved of change all these weeks, was surprised at the return of movement in its gaze. Up the next flight of stairs the mood of the rooms grew haughtier: where had she been all this time? The second-floor back was Nancy’s old bedroom. When Freya had bought the house five years ago Nancy, her best friend, had moved in, intending to lodge for a couple of months while she sorted things out after her divorce. She ended up staying nearly three years, moving on just before she got married again.

  Her departure had left a void in the house. It wasn’t only Nancy’s physical presence she missed; a lightness of spirit had vanished along with her books and clothes and perfume and hair clips. If they were both working at home there would be breaks for tea and cake, or a passing chat on the stairs. A guest staying with them had listened to their typewriters clacking away one morning and pronounced them the heirs of Vera Brittain and Winifred Holtby. Now there was a poignancy in the sound of her solitary typing, like a songbird that had lost its mate.