The holiday, p.17
The Holiday, page 17
Driven from her room by the chatter between painter and sitter, Kimberley Neal has established herself and her notebook at a table on the terrace where the novel that is intended to propel her from obscurity to ubiquity is at last making some progress. It is no longer called Belinda. The new title is The Baited Trap, a revision that seems to have given the book potency and impetus, although it has not done much for Belinda, who has abandoned the foothills of journalism and sunk even lower. She now has an Asian boyfriend who runs a team of dark-skinned hookers on the South Coast.
Belinda is the secretary and telephonist for this organisation, which is known locally as ‘The Black Whores Agency’, but the question which lurks in the reader’s mind is – will Belinda become a hooker herself? For Belinda, with her complexes and neuroses and her unresolved psychic tensions, is not the sure-footed female who first appeared in this story. Kimberley Neal has knocked her around a bit and now finds that she is easier to handle, more amenable to the demands of a pitiless author who will have no compunction about sending her on to the streets if it will make the words easier to produce.
Kimberley Neal beckons a waiter and orders a gin and tonic. She knows that many writers have oiled the works with such lubricants; they were all dead at forty but at least they produced a book. She gazes out to the Croisette where people who have not made cruel demands like this on themselves wander freely in the sunshine. She shuts them out and turns back to her busy notebook. Belinda’s decline began when she made love to a tall, dark stranger in the back of a Standard Vanguard, and found when she had lost touch with him that she was pregnant. When she ransacks her crowded past, Kimberley finds that her problem isn’t what to put into the book, but what to leave out …
The chair next to hers is moved and she looks up to see that Andrew Marner has joined her at the table. He does not look his normally composed self, but instead resembles a man who has recently been hit in a vulnerable spot by something that lacked flexibility. Uncharacteristically, he picks up Kimberley Neal’s gin and drinks the lot.
‘I’ll get you another,’ he mutters.
‘You’d better give up posing for pictures if it affects you like this,’ says Kimberley. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘It’s printers, not painters,’ says Andrew, waving at the waiter. ‘I’ve just had some very bad news.’
‘My God!’ Kimberley goes cold. ‘What?’ She imagines the collapse of the Marner Press, the disappearance of her column, a future without a salary cheque.
‘That idiot Garnett has involved us in a libel action that is going to cost me personally half a million pounds – which is not a sum I can afford at the moment. We’re stretched on all fronts. Almost as bad, it’s not going to do anything for my credibility when the news gets out. It’s not exactly going to endear me to Alain Rocard, is it?’
‘Oh dear,’ says Kimberley, who doesn’t know what to say. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Well, I’ve sacked Garnett for a start. Next I’m going to try to nail Rocard down to a deal before the news leaks. This is where you come in.’
The waiter arrives and Andrew orders two gins.
‘Where I come in?’ Kimberley prompts him.
‘Yes. You’re my ace in the hole. I want you to meet Rocard, be nice to him and win him over. I want him to get very enthusiastic about the Marner Press.’
‘Do you mean flirt with him?’ asks Kimberley doubtfully.
‘That sort of thing. You’re not busy, are you?’
‘Oh no. I’m only writing my column and a hundred-thousand-word book.’
‘Let me look at the column,’ says Andrew. ‘I’m not paying for the book.’
Kimberley hands him three sheets that she has written earlier that morning. It is a carefully argued piece, garnered from Esme Rutherford, on the laws about cannabis. While Andrew reads it the waiter brings their drinks.
‘I’ve misjudged you, Kimberley,’ says Andrew, picking up his glass. ‘This is really very good. I thought you specialised in the short, sharp comment, but this is – well, it’s an essay.’
‘I write for a living, Andrew,’ says Kimberley. ‘Show me a cheque and I’ll churn out some poems.’
‘I’m going to fax this to Garnett and tell him to use it in World Review. It’s much too good for your little mag.’
‘I thought you’d sacked Garnett?’ says Kimberley, pleased.
‘I’ve told him to find another job. He’s not about to leave this morning.’
‘Now you’ve pinched my column, I’ll have to write another one.’
‘But you’ll be paid five hundred for the article in World Review, and you’ll be reaching a whole new audience. Broaden your horizons, Kimberley. You could be the new Germaine Greer!’
‘I don’t want to be the new Germaine Greer, Andrew. I want to be an editor.’
‘It could happen,’ says Andrew, standing up. ‘This is a hot piece. I’m going to fax it to Garnett right now. I’ll see you in the room. Dress sexy – we’re taking Monsieur Rocard to lunch at Villefranche.’
Kimberley remains at the table to finish her gin. The idea of lunch with Monsieur Rocard does not appeal to her; she would prefer to work on her novel and lie in the sun. But she knows that ignoring Andrew Marner’s wishes would not help her career. It is easy to forget in these glorious surroundings that she is a hired hand. The people who are sitting at the other tables on the terrace, enjoying morning coffee or studying the lunch menu, don’t have to answer to anyone. There is a leap that she is going to have to make before she will be free from the financial subservience which hampers her life. She doesn’t know whether it is into an editor’s chair or, permanently, into Andrew Marner’s bed … but a move of some sort is necessary if she is not going to spend her time bowing to the whims of others.
Perhaps her best hope of independence lies with the novel. She opens the pad again and considers the fragile figure of Belinda, scrabbling down there in the dirt to earn a crust. Should she become a whore? Would this give the book that magic ingredient which would send it soaring into the stratosphere? And if this is the answer, is she capable of writing it? She tries to imagine the outlook of a prostitute, the things she would believe and the way she would behave. Could she pick one out in a supermarket? They were no longer caricature creatures with bum-high skirts and cigarettes drooping from their mouths. Unlikely souls laboured in their ranks. The Black Whores Agency included two teachers and a nurse.
Immersed in the complexities of her novel, Kimberley Neal assumes the veneer of a prostitute and thinks about lunch with Alain Rocard.
In his bar on the Croisette, Roger Blake is thinking about his son. His unexpected promotion to fatherhood has unsettled him, and whereas before he would stay out of bars until the evening, he now finds that a pint at lunchtime is a midday boost that he enjoys. He has taken to the brasserie-bar-restaurant idea, where a steak appears as easily as a pint, and wonders why his own country, with its grubby pubs and curling sandwiches, deludes itself that the world enjoys its hospitality.
A barmaid provides his Heineken today. She is one of those women who have huge breasts but a curiously drained face, as if all their vitality has been used up to provide this magnificent bosom. Roger Blake is only momentarily distracted. He sips his beer and watches the tourists parade on the Croisette, the flashily dressed with their Pentax zoom cameras, the kids with their roller skates, the old ladies with their dogs. This last partnership fascinates him. Is it that they have enough love left for a dog, but not quite enough any more for a human being, or are they finding comfort in the company of animals that no human relationship ever provided?
A man in jeans and T-shirt comes in and takes a stool two away from him at the bar. He has curly dark hair that has been pulled back into a ponytail. He looks at Roger Blake as if a conversation would be welcome, but Roger turns away, reluctant to get involved in the tedious small talk that such meetings usually produce.
He is wondering what sort of boy his son is and whether he is happy. Does he know that he is adopted, and does he think about his real father? Is there a physical resemblance? Does he have a similar character and disposition, or has he already been moulded by people who won’t really understand him?
These questions have gone round in his head for a couple of days and he likes to sit and think about them, imagining answers, guessing at truths. One truth he does know is that this is a small crisis in his life, a rapidly developing obsession that is thrusting other things, even Esme, from his head. But he cannot shake it off.
He sits up, looks round and catches the eye of the man with the ponytail, who grabs his chance for a chat.
‘How’s the old Stock Exchange then?’ he asks.
In the taxi that takes them through Nice and then another six kilometres along the coast, Kimberley Neal imagines Alain Rocard as a tall and wistful Frenchman with dark eyes and native charm. He is, she decides hopefully, a man who, despite his wealth and power, has a gentle almost playful side that surfaces in the company of women. But the reality, as so often, is disappointing.
Villefranche is one of the most sheltered harbours on the coast. Yellow, pink and red stucco houses stand out on the hillside behind it, while men with drinks fish from the quayside. Monsieur Rocard sits at a table outside one of the restaurants on the front, and stands as they approach. He falls some way short of Kimberley’s template, being short, fat and with receding grey hair that has been greased and ruthlessly brushed back.
‘Alain,’ says Andrew Marner, ‘this is my personal assistant, Miss Kimberley Neal.’
The Frenchman takes her hand but does not let go. After a while Kimberley Neal realises that her hand is now being held by both of his, which have very hairy backs.
‘I should have a personal assistant like this,’ he says, in perfect English. ‘Miss Neal, you are a tribute to English womanhood.’
‘Call me Kimberley,’ she says, attempting to retrieve her hand. ‘What a nice place Villefranche is.’
Alain Rocard nods. ‘It is full of history. Cocteau decorated the chapel.’
They sit at the table that Alain Rocard has chosen and a waiter appears immediately with three menus. While the men study them, Kimberley Neal studies their guest. If Andrew Marner imagines that she is going to introduce a little romance into this man’s life in the interests of the Marner Press, he has made a serious misjudgement. Even at her most promiscuous she has never become involved with a man so short of sex appeal. The problem of her novel, the viewpoint of a prostitute, suddenly seems more difficult to comprehend. Being whoreish is one thing, but to actually be a whore requires qualities that she cannot imagine. She wonders how to approach this man, but when the waiter has taken their orders the other two ignore her and become involved in an animated discussion about the arcane mysteries of stockbroking which leaves her bored. When they start talking about running with the bulls she isn’t concentrating enough to know whether they are discussing buying shares in a rising market or flying to Pamplona.
The food arrives, a unanimous choice of fish, and Andrew Marner attempts to steer the conversation towards the subject of the joint venture that he is seeking. Even now, after hours of discussions, he isn’t sure whether Monsieur Rocard is genuinely interested or is just stringing him along for no apparent purpose. It seems to him sometimes that Rocard, bored, enjoys Andrew’s company and is prolonging these talks for social reasons.
‘Is it the greatest idea since the duvet or a recipe for disaster?’ the Frenchman asks. ‘You have many newspapers in Britain already, and some of them are cutting their prices. What does this tell us?’
‘Production costs are our trump card,’ says Andrew. ‘I gave you the figures.
‘Production costs in my experience are something which invariably go up,’ says Alain Rocard. He turns to Kimberley Neal. ‘What do you think, beautiful lady?’
‘I think the Marner Press’ record speaks for itself,’ says Kimberley. ‘Don’t you?’
Alain Rocard winks at her. ‘How do I know what I think till I see what I say? I think we are sitting here in a recession. What does everybody talk about? Green shoots and lights at end of tunnels. I see no lights. I see no green shoots. Each day is full of – what is the word? – tension.’
‘If you are turning the idea down, Alain, I wish you would say so,’ says Andrew Marner.
‘Turning the idea down?’ says Alain Rocard. ‘I’m not turning the idea down. I’m going to discuss it with my board.’
‘But you said yourself that the board do what you tell them!’
‘However, I listen to their opinions. Sometimes I hear an intelligent one. I welcome their advice: occasionally, it’s useful. This is the way of a successful company. It is how important decisions are reached. Power without consultation is the route to ruin. God gave us ears as well as mouths.’
Andrew Marner tries to interrupt some of this but Alain Rocard talks on. It is like trying to discuss something with the speaking clock.
Kimberley Neal, watching this man and curious about the nature of the power that he wields, is suddenly reminded of the plight of Bruce Kerwin. Andrew Marner has not raised the subject and she wonders whether he has forgotten or does not intend to. It seems quite wrong to her that a man could lie in prison because of an unspoken request.
‘We have a friend, Monsieur Rocard,’ she says, when a gap at last appears in the conversation. ‘He is locked up in the police station at Cannes because he had some cannabis in his pocket.’
‘Your friend had cannabis?’ Alain Rocard shrugs. ‘Big deal. Everybody has cannabis. Who is this friend?’
‘He’s an Englishman who was on holiday in our hotel. Is there any way of helping him? They’re talking about jailing him for two years.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ says Alain Rocard. ‘I will talk to my contacts. Give me the man’s name.’
‘Bruce Kerwin.’
‘No, write it down.’
Kimberley Neal takes her notebook from her bag, tears out a sheet and writes Bruce Kerwin’s name on it in capital letters.
‘Write your name, too,’ says Alain Rocard. ‘I may call in a favour.’ He gives her another wink.
‘I wasn’t going to mention this to you,’ says Andrew Marner, looking annoyed. ‘You have more important things to think about.’
‘If you had asked me, Andrew, would I have taken any notice?’ says Alain Rocard, smiling. ‘But who can refuse a beautiful woman?’
When Roger Blake gets back to the Carlton, Esme is putting those extra touches to her portrait that can be accomplished in the sitter’s absence. A corner of their room has now been annexed for the project, an intrusion that Roger reluctantly tolerates in anticipation of Andrew Marner’s money. His face, stern and unyielding, dominates the picture, but there are some peripheral items on the desk that Esme has imagined to be in front of him that she is adding now.
‘It’s brilliant,’ says Roger, lying on the bed. Midday drinking may be unusually enjoyable, but it doesn’t make for a lively afternoon.
‘Have you been drinking, lover?’ Esme asks.
‘Well,’ says Roger, ‘I had no one to play with.’
‘You play, I work. The lot of women through the ages.’
Roger fights sleep on the bed. ‘Hey, I met a real-life drug dealer. He tried to flog me some cannabis.’
‘Really?’ says Esme, pausing in her work. ‘How much did you buy?’
‘I told him I’d got enough vices already. Also, I was short of money. He had a strange name – what was it? Shaftoe. Anyway, when he asked me where I was staying, he said he’d sold some stuff to a man from the Carlton. Yes, I said, and he’s now in the nick. He got caught with it. You’ve never seen a man disappear so quickly. It was a real Magic Circle job. One minute he was there, and the next he had gone, leaving a full glass of beer.’
‘That was him then,’ says Esme. ‘The man Bruce met. You had a narrow escape there, my boy. You could be in the choky now, pleading for soap.’ And she turns back to her painting of an office diary which is on Andrew Marner’s desk.
‘How much longer is this masterpiece going to take?’ asks Roger. ‘We used to go out together.’
‘I’m trying to finish it by the weekend,’ says Esme. ‘I want some spending money.’
‘Why?’ he asks. ‘What did you want to buy me?’
‘I thought I might get you an aphrodisiac.’
‘Ouch,’ says Roger. ‘Am I losing my touch?’
‘No, I’m losing your touch,’ says Esme.
‘There’s a reason for that,’ says Roger. ‘I’ve had a traumatic experience. It’s quite slowed me down.’
‘You don’t look traumatised to me,’ says Esme. ‘Just mildly pissed.’
‘Kimberley Neal,’ Roger murmurs.
‘Old Teeth and Tits?’ says Esme. ‘What’s she been up to now?’
‘She claims she had my baby. I’m a father. I have a son.’
Esme puts down her brush and comes over to the bed. ‘She said that? And you believe her?’
‘Well,’ says Roger.
‘First she says she met you. Then she says you screwed her. Now she says there was a baby. She’ll be claiming you’re married next!’
‘Perhaps we’re divorced,’ Roger yawns. ‘I’m getting the story a chapter at a time.’
‘And this has affected you, has it, this alleged parenthood?’
‘Well, it would, wouldn’t it? It’s not one of those things that you can instantly forget about.’
‘She’s a lying cow,’ says Esme. ‘She’s trying to pull you.’
‘How would that happen?’ asks Roger.
‘Make you feel close and cosy. And then, if you want to see this boy, if there really is one, she’s your only link with him.’
‘You never told me women were as artful as that. You said they were nice.’
‘Some of them are,’ says Esme. ‘You have to be selective. But a nice man like you – he’s got no chance.’
