Cary watched him walk as far as the library, on the other side of the room, and rose from the sofa to stop him.
‘Forgive me, Mr Bondurant, but with that walk you wouldn’t even look like a Cary Grant reconstructed from hearsay evidence. And sooner or later you’d have to throw your shoes away.’
‘What? My shoes? Mr Grant, I don’t understand.’
He spoke with an impossible accent, sharp and nasal, and the collar of his jacket covered his shirt collar.
‘You see,’ Betsy interrupted, despite her observer’s role, ‘to walk like my husband, you have to try and think like him. One major point: don’t ruin your shoes. The Grant method: avoid bending your feet.’
Bondurant’s arched eyebrow was almost perfect, the same scatterbrained expression as the original. Thin those eyebrows out a little and no one would notice the difference.
‘My wife means that you shouldn’t take your foot off the ground in two moves, heel then toe, but both at once, heel and toe at the same time. It stops your shoes wrinkling in the middle.’
Cary Grant’s walk: the prototype of casual elegance, a prelude to a thousand flirtations and other kinds of triumph. The double tried out a few different ways of walking, then came back to stand beside his model. His legs stiff, but agile and slender, flexible at the knee. Major point: the shoes. It wasn’t easy, he had to think about his feet without looking at them, glancing smugly around.
Betsy clapped her hands and encouraged the Canadian. ‘Fine, Mr Bondurant, you’re a fast learner.’
There was something overdone about the hand in his pocket, and his face was a little pale.
The double smiled. Bondurant’s smile.
‘You’re going to need a bit of training, Mr Bondurant. I suggest you work on your walk.’
‘Certainly, Mr Grant.’
‘Fine. Now satisfy some of my curiosity, Mr Bondurant. What do you think about your English?’
‘What? My English?’
‘Your accent. Do you think you’ll even manage to speak like me?’
The arched eyebrow performed its task. He would have to remember to use it sparingly.
‘I’ve been told I should hardly open my mouth. Just be seen, go for walks, ask for the paper, say goodbye to your wife as I leave the house. No one would notice the difference.’
The people in MI6 must have been crazy. Fine, the newspaper and the walk. And what if someone approached him for an autograph? And what if it was a journalist? What would the double do? He certainly couldn’t claim an infection of the vocal cords, that would only attract people’s attention, would prompt photographs and newspaper articles. Justifying his curious pronunciation by saying that he was preparing for a new character would be even worse. Curiosity about Grant’s return to the big screen would be multiplied ten times over.
Cary drained his glass of Scotch. His double looked around in embarrassment. The knot of his tie was wider than it should have been, and his toupee didn’t hide all of his receding hairline.
Problems for Her Majesty’s Secret Service. If the trick was discovered, they would come up with something. That wasn’t for him to worry about. In fact, if Bondurant did his job properly, no one would think that Cary Grant had lost his style, that he had let himself go, wearing badly cut jackets and shoes that wrinkled in the middle.
‘What you’re wearing, Mr Bondurant, is that one of Cary Grant’s suits?’
‘What? No, Mr Grant. And how could I have got hold of one of your suits so —’
Seeing that her husband was getting into difficulties, Betsy interrupted Bondurant to avoid their relationship taking a turn for the worse. ‘No, no, you misunderstand. My husband was asking whether the suit you’re wearing was chosen to make you look like him, or whether it’s a suit that you wear regularly.’
‘Oh, I see. Of course, of course. They told me I would have to give some thought to my wardrobe. Of course. They just told me to follow your advice to the letter, without worrying about the expense, that they would take care of that.’
Cary held back a nervous twitch, and took some folded sheets of paper from his pocket.
‘I’ve listed here the characteristics that your suits must have, Mr Bondurant. I would ask you to follow this advice very carefully. I’ve already informed Sir Lewis Kennington of MI6 that I will not move an inch out of Palm Springs without first personally checking all your suits.’
For the third time, Bondurant’s eyebrow arched, wrinkling his forehead. His hands were not well manicured, and he wore a horrible gold ring. Cary felt like a director who had had an actor imposed on him by the producers for a part beyond his capabilities.
‘Get up, Mr Bondurant. I’ll show you what I mean by “control” of a suit.’
Grant’s double put his glass down on the table and got to his feet. He was at least two inches taller than his model.
‘You’ll find it all written on the sheets I’ve given you, but, just by way of example, there are three aspects of your attire that are incompatible with being Cary Grant.’
He turned around to the double and gripped the collar of his jacket between two fingers.
‘The collar of your shirt must always protrude from your jacket by about half an inch,’ he went on walking around, and came back to stand in front of Bondurant. ‘The knot of your tie should be tighter, like this, and must always hide the top button. Finally, your shirt sleeves should be longer, the cuff should rest on the beginning of the thumb.’
The lesson in elegance had restored Cary’s mood. He crossed his arms and studied the double with his torso leaning over to one side, like a sculptor looking at his own work.
He had a little mole beside his nose, and the enamel of his teeth was yellowing slightly.
‘Fine, Mr Bondurant. I think that with a little exercise, remembering all the advice I have given you, and avoiding opening your mouth, you will manage to deceive the whole district. Get in touch as soon as your wardrobe is ready, so that we can have a look at it.’
Betsy got up from the sofa as well and held out a hand to Bondurant.
‘Don’t be afraid, Mr Bondurant. Even if it’s usually my husband giving me advice about the way I dress, I’ll try to advise you as best I can.’
Their pleasantries were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Betsy went to get it as her husband walked his double to the door.
‘Oh, Alfred! How are you? I’ll pass you to Cary right now, he was just saying goodbye to a guest.’ She put the receiver to her chest and called towards the door, ‘Darling, it’s for you. Alfred!’
Cary strode back into the drawing room, arranging his tie as though he were about to meet someone.
‘Hitch!. Yes, not bad. Are you well?. Mhm, yes, I’ve read it. Look, I’m not entirely convinced. But I don’t think it’s anything to do with the script. It’s a good story, although I’d have liked a little more suspense. No, it’s the fact that I don’t yet know if it’s time to relaunch myself. Of course, no, absolutely, you’re the only one who might be able to convince me, I’ve always said as much. Em, I also have a few things to sort out. I’m going to be busy until the end of May. Yes, yes, the usual things. Oh, I don’t deny that the Côte d’Azur is an attractive location. Yes, we could go to the casino. Yes, that’s it. It isn’t the only attractive thing? What else is there, don’t be mysterious. Oh, my. Yes, yes, really fascinating, yes. Of course, I’ve seen her in Mogambo. Yes, you told me she was making a film with you, yes, two of them, that’s right. Extraordinary, isn’t it?. Oh, you’re piquing my curiosity, you really are. Ok, listen, I’ll think about it, yes. I’ll give you an idea in about ten days, ok? But nothing before June. Yes, fine, speak to you soon.’