‘Charles, I can’t “make an evening of it”. I’ve got to be at a PTA meeting at 7.30.’
‘Parents-Teachers? Oh, but can’t you-’ He stopped. No, you can’t come back to someone you walked out on twelve years ago and expect them to be instantly free. Even if you have kept in touch and had occasional reconciliations. ‘Have a drink together later, maybe.’
‘Maybe. If you’re still here.’
‘I will be.’
‘What is the matter, Charles?’
‘I don’t know. Male menopause?’ It was a phrase he’d read in a colour supplement somewhere. Didn’t really know if it meant anything.
‘You think you’ve got problems,’ said Frances.
She was always busy. Two things about Frances-she was always busy and she was never surprised. These, in moments of compatibility, were her great qualities; in moments of annoyance, her most irritating traits.
The next morning she cooked a large breakfast, brought it up to him in bed, and hurried off to school. Charles lay back on the pillows and felt mellow. He saw the familiar gable of the Jenkinses opposite (they’d had the paint work done blue) and felt sentimentality well up inside him.
Each time he came back to Frances, he seemed to feel more sentimental. At first. Then after a few days they’d quarrel or he’d feel claustrophobic and leave again. And go on a blinder.
The impotence panic seemed miles away. It was another person who had felt that nausea of fear in his stomach. Long ago.
They had made love beautifully. Frances’ body was like a well-read book, familiar and comforting. Her limbs were thinner, the tendons a bit more prominent and the skin of her stomach loose. But she was still soft and warm. They had made love gently and easily, their bodies remembering each other’s rhythms. It’s something you never forget, Charles reflected. Like riding a bicycle.
He switched on the radio by the bedside. It was tuned to Capital Radio-pop music and jingles. So that’s what Frances listened to. Strange. It was so easy to condemn her as bourgeois and predictable. When you actually came down to it, everything about her was unexpected. What appeared to be passivity was just the great calm that emanated from her.
When he was dressed, he needed human companionship and so rang his agent. ‘Maurice Skellern Artistes,’ said a voice.
‘Maurice.’
‘Who wants him?’
‘Maurice, I know that’s you. It’s me, Charles.’
‘Oh, hello. How’d the radio go?’
‘Ghastly. It was the worst script I’ve ever seen.’
‘It’s work, Charles.’
‘Yes, just.’
‘Were you rude to anybody?’
‘Not very. Not as rude as I felt like being.’
‘Who to?’
‘The producer.’
‘Charles, you can’t afford it. Already you’ll never get another job on Doctor Who.’
‘I wasn’t very rude. Anything coming up?’
‘Some vacancies on the permanent company at Hornchurch.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Chance of a small part in a Softly, Softly.’
‘Put my name up.’
‘New play at one of these new fringe theatres. About transvestites in a prison. Political overtones. Written by a convict.’
‘It’s not really me, is it, Maurice?’ in his best theatrical knight voice.
‘I don’t know what is you any more, Charles. I sometimes wonder if you want to work at all.’
‘Hmm. So do I.’
‘What are you living on at the moment?’
‘My second childhood.’
‘I don’t get ten per cent of that.’
‘No. What else is new?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on. Give us the dirt.’
‘Isn’t any. Well, except for the Sally Nash business…’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, you know who the disc jockey was, for a start…’ And Maurice started. He was one of London’s recognised authorities on theatrical gossip. Malicious rumour had it that he kept a wall-chart with coloured pins on who was sleeping with who. The Sally Nash case gave him good copy. It was the Lambton affair of the theatre, complete with whips, boots, two-way mirrors and unnamed ‘show-business personalities’. For half an hour Maurice named them all. Eventually, he rang off. That’s why he was such a lousy agent. Spent all his time gossiping.
By the Thursday morning Charles’ mellowness felt more fragile. When he woke at nine, Frances had already gone to school. He tottered downstairs and made some coffee to counteract the last night’s Beaujolais. The coffee tasted foul. Laced with Scotch, it tasted better. He drank it down, poured a glass of neat Scotch and went upstairs to dress.
The inside of his shirt collar had dark wrinkles of dirt, and his socks made their presence felt. Soon he’d have to get Frances to wash something or go back to Hereford Road and pick up some more clothes.
He sloped back downstairs. Frances’ Guardian was neatly folded on the hall chest. No time to read it at school. Organised read in the evening. It had to be the Guardian.
Charles slumped on to the Harrods sofa and started reading an article on recycling waste paper. It failed to hold his attention. He checked the television times and switched on Play School. The picture was muzzy. He started fiddling with the UHF contrast knob. The phone rang.
‘Hello.’
‘Charles.’
‘Jacqui. Where on earth did you get this number?’
‘You gave it me ages ago. Said you were contactable there in the last resort.’
‘Yes. I suppose it is my last resort. What’s up?’
‘It’s about Marius.’
‘Yes?’
‘I tried to contact him again. Went to the house in Bayswater. It was a stupid thing to do, I suppose. Should’ve left him alone. Should be able to take a bloody hint. I don’t know.’
‘What happened?’
‘He wasn’t there. But this morning I had a letter.’
‘From Marius?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t signed, but it must be. It’s horrid. Charles, I’m shit-scared.’
‘Shall I come round?’
‘Can you?’
‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘Why did you ring me, Jacqui?’
‘Couldn’t think of anyone else.’
After he had put the phone down, Charles switched off Play School. He took an old envelope from the table and wrote on it in red felt pen, ‘THANKS. GOODBYE. SEE YOU.’ Then he left the house and set out for Highgate tube station.
III
Charles looked at the sheet of paper. It was pale blue with a dark bevelled edge and, on it, scrawled in black biro capitals, was an uncompromising message. Basically, it told Jacqui to get lost when she wasn’t wanted. And basically was the way it was done. The language was disgusting and the note anonymous. ‘Charming. Are you sure it’s from him?’
‘No one else had any reason.’
‘And is the language in character?’
‘Yes, he never was very delicate. Particularly when he was angry. Could be quite frightening.’
‘Paper familiar?’
‘Yes. He had it on his desk at Orme Gardens. Some headed, some plain like this.’
‘Hmm. Well, there’s only one way to treat shit of this sort.’ Charles screwed the note up into a dark glass ashtray and set it on fire with the table lighter. When the flame had gone, he blew the black ash carefully into the waste-paper basket. ‘When did it come?’
‘It was on the mat when I got up. About eleven. A bit after.’
‘Come by post?’
‘No. Plain envelope. On the table.’
Charles leant over and picked it up. Blue, matching the paper. Told him nothing. ‘And I suppose you didn’t…’
‘See anyone? No.’
‘It’s a fairly nasty way of breaking something off, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She looked near to tears. ‘And I thought it was going so well.’
‘Perhaps he’s just a nasty man.’
‘He could be, I know. But with me he was always kind. When we were in France, he-’
‘When was this?’
‘We went in August, came back in October. Marius’s got a villa down the South. Sainte-Maxime. It’s a lovely place. Private beach.’
‘Very nice.’