‘Anyway, he took me there to recuperate.’
‘What from?’
‘I’d had an abortion.’
‘His baby?’
‘Yes. He fixed it up, but it didn’t quite go right. I was ill. So he took me out to Sainte-Maxime.
‘And he was there all the time?’
‘Yes. He’d been ill too-had a minor heart-attack. He was meant to be resting, though, of course, being Marius, he was in touch with the office every day.’
‘It was just the two of you out there?’
‘Mostly. Some friends of his dropped in, theatre people. And Nigel for a bit.’
‘Nigel?’
‘His son.’
‘Oh yes.’ Charles remembered someone once mentioning that Steen had a son. ‘I didn’t think they got on.’
‘That was ages ago. They made it up, more or less. Nigel works in the business.’
‘And while you were out in France, it was all OK? Between you and Marius?’
‘Yes. We had a marvellous time. He was very silly and childish. And kind.’
‘And now he sends you notes like that. You can’t think of any reason for the change in his attitude?’
Jacqui hesitated. ‘No. Would you like some lunch?’
While she cooked, Charles went down to the off-licence and bought a bottle of wine. It was obvious from Jacqui’s manner that she did have an idea why Steen had changed. And that she was going to tell him. It was only a matter of waiting.
The lunch was unremarkable. Jacqui was a frozen food cook. He remembered it from Worthing. Endless beef-burgers and cod steaks with bright peas and diced vegetables. But the wine made it passable. They talked back to Worthing, hedging round the subject of Steen. Eventually, as Charles drained the bottle evenly into their two glasses, he asked, ‘What do you want me to do, Jacqui?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve brought me round here for a reason.’
‘I was frightened.’
‘Yes, but there’s something else.’
‘Yes.’ She looked very vulnerable. Again he felt the sense of debt that had started when he failed her in bed. The contract was unfulfilled. If he could not serve her in one way, he would serve her in another. It’s strange, he thought, is this what chivalry’s come to?
‘I do want you to do something for me, Charles. It’s sort of awkward. You see, I think I know… I think I might know why Marius is behaving like this. He might think… you see…’ Charles bided his time. Jacqui looked at him directly and said, ‘You’ve heard of all this Sally Nash business?’
‘Yes. Is Marius involved in that?’
‘Not really. Not with the prostitutes. It’s just… well, she, Sally Nash, used to be at some parties that we went to.’
‘Just ordinary parties?’
‘Well…’ Jacqui smiled sheepishly. ‘No, not ordinary parties really. Things happened.’
‘I didn’t know that was your scene. I thought you only slept with one man at a time and…’ Charles tailed off, embarrassed.
‘No, it’s not my sort of thing. But Marius was into all that. Only a bit. Nothing very serious.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Don’t sound so bloody superior. It’s easy for a man. If you’re a girl you have to get interested in what your bloke’s interested in. If he’s mad on football, you watch Match of the Day. If it’s two-way mirrors, well…’
‘Was it like that in the South of France?’
‘No. It was only a couple of times we ever did it. Last June. There was a party in Holland Park, and one near Marble Arch.’
‘But they were Sally Nash’s parties?’
‘She was there.’
‘And what’s the danger? Are you going to be called as a witness?’
‘Bloody hell.’ She looked very affronted. ‘Look, I may be a tart, but I’m not a whore.’ Charles tried vaguely to work out the distinction, but fortunately Jacqui clarified. ‘All these girls they’re calling in the trial do it for money.’
‘I’m sorry. Then what’s the…?’
‘There are some photographs.’
‘Of you and Steen at the party?’
‘Yes. With some other people.’
‘Naughty photos?’
‘A bit naughty. But I think that’s why Marius doesn’t want to be seen with me.
‘Why? Are the photographs going to come up in court?’
‘No, they aren’t. But Marius must think they will. It’s the only explanation.’
‘But if you’re both in the photos, he could be identified anyway. It doesn’t make any difference whether he’s seen with you or not.
‘No, Charles. The point is, they can’t tell it’s him. His face is covered.’
‘Don’t tell me-with a black leather mask.’
‘Yes.’
‘Really? I was joking.’
‘Well it is.’
‘But you, on the other hand, are not covered?’
‘No. Far from it.’
‘Hmm. How do you know they won’t come up in court?’
‘Because I’ve got them. I paid a lot of money for them.’
‘Did someone blackmail you?’
‘No. The Sally Nash trial started on Friday, and I bought them off the bloke who took them on Saturday.’
‘How much?’
‘Thousand quid.’
Charles looked at her quizzically and she explained. ‘Marius had given me some money to buy a car, but it hardly seems worth buying one now, with all this petrol scene.’
Charles reflected momentarily on the difference between a tart and a whore and decided he was being a bit harsh. Particularly as Jacqui continued, ‘I wanted to give them to Marius as a present. Set his mind at rest. And now I can’t get to see him. I daren’t send them through the post or letter-box, because his secretary’ll see them…’
Suddenly Charles’ role in the proceedings became very clear to him. ‘And so you want me to deliver them?’
Armed with an innocuous-looking brown envelope, Charles Paris returned to his room in Hereford Road, Bayswater. It was a depressing furnished bedsitter, which he’d moved into when he left Frances. Nothing except his clothes and scripts gave it any identity. The furniture had been painted grey by some earlier occupant, but was mostly obscured by drip-dry shirts on wire hangers. A low upholstered chair with wooden arms sat in front of the gas-fire. There was a small table covered with paper and carbons, a rickety kitchen chair, a single bed shrouded in yellow candlewick, and in one corner, inadequately hidden by plastic curtain, a sink and gas-ring.
Whenever Charles entered the room, fumes of depression threatened to choke him. Every now and then, in a surge of confidence, he would consider moving, but he never got round to it. The room was somewhere to sleep and he did his best to ensure that that was all he did there.
He got back about five and, before the atmosphere of the room had time to immobilise him, opened the cupboard, got out a half-full bottle of Bell’s and poured himself a healthy measure. After a substantial swallow, he felt he could look at his surroundings. It was more of a mess than usual. Candlewick in disarray on the unmade bed, coffee cup with a white crust on the table. Cold December air was gushing through the open window. He remembered leaving it to air the place on… when was it? Monday? Yes, Monday, 3rd December. The day he’d done that bloody awful radio play.
He slammed the window and put on the gas-fire. It hissed resentfully but came alight (which was more than it sometimes did). He felt strongly in need of a bath, stripped off his grubby clothes and put on a shapeless towelling dressing-gown. Taking a fivepence from his change, he went down to the bathroom on the first landing, checked that the water wasn’t running hot, and fed the meter.
Then he remembered soap and towel. Upstairs again to get them. Inevitably, the bathroom door was locked when he returned. The sound of running water came from inside.
Charles hammered on the door and shouted abuse, but the strange singsong voice that replied over the sound of water told him it was useless. One of the Swedish girls. There seemed to be hundreds of them in the house. And, he thought as he savagely stumped upstairs, all of them old boots. They really shattered the myth of Scandinavian beauty, that lot. Spotty girls with glasses and ruggerplayers’ legs. He slammed the door, picked up the whisky bottle and fell into the chair.