On the surface, Guy seemed to be leading a great life. And I was very happy to deal with him on the surface. But it is hard being a struggling actor, even a struggling actor with a wealthy father.
One evening I left work on the dot of five to meet him at a pub near Leicester Square. He had an audition near by, and he had suggested a drink afterwards. He was already there when I arrived, staring at his bottle of Beck’s.
‘I take it you didn’t get the part?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘They promised they’d call. They only call you if you get the part, you know. So I probably won’t hear anything.’
‘Cheer up, you might get it.’
‘It’s just a crappy part in a dumb commercial. That’s not it, Davo. It’s just so humiliating.’
‘You’ve got to start somewhere.’
‘I know. But it’s not what I expected. I loved drama school. I mean really loved it. Standing in the middle of the stage, being someone else, taking the audience along with the fiction that I was creating, manipulating their emotions. It was great. A real power kick. And I was good at it too. Chekhov, Ibsen, Steinbeck, even bloody Shakespeare, I could do them really well. At the end of the year we had a graduation performance and I was one of only four people to get a call from an agent asking me to go on her books.’
‘Sounds promising.’
‘And now what happens? I go along to meet Diane from Casting, who takes a Polaroid of me, gives me a few lines of truly horrible dialogue to speak at a camera and then it’s “goodbye, we’ll call you.” ’
‘One day they will.’
‘Yeah, but most days they won’t. And to be rejected by Diane from Casting makes you feel like the tiniest speck of shit. I mean, it’s me they’re rejecting, isn’t it? What don’t they like about me? My voice? My face? Maybe I can’t act after all. Maybe this whole thing is one huge mistake.’
‘Come on, Guy. You’ll make it. You always do.’
‘Yeah, precisely. I’ve always been a success. I did well at school, didn’t I? Tennis, soccer, head of house. And I thought I’d do well at acting. I thought I’d do something that even my father would notice. But at this rate I’ll never get the chance. Diane from Casting will see to that.’
‘You need another drink, quick,’ I said. I went to the bar and bought him one. As usual, the alcohol did its work. Half an hour later we were chatting up two Italian girls. Guy got the pretty one and I passed on the ugly one. But it turned into a good evening.
I was in a newsagent’s looking for a copy of Private Eye when I caught sight of the cover of Patio World. I bought it, leafed through the pages with a total lack of interest and spotted a phone number printed inside the front cover. As soon as I was back at my desk I dialled the number, got through to Ingrid and suggested a film. We went to Dances with Wolves and afterwards to a Thai restaurant in Soho for dinner.
The evening didn’t seem like a ‘date’ but rather like two old friends meeting up after a long absence. Which was nice, especially since in reality we hardly knew each other. I liked Ingrid. She was refreshingly straightforward, but also perceptive. She seemed to understand what made me tick without me explaining it to her. She was a good listener, tempting me to tell her more about myself than I intended. Not that I had anything shocking to tell, rather the opposite. But that, too, she seemed to understand.
Our conversation turned to Guy. ‘Have you seen him since that Broadhill do?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. I see him quite a lot, actually. It’s fun.’
‘He sees Mel as well, doesn’t he?’
‘From time to time.’
‘Oh. That doesn’t sound good.’
‘It probably isn’t for Mel. It’s fine for Guy.’
‘Selfish pig.’ Her comment surprised me. Ingrid noticed. ‘Well, he is, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose so,’ I conceded.
‘I mean, Mel is totally gone over him. Always has been.’
‘Even after what Tony did to her in France?’
‘Yeah. Especially after that. You know how much she regretted it. I think since then she’s been desperate to show Guy that she made a mistake.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know what they all see in him.’
‘Oh, I think I do,’ said Ingrid with a twinkle in her pale-blue eyes.
‘Not you as well?’
‘Don’t get me wrong. The last thing in the world I would want is to be his girlfriend. I assure you I don’t envy Mel. But one can’t help wondering...’
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘Don’t you dare!’
I paused to chase a piece of curried fish around my bowl with my chopsticks. Not great technique, but I was hungry. I noticed Ingrid whipping the food into her mouth like a pro.
‘How do you do that?’ I asked. ‘It’s unnatural.’
‘I learned as a child. When I was little and we lived in São Paulo, we used to go to Japanese restaurants a lot. Did you know there’s a massive Japanese community there? And then we lived in Hong Kong for a bit, so I’ve had plenty of practice.’
‘Well I’m afraid I haven’t,’ I said, finally spearing the fish.
‘Mel’s had a rough time,’ Ingrid said. ‘She doesn’t need Guy making her life any more miserable.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’
‘She used to talk to me a lot about her family when we were at school. It sounded like her parents hated each other and used her as a weapon. Especially her father.’
‘Didn’t he run away with a secretary?’
‘That’s right. I think Mel has been pretty uptight about sex ever since.’
‘Tony Jourdan can’t have helped.’
‘No. Yuk.’ Ingrid shuddered. ‘I visited her a couple of times when she was at university in Manchester. For someone who used to look like such a good-time girl at school I think she led a pretty celibate life at university. And afterwards probably.’
‘Until Guy.’
‘Until Guy.’ She helped herself to some more rice. ‘What about you?’ she asked.
‘What about me? Are you asking me about my sex life?’
‘Is it a secret? Like the accountancy? Surely it’s not as embarrassing as that?’
‘Not quite,’ I sighed. ‘It hasn’t been as successful as I would have liked, but it’s not a total disaster. No one really serious, though. And you?’
‘Hey, I’m Brazilian. But actually I only ever seem to sleep with the wrong men. That’s something I’ve decided I’m going to change.’
‘Oh,’ I said. Ingrid went very slightly red. I noticed, but pretended not to. ‘This green curry stuff looks horrible but it’s really tasty. You should try some.’
We went out again, a week later. It was another good evening, but marred for me by some disappointing news. Ingrid’s fears over the future of Patio World proved well founded. It was closing, slipping away from the specialist magazine shelves, leaving only a tiny band of readers with unfinished patios to mourn it. But her firm wanted her to go to Paris for a few weeks to work on a couple of titles that were proving successful there and might translate well to England. Ingrid was excited. It was a good career move, she spoke French and she loved Paris. I made encouraging noises, but I didn’t mean them.
I found myself looking forward to her return.
19
I saw Owen only once that summer. I hadn’t known he was coming; one evening I went to meet Guy in one of our usual watering holes and there he was.
Guy bought the beer and chatted away as though Owen wasn’t there. But it was hard to ignore his presence. He had filled out. He was now about twenty and he had transformed from overgrown kid to muscular adult. He hardly drank his lager, despite Guy’s attempts to ply him with more. I tried conversation.