‘In the end, it’s all car commercials.’
Lillian wasn’t told. They followed us to the car, giving her a wonderful send off.
She was near delirious with joy, said,
‘Did you see... did you hear? They loved me! I’m going to regain my place. Pull over some place. I need you to love me.’
I pulled over near the north side of Hyde Park. Got in the back and did her as if I meant it. When I got out after, two park keepers gave me a round of applause.
It was a day of performances.
Thursday, back to the day job. Up on that roof, knocking down stray slates. I’d hear them land on the patio, break like glass. If I were fanciful, I’d say like dreams but they were only worn slates. Madam was on the phone all day, ordering new clothes, the hairdresser, cooing to her friends. I’d yet to meet any of those but figured ‘bridge night’ would answer that.
Come evening, I was showering and resolving I’d get take out fish and chips and read Edward Bunker. I was holding the new Pellicanos as a special treat. My phone had been installed and I was settled. Now it rang.
‘Mr Mitchell.’
‘Hi Doc.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Doc, have a guess at how many Indians are calling me.’
‘Oh.’
‘How’d you get the number?’
‘Briony did, she’s very resourceful.’
‘That too... so was there something?’
‘Yes, could I see you? Let me buy you dinner.’
‘Okay.’
‘Splendid. There’s a wonderful Italian place at Notting Hill, named De Vinci’s. Shall we say eight?’
‘Italian?’
‘You don’t like Italian.’
‘Well yeah, sure I do, okay. And call me Mitch.’
‘Right Mr Mitch.’
I’d been kinda banking on them fish and chips but what the hell. I wore the blue suit and a white shirt. Checked myself in the mirror, said,
‘Smokin’.’
Wouldn’t you know — everyone, including the doc, in casual gear.
The place was warm and friendly and they knew the doc. Good opening. We ordered clams and linguini then followed with spaghetti bolognese. The bread was crisp and fresh like an idealised childhood. I even liked the wine. I’m mopping up the sauce with that bread, the doc is ordering more wine and I go,
‘What’s up Doc?’
‘It’s Briony.’
‘Quelle surprise.’
‘You speak French.’
‘Nope, just that one bit so I got to ration it. You’d be amazed how often I get to use it with Briony around.’
‘Can I be honest, Mr Mitch?’
When you hear that, pay the bill and run. I said,
‘Go for it.’
‘I love her very much.’
‘But she’s a nutter, right?’
That took him aback but also gave him his cue, said,
‘When I was a medical student, I seriously considered a career as a psychologist. I learned about borders.’
‘You mean like perimeters.’
‘No.’
The waiter came and cleared the debris. It was considerable. They like that, like you to eat. Great people. The doc had pavlova for dessert. I settled for cappuccino, without the chocolate sprinkle. I hate that shit. The doc said,
‘Essentially they split their feelings from their behaviour. The tragedy is, borders never recover. The best you can do is help them coast.
‘In the beginning they appear normal, good jobs, but it’s a constant tightrope between madness and sanity. Unable to form relationships, never free of a deep rage that leads to self destruction.’
‘Her shoplifting?’
‘Correct. They live from one disaster to the next. They excel at role play and have overwhelming feelings of emptiness. They never change.’
‘Actresses.’
‘Yes, many borders do well on stage, but then...’
I was thinking of Lillian, asked,
‘Where’s the problem, Doc? Walk away.’
He looked down at his dessert then pushed it from him, said,
‘I am besotted with her.’
‘C’mon, Doc, I’ll bring you for a drink in an English pub, if we can find one.’
I took him to The Sun and Splendour off Portobello. At least it used to be an English pub. Ordered two best bitters and grabbed a table, said,
‘Drink up.’
He did. Then gave me a long analytical stare, asked,
‘How can you be so calm... about your sister?’
He meant ‘cold’.
That’s okay — I can do manners. I said,
‘Doc, I’ve been in prison. I didn’t like it at all. I have a strong instinct it’s going to require all my energies not to return. I have to play low-key just to survive. I start to burn and I’m a dead man.’
He was horrified.
‘But it’s a terrible existence, such tight control.’
I drained my glass, said,
‘Beats prison.’
After a bit, we had another round and midway through, he asked,
‘What am I to do?’
‘Doc, I don’t give advice, and I certainly never take it but lemme say this. Go for it, have a ball, live like fire, ’cause truth is, she’ll leave you, she always does. Then she’ll resurrect Frank and go back to coke and guns and madness.’
‘How will I live then?’
I touched his shoulder, said,
‘Like the rest of us, pal — the best you can.’
The next two weeks were calm. I did my work, read my books, serviced the actress.
I hoped when Gant came, I’d be ready. Else I was fucked.
Chris De Burgh song — ‘Waiting For The Hurricane’.
The bridge night proved the dead do return. Three men and a woman. All mummified. You only guessed at them being alive by the cigarettes they smoked.
I didn’t play and no one spoke to me. Except Lillian, who said two things repeatedly:
1) Another high ball darling
2) Clean the ashtrays darling
Oh yeah, she gave me a present. A silver cigarette case.
I gave it to a wino at Queensway who shouted,
‘The fuck is this?’
Exactly.
The change began with a call from the doc, who said,
‘She’s gone.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What will I do?’
‘Go back to your life.’
‘What life?’
Welcome to whinge city.
End of the fortnight, I was getting restless. That philosopher who said,
‘All of man’s problems stem from his inability to sit in a room and do nothing.’
He was right.
I went down to Finches on the Brompton Road. On a whim. I had on the Gucci jacket so I figure it wasn’t entirely haphazard. On the tube was a discarded copy of the South London Press. I read through as the District Line had its usual trauma. I nearly missed it. A small item at the bottom of the page. A man had been found dead outside a flat in Clapham. The victim of a mugging. I recognised the man’s name and the flat.
I was wearing his jacket, I had lived in his home.
In Finches, I ordered a pint of ordinary, took it to a quiet table. Did a roll up and wondered was it time for whiskey.
After the South London Press, after so much, I was sinking into a nine yard stare. Didn’t even realise, just slipped on back there. I learnt it in prison or rather, it learnt me. Gradually, I realised someone was talking to me. I refocused, noticed I’d neither touched the drink nor lit the cigarette. A woman at the next table was saying,
‘Thought we’d lost you there.’
I looked at her, like seriously. In her late thirties, she was wearing a suede tan jacket, black T-shirt, and faded to comfort jeans. Dark hair, pretty face and a heavy scar under her left eye. I said,