One mind tried to remind another mind that the choice of venue was not Becky’s fault. Just near Channel Eight and convenient. So stop. Stop this. What was happening to him? (He was ill. Definitely. Fever.) And what the hell was happening out there? Beyond the window, the whole of London seemed to be engaged in an embarrassingly transparent struggle for some kind of authenticity. And yet the more they asserted their passion for this or their great love for that, the more he saw the neediness, the emptiness, the desperation. Their only authentic endeavor was their endeavor to appear authentic. Help me, Ma.
Becky was exactly on time. And for a while she rescued him. He was amazed by how good it was to see her. She was an old friend from when they were both working on the local papers, and he had forgotten how genuine her good nature was. She had tales of ex-colleagues. She had industry news. She had personal news. TV journalism was a piece of piss compared to print. There was none of the bother. The story only had to stand up for the three minutes you were telling it. And everything was forgotten immediately afterward. Oh, yes, my God: she was engaged. She was getting married to Barney. Remember Barney? (No.) How was Gabriel?
He glossed his mother’s death as “really sad, but it was a beautiful funeral,” his job as “not a bad holding station for now,” and his relationship as “a trial separation.” This last a phrase he particularly loathed. And it occurred to him while saying these things that it was he who was the fake. Of course.
Unbelievably, Isabella was nearly half an hour late, arriving barely ten minutes before Becky indicated that she needed to go. But there was no point, Becky said, in their getting together unless she gave Isabella the whole picture. So she, Becky, would hang on for another twenty. No problem. (Gabriel was touched by her kindness and her loyalty to him; he knew that she was seriously inconveniencing herself.) It was a low-paid job as a production assistant on a new magazine-style culture show. Isabella should emphasize this, leave out that. It was a long shot, admittedly, but the program was also going to cover the media, and Isabella probably knew as much about this as anyone—the U.S. connection might be useful too. The best bet was just to be honest.
“That was a waste of time,” Isabella said.
“No, you made it a waste of time.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay, Gabs?” Isabella put down the menu and looked up at him.
“Becky isn’t stupid.”
Isabella frowned. “I didn’t say she was.”
“No, but you treated her as if she was—and as if everything she was saying went further and further toward confirming it.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” Gabriel pressed. “It’s just that you can’t see it.”
Isabella looked at her brother with rare crossness. “What’s the issue here, Gabs? I’ve said I’m sorry that I was late. I’m sorry.”
“The issue—the issue—is that Becky got up at dawn to come here and meet you. And the only reason she did so is because she is a friend of mine, someone who might be able to help you. And so what do you do? You turn up half an hour late and immediately start in at her about her work and her life. That’s the issue.” He scowled. “Oh yeah, and the fact that you’ve left yet another job without the slightest idea what you are going to do. Which I wouldn’t ordinarily mind, because I’m used to it—you’ve never managed to do anything for more than a few hours since you were five—except… except that this time you’re bullshitting me about it. Sabbatical, my arse. Three issues.”
“Jesus Christ, Gabs.” Isabella put her coffee down to one side as if clearing the space between them. “Where did all that come from?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing here. You don’t know what you were doing there. You walked out. You gave them the usual Isabella treatment. You fucked everything and you—”
“So what if I did?” Now she sat forward to return the attack with interest. “I didn’t ask you to find me a job here. Yeah, you’re right—you organized this for me. I didn’t really get much say in it, did I? It was more or less an order. Come down to Westminster at eight-fifteen, Is, I’m sorting you out.” She paused a moment and narrowed her eyes. “Oh, I get it. Now that Mum is dead, you’ve decided that you are in charge of my life. Is that it? You’re obviously an expert at running lives.”
“Leave Mum out of this.”
She looked around for a waiter. “I don’t have to listen to you.”
They had not fought in twenty years. And even now they could have stopped, left the café, and perhaps survived without serious wounds. But some furious force was impelling them both.
“No. You don’t. You don’t have to listen to anything, Is. You never have before. Why start now?”
She turned back to him, her eyes suddenly ferocious. “Oh… oh, you have a lesson for me. That’s what this morning is all about.”
He met and held the violence in her gaze. “One day you are finally going to see that other people can be clever too. One day you are going to get it into your tiny stubborn mind that, yes, other people can be intelligent as well—in different ways. And sometimes a whole lot more intelligent than you. One day you will understand that not everyone thinks and feels the same as you—not everyone has the same prejudices. Not everyone has reached the same conclusions. There are lots of different kinds of intelligence. Besides yours.”
Her voice was heavy with scorn. “Say whatever it is you’re trying to say.”
“I’m not trying to say anything. I am saying it. You think you are this… this genius at seeing inside everything, at understanding what’s really going on. You think you have some kind of social x-ray facility. But you’re going to have to wake up and realize that you’ve no such thing. Because the truth is… the truth, Isabella, is that you never—you never see anything from the other person’s point of view. You never even come close.” He leaned toward her, and his words were measured to deliver their payload. “Just now, your body language, your manner, everything about you contrived to make the whole thing a waste of time. You weren’t listening at all. Not really. Every gesture and every remark, you made only to demonstrate your worldview to Becky. That’s all you cared about. Getting across what sort of a person you are. Whatever the conversation was ostensibly about, all you wanted to do was make her understand your way of seeing things, and not only that, but… but that your way of seeing things is… is in some way the coolest. Except she wasn’t really going along with your jocular little tone—about how it’s all shit and a bit of a game and anyone could do it with their eyes closed. Because she works in television, for Christ’s sake, Is. That’s her job. She doesn’t share your opinions. Of course she doesn’t—she can’t. She’s got a job and she is doing it. Sticking to it. Doing it. Going the distance. Actually committing to—”