“They’re moving you to another room,” he says. “It will take fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” she says, hesitantly, her mouth fractionally too big for her face. Luca nods and turns to leave.
“Where did you learn to speak Arabic?”
“My mother is Iraqi.”
“And you’re American?”
“I was born in Chicago.”
She glances at her feet. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Why?”
The question flummoxes her.
“Do I have to explain?”
“You could say loneliness, or guilt, or perversity…”
“I’m sorry for being so rude to you.”
“In that case I’ll have a whisky.”
Rather than go back into the bar, they go into the restaurant. She’s a foot shorter than he is, but carries herself very straight, her footsteps almost floating across the tiles.
“I’m Daniela Garner.”
“Luca Terracini.”
“That’s an Italian name.”
“My grandfather came from Naples.”
“It’s impressive to meet a journalist who speaks Arabic.”
“I’m glad you’re impressed. How do you know I’m a journalist?”
“Most of the people here are journalists or private contractors. You don’t look like a mercenary.”
“I saw you today. You were at the Ministry.”
She shrugs. A waiter takes their orders. She’s drinking white wine. Luca tries again.
“You’re working for the UN?”
“Who told you that?”
“Shaun is a mate of mine. He called you an IT geek.”
“I’m an accountant.”
She shifts in her chair, recrossing her legs. Everything about her is dainty and refined, yet strong. The restaurant is dark apart from the table lamps.
“We’re installing new software to audit government accounts and keep track of reconstruction spending.”
“Sounds dry.”
“Bone.”
“How long will the job take?”
“They told us two weeks, but from what I saw today, it’s going to be longer. I don’t think anyone in Iraq understands bookkeeping.”
“Good luck with that.”
He drinks half his whisky but can’t really taste it. Downs the rest. Orders another.
“How long have you been here?” she asks.
“Six years.”
“Do you mind if I ask why? I mean, who would stay here… if they had a choice?”
“Most Iraqis don’t have a choice.”
“Yes, but you have an American passport. Do you have any family here?”
“No.”
She motions over her shoulder towards the bar. “I mean, those guys out there-the mercenaries-they’re here for the money or to play at being soldiers or because of their homoerotic fantasies; and most of the journalists are here because they have this romantic ideal of being war correspondents in flak jackets, appearing on the evening news. You don’t strike me as being like the rest of them.”
“Maybe I’m deranged.”
“No.”
“Or pumped full of drugs.”
“It’s something else.”
Luca can feel a dangerous light-headedness coming over him, a trembling inside. He knows he should end the encounter. Draining his glass, he gets up from the table.
“Thank you for the drink.” He gives her a tight smile.
Daniela looks disappointed. “Have I offended you?”
“No.”
“I think I have. I’m sorry. Your friend in there-the one with the tattoos on his forearms…”
“He’s not my friend.”
“His first words to me were that we might get blown up tomorrow and did I fancy a fuck? I’m not interested in your life history, Luca. I was just making conversation because you were nice to me.”
Silence.
Luca takes a deep breath. Relaxes. Manages a proper smile. “There are things you do to get by in a place like this. Masks you have to wear.”
The way she looks at him, her silence, her detachment, it reminds him of a shrink he went to see after Nicola’s funeral.
The hotel receptionist has crossed the restaurant. Daniela’s room is ready.
She looks down at his hands and then up into his face. Her tongue touches her lower lip.
“Do you want to help me move my luggage?”
“They can send someone up.”
She doesn’t reply and turns away, leaving the restaurant. Luca walks outside, beyond midnight, making his way home to an unmade bed and sweat-stained sheets. He doesn’t contemplate what it would have been like to sleep with Daniela Garner. He doesn’t fuck any more. He’s not a performer.
8
Trafalgar Studios has crimson carpets, dusty chandeliers and an ageing splendor. Dozens of wannabes are milling in the foyer, pretending to ignore each other. Some are rehearsing soliloquies or listening to iPods or chewing gum. Multi-tasking in the modern age.
Holly Knight gives her name to a brisk young assistant wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard. She’s handed a scene to read-a two-page dialogue between “Jenny” and “Alasdair,” a young couple meeting for the first time.
“You’ll be assigned a partner,” says the assistant.
“But I’ve prepared my own material,” says Holly.
“I’m sure your mother loves it.”
The assistant is already taking another name.
Holly has to climb the stairs to find a square of carpet, beneath a window. She reads each line of her dialogue and closes her eyes, trying to memorize them.
After waiting an hour she gets bored. Pushing open a polished wooden door, she finds herself in a small theater with a brilliantly lit stage. Tiered seats rise into the darkness on three sides.
The director, dressed in a Che Guevara beret and fatigues, barely seems to pay attention as names are called and a new pair of actors arrives on stage. Candidates are whittled down. Holly watches them, some trying too hard, others battling nerves. Periodically, the director whispers something to his personal assistant, an unnaturally tall, thin girl with large eyes and a swan neck-a model with dreams of becoming an actress; not beautiful, just different.
It’s almost five o’clock before Holly’s name is called. Her assigned partner is an inch shorter than she is and seems to be channeling Hugh Grant with his flop of hair and nervous mumbling. Holly ignores his affectations and tries to relax, finding places in the dialogue to move and look away and back to her partner.
When she finishes, she waits. The director confers with his assistant. Then he tells Holly to leave her number. It’s not a call back and it’s not a rejection. She almost skips off stage.
Outside she runs along the street and descends the steps into Charing Cross Station. She needs to get to Hatton Garden before the jewelry shops close. Walking down the escalator, she follows the subterranean maze of passages until she reaches the Northern Line and takes a tube to Tottenham Court Road, before changing to the Central Line and surfacing again at Chancery Lane.
Stepping into a doorway on Holborn Road, she takes off her coat and pulls on a cashmere cardigan before brushing her hair. Using a small compact, she paints her lips and checks her make-up, pouting at her reflection. Finally she unwraps the delicate hair-comb from tissue paper, sliding it into her hair and looking at the result in a shop window. Satisfied, she turns into Hatton Garden and chooses a jewelry shop that is clear of customers.
An assistant is returning a tray of engagement rings to a display case.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t done this sort of thing before,” says Holly, putting on a perfect Sloane Square accent. “My mother wanted a few pieces of jewelry valued. She’s looking to sell them. They were gifts from Daddy, who isn’t her favorite person.”
Holly takes out a small velvet box and places it on the glass counter-top. The assistant fetches the owner, who emerges from the back room as though he’s been interned there since the war. Blinking at her shyly, the old jeweler examines each stone and setting with an eyeglass.