A Certain Age (12 page)

“I suppose that happens all the time,” I said.

“All the time and all over the world,” said Bev, starting to sniff again. “And it’s all worth nothing, you see, because I was in, I was in—”

“I know, I know,” I said. “You were in Chicago when your mother died. Look. Do you mind me asking, Bev? How was Chicago apart from that?”

Scene Five

I wouldn’t say it was a major issue, but this business of sitting and waiting for my hair to dry every day has caused the odd irritation in the twenty years I’ve been “giving myself” to Daddy. He’s bought me eleven hairdriers of different designs, and he never misses a chance to say, “Now
THAT
would suit you, Judykins,” when a short-haired woman appears on the screen. His favourite film performance of recent years, to judge by his enthusiasm, is Demi Moore in
GI Jane,
closely followed by Sigourney Weaver in
Alien.
Which is why, I suppose, when he said, “Your old friend Beverley has a nice sharp little haircut,” at lunchtime today, I was so used to ignoring the trichological jibe that it took me a while to grasp what he was really telling me.

Bev had been round. Of course. Bev feels guilty about her own mother; she decides to muscle in on Daddy. I kept thinking of this terrible expression Mag used to throw at Daddy – “In like Flynn”; “I suppose you were in like Flynn?” she would yell. Bev had been in like Flynn. Looking round, I saw the extravagant box of chocolates on the sideboard and a bunch of lisianthus in the sink. Bev’s mother had once said Bev never came without flowers. It was her code for daughterliness. And now she had transferred the code to Daddy.

I couldn’t ask. But I didn’t have to.

“She’s a lively one,” said Daddy, as I served the lunch.

I helped him to some rice. I tried to sound casual. “How long did she stay?”

“Not long.”

I looked around the flat, imagining how Bev must have seen it. According to the style sections of the Sunday
papers, Bev had a loft in Clerkenwell and a cottage in the South Downs. And here we were with our sixties G Plan with the split cushions; the net curtains; the old tinny record player; the gas fridge; the Trimphone. Years’ worth of newspapers stacked in the hall. I could imagine her making notes. I could imagine her whirling through the mess like Tinkerbell crossed with a miracle household cleanser, brightening the flat and beguiling Daddy with stories of being successful in the big wide world.

“I wish you hadn’t let her in, Daddy.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that, dear, but we don’t lead our lives for other people.”

“No,” I said.

“Did she say anything about me?”

“Yes. She said she was worried about you. She thought you needed to get out more. She said she was shocked by what a frigid little martyr you’ve become.”

He ate the rest of his lunch in silence, carrying on with the crossword. And perhaps it was just the shock but I thought, oh my God, I’ve lost him. I’ve lost my Daddy. Beverley Brayfield has just tiptoed in here in her classy Italian shoes, passed judgement on me, and stolen my Daddy’s heart.

“Dissident,” he said.

[
Upset
] “What?” I said.

“Are you crying?” he said. He wasn’t looking.

“No.”

“You know I hate people who cry?”

“Yes.”

“Non-conformist Norfolk town I make an impression on. ‘Diss’ ‘I dent’. Non-conformist – dissident. It means your ‘Paddled’ is right.”

I pulled myself together. Big breath.

“I’m thinking of having the phone disconnected.”

“We’ve been through this, Judith. Dr Salmon says we need the phone.”

I took his plate to the sink.

“Who do you call when I’m not here, Daddy? Is it a woman?”

I had my back to him. I was shaking. I sounded like Mag.

“That’s right. It’s a woman. And it’s private. You have your admirers, I have my admirers.”

“Except I don’t have admirers,” I said.

“Then more fool you,” said Daddy. “That’s what comes of spending half your life drying your hair.”

Later, after Daddy’s nap, I made us a cup of tea and switched on
Watercolour Challenge.
They were painting a really beautiful scene at an old abbey somewhere, with water and birds. You could feel the freshness of it. The sun came out; there was even a rainbow. And Hannah Gordon looked lovely in a pink jacket which Daddy loyally said was a colour that would suit me, too. That was his way of apologising, and I accepted it. He didn’t even speculate about the Winnebago activity that gave her such rosy cheeks. He didn’t mention her chestal splendours. I waited for the adverts before I raised the subject again. I knew it would be for the last time.

“Did Beverley leave very quickly?” I said.

“Yes, she did. In considerable haste, I think you could say.”

I opened the biscuit tin and handed it to him. I’d put in some bourbon creams and some fig rolls, just like the ones we used to have from Victor Value when Daddy came home from the stall. The ones that Mag never liked.

“Ah, fig rolls,” he said.

“Why did she leave so quickly, Daddy?”

“No sense of humour.”

“Really?”

“Prude.”

“Yes?”

We watched an advert about how easy it was to sue people for accidental injury.

“Judy, all I did was compliment her on her figure and she walked out.”

I smiled. “Daddy!”

“What do you mean?”

“What words did you use? Did you say, ‘I compliment you on your figure, Beverley’?”

“Not exactly.”

I laughed. I was cheering up. We wouldn’t be seeing Bev again, that was for sure.

“You didn’t touch her?”

“No!” His outrage wasn’t genuine. He winked at me. “She moved too fast.”

Happy, I dunked a fig roll in my tea, and waited just long enough for it to soften without falling in. I watched Daddy as he did the same. Then we each took a bourbon cream and did it together. Synchronised dunking, the result of years of practice. Sweet and chocolatey synchronised dunking with the curtains drawn and really good telly just about to restart in the middle of the afternoon.

“Beverley Brayfield feels all guilty because she was in Chicago when her mother died,” I said, offering him the biscuit tin.

“Silly tart,” said Daddy.

Scene One: sound of electric whisk in bowl; Jim is humming contentedly as he whisks some egg-whites to some nice operatic aria in the background; he has to pitch slightly over the sound of the whisk

It’s a writer thing, you see. Basically a writer thing. Oh. Wait. [
The whisk stops. Panic
] That’s not a piece of shell in there? [
Relieved
] No, no, I’m fine. Do you know, I must tell Elaine: I
LOVE
this new apron, I love it. It’s very … chic. [
The whisk starts again; he sighs happily; he’s doing such a good job
] Anyway, it’s a writer thing, you see, call it “omniscience”. Sometimes when you’re with someone, the situation has all the predictability of, well, um – [
looks round for an analogy, and goes for the nearest
] all the predictability of beating egg-white until it forms soft peaks. “Now
YOU
are the photographer,” I say to this girl this morning when I open the door – and what can she say? Bingo. [
As if a bit overwhelmed by him
] “And you must be Jim [
with British pronunciation
] Dance, celebrity author of the Jack Scrolls mysteries.” Putting down a heavy camera bag on our top step, she holds out a plump young luscious hand for shaking, and I know straight away. I
KNOW.

[
Whisking stops; he’s immensely pleased with his soft peaks
] Soft. Peaks. Just look at those, will you? OK, next fold in the mixture – but not yet. First, you got to let it rest. Watch it sweat, watch it swell. Make it think you’re through, when in fact you’ve only just got started. Oh yes. Now – [
Slow, sensuous folding of mixture into egg-whites; just occasional clink of spoon on bowl
] see how gentle this is? You are in such safe hands here, baby. That’s right. [
Ecstatic soufflé-mix acting
] Oh, oh. [
Sighs
] O-o-o-o-oh.

I should explain about the photographer. Now, look, forgive me if I leap ahead sometimes; the omniscience of the writer is a gift that can also be a burden. You see, when you know the whole story before it starts; when you can see how every aspect of it will play, sometimes you are tempted to skip preliminaries. And that’s a big mistake. [
Businesslike
] So. They do this every five years or
so. The publishers want an “author pic”. So what can the poor author do? – I mean, besides getting a haircut and manicure and arranging his Ellery Queen statuettes on the Bechstein? Also, in my own case, humbly adding his Poirot Prize, his Golden Deerstalker and his Best-Dressed Man awards. Elaine always goes out when author pic time comes round. She leaves me here alone with a young female photographer! She even says, “Have fun!” Oh, Elaine, she’s been married to a leading mystery writer for the past fifteen years; she is so smart she guessed the twist to
The Sixth Sense
in the first eight minutes; but where my romantic life is concerned, she never suspects a thing. Laura, this girl was called. “Is your wife home?” she asks as she enters. “What a magnificent hallway.” “Mrs Dance is playing tennis,” I say, taking her coat. “The housekeeper is at Harrods. My daughter Teddy is away at school. So it’s just the two of us. I call that cosy.”

[
He samples some of the mixture
] Man. Am I good or am I fabulous?

Laura, I have to say, is gorgeous. We arrange ourselves in the first-floor lounge. She says the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows is perfect. And, what a good girl, she asks questions. [
As girl
] “So Jack Scrolls is—?” I explain, patiently, that he’s a sophisticated, Ivy League amateur detective in the great tradition of mystery writing. [
As girl
] “As opposed to—?” [
It’s an innocent inquiry, but he’s always a bit touchy about other types of crime writing; his voice rises
] I said, “As opposed to the lonely, morally frail, jazz-besotted policemen with collapsing marriages everyone else writes about!” [
Recovers from outburst
] I’ll pop this in now.

[
Oven door is opened and baking tin placed on shelf
] Eight minutes.

[
He sets wind-up timer then sits down, very pleased with the job done; drinks coffee during next bit; there is a tick-tick-tick faintly until the “ping” at the end of the scene
]

She’s seen me on TV, but she’s never read me. But that’s fine, fine – fine. I never tire of talking about Scrolls. You see, he holds the key to the mystery of the human heart, yet at the same time he’s just – well, a regular American guy with a nice, simple two-syllable name, some great dental work and an unbeatable collection of vintage brogues. I made his home town Socrates, Connecticut – but I have to admit this pleasing classical allusion just sails over the heads of the dime-store fans. And he has a popular sidekick called Buddy who says things like, [
Marx Brothers-type voice
] “We got the what, boss; but we don’t got the why.” I based Buddy on my own father, incidentally. He was horrified. “What makes Jack Scrolls special,” I explain to Laura, “is that first he looks at what’s there. Then he looks at what
ISN’T
there. That’s what makes him infallible.”

[
Slightly mocking
] “Infallible?” she says. “No one’s infallible.” I smile. What does she know? She switches on one of her lights. It’s bright. “So how long have you had this fabulous house?” I tell her we borrow it from my billionaire publisher, Sir Edward Palliser – of Palliser Press. I explain this is quite a regular arrangement. When Elaine and I moved to good old London town, twelve years ago, Ted (well,
WE
call him Ted; you would call him Lord Palliser of Holland Park) offered us this house rent-free! Lucky he’s such a fan of Jack Scrolls, because he also pays Teddy’s school fees, and takes Elaine to the Frankfurt Book Fair for three weeks each July, because [
it’s a family joke
] she’s such a fan of the hot dog!

[
Drinks coffee
] The rest is run-of-the-mill. An author pic works best if you can see the person’s hands. It’s a trust
thing. Also, I paid twenty pounds for the manicure, so I’m not about to waste it. I lean on one hand. Flash. I fold both hands under the chin. Flash, flash. Throughout the shoot, she moves around, adjusting the camera, swivelling lights. Is Jack Scrolls married? No. Am I like Jack Scrolls? Well, Laura – Flash! – that would be telling. Flash, flash, flash. Why hasn’t there been a TV series based on the Jack Scrolls books? I say that’s a strange question, and she says, “Not really. Detective books are always being adapted for TV.” [
This is a touchy subject
] I say there’s been a whole heap of interest in Scrolls for TV, as it happens, but that I don’t want to jeopardise the integrity of the books by handing over my characters to people who won’t respect them. “Really?” she says. Flash, flash. “So Lord Thing of Thing doesn’t actually live here with you and your wife?” [
Uncomfortable; rattled
] No, I say. Why should he?

Well, it’s time to assert control. Less exposition, more action – if you’ll forgive me for getting technical. So I say, with a big smile, “Laura.” And she says, “Mr Dance?” I say, “Laura, now that you’ve taken so many pictures of me – why don’t I take a picture of you? [
Beat. A little laugh
] “No, no,” she protests. [
He loves this memory; revels in it
] “Oh come on,” I say, reaching for the camera. [
Gentle
] “What could you be scared of?” I say. “This is fun, Laura. You’re lovely. And if I may say so, in all modesty, I’m pretty lovely too.” I wait. This is the crucial moment, the best. This is what life’s all about. This is life reduced to its essence. This woman can walk out right now, or she can stay. She doesn’t appear to be walking.