Can We Still Be Friends (18 page)

Sal wasn’t sure how to respond to Crispin, who was not as she had imagined. His reputation in the office was as a useless free-loader
only hanging on to his job because he had been at Cambridge with Patrick. The fact that he was one of Nancy Reagan’s favourites, so often given a tip-off and consistently filing enjoyable scoops, was conveniently ignored by the foreign desk. She had expected somebody shabbier. The spotted bow tie suited him. Even his eyebrows, so fine they could have been penciled in, gave him the air of an aesthete rather than a hack.

‘Everyone’s talking about the miners’ strike. They think it’s going to run and run. Probably good for us to have a big story like this going on. Of course, I only get to write about the royal babies and that kind of thing. I never get proper news.’

‘I think you’ll find that improper news is a great deal more enjoyable in the long run.’ Crispin gestured for another round of martinis. ‘A fraction dryer this time, if you would, Stan. If I were you, I would leave the Libyans and the IRA and that dreary Scargill alone and concentrate on making more intriguing contacts around the place. An attractive young woman like you shouldn’t find it any problem at all nosing out all kinds of delicious information. Now, we should eat. I recommend the steak and a side of fried onion rings. Or are you the kind of young woman who frets about her figure?’

When she woke the following morning, Sal could dimly recall Crispin walking her into the hotel lobby and insisting that somebody see her up to her room. She had no idea what time it was, but she had woken fully dressed, the sleeves of her jacket pulled tight and her skirt bunched underneath her. The blinds in the window were open and a dirty light was filling the space. She could make out the Z of the fire escape climbing a building opposite. She looked at the clock – 5.15. Obviously, the staying up hadn’t really worked. Perhaps a shower was the thing. She pulled off her clothes, walking in her pants around the room. Here she was, in New York, on assignment.

Several hours later, as Michael Broadhurst’s publicity agent walked Sal along the internal corridors of Waters, Schwartz and Leipkin, past the water coolers with their plastic cups and a coffee station
that gurgled as the coffee filtered into a jug, she made it clear she would not be wasting much time with Sal Turner. Her American accent came across as more of a machine than a voice, thought Sal.

‘Michael has half an hour. He will
only
be talking about the new play and
The Wings of the Dove
. He will
not
answer any questions about his personal life. I have his bio here with all the details. Your photographer has just left. We have photo approval.’ She knocked on a wooden door at the end of the corridor, her demeanour changing as she walked into the room ahead of Sal, the rapid fire of her voice, softened to allow the odd inflection, encouraging the idea that she might even be human.

‘Michael, honey … here’s the
Herald
’s lady. Sally Turner.’

‘Um, Sal, actually – well, Salome, but everyone calls me Sal.’

‘Hello, Salome.’ Michael Broadhurst stood up from the leather sofa where he had been sitting hunched over a coffee table piled with thick reams of paper. ‘This is my set – actor with scripts.’ He walked over to shake hands. ‘I think we’ll be fine, Mimi. I’ll press the panic button if not.’

Sal had expected a film star to be daunting, but this interview was more of a conversation than an interrogation. Broadhurst didn’t appear to mind being asked questions but, even so, she started with the easy stuff, the work he had just finished, a bit of background bio chat. By halfway through her interview slot, she had begun to relax, but she needed a good line from him. She hadn’t got it yet.

‘Are you apprehensive about the transition to the stage?’ she asked. That sounded suitably respectable.

‘Scared? Of course. But then you need that adrenalin surge, don’t you, to perform? I’d have more to worry about if I wasn’t nervous. And, of course, Joshua’s a terrific part for me. He has this complex relationship with his father, who is a bully, completely furious about Joshua’s undetermined sexuality, and it’s a real challenge for me having to delve into a really different mentality.’

Sal knew this was the cue to ask the question that readers of the paper would really want her to ask. Was he homosexual? There were hardly any famous actors who admitted to being gay, even
though everybody knew they were. She couldn’t just ask him straight out though and, anyway, she could tell he wasn’t. She even thought he might fancy her, the way he kept shifting forward on the edge of the sofa, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking right at her. But of course that might just be that he was really getting into the conversation.

‘Hmm. Sexuality’s such a difficult thing, isn’t it? I mean, when you’re acting?’ she suggested.

Broadhurst smiled. ‘Is it? What do you mean by that?’

Sal hadn’t meant anything much. It just seemed a way to carry on the conversation while she worked out a better question. She could feel herself blushing.

‘Oh, just … you know. It’s such a big deal as an actor. Like, nobody wants to say they’re homosexual, do they? Take an ex-ample. Everyone thinks that Clark Gable was, but you can’t really look at
Gone with the Wind
the same way if you think that.’

Broadhurst looked at his watch. ‘Tell you what. My terrifying PR is going to come back in a minute, but why don’t we meet up later and I can give you a bit more. It’s kind of nice to catch up with someone from home.’

‘Of course. That would be fantastic. I would love that.’ Sal stood up, pulling her white shirt down into the waistband of her skirt, unintentionally pulling it tight across her braless nipples.

‘The Odeon at nine?’

‘Sure.’ She didn’t want to ruin this perfect moment by asking what the Odeon was, or where. At that moment, the doors opened.

‘Sally, you’re into overtime. Michael doesn’t have all day for your paper.’ Mimi came and stood proprietorially beside her client. Sal decided not to say that she was seeing him later.

After she had left the offices, Sal immediately realized that she hadn’t packed anything appropriate for a date with a famous actor. Annie had told her that American department stores had wonderful towels and sheets, and at the time she hadn’t been able to imagine how this information could be of interest. But it had come back to
her now. Would that be the same for clothes? Was it Bloomingdale’s or Saks that was meant to be the place to go?

As she waited for the ornate lift to take her up to the womenswear department in Saks, she thought back to the day of the Harrods bombing and the girl in the café with her white face and uniform smeared with dust. Stepping out into an enormous space, where the rails of clothes stretched far into the distance, Sal was reminded why she never shopped in department stores. There was too much choice, and how could you ever find your way around?

Wherever she looked, she saw suits that were the kind of thing Krystle would wear on
Dynasty
. She riffled through a rail of silk blouses. They felt nice – smooth and expensive – but she didn’t think they were really her. And she’d never seen so much beige. Sal hated beige. It was the ultimate dull colour. Her mother wore beige when she wanted to look smart.

She walked around pulling things off the rails until a sales assistant, who was very friendly and called her Ma’am, approached. Her long nails were startlingly pale on the tips of her black fingers as she folded the clothes across her arm.

‘Your first time in New York? Oh Lord. You are going to love it here.’ She glanced at the clothes Sal had gathered. ‘Do you have the correct sizes?’ Looking at Sal, she frowned, her pale-blue eyeshadow forming creases on her lids. ‘These are going to be too large. I’ve never been to your country, but the ladies who come in say that in England you have different sizes.’ She held up a pink and white striped top Sal had picked out. It was nearly twice Sal’s width.

‘Let’s get you into the fitting room and I’ll find you what you need. You look to me to be a petite.’

Three quarters of an hour later, Sal emerged with a shiny Saks carrier bag banging against her legs. The dress, wrapped in tissue, had slithered beautifully on to her, and she had felt as if she was wearing nothing. She loved the bluey-green colour and the cutaways on the shoulder. And, most importantly, it didn’t make her look as if she was trying too hard.

‘You should take the elevator down to hosiery and get yourself a
pair of blue pantyhose. They would be the berries with that dress,’ the assistant had advised. She had screamed when Sal told her she was buying the dress because she was going on a date with Michael Broadhurst.

‘I just love that guy. He’s such a Brit. Our guys never look like that. I guess they don’t go to the same kind of schools or something. Is it true that the guards at Buckingham Palace make tea for the Queen?’

Even the exterior of the Odeon looked special, its name picked out in illuminated Art Deco typeface. The journey took Sal from the shopfronts and offices of midtown Manhattan, where it appeared that every inch of the city, including the sky, was being used for something, to a grimier part of the city where the buildings were lower, the brick warehouses dark and forbidding. Crispin had told her downtown had become the trendy area of the city, with huge lofts being bought up by artists and socialites, but to her it was bleak and threatening.

Queueing at the reception desk, she looked around the packed restaurant trying to spot Michael Broadhurst. From the ceiling, opaque white glass globes hung above white tablecloths. It was more like a party than a restaurant, people moving from table to table air-kissing, slapping each other on the shoulder, high-fiving in greeting. She saw him seated, jacketless, on a bar stool, his white shirt loose, with a narrow black tie.

He was deep in conversation with a dark-haired man and failed to notice her approach, or even when she was standing right next to him. His companion looked at her as if to ask, ‘Who are you?’ and, when her date turned, for a disconcerting instant, it was clear he didn’t remember her.

‘Ah, yes. Sal, isn’t it?’ He was a little smaller than she had thought earlier in the day, and a lot smaller than he appeared on screen. ‘Do you know Keith? This is his gaff. He and his brother Brian own this city. Just the way two London boys should.’ They walked over to a table by the wall, Keith moving away from Broadhurst with a ‘Catch
you later’ and joining the buzzy hive in the centre, where nobody ever sat for long. Broadhurst raised his glass in a toast to a table there – ‘Jay McInerney. He’s got this place on the cover of his book. He’s always in here.’ The jade of Sal’s dress stood out, her shoulders appearing smooth and ivory from the cutouts.

‘I know you were given a raw deal with the interview time this morning, but can we agree tonight is off the record?’

‘That’s fine. ’Course.’ Sal was flattered that he wanted to see her, and not for the interview. For the first hour, Sal rode the wave of his attention. Guiding her through the menu, he explained that the French salad was popular with most girls and the steak frîtes the best in New York. Did people always eat steak in New York, Sal wondered, thinking back to her dinner with Crispin. It was so exciting to be there with him that she didn’t mind for a moment that, like many actors, Broadhurst was endlessly fascinated by himself. He could recite lines from his reviews even as he denigrated the writers of them.

‘Of course the only review that’s going to count on Broadway is the
Times
’s John Simon. But you have to remember they’re only critics – they can’t act, they can’t direct, they can’t write a play. They’ve just ended up knocking what other people
can
do.’

Sal wished she could remember more of the work of the
Herald
’s theatre critic. He was called Brian something or other, but he hardly ever came into the office.

‘Brian, our critic, is very well respected. Do you think the play will come to London?’

‘Yeah, Brian Feinstein. He’s a bit of an old codger. I doubt we’ll take it over there. Anyway, I’ve got another TV series lined up. TV is where the money is, and I’m looking at a couple of scripts my agent’s sent me. I don’t want to be typecast as the posh Brit. I’ve got more potential than that.’ Sal was intoxicated by being in one of the most fashionable restaurants in the city in the company of one of that year’s most successful television stars. It was perfect just to be there, as if somebody had pressed Lift-off and she had gone smoothly into orbit. By the second bottle of champagne, she had
stopped wondering whether he was going to make a pass and, if he did, what would be the right thing to do.

Eventually, Sal stood up and squeezed out from the table to go to the bathroom.

‘They’re over there,’ said Broadhurst, waving over to a corner. Sal walked slowly in that direction, vaguely taking in a table to the left where a couple were locked in a very public snog. As she neared, they broke apart and, even in the busyness of the room, she recognized Mimi, her earlier suit swapped for a bronze lamé top that sparked in the soft light, her dense curls a cape across her shoulders.

Sal hoped Mimi hadn’t seen her with Michael. She was sure that she would do something to mess up the evening. But, then again, maybe she wouldn’t mind. She was off duty now, wasn’t she? It wasn’t as if she was his nanny. And, anyway, it was starting to look like he wasn’t going to make a move, which was a pity, since it would have been interesting. Unlike Mimi’s man. From behind, she could see that his hand was tracing the line of Mimi’s cheek, then he turned towards the room and gestured confidently to a waiter. Surely it wasn’t. But, clearly, it was … She could see Jackson smiling at Mimi in that same goofy, adoring way she had seen him look at Annie. His arm was draped over her shoulder, gently stroking the curve of her collarbone. He leant in again to kiss her.

She moved quickly down to the toilets, grateful for the cool of their tiled walls to lean her forehead against while she took it in. Fucking jerk. Her mind went back to the previous weekend, when Annie had spoken about wanting to go to Venice with Jackson and how he would know all the best places to go. Of course, Sal had been right all along: he was a two-timing git. Well, he was going to get a fright when he saw her here. He probably thought she only ate at McDonald’s. Suddenly she felt the slithering of ripped nylon. Damn, her tights must have laddered somewhere around the back. She stretched to examine her thigh – she was just able to reach around to daub some wet soap to stop the run.