Cinnamon Twigs (25 page)

             
Derek Noland was disappointed by the movie’s international performance. He wanted to bring the next picture back to basics. He chose
Reticence
, my favorite novel by Jonathon Boyle, as our next project.
Reticence
was a powerful read, delving deep into Mathis’s psyche. The character falls in love. He can’t help it. He sheds his armor and, for most of the book, appears to be a changed man. His steely reserve is discarded. The woman he falls for, Amanda Jane, turns out to be duplicitous. She betrays him and reveals herself to be the daughter of the new head of ‘The Engines of War’. Mathis breaks down and cries. I couldn’t wait to do that.

             
Noland had been right. Dean Mathis had changed. But not in a good way. In the previous movie, he’d become a one-dimensional comedian. But
Reticence
would give me the opportunity to show Mathis as a human being. The script stayed faithful to the novel and I knew I’d enjoy playing that part again. I’d strive to restore verisimilitude, and Noland would help me by opting to direct. The picture had an excellent cast, with Anthony Miles as its main villain, fresh from his success in the role of Colonel Targe in the critically acclaimed drama,
Shepherd’s Sky
. And Julia Somers, a very promising newcomer in the role of Amanda Jane.

             
Filming commenced on an elated set. It helped so much that Noland had taken the directorial reins again. But then he fell ill. He was rushed to hospital and underwent coronary bypass surgery. He never recovered sufficiently to return to the movie business. I owed him my career. I’d never met such a kind man. He was a great producer and director.

             
A new director was drafted in. I’d seen a few of Scott Morgan’s movies, and I felt ambivalent about his style. I wasn’t sure if it would fit the tone of the Mathis movies. Morgan immediately decided the script was too dreary and rewrote it during filming in New Mexico. Nothing could be more frustrating than receiving fresh pages of dialogue just hours before shooting the scenes I’d learned. Morgan didn’t have a fucking clue how to direct that story. He just couldn’t grasp the character. We didn’t get along, argued constantly on set. I called him a ‘Fuck head’ in front of a hundred supporting artists after he allowed me to be submerged under water for a scarily long period of time, during the climax involving submarines and fireballs. The horror stories reached the press and the critics had their daggers out before the movie’s release. There were so many professional differences between myself and the young director, and having to reshoot scenes and waiting around on set for hours took the piss. But then I think I’d been allowed too much input and power over the previous installments and saw myself as the director of those movies. Scott damaged my ego, put me in my place.

             
The movie didn’t flop commercially. It did much better than the previous one, but critics were indifferent, to say the least. The finished product retained very little from the novel. Poor Julia was slated and never made another picture. But she had such an unfair start in the business and her performance was affected by Morgan’s inability to understand Amanda Jane’s character.

             
Mathis had done a lot for me, and I wouldn’t have been successful if it weren’t for that role. But after years of worldwide recognition for the part I decided to hang up the holster. Mathis had always been a regular Saint George, a valiant hero, out there to slay the dragons. But I had so much more to conquer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Dreams of Parenthood

Perfect Sunday weather, the drizzle perpetuated by the invariably grey sky. The cold wind blew
implacably down the necks of pedestrians and leaves fought to free themselves from custodian branches. Perfect Sunday weather in Cardiff, for being indoors that is. Ideal for soaking up the warmth of the fireplace while the rain tapped against the windows and on the slate roof tiles.

             
I hadn’t stayed at my mother’s house for a long time, but she wanted me to come over so I could fly to Spain with her. She hated flying, and it was only on that condition that she agreed to stay at my place in Marbella for a week. Lauren’s parents had stayed over during the previous week. They loved the new place I got them (courtesy of the paycheque for my last piece of shit Mathis movie) in Languedoc, which overlooked the mountainous Cévennes area. 

             
My mother cherished my company. She was determined to live a simple life and only accepted money from me if she really needed it. She refused to move from Cardiff, though she missed me and I’d tried to persuade her to live in Spain. But I could see why she wouldn’t leave the comfort of her home. I loved how simple everything was back in Wales. It felt nice to get away from filming and writing, the photo shoots and dinner parties - for a couple of weeks anyway.

             
I wasn’t an actor or a critically acclaimed author under my mother’s roof. And I certainly wasn’t a star. I was just Daniel, Jackie’s son who liked his bangers and mash.

             
She complained throughout the flight to Spain, prodding me and ordering that I tell the pilot to land immediately. Otherwise the journey would be the death of her.

             
‘We need to land! This piece of tin is gonna fall out of the sky any minute!’ She tried wrestling out of her seat and warned the pilot she’d give him a thumping if he didn’t do as she said.

             
I made sure she had as many double vodkas down her neck as possible, which calmed her down but also gave her lolling eyes and what looked like a Chelsea grin. She resembled Heath Ledger’s Joker by the end of the flight, lipstick smudged all over her cheeks, mascara running. I looked forward to seeing her reaction to my ‘humble abode’ (as I called it, being a pompous tosser at times). But when we got there she gazed at the sunlit façade and ran her hands down the scagliola pillars in the hallway, with an indifferent expression on her face.    

             
‘Big, ain’t it,’ she said.

             
‘Uh yeah, it’s sizeable I guess.’               

             
Lauren went out of her way to make sure a gorgeous meal was prepared for us. As soon as I’d given my mother a guided tour of the place, during which she grunted and nodded, we took our seats for the meal.

             
‘
Voila
,’ I said. ‘European lobster and plenty of champagne.’

             
‘Lobster! You expect me to feast on a
crustacean
? I can’t eat that!’ My mother whined like a child, and then she looked at Lauren’s stern face and fell silent.

             
‘Um, don’t you like lobster?’ Lauren asked.

             
‘It’ll do, I suppose.’ She took a bite, pulled a face, then gulped her glass of Veuve Clicquot champagne and immediately poured another one.

             
We ate in silence. My mother looked out of place away from home. It must have been strange for her, just as it had been initially strange for me. The cuisine was as far removed from bangers and mash as the Spanish heat was from the Welsh drizzle. And the house, with its view of the sparkling sea, was like nothing she’d ever seen before.

             
Bless her. She was a fucking nightmare of a guest, whiling away her hours with cleaning everything and rearranging the kitchen. She told me I had become slovenly since moving from Cardiff. She decided to go sunbathing on the beach during a particularly hot afternoon. By the time she returned to the house she looked like the European lobster we’d had for lunch on her first day, burnt to cinders from her frowning forehead to her (literally! I’ve never seen a real person stomp their feet before except in films and TV shows) stomping feet. The pain abated after a couple of days indoors, and we listened to her whinge about other things instead.

             
I’d been persuaded to host a dinner party that week, though I’d done my best to escape the clutches of the codgers. If I ever seemed rude at such occasions, with my distasteful preference for lager instead of wine, then my mother made me look like the epitome of gentility.

             
‘Beluga caviar! You must be pulling my toasted leg!’ She pounded the table as the plates were set down.

             
‘Do you prefer Osetra, ma’am? Some people favor the distinct nutty taste,’ one of the toffs said. 

             
‘Nutty fish eggs! Who the hell are these people, Daniel?’

             
I shrugged, my face as rubious as her sunburnt complexion.

             
‘I won’t say what I think of all this snobbery.’ The paralepsis rolled neatly off her tongue.

             
An awkward silence ensued. Tumbleweed. The whistling of incoherent tunes. The toffs looked mortified.

             
My mother drank copious amounts of champagne to counter the taste of her meal. She became very drunk and insulted my refined guests even more.

             
‘Always knew he was a strange boy.’ She pointed at me, her head lolling to the side.

             
‘He’s a remarkable talent.’ One of my guests grinned.

             
‘Well, he’s good for one thing. My friends all love him. Something to talk about at Bingo on a Friday.’

             
‘You must be very proud of him,’ Lauren snapped.

             
My mother shrugged the sentence off, poured another glass of champagne, tipped it all over herself and uttered a single expletive: ‘Fuck.’

             
‘I think it’s time for bed, mum.’ I groaned.

             
After seeing all the guests to their rooms, I took a seat in my study room. I savored the peacefulness, as darkness and a refreshing cool breeze seeped through the window.

             
Lauren came in after a while and kissed me on the cheek.

             
‘She’s a nightmare.’ I sighed.

             
‘She
is
proud of you though.’

             
‘Yeah, I know, though you could never tell.’

             
‘Nah, I can see it. I think complaining is her way of telling you. And she did say that her friends all love you.’

             
‘I’m an excuse for her to show off.’

             
‘It’s nice for her to be able to show off for once.’

             
‘I guess you’re right.’ I held Lauren for a while and then went up to bed, my mother’s protestations rebounding in my head until the darkness enveloped me.

             
The next morning, I found my mother sitting in the living room, studying a framed poster of me posing as Dean Mathis. Brown leather jacket. A
Colt Anaconda
revolver in my right hand. Cruel, sardonic face. London in bright orange flames in the background.

             
I put my arm around her and she jumped.

             
‘You git! I didn’t know you were there.’

             
‘What do you think of the picture?’

             
‘It’s okay. So you have this big house and you’re a celebrity now. Where did I get you from, eh?’

             
I smiled and gave her a
cwtch
.

             
‘Yeah, it’s an okay picture. That Dean Mathis bloke was a right tosspot though,’ she continued. ‘Very smug.’

             
‘I had fun playing him.’

             
‘I hope you won’t regret quitting.’

             
‘So do I.’

             
I was tempted to ask her if she felt proud of me, just so I could hear those rare words. But she was telling me how proud she felt at that moment. She just did it in her own equivocal way.

             
The house became very quiet when she went home. I knew she belonged in Wales, away from all the
savoir-faire
that was beginning to poison my personality. She belonged at home with a nice cup of tea instead of a glass of champagne. Complaining about how Rich Tea biscuits collapsed when they touched the hot water. Not about how odd she found it having fruit (a strawberry at dinner) in her glass of champers. Lauren and I missed her presence. She’d only stayed at our place for a week but she’d made an impact on everything around her, and the house certainly seemed messier without her obsessive cleanliness.

             
A week later, Lauren discovered something that could change our lives forever.

             
‘Can I talk to you for a moment, Dan?’ She joined me in the study room.