Cinnamon Twigs (30 page)

             
‘I know. But scaring her is the only fun I get in this place.’

             
‘You need to get some sleep.’ I stood and tucked her in.

             
‘I’m not tired.’

             
‘Sleep will do you good.’

             
‘I told you I’m not bloody tired! I’ve got an eternity of sleep ahead of me.’

             
‘Okay.’

             
I didn’t want to argue with her. Fire still cindered in her belly, despite how frail she looked. I took my seat again and stared at the polished floor. After a moment of silence, I whispered, ‘Mum, I love you. I can’t tell you enough. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I wish I could really show my appreciation. There’s nothing I could do to repay you. Mum?’

             
But she was already fast asleep, her breathing calm and gentle. I kissed her forehead and left her alone with her dreams.

             
I had to win that Oscar for her. She would watch me on the television and she’d feel pride. The Oscar ceremony, held at the Kodak Theatre, at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street, was one of the most emotional nights of my life.

             
As I tread on the red carpet, I thought about my journey up to that point. Images of my mother flashed in my mind. I held Lauren’s hand. She looked so beautiful in a silk black dress, with a collar that cascaded over a concealed placket; the tight-fitting dress accentuated her figure. Michael materialized in my thoughts. He hadn’t been given an opportunity to join me at that moment. He’d been left in the past, left in that perfect September, which was overshadowed by the tawny leaves and rushing water that concluded his funeral. Amid the camera flashes, the bolts of lightning breaking through the roaring dark, the specters of my past came back to me. A thousand moments lingered in my mind. All of my experiences in life, the lessons I’d learned, the mistakes I’d made, they’d led me to the Kodak Theatre. The days, weeks, months and years, the minutes of my life, ushered me forward as the hordes of fans howled and cheered.

             
To be one of the five actors up for an Oscar in the
Best Actor
category was humbling. But winning would be my way of ultimately thanking my mother, and all the memory-makers in my life, the friends who truly loved me, who’d stood by my side.

             
Katie Bellibone, the previous year’s Best Actress winner for her performance in
Kissing Sue
, announced the
Best Actor
nominees. She read out the five nominated winners, ending with the clichéd, ‘And the winner is…’

             
A moment of silence. A dramatic pause. Actors can’t help being bloody theatrical.

             
It didn’t feel real. My legs trembled. Beads of cold sweat ran down my forehead and my heart thudded. I floated above my body, above the cheers and clapping hands, above the screens showing my face. I couldn’t believe it. But Lauren squeezed my hand to tell me it wasn’t a dream. My name had been read out.

             
I made my way to the podium and kissed Katie on the cheek.

             
‘I’m truly humbled. I-I don’t know what to say.’

             
At first I choked. But then I found the strength to thank all the important figures in my life, like Lauren, and those who’d helped me along my career, such as Derek Noland, James Johnson and Elliott. And I thanked Michael for instilling me with confidence when I was young. His spirit had guided me through the years of rejection and uncertainty.

             
‘I’ve always wanted to do this for my mother. She’s always been looking out for me, trying to steer me in the right direction. And even though she had her misgivings about my choice of career, I know she can see I made the right choice. I’ve always wanted to do this for you, mum! I needed to pay you back for your love, for raising me up even when life was hard for you. And I like to think I’ve done that by making the most of
my
life and achieving what I wanted to achieve. You’ve driven me this far, and I’m gonna miss you…’

             
My mother’s face broke through the bright lights, emerging in my mind’s eye, pride and triumph mingling with her tears. I knew she was in hospital at that moment, watching me on the television.

             
I raised the Oscar above my head and the audience applauded. The ovation was enough to blow me away. Ecstasy and grief compounded into a single, surreal emotion.

             
After the ceremony, I learned that my mother had passed away half an hour before the
Best Actor
category had been announced. She hadn’t been able to watch me win. She didn’t hear my speech. Looking back, it’s clear that she knew she could afford to miss the announcement. She’d told the nurses she knew I’d win.

             
I can still see her face now, without looking at photographs of her pushing me in my pram when I was little. The photos of her hugging me after I’d received my A levels, or dancing next to Lauren and me like a nutter at my wedding. Her face is as clear to me now as when those photos had been taken. It breaks through hazy memories, and the bright lights of the Kodak Theatre.

             
‘Heaven has no time…’

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Ill Thoughts

I stood in silence, casting a bleak shadow under the streaks of sunshine. My eyes rested on the pavement slabs as the solemn voices of the other mourners washed over me.
My mother’s friend Mandy called me. She stood next to the hearse, tears in her tired eyes.

             
‘Daniel!’

             
‘Yeah?’

             
‘She wouldn’t have wanted him here…’

             
She pointed to a man standing on his own, gazing at the hearse. I recognized his face. I’d watched him walk past my mother’s house, so many years before. Even then, I knew I’d seen his blue eyes when I was a child. A blurred recollection came back to me. I’d been a baby, looking up from my cot, peering at my bedroom ceiling and contemplating the big space outside my little bed. He’d held a teddy bear in his arms and smiled at me. Then he left. The space grew bigger. And he left my mother to care for me, alone.

             
He was tall but no longer slim, a paunch belly and hints of fat forming a wrinkle that drooped around his neck had appeared since I’d last seen him. His eyes had lost their youthful sparkle. His every movement signaled regret.

             
I charged towards him.

             
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ I snarled.

             
‘Listen, son.’

             
‘Don’t call me that! Who do you think you are?’

             
‘I’m so sorry, Daniel. I loved your mother.’

             
‘Yeah, right. Is that why you walked out on her when I was just a baby?’

             
‘There’s not a minute goes by that I don’t regret my actions. I abandoned everything. Everything. But I had to! I really did!’ Tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks.

             
‘I’ll never know your reasons. But I honestly don’t care. Your absence from my childhood, it can stay a mystery. I don’t wanna ever see your face again.’

             
‘Please, just let me explain to you.’

             
I turned away from his whiskey breath. It was too late for him to apologize. Mum had spent her life broken-hearted, wishing he had stayed. He couldn’t just come to her funeral and expect me to accept his apology. I would try to forget I’d seen him again.

             
After the burial, I watched the other mourners drink, eat and laugh together, black dresses and crisp suits the only evidence that they’d been to a funeral. A lifetime was forgotten with each ignorant smile, with each swig of a pint and lit cigarette.

             
Although everything seemed pointless to me at that time, I ended up producing my best work. I wanted to exhibit the injustices of life and death. Critics said I had come of age as a visionary artist. I forced audiences to think, broke through boundaries and smashed conformity with no regard for convention. But journalists continued to write my life, rendering me a mere silhouette in the public eye. The grainy photographs told my fans everything, and the columns were biographical. I’d become public property, a character in a play, the protagonist in a cheap, paperback novel. If people wanted to read a chapter from my life, or see the next act, they could read the gossip magazines. And they would believe every word. The press had the power to override my work. I’d be remembered for the sensational headlines instead.

             
Celebrity. It’s the religion of today, it really is. The newspapers have become gospels. Nobody really gave a shit about me or what I produced. They just pretended.

             
Lauren and I drifted apart. I was constantly engaged in my work. She’d always understood how important my career was to me. But distance threatened our marriage. Not just physical distance but emotional rifts, little or no communication. And it was my fault. I didn’t spend enough time with her, didn’t feel like I could be myself anymore. Struggled to engage in conversation. It had all become so meaningless. The temporary relationships you form in life. All the bullshit, the false smiles you see every day. I wasn’t the man Lauren fell in love with anymore. No more silly humor, the guy who made her giggle and had the urge to hold her, be close and comforting, sometimes smother her with an unwaning affection. I’d grown to hate the company of strangers and friends, just wanted to be alone with my thoughts at all times, lashing out at the world with every touch of the computer keyboard. Suddenly stunted.

             
I was sitting in my study room, late at night. A lamp threw ominous shadows around the room and a cigarette burned in a stained glass ashtray, beside a Vanessa dark wood bookcase. I typed furiously, banging the keys to ease my constant frustration. I had to finish my latest novel. These were
my
words and I wanted people to read them. Lauren came in and sat beside me.

             
‘It’s late. Why don’t you come to bed?’ she asked, her mellifluous voice pouring into my ears.

             
‘I’m busy,’ I snapped.

             
‘You’re always busy.’

             
‘Please, Lauren. You have to stop this.’

             
‘Stop what?’

             
‘All this fucking sulking.’ I pounded the keyboard with my fist.

             
‘I don’t feel like we’re a couple anymore.’ The light caught the pain in her eyes. ‘You’re more in love with your computer than you are with me. What happened to the days when it was just you and me, not all the world, not all this?’

             
‘All what?’

             
‘All you do is work. More so now than you ever used to, and I don’t know what you feel you need to achieve.’

             
‘I don’t know, okay. I get an idea and I suddenly feel an urge to write. A million ideas come into my head and I feel weighed down if I don’t write them. I can’t help it. Look, I’m an artist.’

             
‘You used to be my husband.’

             
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ I barked.

             
‘You once belonged to me. I-I loved the fact you were so passionate, so immersed in your work. But it’s killing me now. You’ve changed so much lately, and I don’t feel like you’re mine anymore.’

             
‘Look, I can’t help the way I am or the way I feel right now. Couldn’t you just respect that and be there for me?’

             
‘I’ve always been there for you. And I always want to be… But you keep pushing me away.’ She stormed out of the room.

             
I sat there for a moment, listened to the calm waves outside. Then I followed her.

             
She was silhouetted by the moonlight, staring at the sea. I approached her and held her in my arms, shielding her from the cold air.

             
‘I can’t help the way I am, the way I’ve become,’ I said. ‘I can’t do anything about this need I feel, this need to work. I’m chained down by it.’

             
The lingering waves caressed the foot of the beach. A million burning stars littered the enshrouding sky, casting feeble light on the sandy ground and our printed footsteps.

             
‘Look at the stars,’ Lauren whispered, her face wet with tears. ‘Don’t you remember when it felt like they were ours?’