Fallout (17 page)

Leigh developed a minor fascination with Nina. The play was demanding, harrowing in places, and Nina was consistently good in it. Even as the audiences got more responsive, anticipating the high notes because the play had become widely known, she never show-boated, never broke out of the human scale of her performance. Leigh liked her best when she saw her getting her breath and gathering herself between scenes in the darkened wings; quite alone against the backdrop of expectant silence from the auditorium, ignoring the whispered activity of the scene change. At those times Leigh saw the artist in her, and what it cost her to do it. Apart from that, recognising her charisma, she was confused by Nina’s conflicting sides, that she was at once timidly childlike and cool. If she warmed to you, you had no choice but to like her, and Leigh experienced it for herself when, six weeks into the run, passing by her one day between the matinée and evening performance, Nina stopped to speak to her. She had a cold and looked pale; shadows under her eyes and a tremendously long woollen scarf wrapped around her neck, trapping her hair. Leigh was heaving a box from her office to wardrobe as they passed on the concrete stair.

‘Oh,’ said Nina, turning like Pierrot on the step to look down at her, ‘it’s my birthday on Wednesday.’

‘Happy birthday for Wednesday,’ said Leigh under the weight of the box.

‘We’re having a party at the house on Sunday night. Tony wanted – would you let everyone know? We’re not doing invites, but everyone is invited. Put the word out.’

Leigh nodded.

‘Great,’ she said, and bumped the box up from sliding down her thigh, feeling like a carthorse.

Nina seemed to notice the box for the first time.

‘Would you like a hand?’ she said, unexpectedly.

‘I’m fine – thanks, though.’

‘Really, here,’ said Nina, and took half of the weight from her. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Up,’ said Leigh, and they carried it together.

‘You work so hard,’ said Nina.

‘We all do, don’t we?’

When they reached the door of wardrobe they put the box down.

‘Thanks,’ said Leigh. ‘And thanks for Sunday – would it be all right to bring my boyfriend?’

‘Bring whoever you like. The more the merrier.’

Nina smiled at her, but her smile looked sad. It was wistful. Leigh found she was examining Nina’s expression. Actresses’ faces like dancers’ bodies were trained to express themselves. Nina’s seemed to do it without her meaning it to – but Leigh couldn’t tell, perhaps she wanted to be asked.

‘Are you all right?’

‘It’s just this cold,’ said Nina bleakly. ‘I can’t seem to get rid of it.’

‘We’ve all had it. And it must be tiring giving so much of yourself every night.’

‘It is.’ She smiled at Leigh as if she had said something especially perceptive.

‘You should take vitamin C. Orange juice,’ said Leigh, but Nina had drawn down her blinds and lost interest.

‘Thanks, darling, I will,’ she said. ‘See you later. I’m half-dead.’

And she was gone.

‘Completely bloody super bloody news,’ said Paul, coming into the flat. Luke was lying on the sofa with a pad and pen on his stomach, his arm over his face and his feet up.

‘What?’ he said. ‘I’m working.’

‘Oi,
Luke Last
,’ said Paul, ‘
Kanowski
. I’ve got not just a
bit
of bloody super bloody amazing news;
two
bits. One, John Wisdom who runs Archery is going off to do a season at the Oxford Playhouse from January and he wants to meet you to talk about
Pieces
, and the other is Lou Farthing is interested in talking to you about a new play.’

Luke sat up.

‘Christ,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘that’s what I said. Are we going to this party, then?’

‘What party?’

‘BBC fella. Nice.’

The party was in a big, tatty house in Shepherd’s Bush which belonged to a man Paul knew slightly called Jonathan, who was a director at the BBC. His sister was married to a theatrical producer. Paul didn’t know Jonathan well, the BBC fella, but he had decided Luke should make contacts and was determinedly pushing him. He had given some sketches and another short play to the BBC but had had no response. Luke dreaded the rejection and was pretending he wasn’t waiting to hear. He was writing a new play he wouldn’t show to Paul yet, or talk about, but while Leigh was at the theatre the two of them worked on sketches and one-act plays – old and new – shaping them and testing them on one another.

BBC Jonathan’s house was cold, filled with books and the smell of pipe tobacco, and everyone there was older than Paul and Luke – or felt it. There were actors and one or two television writers, ignoring one another. A large pot of something to do with aubergines, or chicken, was lazily bubbling in the small back-kitchen, while Jonathan’s wife Jessica wandered about in a kaftan with a wooden spoon. They didn’t want to leave before they could get something to eat, even though Paul felt more than usually out of place.

Luke wandered off around the house and got talking to the woman’s au pair who was a seventeen-year-old French convent girl. They met, passing on the stairs as she went to check on the baby. She was so relieved to be speaking French she burst into tears on the landing. Luke put his arms around her small weeping body and pressed her into the corner, protecting her from view and smelling her hair, which was not altogether clean.

‘I am homesick,’ she told him, in Inspector Clouseau-accented English.

He kissed her. She gulped, kissing him back and crying. Luke wondered how long she had been out of her convent school and decided it must have been quite a while because she was unsurprised at being kissed and practically pulled him backwards into a bedroom.

‘Is the baby in here?’ he asked, peering round.

‘No, it is lying on the other floor,’ she answered. Luke wondered vaguely about her commitment to her job as they stumbled onto the bed.

‘Don’t do it, be careful,’ she said. She had forgotten about crying.

Her wiry arms were around his neck. She was wearing thick ribbed tights under a corduroy skirt and, kissing her, he pressed the flat of his hand hard up between her legs, closing the undesirable gap between the stretched wool and her body. His mind was hushed as if covered by a blanket of snow. The clamour in his brain stilled by her breath in his ear, her ribs and hip-bones pushed up against his weight and his thoughts were reduced gratefully to the heated maths of getting inside her clothes, taking up all of him in blessed focus.

‘
Merde
,’ she said, digging her nails into the back of his neck. Definitely well out of the convent then, and he dragged her skirt up around her waist, hauled down the tights and knelt down between her wide-open legs.

‘So I told Jonathan about
Pieces,
’ said Paul as they left, walking down the wet street in the mist that had come down after the rain.

‘Who’s Jonathan?’

‘Where were you? The chap with the glasses.’

‘Yep.’

‘He wasn’t interested.’

‘Why would he be interested?’

‘Jesus Christ. I don’t know if I’m a producer or a pimp,’ said Paul. ‘Because he’s directing Tony Menzies’ thing for BBC2 . . .’

Luke paused. ‘Producer?’ he repeated.

It was the first time it had been mentioned between them.

‘Well, what the fuck do you think we’ve been doing?’ he said. ‘If
Pieces
gets picked up I’m not saying goodbye to it.’

‘Of course not,’ said Luke. ‘It’s not going anywhere without you.’

It was one o’clock when they let themselves in. Leigh was under a blanket on the sofa reading, with a glass of wine and Jacqueline du Pré’s cello playing Bach in the background.

‘Hello, boys,’ she said.

Paul jumped onto the sofa, two legged, feet up. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he said.

Luke went to the fridge.

‘Have you eaten?’ asked Leigh.

‘I have; Luke was busy.’

Luke began to make himself a white bread sandwich with margarine, slathering it on and sprinkling it with salt.

‘How was the show?’ he heard Paul ask.

‘Nina invited me to her birthday party at the weekend,’ said Leigh. ‘Us, I mean.’

‘Me and you?’ said Paul.

‘Yes, or all of us. She said whoever I liked. She was really nice about it.’

Luke came to the door of the sitting room, holding his sandwich.

‘Crikey. The great Tony Moore,’ said Paul. ‘We’re going up in the world. You’d better come along, Luke, and behave yourself, she’s a married woman now.’

Tony sat cross-legged on the sofa, ribbed cashmere pleasingly snug across his chest. The room was almost full. He noted with pleasure that they were a better class of person since
In Custody
and reminded himself that his snobbishness was not frivolous, but to do with quality. His nursery slopes may have been a little tawdry but he was fighting upward to ever more rarefied air. There were people on the stairs. People in the kitchen. People pushing to get past other people; pleasant laughter. He had rented some staff for the night, a couple of queers who worked for a pittance in wardrobe at the Opera House or somewhere. Champagne cocktails were served from the drinks trolley. Vodka and tonic. Whisky and soda. And Martinis – because Nina liked them. The ice buckets kept running out. Elaine Cross, fresh from Hollywood, was enthroned in the wicker chair, alone. Her enormous blonde hair floated against the upright fretted-fan, apparently arrested in wind-tousled movement.
Halted by the powers of Elnette
, he thought. It had rather more personality than she did; he felt he should offer it a drink. Perhaps she was wearing a fall; did people still do that? His fringe slipped down from its side-parting and obscured his vision for a moment. He swept it up with a fingertip, blinking. Julian was chatting to Bill Levinson – Tony could hear snatches, something about rehearsal space – actor-whining; Anthony Upton and Diana Long’s conversation looked earnest. He was a marvellous director but she was a bore. She wasn’t managing that part at the Old Vic. She probably knew it. A fortnight into a twelve-week run and she must know she stank; on stage every night, the weak link in a stellar cast, stinking up the first three rows. Tony suppressed a snort. She should go home and have some more children.

Across the room Nina was putting on a record, holding the sleeve at an angle as she lowered the needle; he couldn’t make out what it was. He really should talk to Elaine Cross and not leave her there but she had no substance. Fame was no protection against sitting like a stick at a party if you were boring as hell. He would talk to her for a moment and indulge his intellect elsewhere. He examined Nina’s rear-view as she bent over the record player and the song began. Roberta Flack, gospel voices, piano and harmonies . . . Nina was wearing peach palazzo pants and a white silk shirt, slashed to the waist. No bra, she didn’t need one. He could see the line of her knickers. She should wear French knickers. Or no knickers. There was a revue title to conjure with –
Wot, No Knickers?!
Nina straightened and turned to him – catching the smile as it left his face. She looked questioning, worried. There was nobody else in the room for her, she always looked at him.

‘A little too loud,’ he murmured, with no hope of being heard.

What?
she mouthed.

Too loud
, he mouthed back, waving a hand somewhere near his ear. She looked uncertain.

‘Oh!’ She turned back to the record player and lowered the volume. He wouldn’t reassure her. He moved towards Elaine’s wicker chair before Nina turned again, and leaned down.

‘May I kneel at your feet?’ he said.

Leigh, Paul and Luke drove to the party in Leigh’s new car, a five-year-old VW Beetle she called Janis. Luke half-lay across the back seat with one leg up and two bottles of Rioja rolling around next to him. Leigh drove, leaning the little car into her corners.

‘Brands Hatch,’ said Paul.

‘You drive like the Queen,’ said Leigh.

She turned into Tite Street and she and Paul wound down their windows, trying to read the numbers. Luke, in the back, was assaulted by the cold fresh air.

‘Sixteen, eighteen . . .’ said Leigh.

‘Seventeen . . . twenty-three . . . This is nice. No dog shit.’

‘Rich dogs shit. You just can’t see it in the dark,’ said Luke.

Leigh swung the car suddenly into a long space, braking too late. The Beetle’s bumper met the one in front, harder than a kiss but not violently enough to hook underneath.

‘Bugger,’ she said.

‘Anyone see?’

‘Don’t think so.’

She reversed noisily and switched off the engine. It began to rain, a veil falling over the car. She and Paul wound up their windows.

‘It’s probably Tony Moore’s Daimler,’ said Luke.

‘Not yet,’ said Leigh. ‘He drives a Peugeot. Navy blue.’ She hauled her tapestry bag from beneath the seat and dropped the keys into it. ‘Are we getting out?’

They stood by the car in the chill night with a film of water beading their hair and the collar of Paul’s sheepskin jacket, street lights shining off the roof of the Beetle and the sounds of a police car from the King’s Road.

‘Do I look all right?’

Both men looked. She didn’t normally ask. She was beautiful. Rain dewed her cheek. She was wearing some sort of dress, they hadn’t noticed before she put her coat over it but they could glimpse cleavage.

‘Gorgeous,’ said Paul.

‘Cleopatra’s cheekbones,’ said Luke, wanting to kiss her. He always wanted to kiss her, he was used to it.

She smiled.

‘Good teeth, too,’ said Paul.

‘Piss off,’ said Leigh. ‘Let’s leave the bottles in the car – I’ve a feeling it’s not that sort of party.’

Leigh took Paul’s hand and they went on ahead.

‘Everything smells wonderful,’ said Luke to the night-time air, taking joy from each second as it came.

Nina was standing with her back to the window in the sitting room when Luke came in.

The party was in full swing, a roar of noise and a couple dancing in the corner by a potted palm, hands resting on one another’s hips.