Three Ex Presidents and James Franco (12 page)

              Fiona was the daughter of two former politicians. Her mother Olive Bishop had been a Congresswoman for the Pennsylvania 6th district for 12 years, before she died of cancer. Olive Bishop was also Jake's mother, whose father, her first husband, had also died of cancer when Jake was two. Some families are too cursed with that disease. So he never knew his real father, a journalist. Instead the paternal role was taken by his mother's new husband, Winston Downs. I knew this, as it was related to me by Jake, but it was news to Brandon. In Fiona's version there was no mention of her mother's fortune, a large part of which both her and her brother had come into on their eighteenth birthdays.

              Winston Downs had followed his deceased wife into politics and became the Congressman for the 6th District for 6 years. He had retired, or had been defeated (the matter was vague, and I didn't press it), a number of years previously. He then worked as a preacher, businessman and political fundraiser, in that order. His daughter was his only child and had been raised with Jake in a strict Uber Christian manner. This manner was not entirely unfamiliar to me. I had relations in Northern Ireland who lived this curiously outdated form of Puritanism. To them God was like a member of the family, its patriarch. He never turned up to family events, but one was expected to live life as though he could at any moment arrive home to dinner and disapprove of who you are and what you were doing. In his absence the father of the family usually took his place, enforcing a strict morality and need to maintain decent appearances. I wondered at what type of power struggle would emerge if God did arrive to a Downs family dinner, and if Winston Downs would easily sacrifice his place at the head of the dinner table. And what would he make of Jake.

              Presently Winston Downs was getting into the movie business as a financier. He had just put together funding for a re-make of an old classic by the name of High Noon. I had never seen the movie. Fiona described it as "A film about a guy facing up to personal responsibility. He's agreed to a job, an important job, an important trust. Then he's forced to face up to what that entails. He has to decide if he'll split when the going gets tough, or finish the job he's signed up to do." Responsibility was a big thing for the Downs family.

              As I listened to her tale I thought that the fact Fiona drank went some way towards appeasing any hatred I might have had for her blind religiousness. But it wasn't long before I started developing a new prejudice against her, which counterbalanced the previous reprieve. I'm not a socialist, but I am naturally suspicious of extreme wealth. For me, it stands to reason that it can only be acquired through some moral bankruptcy. By virtue of the father having been a politician, I felt sure that it was true in this case.

              I don't hold the sons, or the daughters, responsible for the crimes of the father. So I could have let it slide. But it was compounded by her oblivious arrogance, the worst kind of arrogance. She talked about becoming an intern in Capitol Hill after college, and following a career trajectory into politics. She wanted to do this because she was from good Democratic stock and believed the nation needed proper healthcare and social security and gun control, all the European things. She talked as though mapping out a path up a foothill in Dublin on a sunny afternoon. There seemed to be no question of ability or aptitude, or even success. It was as though the democratic process was like scouts; you just got as many badges as you needed to stroll up the ranks.

              Of course, she didn't notice my disgust, I just nodded and smiled and asked more questions. Brandon for his part followed my queue, occasionally stroking her and kissing her in that awkwardly intimate way. I had not had the opportunity to get him alone and set in motion Eri
c’
s plan. The fact that they never left each other's side not only made the plan difficult, it also made it more urgent. The incessant intimacy was an evil portent.

              Fiona was forced to come to an end. A reception was to begin in the depths of the resort. She was discussing her role in student politics and her plans for student council when Brandon interrupted her to remind her of the time. I decided not to join them. They had to go to see Fiona's father, there was no need for me. Besides, I was there to get some free time to start my play. It was best that I get an early night. They made their goodbyes, Fiona kissing me and appraising me with affection. Listening to her life story, and showing so much interest, had no doubt greatly impressed her.

              At that moment I wanted to tell her about Eric. About what she missed when they went out. About how thrilling it is to be held in his arms. The moment of bitterness lasted only an instant. I managed a friendly smile.

              "Probably for the best. My poor father is in a rage. It turns out the majority leader of the Senate had asked Obama to run. Any chances of Clinton being here are gone. He's in a much worse rage I'm sure."

              "You know him?"

              "I met him once. I think my father keeps me away.  They're saying his predilection for young women is what drove the leadership against his wife. Too much controversy." Brandon held Fiona a little closer than usual as they walked away, which greatly amused me.

              I ordered another drink. The waiter's smile was overly friendly. I caught his eye, but didn't have the energy to channel a smile in return, or even a curious stare. Instead I sat there alone and in silence. I needed some time to fume before I could go to sleep.

              As I smoked and looked over the stunning scenery in the fading light I gradually became aware of a silence which was growing around me. The bar inside had suddenly and steadily begun to quieten. I put it down to the guests heading to the reception deeper inside.

              To my right I slowly became aware of an unexpected presence. I turned to see a large, tall, red faced man, cigar in one hand, brandy in another. There were men in suits near him, but standing back. Some of them were staring at me. I had a sense of panic, there was something strangely disquieting about these men. They seemed like some kind of secret service, projecting an ominous threat.

              The big man must have seen the startled look in my eyes. He laughed heartily and declared in a dry drawl, "Don't worry, they only kill when told to." The big man came forward and offered his hand. I took it nervously, looking into the big man's red face, realising that I recognised him from somewhere.

              Then I got it. Those men in suits were secret service.

57.
OK, ok, ok. I've been very hard on Fiona. I have given you an account of my feelings towards the girl. But tha
t’
s not the same as what I thought of her as a person. Yes, she elicited feelings of jealousy and rage. However, I do realise the feelings had no basis in fact.

              She couldn't help being rich and destined for a ready-made political career. She also couldn't help that Brandon was becoming devoted to her. In a similar situation I would have acted in the exact same way. In fact, in many ways she had the life I wanted.

              She had taken it upon herself to befriend me. She had shown me great generosity, putting me up in this lavish place. Yes, she spoke too much about herself, but a lot of people do. At least her story, her life view, was more interesting than most.

              The difference between thoughts and feelings. I always say of her that she's a great girl, and I mean it. But I still can't handle her company.

58.
My experience of meeting Bill Clinton could not have lasted more than five minutes. But within a week afterwards it took me nearly half an hour to tell the tale. The first thing that struck me, as I mentioned, was how big he is and how ruddy his complexion is. He doesn't immediately strike you as the man who spent years on the world's TV screens, entering the collective consciousness.

              On having the opportunity to meet him I should have asked why he didn't invade Rwanda, why he didn't allow gays in the military, why he didn't carry Arkansas for Gore. Instead I asked, in a strangely chirpy voice, "Hi Mr Clinton, how have you been?"

              I squirm when I recollect it.

              Luckily he smiled, that famous, no longer boyish, but still charming smile. "I've been good, thank you. You're Irish?"

              "Yes sir." Was that the right way to address him?

              If it was the wrong title, he didn't seem to mind. "You're a long way from home. What has you here?"

              "I'm having a drink." Yes, it was a stupid response, and it got worse. I kick myself for having always said I'd never be flustered by celebrity. "Would you care to join me?" Ouch.

              "I'm good, thanks," he said, holding up his glass of brandy. Afterwards I realised that he probably dealt with people like me all the time. He must do, if he approaches people out of nowhere like this. "When I asked what has you here, I meant more broadly. What has you in America son?"

              "Oh, I'm...emm, I'm, you know...here with a guy...I think I might be in love with him...and, well tha
t’
s not why I'm here...he has a girlfriend...I'm not sure if I like her...but tha
t’
s not the point...they said to come with them...and I said yes...so I'm here...maybe I'm trying to fall out of love with him...so maybe if I can be happy for him...you know...I'll get over it...so I've come...and I need some peace because I'm writing a play."

              From the way his eyebrow raised, I guessed he probably wasn't accustomed to his presence eliciting this kind of reaction. An interminable time passed when he looked at me with slightly confused, perhaps alarmed, eyes. "You come from a great nation of playwrights. What's the play about?"

              "American history." I spoke abruptly. The words were a buoy saving me from drowning. "The American Civil War."

              The agents seemed to be moving closer to us. My performance was making them nervous. A babbling, probably drunk, Irish, seemingly unhinged, wannabe playwright will usually get that reaction from the secret service. But Bill continued, "The play is about the whole war?"

              "No sir, just the start, I think. So far. Just James Buchanan"

              "Which has led you to Pennsylvania. The only President they ever had. A fine man. A bit ignored by history. Maybe you can change that."

              "I doubt it, sir. Though I will try."

              "Remember, they always say to write about what you know. This friend of yours is here?"

              "Yes, sir. Sorry about that outburst."

              "Don't worry about it. Nothing is simple in love son. Nothing."

              "You don't need to tell me...I mean, thank you sir, you're right."

              "Good luck with them both. Struggling with someone you're in love with and the entire American civil war at the same time is a big hurdle. Write about what you know. Write about what you know, and who knows, we may meet again."

              "Yes, sir. Thank you sir." With that he was gone, followed by relieved secret service men who still eyed me suspiciously as they left.

              He didn't say it but what I heard Bill say was actually, "Struggling with the people you love and fighting any kind of war is a bitter struggle. I've been there. I know it." And from those words he didn't say I went back to my room and began the first drunken attempts of my play.

59.
Freud used the method of free association to get to the bottom of his patients neuroses. Both the real ones and the imagined ones. A Freudian says a word to a patient and they immediately respond with the first word that comes to mind. So if they say dog, most patients will reply cat or bark. If they say car most reply bike or petrol or some such thing. When the analyst say church and the patient responds 'masturbation' they hit the mother load and the healing can begin.

              Eventually this technique, and others, lead to the phrase Freudian slip entering the popular vocabulary. The slip reveals a breakdown between the battling forces of the psyche and the true feelings of a person are revealed. This is pretty much what happened to me. My catalyst wasn't an analyst or hypnosis. It was an ex-President of the US who ambushed me and lead me to say of Brandon, "I don't care, I'm here to show I want him to be happy." The panic I felt in the situation lead me to say something which I didn't believe I could say.