A Certain Age (2 page)

When editing these pieces to make them identical with the edited broadcast versions, I found that I couldn’t bear to lose (again) some of the precious incidental stuff I had bravely sacrificed in the cause of the rigid 28-minute time-slot. The text does, therefore, sometimes depart from the audio versions – but never for very long.

Scene One: at home; classical music playing quietly. Tim is jetlagged but very pleased with himself

No matter how many times you experience this, it’s still horribly disorientating. Here I am, 9.30 in the evening, at home in Belsize Park, eighteenth-century mahogany desk piled high with post opened in my absence by the lovely Gideon, and this morning – well, this morning I was crossing Fifth Avenue in a yellow cab, on the way to
Newark (because, of course, I never use JFK). [
Yawn
] It’s too brutal! After two and a half weeks in the Peabody apartment on East 75th, arriving home to London so abruptly is
SUCH
a jar to one’s sensibilities. Of course, Manhattan is infested nowadays with nasty little British people on shopping sprees, all gleefully waving their currency converters, and one finds it increasingly difficult to avoid them, alas, even in the smarter galleries on Madison. The woman in the adjacent seat on the flight home – and this was in
UPPER,
as they so unpleasantly denominate it these days – told me she had bought [
he remembers the details precisely, but they don’t mean much to him
] ten mini iPods in assorted colours and a suitcase full of Region 1 DVDs. I said, [
very condescending
] “How lovely. And did that take you long?” And she told me she had been in Manhattan only
TWO DAYS;
she’d just “popped over” while her husband was on the Algarve playing golf. I said, “Oh I bought very little for myself, I’m afraid. But then I do travel to New York several times a year.” And she said, [
scoff; not an imitation
] “So do I, dear! This day flight’s much better than the night one, innit? That night one does my head in.”

[
He riffles through post
] So. What have we here? [
Shuffles and yawns as he talks
] American Express, something tedious from Balliol; begging letter, begging letter [
tears up the begging letters]; Art Quarterly;
oh, cheque; ooh,
NICE
cheque; [
less happy
] mmm, small cheque, I sold that Ravanelli drawing much too cheaply; National Gallery invitation; cheque, ooh,
VERY
nice cheque; letter from [
surprised, when he checks the signature
] Julian, that’s odd, I’d better read that; small cheque, gallery invitation, gallery invitation; one, two,
THREE
copies of the
Spectator
(hurrah), and – ugh, well, a lot more that I’ll concern myself with tomorrow,
with the help of the lovely Gideon. [
Yawn
] I can’t wait to show Gideon the Maffei sketch I bought from Fowlers and Wells. He’s got quite an
EYE
, I think. [
Yawn
] Oh well, what does Julian want? [
He picks up Julian’s letter, which is three pages, and scans bits of it
] It’s unlike him not to e-mail. Post from Australia takes such an age. The funny thing is, with Julian’s annual e-mails, I can always picture him in some internet café on Bondi, with palm umbrellas and towering surf, and a big cocktail standing by – probably one with an obscene name. I can just hear him ordering it: [
impersonates Julian, who is very commanding as well as louche
] “I want a Criminally Long Sweaty Screw, please, barman.”

[
Yawn
] I really must go to bed soon. Oh well. [
Rustle
] “Dear Timmy.” Well, [
puts letter down
] he does that to annoy me, of course, and also to be Big Brotherish. No one else even calls me Tim any more; I insist on T.J. – or even, with certain friends, “Teedge”. Typical of the parents to cook up such a perfect imperious name for Julian and then just lose interest when I come along. Imagine being called Tim. Ugh. Imagine it, in particular, during Wimbledon fortnight! “Come on, Tim!” they all shout. “Come on, Tim!” Every year, in the weeks preceding the championships, the newspapers ask, “Is this the year for . . .
TIM?
” And I say, “Look! No tournament besides tiddly-winks will ever be won by a person named Tim!” [
Pause
] They call him Tim
BO
sometimes, you know. Now, that’s enough to make you
WEEP
.

[
He has finished the rant; yawn
] So. “Dear Timmy,” writes Julian. [
Very big yawn
] “I called last week and spoke to some bloke called Gideon.” Bloke? Gideon is hardly a bloke, Julian, honestly. [
Peruses other pages
] I have to say, though, this is suspiciously well spelled
and punctuated for Julian. The miracle of spellcheck, no doubt. [
Resumes reading
] “He told me you were in New York but would be home on 17th. I am writing because I have been thinking about a few things.” [
Mutter
] Not before time, I’d say. “I realise I have never been a proper older brother to you.” [
Tim is a bit disturbed by where this is going
] What’s he talking about? A proper older brother? Julian was always a proper older brother to me. When we were at school he used to trip me going into assembly, steal my hymn book every Sunday, and punch me in the kidneys after nets; that’s almost a definition of being a proper older brother. “I wonder if I ought to come back to London. I wonder if I should be [
Tim tightens with alarm, which increases as he continues
] helping you with father’s art business. After all, I am technically head of the family.”

Good heavens. [
Attempt at light-hearted laugh
] He makes us sound like the Corleones. Head of the family! “I’m sorry to say that Janey and I have parted.” Oh no. Oh Julian, you idiot. Janey was so
RICH.
“She is using Arabella and Max as leverage, which has been quite unpleasant, not to say ruinously expensive. So I just thought, remember how father used to admire my
EYE,
Timmy?” No, I don’t, as it happens. He admired
MY
eye, Julian. It was your
FINGERS
that made the biggest impression on father. When they were found in someone else’s till. “Why don’t I help you out for a few months in London? I never complained when you took over the gallery without me, did I?” What? You were in
PRISON,
Julian. [
Turns page
] “I’ve shown father’s will to a few people and everyone thinks I’ve been quite negligent of my own interests. I mean, little Timmy’s gambles have paid off well so far, so well done! But I’m a divorced man now, with titanic alimony. And
you do [
ominous for Tim
]
OWE ME
, don’t you?” Oh God. Oh no. [
Turns page
] “Arriving on 20th. Looking forward to working with you. Don’t worry! My embezzling days are behind me. Besides, if I had any designs on your readies, little brother, I wouldn’t need to travel halfway round the world, would I? I could clean you out without leaving my desk! Your loving older brother, Julian. PS If you managed to acquire any coloured iPods or Region 1 DVDs on your trip to New York, there are people in China who would be in the market.”

[
A comical moan of fear and anxiety
] Uuugh.

Scene Two: out of doors, birds singing; traffic. Tim is sitting in a London square

[
Feverish
] I have two days. Two days to decide whether to hire a hitman. Of all the options presenting themselves, swift, clean assassination is clearly the most satisfactory. I spent most of last night running through the possibilities, and that was the conclusion that finally, at 5 a.m., allowed me to go to sleep. I mean, here are the options:

One. Sell business, feign own death in elaborate boating accident; start again in Panama.

Two. Lure Julian into gallery basement and dispatch him with own two hands.

Three. Persuade the lovely Gideon to lure Julian into basement, to dispatch with
HIS
own two hands.

Four. Give Julian indecently large sum to go away.

Five. Contrive to foil Julian by doing something a bit more subtle that at present eludes me.

Six. Undergo emergency plastic surgery and adopt Danish accent.

Seven. Engage moral pariah in motorcycle helmet with gun.

Of course it does occur to me that I’m over-reacting. This is where a partner would be invaluable. A partner would say, “He’s your brother, T.J. You share a full genetic identity. What’s yours is already his in a way. And he can’t be as bad as all that. He’s just got a small history of appropriating other people’s money; plus, being your older brother he naturally has no respect for you; and of course he drew the long straw at the font. But don’t forget, you haven’t actually seen him for ten years, and people change.” [
Pause
] I’m quite glad I
DON’T
have a partner, actually, if that’s the sort of thundering drivel they would come up with. All I can think of, over and over, is the expression, “head of the family”! Head of the family? When there are only two of us? [
He’s losing it
] Julian is just so clever at knowing how to – well, how to seriously upset me! For example, that was a split infinitive, wasn’t it? “To seriously upset me” is a split infinitive. And I never split an infinitive unless I am very, very upset!

[
Deep breath; slower
] I’m seeing the solicitor at two. Douglas Devereaux at Collins, Bracknell in Queen Street; we were at Balliol together, I was his understudy on the cup-winning ping-pong team; he buys the odd French pastel from me for his highly acquisitive wife Marian and somehow always gets a discount whereas oddly I’ve
NEVER
had a discount from him. I called him first thing, of course, and he confirmed instantly what I already suspected: that Julian has no legal claim on the gallery, or on me. He said I was probably worrying about nothing. I said, [
trying to be light about it
] well, if I am, I’m doing it extremely efficiently, Dougie [
pronounced “Doogie”]:
I’ve already put all
my personal bank accounts into the company name and shredded the evidence of the transfer, and sent Gideon to courier the more valuable items to Paris on the 11.58 Eurostar. It’s no wonder I didn’t get much sleep last night. Dougie said, [
Edinburgh accent
] “T.J., it’s as if you’re expecting a hurricane; have you taped up the windows as well?” [
Pause
] Well, he knows I loathe sarcasm. “Oh, come in at two,” he said.

He’s a good chap, Dougie, with an innocent passion for patisserie, and he’s got a beautiful King Charles spaniel who sleeps at his feet like something from a crusader’s tomb. One does quietly object, however, to paying a thousand pounds a minute for Dougie’s time when he allows himself personal asides and little flights of fancy on one’s bill, as it were. [
Dougie
] “I’d like to say embezzlement is an ugly word, T.J.,” he said. “But when you think about it – well, it’s quite a nice one, isn’t it? Quite musical. Em-bezzle-ment. Mm, interesting.” You see, if a friend were to say that, one could shrug and think, “What a peculiar mind that chap must have.” But when one’s solicitor says it, one can’t help thinking, “Good grief, that little piece of inconsequential word-play just cost me three hundred pounds.”

Scene Three: at the gallery, night. Sound of London traffic outside

[
A sort of whisper
] This is usually the place where I feel completely safe. In the gallery. After hours. Shutters down. A few letters to shuffle about on the desk in an important manner [
paper].
Outside, just a few fearfully well-dressed people darting past the window under black
umbrellas, calling for taxis. Me cocooned in this lovely elegant space full of lovely elegant things, all mine, all worth thousands and thousands of pounds – which are currently, of course, out of harm’s way in Montparnasse with the lovely Gideon, whose company I have sorely missed today, I must say, in my hour of need. The exquisite Honourable Araminta wafts ornamentally around the gallery on Tuesdays, of course, but since she’s in direct line to inherit all of Wiltshire south of Devizes, she’s hardly likely to be sympathetic to the fate of my little self-earned millions. [
Worried sigh
] I suppose it
IS
just the money Julian is after? Have I done enough to protect it? Why do I still feel as though I’m sitting on an unexploded bomb? That session with Dougie this afternoon was quite painful, but very interesting, because, of course,
HE
has an older brother who makes
HIM
feel insignificant, too! How could I have forgotten about Hamish? “But, Dougie,” I said, “you’re one of the best-paid lawyers in London.” Since I was writing a very large first-consultation cheque to him at the time, I happened to know what I was talking about. “What does Hamish do?” I said, handing it over. “Is he Lord Chancellor or something?” And he said, as he smoothed the cheque and smiled at it in a loving kind of way, “Oh no, he runs golfing holidays in the Algarve.” Astonishing. Of course, I nearly commented on the coincidence of the woman on the plane’s husband being currently in the Algarve playing golf, but reconsidered just in time, and thereby saved myself – by retrospective calculation – the price of a fairly good ticket to the entire Ring Cycle at the Met.

[
Getting back to business; a sigh
] What a letter, though. I hope Gideon didn’t look at it when he opened it. I’d hate him to know that anyone ever called me “Timmy”. I
showed it to Dougie, of course. In fact, I left it with him. He said there was something puzzling about it, and asked if I could find the envelope it came in, and I said I’d try. Gideon is terribly efficient, I said. He’s probably shredded it. [
Not to Dougie
] I didn’t tell Dougie, but the interesting thing, actually, is that Gideon also has an older brother who belittles
HIM;
yes! I suppose it’s bound to be quite common, but it’s quite a comfort none the less. In fact, when we happened to talk about our shared plight – it must have been just before I went to New York – Gideon said he had a theory that men with big brothers are a very particular brutalised personality type, and that they often have an unconscious bond with each other as a result. “Really?” I said. “Oh yes,” he said. “Little brothers need to stick together,” he said. “We’re very easily taken advantage of.” That’s why he understood completely, you see, when I snapped into raise-the-drawbridge mode the moment I’d read that letter. I had only to call him and say, “Julian’s coming! And he’s calling himself head of the family!” for Gideon to say, “Mm, don’t panic. I’ll pack up the stock at the gallery and phone the bank! I can have everything in Paris by tomorrow afternoon!”