A Decent Interval (27 page)

‘Well, partly … all right, I'll come straight out with it. I just wanted to check that you hadn't changed your mind.'

‘About what?'

‘About what we talked about in your dressing room in Marlborough … that time …'

‘About shopping you to the police?'

‘Yes.'

Charles chuckled. ‘That's not the kind of thing I'd change my mind about.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. Sorry, I should have trusted you, but you know how worries and mad ideas go round in your head.'

‘Yes,' said Charles, remembering some of the mad ideas that had gone round in Will Portlock's head. ‘And you haven't heard anything from the police, either in Marlborough or anywhere else?'

‘No.'

‘Then I reckon, Will, that you've got away with it.'

‘Bloody hope so.'

‘Anyway, what're you doing? Got any work?'

‘Not theatre work, no. I've given it up.'

Charles thought that was probably good news. ‘Oh?' he said.

‘I never really liked it that much. Nor was I very good at it. I only went into the theatre because … well, you know the reasons.'

‘Yes. So what are you doing?'

‘I'm starting an accountancy course next month.'

‘Really? What does your mother think about that?'

‘I don't give a shit what my mother thinks. I don't see her now. She really is a profoundly silly woman.'

‘Oh. Well, you sound a lot better than you did in Marlborough.'

‘I took your advice, Charles. Went to my doctor. He reckoned I was very near a breakdown and put me on some medication which seemed to work. And now I'm having some cognitive behavioural therapy – it's really getting me sorted out.'

‘That's good to hear.'

‘How about you, Charles?'

‘What?'

‘Any work?'

The ‘No' was instinctive. But also accurate. ‘Heard anything from anyone else in the
Hamlet
company, Will?'

‘Not much. Oh, I ran into Sam in the West End last week.'

‘How's he doing?'

‘Back in telesales.'

‘Oh dear.'

‘But his big news was – Milly's pregnant.'

‘Really?'

After Will ended the call Charles tried not to feel depressed by the news about Sam. But the young man's likely future was far too clear to him. Telesales had been meant as a short-term fix, but with a baby on the way, the demands of bourgeois responsibility could all too easily lock him into that or some similar job with a regular salary. And so another great acting talent would remain unfulfilled. The enduring unfairness of the theatrical life asserted itself once again.

Not that that surprised Charles Paris under his carapace of cynicism in Hereford Road.

‘So there never was a murder?'

‘No, Frances, there wasn't.'

They were sitting in a Hampstead Italian restaurant. In happier times it had been one of their regular haunts. In happier times they had often drunk too much there and stumbled back to the family house, then fallen giggling into bed together with carnal intentions. But that evening, with Frances looking at her most headmistressy, those happier times seemed a long while ago.

‘Freak accident,' Charles went on. ‘The girl tripped over the chair backwards, didn't have a chance to cushion her fall, fell straight down on the stone floor.'

‘Hm.' Frances nodded and toyed with her tagliatelle. It seemed inconceivable after all these years, but there was an awkwardness between them, as if neither could think of what to say next, as if they were
making
conversation. Maybe there were just too many subjects which, over the years, had moved off limits.

‘Juliet OK?' asked Charles.

‘In very good form.'

‘And the twins?'

‘Getting bigger every time I see them.'

‘Mm.' He didn't ask after the welfare of his daughter's extremely boring husband Miles. Instead he took a substantial swallow of their favourite Sangiovese. ‘I'd like to see them.'

‘Nothing stopping you,' said Frances drily. ‘You have a phone. You have their number.'

‘Yes.' Another topic he should perhaps not have ventured on. The pang which Will Portlock's talk of a father's responsibilities had brought to him returned more forcefully.

Probably mentioning the ‘C' word would be equally foolhardy, but he took the risk. ‘Will you be going to Juliet's at Christmas?'

‘Possibly,' replied Frances.

‘Only possibly? I thought that was a kind of regular annual fixture.'

‘I may be going to the States for Christmas.'

‘Oh?' God, now Charles really wished he hadn't mentioned the subject. Distantly, he remembered a time when Frances had had some male friend in California. He had never been told the level of intensity of that friendship, and he'd never asked for more information. Which had been sheer cowardice on his part. Charles Paris would always rather remain in ignorance of things that might hurt him.

Except, of course, that very ignorance actually hurt him. Why couldn't he just come out with the direct question? Ask Frances if she was seeing someone else? Ask the identity of the person who she had a ‘lunch date' with when he'd phoned her that Sunday from Marlborough? But he shirked the responsibility of all such enquiries.

Maybe that was the only thing in life Charles Paris had ever been good at. Shirking responsibilities.

‘Anyway, Frances …' He topped her up with the Sangiovese. It was a mere gesture of politeness – her glass was nearly full – but a little ritual he had to perform before refilling his own empty glass. ‘We must do this more often.'

He knew, even as they came out of his mouth, that they were the wrong words. Once again, Frances responded with a cold, ‘Why?'

‘Well, just because we … because there has been so much between us.'

‘Has been,' she echoed, without much intonation.

‘Mm.' A silence, unlike other silences that had come between them over the years. ‘Oh, by the way, Frances … Did you hear that Milly Henryson's pregnant?'

‘Yes, she texted me.'

‘Ah. Right. Of course.'

Their conversation for the rest of the meal was on general topics. Neither wanted coffee. They both even refused the complimentary glasses of sambuca which had been so much a ritual of previous visits to the restaurant.

Frances had her car outside – perhaps part of the reason why she hadn't drunk much. They kissed chastely on the lips before she got in. Charles promised to be better about keeping in touch and said he'd ring Juliet.

As he watched his wife drive away, Charles Paris felt more desolate than he had at any time in his life.

He made his way to the tube. Back to Hereford Road. Back to the inadequate consolation of a bottle of Bell's.

In time, they aired the series about the Civil War presented by the feminist academic with big breasts. Charles watched the episodes with great attention until he got to the one about the Battle of Naseby. Though he recognized small details of the costumes he had worn at Newlands Corner, the footage had been shot in such tight close-up that no one could have identified the actor or actors involved in the historical reconstruction. Had Charles Paris been the kind of actor organized enough to produce a show reel of his greatest performances, there would have been no point in including that one. He felt a sensation of guilty relief that he hadn't urged any of his friends to tune in to watch his ‘latest telly'.

And so the months rolled on. The phone didn't ring from Maurice Skellern's office. Or from anywhere else much. Charles Paris, continuing to worry about such matters as an appropriate male response to the large breasts of feminists, drank too much Bell's whisky. And kept meaning to phone Frances. And his daughter Juliet. But somehow didn't.