Alys, Always (8 page)

Oliver isn’t placated. He’s drawing breath, about to come in for round two, when Mary looks up from the letter she is reading and says, in a just-between-ourselves murmur which is nevertheless precisely calibrated to reach the eavesdroppers, ‘Frances isn’t here to nanny you, Oliver. We have plenty of contributors who already make that kind of demand on her time, and they tend not to be on staff. So perhaps you could save us all some trouble by making sure you check your copy once you’ve finished writing it, and by filing when you are supposed to.’ Then she gives him a little smile and returns to her paperwork.

Oliver stands by my desk for a moment, unsteady and disoriented. A dark rash of humiliation is spreading over his neck and up into his soft baby cheeks. ‘No, I take your point,’ he says, gathering up the paper and moving away, back to his desk. ‘My mistake, Frances. Won’t happen again.’ I glance over at TV and Travel and see Tom, one of the subs, giving me a thumbs-up and mouthing, ‘Dickhead.’

‘Oh, and Frances,’ says Mary. ‘Nice copy. Thanks.’

Oliver is terribly helpful after that, at least while Mary is around. He makes eye contact and comments approvingly on my piece and asks for my opinion on standfirsts and headlines.

Once or twice I look up from my screen and catch him watching me. He drops his eyes when this happens, and we carry on as if nothing has taken place.

Some weeks later, Polly sends me a text. It’s all shit, apparently, and she wants to meet for a coffee one morning. I text back suggesting my day off, expecting her to nominate a Caffè Nero near her flat. Instead she messages to say she has made a reservation for 11 a.m. at the Wolseley.

I get there too early and walk around Green Park for a bit, not wanting to be on time. I’m sure Polly will be late. Pale new growth bubbles through the trees; the sky is that faint heart-stopping blue that would have you believe anything is possible. The deckchair attendants are circulating, probably for the first time this year. I watch a woman in a little navy jacket and off-white pumps stop, put down her quilted leather shopper, and lift out a small Pekinese, which sniffs suspiciously at the grass as if it barely knows what it is. On the far side of the park, along the Mall, the cherry-pickers are out, putting up flags for some state visit or other.

I leave the park and cross the road by the Ritz, borne along
by the surge of tourists heading to the Royal Academy, and find the restaurant’s entrance, which is rather anonymous and easy to miss: a discreet brass plaque, thick blackout curtains obscuring the windows. The doorman steps forwards and smiles as if he recognises me, and then the doors are opening and I’m passing through them, suddenly confused by the dim, even crepuscular light within. As my eyes adjust, the space takes shape around me. I didn’t know what to expect. It’s almost as glorious as a cathedral.

I give Polly’s name to the girl at the lectern, and without looking down to consult her ledger she says, ‘Of course, Miss Thorpe. Miss Kyte has already arrived.’

It may be late morning but in here, partly because of the black lacquer and the glow of the little shaded lamps, it feels like the evening. The place is full, and even though most of the people present are conducting business, there’s something sparkly and frivolous in the air. The atmosphere crackles with gossip and speculation. And cash. The place is full of cash.

Little groups of women in proper jewellery, drinking Bloody Marys. A captain of industry joking with a newspaper proprietor. A film star in shorts and heavy stubble sitting alone, eating an omelette and pencilling his way through a pile of notes.

I’m conscious, as I follow the girl across the black and white marble, between little tables shining with silver cutlery and polished glass, that people are automatically glancing up to see whether they know me.

Polly, seated at a table in the central circle, reaches over to kiss me hello. She looks different again today, a little Nouvelle Vague in a beanie and tight striped jersey, with lots of eyeliner, but I’m realising this is part of her look: she can take it in any direction, at will.

‘Hope this is OK,’ she says, gesturing around her, as I slide
into the banquette opposite. ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else.’

‘It’s perfect,’ I say, unwinding my red and purple scarf.

Without otherwise acknowledging the waitress, Polly orders a black coffee and Birchermuesli. I’d really prefer the eggs Benedict, but I say I’ll have the same.

‘Thank you,’ I add, carefully, to the waitress.

‘You work at a newspaper, don’t you? The
Questioner
?’ Polly says, suddenly sharp, when we are alone.

I say that’s right, I do.

‘Well … I know it sounds silly, but this is all in confidence, right? All this family stuff?’

‘Of course,’ I say, watching her fingertips running over the grain of the tablecloth, the curve of the knife. ‘I’m not that sort of journalist, anyway.’

‘Well, sure,’ she says, not really listening. ‘It’s just that Daddy is – well, you know. He’s Laurence Kyte, isn’t he? The big man. Mr Letters. People always want to know about Laurence sodding Kyte.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ I say. ‘I’m here for you. I’m not interested in Mr Letters.’

She looks at me, and sees the expression on my face, and then she starts to giggle, and I smile back at her, relieved, and suddenly I’m laughing too, really laughing.

‘Mr Letters!’ I say, in bursts. ‘Mr Letters! Where did that come from?’

Snorting, Polly presses her hand against her stomach. ‘Oh God,’ she says, eventually, when she’s back in control. ‘Stop. Please. I’m out of practice. It hurts.’

‘OK,’ I say, pulling a poker face. ‘That’s fine. Cross my heart and hope to die, that’s the last time I’ll ever refer to Mr Letters.’

And then she’s off again.

The waitress comes back with the order, and Polly composes herself.

‘I’m sorry if I seemed kind of grumpy,’ she says, as our coffee is poured. ‘It’s just that it’s all a bit horrid at home at the moment. And I wanted to talk to someone about it, but someone who isn’t part of it, if you know what I mean.’

‘Sure,’ I say neutrally, stirring some honey into the muesli.

‘Sometimes I feel like they’re all his spies,’ says Polly. ‘Yeah, I know. It’s stupid. But it’s how I feel. Teddy. My friends. My friends’ parents. Charlotte. My tutors. They’re all on his side.’

‘Have you fallen out with your dad?’ I ask.

Polly wrinkles her nose. ‘Not exactly,’ she says. ‘But we are currently having a, um … a
disagreement
.’ She likes this word, I can tell. She thinks it sounds grown up, as if it dignifies the thing it describes.

‘Thing is,’ she says, twiddling her spoon in her dish. ‘Thing is, Daddy has never really understood me. That was always Mum’s thing. Mum understood. He used to leave us – me and Teddy – to her.’

She looks at me.

‘Oh, Polly,’ I say, reaching out to touch her sleeve. ‘Oh, you poor thing. I am so sorry.’

For a moment, we sit there, quite still. Then she looks down, sniffs and moves her hand away, so she can press her napkin under her eyes. I can see she’s taking care not to smudge her make-up. When she raises her face again, all evidence of tears has disappeared.

‘Anyway,’ she says, in quite a different sort of voice. ‘It’s not going very well. I think I’m going to leave drama school.’

‘Drop out?’ I say.

‘I’ve got some mates, they’re brilliant people, incredibly talented, and the plan is, we take a play – Shakespeare, maybe a couple of Shakespeares – on tour around the
country. We’d just rock up and do
Love’s Labour’s Lost
or whatever in scout huts and school gyms and stuff. Really taking it right into communities which ordinarily wouldn’t be exposed to proper, you know, art.’

They’ve got an old decommissioned ambulance which they plan to drive from village to village, parking it outside church halls and sleeping in it overnight. Only there are ten people involved, maybe more, so they might have to take a tent or two. The weather will be getting better soon anyway so that side of things wouldn’t be a problem. They’d cook on campfires or barbecues and wash in municipal toilets.

‘It’s going to be amazing,’ she says, licking her spoon. ‘Honestly, I know it sounds a bit ropy, but if you met them, you’d know it was a good idea.’

‘Has your dad met them all?’ I ask.

She makes a face. ‘Well, he knows Sam and Gabe and Pandora from when I was at school. But I don’t think he has given them a chance, really. He has just made up his mind, he thinks it’s a rubbish idea, and that’s that. Basically he just doesn’t have any faith in me. He doesn’t believe we can make it work! He’s just so fucking negative.’

‘And what about drama school? Have you told your tutors? What do they think about it?’

‘Oh no, I haven’t mentioned it to
them
,’ she says, contemptuously. ‘And I’m hardly in their good books at the moment anyway. I had that meeting with my tutor, do you remember? Tony Bamber. He was all sympathetic at first, because of Mum, of course, and I thought he understood, and then he said that my card was marked, and I really had to make sure I worked on my attendance record otherwise I’d have to leave. And then Sam got in touch, and – well, it seemed like perfect timing.’

‘Mmm,’ I say, non-committally. ‘Because it’s a great place
to be studying. Lots of people would kill for that opportunity.’

Polly rolls her eyes. ‘You know, that’s exactly what these places want you to think. Then you get in, and you realise it’s just the same tired old rubbish being churned out by this bunch of total losers – only everyone’s too chicken to say so. It’s like the emperor’s new clothes.

‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘Dad is livid. But I suppose if it comes to it, if I’ve made up my mind to do this tour, he can’t stop me. And neither can Charlotte, or any of them. They can’t make me stay on the course.’

‘No,’ I agree. ‘But maybe you shouldn’t rush into it.’

‘I’m not rushing into anything,’ she says hotly. ‘Sam got in touch, like, weeks ago! I’ve been really sensible about it. I’ve just been weighing it all up, and – well, anyway, now I’ve made up my mind.’

I sit back against the upholstery, stretching my arm along the banquette, trying to look as if I’m considering the facts. The newspaper proprietor and the captain of industry are being helped into their coats. The actor is sipping his orange juice. The woman I saw in the park is being shown to a table, and as she passes I glimpse the Pekinese gazing up placidly from the depths of the leather shopper, a princeling in a litter.

‘I can understand why people aren’t thrilled at the idea of you leaving college,’ I say, when the woman has been seated. ‘I guess this is a pretty difficult time for everyone.’

‘Of course that’s true,’ she says irritably. ‘But in a way it has helped me make up my mind. I mean, I knew I hated the course from the start of the autumn term. But it wasn’t until all this happened that I started to think: well, why waste all that time in a place that’s making me really unhappy? You know – life is too short. I can’t sit around, waiting for my future to happen to me. I’ve got to get out there and find it.’

I think she has probably been reading some self-help books. ‘Polly,’ I say, ‘I don’t know much about you. I don’t really know what to say. I’ve never been in your situation. But I do know your dad loves you and I’m pretty sure the reason he’s giving you such a hard time is because he wants the best for you.’

‘Oh, you’re probably right.’ She sighs, suddenly deflated, as if all the fight has gone out of her. ‘I just wish I could make him see things from my point of view. What do you think I should do?’

‘I wouldn’t do anything right now. Just wait for a bit. Let him get used to the idea. How does that sound? What would your mother have said?’ I ask. It feels like a very risky question, maybe an impertinent or dangerous one. But Polly doesn’t seem to mind. I’m starting to realise that she’s so certain of herself, so assured of her own charisma, that she accepts the curiosity of others as her natural due. I can’t imagine what that feels like.

‘Oh, Mum would have told me to give college another chance, I expect,’ she says. ‘And then she would have seen how miserable it was making me, and she would have given in.’

‘Was she a soft touch, your mother?’ I ask. Again, I wonder whether I’ve gone too far. But Polly doesn’t notice.

‘Oh, a total pushover,’ she says. ‘Funny. Perceptive. Kind. The best, you know?’ She touches the sleeve of her striped jersey, sliding the cuff out of the way so her watch flashes discreetly on her wrist. My heart sinks.
Just when we were getting somewhere
. The waitress is clearing the next table. Polly lifts a finger, signalling a request not for the bill, as I’d feared, but more coffee. I feel a burst of adrenalin.
Now you’re talking
.

I take a sip of what’s left in my cool cup, so I don’t seem too eager. Then I ask one of the questions I really want
answered. ‘So, how did it work, your family, when you were growing up?’

‘You see – you
are
after a story, aren’t you?’ she says, but I can tell she’s not serious. She trusts me. ‘You want all the dirt, don’t you? The big scoop.’

‘I told you, I’m not that sort of journalist,’ I say mildly.

‘What sort are you, then?’

‘Oh, editing and stuff,’ I say. ‘Just behind the scenes. Nothing exciting.’

‘I wouldn’t mind being a journalist,’ she says, reflectively. ‘It must be fun. Screenings, private views, going to interesting places. I hear the freebies are pretty good. Long boozy lunches.’

‘It’s not really like that now,’ I say, as the waitress comes over with the fresh coffee, but Polly’s tuning out, returning to a subject that interests her much more. ‘Do you really want to know?’ she says. ‘What it was like, growing up with Mr Letters? Hmm. OK. Let me tell you.’ She leans back, arms behind her head, contemplating the ceiling, enjoying being looked at.

‘I didn’t really get it at first,’ she says. ‘At first, I thought we were an ordinary family. I mean, I knew we were a bit different to other people. Daddy didn’t go out to work: he went upstairs, and sometimes he got into terrible moods and we had to keep out of his way, and sometimes he was wild, quite mad with happiness and excitement, and he’d turn up at school at lunchtime and charm the pants off the headmistress, and we’d jump in the car and head off to the seaside, or to that place in Oxford near where the dons used to bathe in the nude … what’s that called? Parson’s Pleasure. Big picnics. Games of French cricket. But most of the time it was pretty … regular. We didn’t see that much of him. Mum held it all together. God knows, it can’t have been easy for her when me and Teddy were little.’