Based on a True Story (21 page)

forty

The curtains rattled as they were drawn back around the cubicle where Augusta lay, prone and neck-braced, in the emergency ward. She struggled to raise her head, but a stabbing pain forced her to sink back onto the pillow. She tried to peer over the stiff brace. Perhaps Charles had come to see her.

It wasn’t her son. She closed her eyes. Why hadn’t he come? Frances was here, dispatched to the hospital’s cafeteria to find coffee. Kenneth was here, sitting at the side of her bed, head hung low, hands clasped between his knees. But no sight of her boy.

Somewhere nearby a woman was gasping and crying to God. The air smelled of chicken soup and disinfectant. When Augusta opened her eyes, she saw a doctor leaning over her. He looked younger than Charles, but his eyes were cool and appraising. She didn’t think she could outwit him.

“Miss Price?” he said, checking her chart. “I’m Dr. Khan. How are you feeling?”

“You should see the other bull,” she murmured.

He didn’t smile, but leaned over her to shine a small torch into her eyes. “Look to the right, please.”

But when she looked to the right, she saw Kenneth and the livid purple bruise on the side of his head. The walking wounded.

Kenneth said, “Will you be able to discharge her soon, doctor?”

“I think so. It’s fairly mild soft-tissue trauma,” said Khan. “Although I’d like her to stay until the effects of the intoxicants wear off.” He folded his arms across his chest. “How much have you had to drink this evening?”

Augusta’s mouth opened, closed. She told him.

The doctor nodded. “I’ve already seen the toxicology results. I just wanted to know if you’d tell the truth.” He touched her wrist lightly and left, drawing the curtain behind him.

Bloody doctor cares more about me than my own son does
, she thought, and a phlegmy wave of self-pity washed over her. She heard Deller rise from his chair.

“You will be the death of me, Augusta.”

“And you me.”

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Must you always be on show?”

She slid her gaze away, for this did not merit the dignity of a response. On the other side of the curtain, the woman’s sobbing had turned to a long, sustained groan. It was the ninth circle of hell; it was hell and she was alone.

“Ken,” she whispered. “Why didn’t Charles come?”

Under the harsh hospital lights, his face was exhausted and drained of colour. “He’s not a dog, Augusta. He’s not going to suddenly jump when you whistle.”

“So it’s all my fault.”

She watched him pace to the curtain and back. After a minute he said, “You might at least have apologized to the lad.”

Pain shot through her neck as she turned to glare at him. “For what, exactly?”

“For what?” He loomed over her. His voice, usually so low and measured, rose to a shout: “You made him choose between us!”

Augusta was wondering how best to damage his smug face when a nurse slid the curtains open and stared at each of them in turn. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” said Ken. He sank back down on the chair.

“Only my taste in men,” muttered Augusta.

The nurse shook her head, closing the curtains behind her as she left. Augusta folded her arms across her chest, ignoring the tears that had pooled near her ears. She wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing her wipe them away.

She felt something placed at her fingertips, heard the crinkle of paper. With an effort, she raised her head enough so that she could see over the brace: a familiar shiny square lay on her chest, its blue-and-white wrapping unchanged since she was a girl.

“A peace offering,” Ken said. “A Kendal Mint Cake. I remembered you liked them. There’s a shop in Santa Monica . . .” His voice trailed off. He moved the hair off her neck, brushed the tears away with the back of his fingers. “Do you remember that time we went to the Lake District, like normal people?”

“And you left me in Windermere,” Augusta said.

“Because you picked a fight with some old brigadier in the dining room. I can never go back to that B&B. I’m a wanted man in Windermere.”

“Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

He unwrapped the sweet and put it on the table next to the bed, on top of a form that waited for her signature. Dear God, she’d have to pay for this somehow. She never imagined that she’d long for the
NHS
, with its filthy corners and day-long queues. How many arms and legs would she owe this expensive American hospital? Kenneth saw her gaze and flipped the form over.

Irritated, she reached for it and a hot pain seared from ear to shoulder. She cried out, and he took her hand awkwardly, as if afraid he’d make it worse. It occurred to her that she might be more badly hurt than she knew. A blood clot on the brain, perhaps. These could be their last moments together.

She said, “Ken, why am I not in your book?”

He looked at her as if she were mad. “Really, Augusta? Even now?”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugged. “I thought you wouldn’t want to be.”

“Perhaps a little, in a flattering light.”

“Ah,” he said. “So you wanted me to lie.”

Her eyes flew open, and a little squeal escaped from her mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered. “Your computer. I left it in my bag, in the bar.” She closed her eyes. “It’ll be gone by now.”

“Is that all you’re worried about?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

He slumped back down on the chair. “Augusta, you are a savage. I have other copies of that bloody file.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. Finally, she said, “All for nothing, then.”

“I’m afraid so. Though I am upset at having lost all my porn.”

Frances arrived with coffee to find them convulsed with silent laughter. She stood at the edge of the curtain, a cup in each hand, and wondered how you could want to kill someone in a single moment and laugh helplessly with them the next. It seemed an exhausting way to live.

forty-one

Augusta examined her neck in the gauzy reflection of her favourite mirror, which hung in the hallway of her flat. She had chosen the mirror because it was ancient and scratched and kind; Vaseline on the lens of her life. The soreness in her neck was slowly fading, as the doctor in Ventura had said it would.

The plane ride home had been agony, or would have been but for the bottle of Percocet in her carry-on. Augusta had reached in periodically to slip one under her tongue and wash it back on a tide of vodka. She christened this “The Velvet Hammer.” Frances huffed every time Augusta bent down, wincing, to fill her plastic cup under her seat. Finally the girl snatched the bottle from her hand and stuffed it in the overhead bin.

Augusta stared into the mirror, stroking her throat. The sun had given her some colour; she looked reasonably healthy, all things considered. Ready for the camera.

“How is poor Kenneth?” asked Alma Partridge, seated at the dining room table. “Still suffering your abuse?”

With an effort, Augusta turned her head and smiled sweetly at her friend. “He lives, darling. My mission failed.”

Alma chuckled. “I fully expect that the two of you shall come to my funeral, hand in hand, and retire to your bedsit in Croydon where you’ll spend the evening watching
Midsomer Murders
.”

“A love story for the ages,” Augusta said, and sat down at the table to pick up her script. She did not tell Alma that Kenneth had paid her hospital bill, nor that he promised to show her his manuscript before it was published. Nor did she mention that Charles had not visited once during the two days she’d spent in hospital.

“Where were we?”

Alma adjusted her reading glasses. “I believe I was begging you not to reveal my nefarious sex-trafficking activities to the authorities.”

“Ah, yes.” Augusta flipped through the script and found her place. She sat up straighter, ignoring the pain in her neck, and spoke from her diaphragm: “It’s no use, Jonathan,” she said, in a voice high and strained. “What I’ve seen can’t be unseen.”

Alma responded gruffly: “Think of all we’ve been through, Tessa. I beg you. Doesn’t our love count for anything?” Alma brought the script closer to her eyes and tossed it on the table. “What a load of yeasty balls! Good luck saying these lines, my dear.”

Augusta sighed and reached for the teapot. Alma was right:
Circle of Lies
was melodramatic crap. But it would be award-winning, high-profile crap. Tessa was the role that would catapult her back into the public’s good graces. First, however, she would have to read once again for the producers. The thought made her mouth go dry. It had been so long since she’d had to prove her mettle; what if her mettle had fled?

She shook her head, banishing the thought. “More tea?” She filled Alma’s cup from a pot she’d found at the back of the cupboard, rinsing the dust away with hot water. Her flat was filled with tea. When she was a child, her mother had to choose between only two brands of tea, Typhoo and PG tips. It was all orange pekoe, builder’s tea. Now the shops were filled with dozens of blends, a jungle of fruity and minty flavours.

She longed for a real drink but for the past three days she’d kept the longing in check. When she wanted to reach for a glass, she picked up the script instead. When she felt the storm of recriminations and guilt brewing inside her, she took a Percocet, and all was calm again. When Charles’s pale face rose in front of her, aghast, she shut her eyes.

The doorbell rang. Augusta peered through the peephole even though she knew who it was.

“Darling,” she said, as Frances came in. “You are punctuality itself.” The girl looked exhilarated, as if she’d drawn energy from the air of California. The trip that had nearly killed Augusta had restored Frances’s zing. Just as she’d promised.

“You look like a woman who could use some tea,” Augusta said, and Frances raised an eyebrow at the pot. “Yes,” said Augusta drily. “Actual tea.”

Alma rose from her seat, balancing with one shaky hand on the table. Augusta took her other arm and drew her close. “Alma Partridge,” she said, “please meet Frances Bleeker.”

The young woman held out a hand: “It’s lovely to meet you finally. Augusta has told me so much about you. Her old friend.” Frances turned red as soon as the words left her mouth. “Not that I meant old —”

“And you are the new friend,” Alma said, taking her hand. “Not an easy task. I congratulate you on surviving.”

“I’m not actually Helen Keller,” said Augusta. “I can hear you.”

Her neck gave a twinge, and she put a hand up to it. She needed a Percocet. Before she could excuse herself, Frances placed an envelope on the table. “The outline for the next six chapters,” she said. “Overcoming Despair, Dull Dinner Parties, Unwelcome Advances, Bad Haircuts, Fabric Stains, and Heartbreak.”

“The totality of life,” Alma marvelled. “I should have placed them in exactly that order.”

“Thank you, darling,” said Augusta. “I look forward to writing more of . . .” Her hand flapped in the air.

“
Deep-End Diva
,” Frances finished.

“Precisely. I do appreciate that you’re doing so much of the dreary shovelling, Frances. I’ll be toiling with you as soon as I’ve finished work on
Circle of Lies
.” Saying the title made it seem real, an apparition that wouldn’t fade with dawn.

The girl picked up her tea. “I’m enjoying the writing, weirdly enough. I think perhaps I was meant to be a ghost.”

Augusta slid a hand onto Frances’s shoulder, patting awkwardly. A strand of dark hair had escaped from her ponytail, and Augusta had the sudden urge to tuck it in.

Her
Circle of Lies
script sat on the table, thick with notes. On each page Augusta had tried to mine some nugget that would illuminate Tessa’s character. Its front cover was worn where she’d clenched it.

“You’ll both remember the audition?” Augusta forced a note of confidence into her voice. “My two-person fan club?”

“Alma will pick you up in a minicab,” said Frances. “And I’ll meet you at the studio. I have it written down.” She stood up, smoothing her denim skirt and wobbling ever so slightly on wedge-heeled sandals. For the first time, Augusta noticed, she’d made an effort to look smart. No, not smart — sexy. Gold hoops at her ears, a touch of lip gloss on her nervous smile.

“I’ll see you both on Thursday,” Frances said. “Lovely to meet you, Alma.”

Suddenly Augusta didn’t want to see her go. “You can stay for supper, if you’d like. Alma and I are going to Camden for a spot of rat kebab.”

“I can’t,” said Frances. “I’ve got a date.” She reached out impulsively and took Augusta’s recoiling body in her arms. It was like a hug you give the dying, Augusta thought. “Don’t worry,” Frances whispered into Augusta’s ear. “Everything will be fine.”

forty-two

“This,” said Stanley, “is pretty much
The Economist
of feline periodicals.”

Frances brought the candle closer to the centre of the table to peer at the magazine. A tabby with green eyes stared at her with its species’ singular blend of malevolence and self-belief.

“Look at the cover lines. They’re doing some good work. There’s a story about the crap hygiene in rescue centres. And here —” He flipped through the glossy pages, past adverts for flea drops and toy mice. “I’ve never read better reporting on feline herpes.”

Frances stared at him, her lips twitching. He leaned back in his chair, flinging the magazine onto the table. “Fuck me,” he said. “I’m actually considering becoming editor of
Caring Cat Monthly
.” He slumped in his chair. “I’m a cat hack.”

Frances smiled at him, an idiotic grin that reflected neither of their realities. Sitting here with him in a little tapas restaurant in Marylebone filled her with an unfamiliar joy. He looked exhausted, but somehow lighter, as if losing his job had removed a heavy weight.

“It could be worse,” Frances said. “You could be ghost-writing a self-help book for a pickled actress. For very little money.”

“Is it as bad as that?”

Frances remembered the sharp stab of terror she’d felt when she saw Augusta crumpled on the floor of the bar. “No, not really. There’s something quite endearing about pickled actresses.” She poked at the
patatas bravas
on her plate. “It’s not her I’m worried about. It’s me. Where I go from here.” She looked up at him, forcing a smile, and noticed that he’d missed his usual small patch of stubble while shaving. Before she could stop herself, she reached out and brushed his cheek, a fleeting touch. He caught her fingers and held them.

“You mustn’t worry,” he said. “I know it seems grim. I know it seems like the slough of despond, but —”

“At least it’s not Slough.”

“Yes.” He let go of her hand to fill her wine glass. “You’re going to be fine, Frances. You’ve still got plenty of good years ahead of you.”

Count to ten
, Frances thought and closed her eyes.
Count to ten thousand. You are neither going to hit him nor cry.

“Stanley,” she said after a minute.

“I’ve said the wrong thing again, haven’t I?”

After dinner they began walking up Marylebone High Street, into a biting wind. Stanley’s trench coat flapped behind him, and Frances tugged her jacket tightly around her.

“What I was trying to say before, quite badly, is that you have your whole future in front of you.” Stanley stopped and looked down at her. He swung his hand toward her, palm up, and Frances realized he wanted her to take it. Without a word, she slipped her hand in his.

The moon came and went with the clouds. Stanley’s palm was warm and dry against hers, a small point of contact that sent all of her dials spinning. Her shoulder bumped against his as he stopped by the wrought iron gates of
St. Marylebone Parish Church. A collection of ancient headstones jutted from the grass in front of its walls.

“They all survived,” Frances said, pointing at the graves.

“Until they didn’t.”

“The point is, they did survive. Cholera and tuberculosis and worse. Worse than anything we’ve had.” She turned to him, but his face was lost in shadow. “Lift me up.”

“What?”

“Lift me over this fence. We’re going in. Let’s see how long those poor bastards lasted. That should cheer us up.”

“You’re daft,” he said, but she could hear something else in his voice. Admiration? Surprise? Frances lifted one leg toward him, her skirt falling back. He took a half-step toward her, his hand under her leg. One thumb traced the swell of her thigh, and she heard him say, “Frances . . .”

“Leg up,” she whispered. “And I’ll meet you in the graveyard.”

Stanley braced himself and thrust her upward. She grasped the spikes at the top of the gate and moved to —

“Everything all right here, Miss?”

They froze. Stanley’s hand was lost under her skirt, her leg halfway up the fence. Slowly, they both turned to find a policeman staring at them, unamused.

He said again, “You all right, miss?” Frances sank back down the fence till both feet were on the ground.

“Does it look like she’s being assaulted?” Stanley had moved away from the fence and now stood glowering at the cop. She put a hand on his arm.

“I wasn’t talking to you, sir. Miss?”

“I’m fine, officer, thank you. We just decided to go for a walk and . . .” She aimed for a girlish giggle. “Well, the church is so pretty. I was hoping to see it up close.”

For a moment the cop peered at Stanley’s face, which had begun to look like a kettle on the boil. Finally he turned to Frances: “That’s fine, miss. I’ll have to ask you to leave the churchyard, please. It’s locked for a reason. You can come back in the morning.”

“Have a good night, officer.”

“And you as well, miss.” He turned to Stanley with an expression of barely controlled distaste. “Sir.”

They watched him head south down Marylebone High Street, occasionally peering into parked cars as he went.

She tried to tug Stanley away, but he resisted. “What the fuck was that about? He thought I was an old perv, didn’t he?” He stared off at the policeman’s retreating back and yelled: “It’s my hair. It’s PREMATURE!”

With that, Frances was lost. She bent double with laughter, wheezing. Every time she tried to catch her breath, the absurdity hit her again and she started shaking.

“It’s not nice laughing at an old man,” Stanley said gravely.

“You’re right. I might have given you a coronary.” Frances was still wheezing, and she turned to him, grabbing the lapels of his coat to steady herself.
Take the hint
, she thought.
For once, take the hint
. For once, he did.

He brushed the back of his hand across her face and bent toward her. It was as if her strings had been cut. She felt the buckle of his belt scrape against her belly, tasted salt and wine as he kissed her. She pulled his head down so she could press her lips to the small unshaven patch at the curve of his jaw.