Darling Sweetheart (28 page)

‘What happened to the toy?’

‘The toy? I told her to get rid of it.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re leaping ahead here slightly; you must understand, I spent a lot of time with the patient after we found her. I booked into a hotel and conducted two lengthy sessions a day for over a week, at considerable inconvenience to myself and my other patients here in London, I might add. At first, she would only talk to me through the toy, using its personality to make a mockery of my questioning. But then Sylvia attended a session and the patient broke down – she was still traumatised by her father’s death. Gradually, I was then able to adopt what I call the
Corinthian approach,’ and here Passmore allowed himself a smile, ‘you know, “when I was a child I spoke as a child, but then I put away childish things”. The patient needed to see herself as a woman, not as a child. I felt that setting the toy aside was essential for her recovery. My approach seemed to work; when she arrived for her final session, she told me that she had burned the toy.’

‘So she was cured?’

‘I believed her to be on a recovery path. I returned to London, and Sylvia followed a week or so later, bringing the patient with her.’

‘Did you prescribe an anti-psychotic? Chlorpromazine? Perphenazine, perhaps?’

‘I wanted to, but Sylvia wouldn’t let me.’

‘So… I am puzzled. Why do you ask me to study this case, doctor? Is this a test for me?’

Passmore ran his hand through his hair, abruptly pulled it away, then slumped in his chair.

‘No,’ he sighed. ‘All this happened eight years ago. As far as I was concerned, the case was closed. But the patient is downstairs at this very moment, waiting to see me. She rang me yesterday afternoon in an agitated state.’ Lutze, he noted with some satisfaction, had turned pale. ‘She says she’s hearing voices. She’s about the same age as you, so I want you to sit in on the consultation and give me a second opinion: is the patient just suffering from stress or is something else amiss?’

‘But I cannot!’

‘Karla – ours is a life devoted to helping people. I shall request her consent, of course, but I don’t think that will be a problem.’ He lifted his telephone. ‘Ellen – send Miss Palatine up, please.’

Lutze blinked behind her beer-mug glasses. Hurriedly, she closed the file on her lap, cleared her throat and turned her notebook to a clean page. The surgery door opened and Annalise entered.

‘Annalise! How are you?’ Passmore came around his desk, embraced her and, Lutze observed, pecked her on both cheeks, before showing her to a suite of sofas on the far side of the room, ‘I’d like you to meet Karla Lutze, a very brilliant student of mine. She is bound by the same rules of confidentiality as I am. Subject to your agreement, I should like her to observe our conversation; I think an extra perspective might prove useful.’

It seemed to Lutze that Palatine nodded only reluctantly; Passmore was being unprofessional by springing such a request on her. She made a written note to that effect, in German.

‘Wonderful to see you again,’ Passmore purred, ‘in the flesh as it were. I’ve been to every one of your films, so I’ve actually seen quite a lot of you. How is your mother?’

‘She died six years ago.’

‘Oh dear. I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t–’

‘It’s all right, you weren’t to know.’

‘So even before Sylvia…?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I saw you at Sylvia’s funeral, and you didn’t… I mean, you–’

‘It didn’t seem like the right time to mention it.’

‘No, no. I suppose that funerals are not good places to talk about death. Well, belated condolences. I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So,’ he opened his own notebook, ‘you’re working at the moment?’ She nodded again. ‘And how is that going for you?’

‘It’s not been easy.’ Her voice fell almost to a whisper.

‘Stressful, eh?’

‘I heard him. I even saw him.’

‘Saw… who?’

‘In the bathroom mirror. Things have been… difficult, lately. First I couldn’t find Roselaine, then there’s been the newspapers.’

‘Mmm, I had noticed, but who did you–’

‘They started printing all this rubbish about me and Harry, now they’re on about me and Jimmy, but really none of it has anything to do with me.’

‘Err… slow down, Annalise. I’d like to start with hearing about your life at present. For one so young, you’ve suffered a lot of loss, but just because you’re here with me today, doesn’t mean that you’re unwell again. When the mind is preoccupied or when we are tired, we can see and hear all sorts of things that–’

‘It’s not stress,’ she interrupted, pale but emphatic. ‘I know the difference.’

‘Hmm. We can be stressed without realising it. You’re in the middle of making a film, aren’t you? That could be stressful. You mentioned the name “Harry” – that’s Harry Emerson, I take it? It’s supposed to be a happy time, but if you two are getting married, then that could be stressful too. Getting married is the fourth most stressful experience you can endure, after bereavement, going bankrupt or getting divorced…’

She burst into tears.

Alarmed, Passmore passed her a box of tissues. They were the heaviest yet the softest tissues that Annalise had ever touched; cold, almost like holding water. A strangely detached part of her thought how important it must be for a psychiatrist to have the very best tissues. She dabbed at her eyes.

‘Sorry… I’m sorry. But I’m here because I
did
hear him and I
did
see him.’

‘Who?’

‘F…Froggy.’

Passmore’s voice lowered. ‘But we both know that isn’t possible, now don’t we? So what we really need to do is to talk about a few of the things that might be causing you some degree of–’

Abruptly, she stood up. ‘Thanks.’

‘Excuse me?’ He looked up at her agape, as she dropped her used tissue into his wastepaper basket.

‘You’ve been very helpful, doctor.’

‘Have
I?’

‘Yes.’ She started towards the door. ‘Now I know what I need to do.’

‘My dearest Annalise, what you need to do is sit back down so as we can discuss your problems!’

‘Thanks for your time. Send me the bill.’

‘But we haven’t–’

‘Goodbye.’ With the barest of nods towards Lutze, she walked out the door.

‘Annalise!’

Passmore jumped off his sofa and peered out the window. Moments later, Annalise emerged onto the pavement and hurried off towards Marylebone Road.

‘Well!’ he breathed, turning to his intern. ‘That was the shortest consultation I’ve had in quite a while! Actresses, eh?’ Lutze made a note in German that, for a top psychiatrist, Passmore was a very poor listener, then clicked her pen and replaced it in her breast pocket. ‘So tell me,’ he tried to look self-important, ‘what do you think?’

Lutze handed him the file but retained her notebook. Then, she too moved to the door.

‘I think that Miss Palatine is suffering from more than just stress, but what else, it is difficult to say…’

Passmore rubbed his hands together. ‘Which is why I should very much like you to join me for dinner tonight, to discuss her case further. It shall be my treat!’

Lutze smiled. ‘I am sorry, doctor, but tonight my boyfriend arrives from Berlin,’ she opened the door, ‘and, anyway, I do not think perhaps that dinner would be appropriate.’ She closed the door behind her. Passmore harrumphed. Young people, he thought. You do them all sorts of favours, but they’re never grateful. Such a vexing day; he wondered if a bit of light relief might be in order, on his way home. Something to take his mind off work…

Annalise walked to Regent’s Park underground station and travelled two stops south to Picadilly Circus, where she had to wait ten minutes for the next westbound train to Heathrow. She sat on a plastic seat and hid behind a free newspaper, but no one recognised her in the constantly chaotic stream of tourists. She felt tired from her sleepless night and long walk. Once aboard the train, she stared at her flickering reflection in the window opposite. It stared impassively back until the tunnels ended and the journey continued overland. At the airport, she used her credit card to buy a ticket and then four hundred euros from a bureau de change. For about an hour, she hid in the darkest corner of the quietest coffee-shop in Terminal 1. When she passed through security, one of the guards recognised her and made a big joke out of getting her to take her boots and belt off, so as he could give her a good look over then tell his mates about that tasty, young actress, whatsername. But she didn’t react in any way and boarded the flight without further incident. By the time it took off, she had fallen asleep.

Sylvia’s flat was more like an art gallery than a proper home. Every room had white-painted walls and the floor was parquet throughout. And every room housed several paintings that Annalise, not being a connoisseur, did not realise were actually quite rare and valuable until after Sylvia died. There was a Henri-Edmond Cross, a Robert Delauny and even a Mondrian. But the atmosphere, if spartan, was also very calm. And compared to Whin Abbey, it was paradise, because at least Sylvia fed her. For about a month, Annalise did nothing except eat and sleep.

She forced herself to stop thinking about her father, because those thoughts were just too painful. Her mother had not seemed bothered by her departure and, although Annalise was glad to escape Whin Abbey, a part of her felt guilty about leaving the woman on her own. She felt even more guilt about what
she had done to Froggy, but that Passmore man, the psychiatrist, had left her with no choice. Behind Sylvia’s back, during one of his God-awful sessions, he had threatened to have Annalise committed to a mental hospital if she didn’t dispose of Froggy, and the only thing worse than staying at home with mother was the idea of being sent to a mental hospital.

Sylvia’s flat, for all its tranquillity, was located in one of the busiest parts of central London, right next to Covent Garden underground station, opposite the Nag’s Head pub. Because it was on the second storey, passers-by never noticed it, so Annalise could smoke cigarettes and spy on the world from the safety of her bedroom window. She watched the street performers, and when she knew all their acts off by heart, she watched the tourists watching them. She watched the drinkers outside the pub, which was always crowded. Eventually, she developed a game, centred on the people who stood around the underground, waiting for their dates to show up. Judging by the person who was waiting, she would try to guess what their date would look like. Would they be male or female; young or old; striking or ordinary; the same colour or not; openly gay or apparently straight? She even took to sitting with a pen and paper, awarding herself points when she guessed right and subtracting them when she was wrong. She was usually right but loved being wrong. Sometimes a couple would be so mismatched that she would let her imagination follow them, creating little back-stories for their lives, envisaging their eventual destination.

Mostly, she pictured them going for dinner at Joe Allen, a basement restaurant tucked away at the far side of Covent Garden piazza. Because it was just a door in a wall, the tourists rarely found Joe Allen; rather it was frequented by actors, experienced theatre-goers and media types. With its American-style wood panels plastered with photos and theatre programmes, it seemed the perfect place for odd couples to hide. She and Sylvia were the definitive odd couple; Annalise knew about Joe Allen
because Sylvia brought her to eat there every day before the rush started. Her flat had a good-sized kitchen, but she never used it. Back in the seventies, she explained, she’d been a regular in the original Joe Allen off Broadway in New York, because it was cheap but served a proper meal.

Once over dinner, Annalise told Sylvia what all the students at Broken Cross had said about her: that she was a Russian émigré who had trained at the Bolshoi. Sylvia, who always ate sparingly from the seafood menu, laughed and explained that, no, although her parents had been Polish – her birth name was Jachowicz – she had been born and raised about as far from Russia as it was possible to get, in lower Manhattan. There was, however, a tiny grain of truth: she had, indeed, been a child dancer and her father was an exile of sorts. A Hollywood scriptwriter, he had been blacklisted during the anti-Communist witch hunts of the late forties and had ended up scratching a living off Broadway, as well as writing for an upstart medium called television. She herself had started in showbiz at a very early age, as an extra in the original stage production of
The King and I.

‘No,’ Annalise breathed, her fork halfway to her mouth, ‘you shared a stage with Yul Brynner and Gertrude Lawrence?’

Sylvia nodded. ‘I was one of the King of Siam’s children.’

‘But your accent – it’s so English.’

‘Whaddya want, broad Noo Yawk?’ she asked in broad New York, ‘or per’aps madame would prefer
l’accent Parisienne?’
She shrugged. ‘One does elocuted English,’ she returned to her habitual tone, ‘because in this country, with its ridiculous class snobbery, it makes life run more smoothly. When I was six, I kept a Louisiana accent up for nearly a year, almost drove my poor momma crazy.’

‘But why don’t you still… you know…’

‘Act?

‘Yes.’

‘Heart.’ Sylvia’s little alabaster hand touched her chest. ‘A year into
The King and I
, Gertrude Lawrence died…’

‘Oh…’

‘… and two weeks after her funeral, I collapsed on stage – everyone thought I had fainted. But in hospital, they found so many heart defects that the doctors said it was a miracle I’d made it that far. A hole between the ventricles, malformed valves; you name it, I got it.’

‘But that’s awful!’

‘I know,’ she grinned, lapsing back into New York-ese, ‘ya’d never think ta look at me, huh?’

‘So what did you do?’

Sylvia shrugged. ‘What could I do? I had an incredible taste for it, but the doctors forbade long periods of exertion. They told my mother I definitely wouldn’t live past thirteen – that was fifty-seven years ago. So I did the next best thing: I became an assistant to a casting director, a very great woman called Marianne Donnelly, who’d started out in television and ended up practically running a major film studio. Eventually, I became a casting director myself. Back then, I knew them all: Clint, Burt Reynolds – people forget how big he was – Bronson, Steve McQueen… Ali McGraw, a lovely girl… all the Fondas, William Holden… everyone from that whole era. It’s all gone now, you can only see it on celluloid. The movie business isn’t the same any more – it’s run by bean-counters who wouldn’t know a good story if it bit them on the ass.’