Going Home (12 page)

The awful thing was that as most of my family had no idea what was going on, it felt remarkably as though we were in semi-freefall. Mike and Rosalie were back in New York, having had some row with Dad and Mum about selling the house before they left that neither side would talk about. I’d tried to get Mum to tell me to no avail, and Mike was impossible to get hold of. Tom was working hard and wouldn’t return my calls. Jess had sliced off the top of her little finger on New Year’s Day. She’d kept it in a bag for a while – it was like a tiny fleshy hat. She said it was Art. Mum said it was a bit of finger in a bag.

The only good thing was that I thought less about David. Before Christmas I’d tried so hard to push him to the back of my mind and all of this made it easier.

Actually, there was one other good thing, much more important than that. Chin and Gibbo were engaged. I kept forgetting about it, then suddenly remembering that my aunt was marrying a lanky carpenter with matted hair. The wedding was in a few months’ time, and they were both delirious about it. So it was dead nice at the moment being friends with a crazy Californian who made me do gentle cleansing yoga, brought me bamboo shoots and took me to see soporific Japanese films or jive dancing at a fifties club near the Brockwell Lido. Especially when he was coming in for a meeting today where we had to act like nothing was going on.

They were due at five o’clock. My assistant Marie had gone out and bought some lovely biscuits from the cake shop down the road. I always forget it is deeply naff to be seen eating biscuits in a high-level meeting.

‘They’re here,’ Marie said, as she appeared in the doorway of the meeting room where Ash, Lily and I had gathered in the late afternoon. Ash was contemplating himself in the
huge antique gilded mirror, licking his fingers and smoothing down his trendy sideburns. I tried not to be irritated by this. Ash is annoying in many ways but he’s flacking good at what he does. Lily, who oversees the UK films in development, is a mad small Rottweiler with crazy curly hair. She was pacing up and down, brown eyes snapping, gearing herself up for a fight with Fran.

‘Can you go and get them from Reception, Marie?’ I asked. ‘Thanks.’

‘Late, I suppose,’ said Lily, glancing at her watch. ‘Yup. Three minutes. Tih. Pick. Al.’ She resumed pacing until Ash got her to sit down.

A lot of this stage of the development of a film, I’ve discovered, is about placating egos and compromise. It’s a huge waste of time. That is why so many terrible films get made – because no one’s in charge of the original reason why someone loved a script, an idea or a book. It is diluted by an actor who won’t fly, so the Second World War RAF film becomes about a navy SEAL, in Iraq filmed in the Nevada desert; or a producer who likes big boobs, so a comedy-drama about a small town in Vermont turns into a flesh flick about a stripper who liberates a repressed community through lap-dancing; or, in the case of
Big Yellow Taxi
, the head of the UK office hates the US producer because Miss UK was shagging her boyfriend one night and he yelled out Miss US’s name. Aha.

As the voices along the corridor grew louder and nearer, I gripped the edge of the carved wooden chair, and realized my hands were slimy with sweat. This meeting had to go well – it just
had
to. Otherwise…I might as well give up.

‘Here they are,’ Marie said brightly. Fran and Jaden walked in, Fran dressed from head to toe in black, and Jaden in black with a frivolous touch of dark khaki about
the trousers. Fran slammed her sunglasses on to the desk and sat down, not making eye-contact. Jaden sat beside her and touched his tongue to his top lip as he looked at me. Oh honestly, I thought, feeling momentarily turned on, but more like a Girl Guide leader and wanted to say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ which gave me strength.

‘Fran, you know Lily?’ I said, playing dumb.

‘Yuh.’

‘And this is Ash Ghosh. You met last year.’

‘Yuh.’ The claw-like fingers tightened round the sunglasses.

‘And, Lily, Ash, you know Fran and Jaden, of course.’

‘Yep,’ said Lily, sitting opposite Fran and bitch-staring her.

‘Er…yes,’ said Ash, smiling at Jaden, then settling back in his chair.

‘Tea, coffee?’ I said brightly to the Americans, like an air-hostess at the beginning of a long-haul flight.

‘Black coffee,’ said Fran.

Lily glared at her again.

Ash said, ‘I’d love a tea, please. And, Jaden, what is it that you want?’ And he smiled at me evilly again.

I made a mental note to devote my life after this meeting to ensuring that Ash went to the sixth circle of hell.

Someone cleared their throat.

‘Lizzy, do you have any ginseng?’ Jaden asked.

‘No, just tea or coffee, Jaden.’

‘No hot water with a slice of lemon?’

‘No.’

‘Just hot water?’

‘No!’ I said, much louder than I’d intended. ‘I can get you a glass of tap water, but other than that, decide if you want tea or a bloody coffee and let’s get on with it, shall we?’

Four heads snapped up in shock.

‘OK, then,’ Jaden said, nodding sagely. Fran gazed at me as if to say, Hey, lady, you’re not the pathetic sap I thought you were. And thus I will now take real pleasure in pulling you to pieces.

‘Right,’ I said, gulping and gritting my teeth, which is hard to do at the same time. ‘Let’s press on.’

There is a me who sits in meetings and makes conference calls and sends on average thirty-seven emails a day (so our IT department tells me, though I’d bet roughly 97 per cent of them are to Georgy and Tom), and there is also a me who lives at Keeper House and lies on the sofa in the side-room reading and eating biscuits, going for a walk if it’s summer, throwing another log on to the fire if it’s winter.

Sometimes, when I’m struggling on to a bus on my way home or waiting despondently in an endless queue at Prêt à Manger with my pathetic tomato and Brie baguette in my hand, I realize I could be at home in three hours if I jumped off the bus, or ran out of Prêt. I torture myself with imagine-if: just one more night at Keeper House without the executioner’s axe hanging over us; just one more day of freedom before the Christmas that changed everything.

But real life isn’t like that. And when these feelings of yearning washed over me I’d remind myself that I was twenty-eight and should get a grip. Also, that if I went home to live with Mum and Dad I’d be a twenty-eight-year-old who lived at home with her mother and father doing…well,
not very much. I’d be a societal drop-out. Georgy and Victoria would sigh into their gin and tonic and say, ‘Of course I miss her, but she’d become so weird it’s probably best she went into retreat never to be seen again by the general public.’

And David would murmur to Miles next time he was over, ‘I always knew she’d been left out in the sun too long as a child.’

It was this train of thought that got me through the day. I am, like most of my family, much given to amateur dramatics, but we are pragmatists, and after a while that takes over. It was ever so, and it was so at the meeting, where I eventually assumed some kind of control and began the tricky business of untangling the mess that the project had become.

To do them justice Lily and Ash make a great team and when Marie had dispensed tea, coffee and water, I outlined some of our concerns to Fran and Jaden. Lily and Ash backed me up, he playing good cop, she bad, a role she relishes with Fran. Alas, after ten minutes, the tension in the air was not so much palpable as taking human shape. And Jaden had contributed absolutely nothing. Lily was looking at him with disdain, and Ash was casting me pitying glances: Lizzy’s new shag is made of balsa-wood, Oh dear. Jaden sat there and smiled, sipping his water, oblivious to the hostility. I could have killed him. Problems with the central character? He said nothing. No one liking the final setpiece? He was silent. Dialogue slow and stilted? He raised an eyebrow but remained mute.

‘But I don’t understand,’ Fran said finally. ‘It’s called
Big Yellow Taxi.
How the hell is it going to work if there ain’t a yellow taxi in it?’

‘The taxi’s a symbol,’ said Ash, smiling at her. ‘We don’t need it to keep the magic of the story – this wonderful story.’

‘Yeah, but lose the taxi,’ muttered Lily, swinging her feet so they hit the table legs.

‘Hey.’ Fran pointed at Lily. ‘You’re not working with us. Listen to me. How can you have a film called
Big Frigging Yellow Taxi
when there’s no taxis in it and you want to make the central character a waiter, not a taxi driver? Lily, you gotta use your head, OK?’

‘Paul hates the title too,’ said Lily, quietly, producing her trump card.

‘How do you know?’ Fran snapped.

‘I spoke to him earlier about the V and A party and I asked him then,’ Lily hissed.

‘What’s the Vee ‘n’ Eh party?’ Fran snarled.

‘It’s the première for
Always and Forever
in March at the Victoria and Albert Museum,’ Ash interjected. ‘It’s a bit of a Monumental shindig, state-of-the-nation kind of party. You’ve been sent an invitation, Fran.’

‘I’d better have, honey.’ Her tone was glacial. ‘Well, I’m seeing Paul in New York next week and I’ll be discussing this with him then, you can bet your bottom dollar.’

There was a pause. Paul was our managing director. Lily pointed at Fran, in a splendidly symbolic but otherwise useless gesture, and slid back in her seat, as if to say, ‘I’ve won.’ I looked at the ceiling. The title had been Fran’s idea. Of course Lily’s always hated it. Oh, Jeez. I chewed my pen and cast around for an idea. Suddenly, for no reason, a picture of Mike trying to walk up the wall of the side-room last Christmas and falling over popped into my mind. I smiled to myself and willed the image away. I looked up, tears welling, and caught Jaden’s eye.

‘Well,’ I croaked. Lily and Ash looked at me in horror as the pause bloomed into an awkward silence. Shit! Shit! Say something – anything.

And then a voice in the corner spoke: ‘Why don’t we just change the title?’

‘Whaddya mean, Jaden?’ said Fran suspiciously. ‘Don’t you like it?’

Lily stared at Jaden, mistrust writ large across her face. ‘It’s about more than just the title, Jaden. I think we’re all looking at this film in totally different ways. Perhaps…’

Jaden smiled at her, and loosened his tie. ‘I love the title, Fran, but I accept that the rewrites I’ve done mean this isn’t the script we started with. What a great title. And what a great idea. Perhaps they’re not coming together properly yet. I take responsibility for that. But, my gosh, this is an exciting project and I’m so pleased to get feedback from you guys. Ash – thanks a lot. You’re right about the scene in Piccadilly Circus with the thousand white doves. Perhaps it would be hard to film. And, Lily, I’m really interested in your ideas about the interplay between the Iranian bookseller and the gay policeman. Can I run a couple of things past you when I’ve thought about it some more?’

Lily was dazzled by the guileless face before her, smiling with such charm. ‘Yes…yes, of course you can.’

Jaden clenched his lips and his fist briefly at her, in a show of mutual bonding and support. He turned to Fran. ‘And, Fran, I think these guys are so right. I can tell you do too. This film isn’t about a yellow taxi in London, is it? It’s about people. People who need…people. Outsiders, lonely people, a big city, you know, the idea that there really is…well, someone out there for everyone. We need each other. Heck, even the five of us round this table! God, I love this idea so much, Fran. Remind us how you came up with it again?’

Fran looked up into Jaden’s blue eyes. ‘Oh, gad, I’m so embarrassed. It’s a long story.’

‘I didn’t realize this was your idea, Fran?’ said Lily, with something akin to interest.

‘Oh, it’s no big deal. Just a passion I’ve always had.’

‘No big deal? Fran, you’re being modest again,’ said Jaden.

Fran smiled.

Lily smiled at her.

Ash smiled at Jaden.

And Jaden…Jaden smiled at me.

And I grinned back, captivated once again by this strange, but really rather great man. ‘Right, then,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘Back to business. Jaden, why don’t you talk us through some of the new ideas you’ve had for the reunion scene in the railway station at the end?’

It was almost seven when the meeting ended. Lily and Ash accompanied Fran out. She pointed at me as they stood on either side of her. ‘Hey,’ she growled.

‘Yes?’ I said, leaping in alarm.

‘I like you. You should go to LA.’ And with that gnomic utterance, she walked through the door.

‘OK, crazy lady,’ I said to myself, and finished stacking the cups. I went back to my office to flick through the notes I’d made. The sound of laughter echoed down the corridor. I was scribbling something when the light from the internal window darkened suddenly. I looked up. There was Jaden. ‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hi,’ he said cheerily. He came over and took my hand. The pen dropped to the floor. He pulled me up so we were facing each other.

‘You were great,’ I said bashfully.

Jaden kissed the back of my hand, turned it over and kissed the palm. ‘Fran loves you, you know. Well, she’s right. You’re quite something, Lizzy Walter,’ he said, slid his hand round my neck, pulled me to him and kissed me.

I was glad to hear it, but I couldn’t agree. My contribution to the meeting had been zip, and I couldn’t help thinking, fleetingly, that if I wasn’t sleeping with Jaden, he wouldn’t have helped me out. God. Was I being rewarded for being great in the sack? But Jaden was a great kisser, so I surrendered to it and stopped worrying about it and even whether anyone could see us.

The phone rang, right by my thigh, and I jumped. Jaden moved his arm round my waist and kissed me again. ‘I’d better get that,’ I murmured.

‘Forget it,’ said Jaden. ‘Let go. What are you doing later, QE Three?’ He kissed me again.

‘No, I must get it,’ I said suddenly, and pushed him away. He sat in my chair and watched me. I leaned against the desk and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ I said, smoothing down my skirt. There was a pause. I could hear the
Archers
’ theme tune playing in the background.

‘Oh, hello, darling, it’s Mum.’

‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, collecting papers on my desk and shuffling them into a nice organized rectangle. Jaden tapped his watch. ‘How are you?’

There was a low grumbling sound in the background at the other end of the line.

‘Amontillado, thanks, darling,’ said Mum. ‘Sorry, that was your father. Look, I can’t speak for long. Shula’s about to tell Jack Woolley the truth about Pru Forrester.’

‘What?’ I said. There was a chiming sound, which I knew was Dad handing Mum her sherry and clinking her glass against his. I could picture them now, in the sitting room, Mum in her chair by the fire, next to the radio, the sharp smell of woodsmoke mixing with the faint scent from the bowl of lavender on the bookcase, next to the photo of little Jess, tanned and scratched, sitting in the treehouse she’d made on holiday in Norfolk when she was seven. I could
see it all, like the words on the page of a well-worn book, and my heart clenched.

‘Some good news. Or bad news. Both, really.’ There was a pause as Mum took a sip of her drink. ‘Darling, the Caldwells came to look at the house again today. They’ve offered – five grand over the asking price. So we’ve accepted. Keeper House is sold.’

It was bitterly cold when I left work that evening. I’d packed Jaden off in a cab, persuading him I was fine. It was to his credit that he didn’t believe me but he knew I wanted to be alone. I walked out on to the street. The pavement had been gritted that evening and my shoes crunched as I passed the smoky, brown-tiled pub where some of my friends from work were gathered. As I peered through the window I caught sight of Ash waving his arms around, as Sally and Jon laughed at him. Jon half turned to look in my direction, and I shrank back so they wouldn’t see me and yell for me to come in. I scurried past the tiny French café, where I often got my lunchtime sandwich. The wooden chairs were folded up and chained to the painted green railings outside.

When I got to Luigi’s, the Italian deli, I stopped and stared aimlessly in the window. I couldn’t be bothered to walk to the bus stop: I just wanted to curl up and fall asleep under the chocolates and the coloured twists of paper, then go back to the office early tomorrow, rather than think about everything else. I gazed in at the sides of marbled, burgundy meat, the cheeses piled beneath the counter, the jars of artichoke hearts and oily, sun-dried tomatoes for what seemed like ages before I noticed that the shop was still open. I wandered in.

‘Good evening, signorina,’ said Luigi, behind the counter.

‘Hello,’ I said, picked up a focaccia and some pasta and handed them to him. I stared at the painted green, white
and red Italian flag above the chalk board over his head as he sliced some ham for me.

‘
Uno momento, signorina
,’ he said suddenly, left the guillotine, and disappeared into the back of the shop. I heard loud shouting between him and another man. I gazed about me listlessly. Something in the corner of the shop caught my eye and I turned towards it: thick, creamy daffodils, their centres a pale, sunny yellow, their petals bursting open in an old blue and white enamelled bucket. I gathered up three bunches and put them on the counter as Luigi emerged.

‘
Mi dispiace, Signorina
,’ he said, wiping his forehead on his apron. ‘My son. He is so rude, so rude. All day he lie and play guitar. He hate the cold, he no like winter, he will not get a job. What is the world coming to? Do you know?’

‘Absolutely no idea,’ I answered truthfully. ‘These daffodils are beautiful, I haven’t seen any yet this year.’

‘They are the first we have,’ Luigi said, wrapping the prosciutto in thick, waxy paper. ‘Look outside you. Is dark, is oh-so-cold. But spring is coming, and then it will be summer – ah, the sun on my head, after these months!’

‘Ye-es,’ I said slowly. ‘Spring is coming.’ My heart lifted.

‘And then all this is over, no more winter. There you go, my darling,
grazie
,
grazie mille
,
ciao.
’

I swung out of the shop with my flowers and the parcels of food in a little brown paper bag, and carried on walking, turning the same thoughts over in my head.

Spring would be here soon, then summer, then it was all over. Finished.

The boiler, which had been threatening to go on strike since before Christmas, packed up when I got home. It greeted me with a thuggish clunk, whirred plaintively, then lapsed into silence. Yes, I thought, as I stood in the freezing cold kitchen, holding my hands over the kettle as I waited
for it to boil, I would be glad when winter was over, and now we knew the house was sold and that everything was changing, everything would be much simpler.

I made a vow, as I crawled into bed wrapped in four jumpers, clutching a hot-water bottle. I’d go back in May for the wedding, but that was it. Not before then and not after. My dreams of running away back home had to be over,
kaput.

So I didn’t go back to Keeper House that weekend for Dad’s birthday, as I was supposed to. Or the next weekend, when Chin went up to start planning the wedding with Mum. The house was gone, David was gone, Uncle Mike was effectively gone. These were all facts. I didn’t understand them but that was what they were, and imagining dreams you may have on the bus or lying in bed on Saturdays are all rubbish.