London Boulevard (11 page)

“How come this room is so . . . empty?”

“One needs an area of simplicity.”

“You’d have liked prison.”

Then she looked at me, said,

“How the mighty stumble.”

I knew this wasn’t praise. She asked,

“Do you even know the name of this house?”

“Sure . . . the Elms.”

“Its significance?”

“The trees are elms.”

“
Desire Under the Elms
. . . Eugene O’Neill.”

“Irish, was he?”

She gave a snort of derision.

“My finest role. But I shall yet play Electra.”

“You’re planning a comeback?”

“Oh yes, I’ve waited a long time for this. The West End shall hail my return.”

“Why now, Lil?”

Her eyes raged, and she tried to slap my face. I caught her wrist, she spat,

“I’m Lillian Palmer, not some bar hussy.”

I sat up, said,

“Thanks for the fuck.”

She loved that, said,

“Don’t go, let me tell you my grand plan.”

“I’m sure it’s fascinating, but I’m exhausted.”

She got up, put on a robe, said,

“They’ve called me back. Trevor Bailey’s office rang three times.”

“You’ll no doubt tell me who he is.”

“
The
impresario. He’s producing two shows right now. I want you to drive me there tomorrow, we’ll arrive in style.”

She went to the bed and, from underneath, produced a huge volume of papers, said,

“It’s my work. I’ve rewritten Electra to make it more modern.”

“Nice one.”

“I’m giving you the honor of being the first to read it.”

Her expression was one of total seriousness. It was her life in those lousy papers. I said,

“I’d be honored.”

And she handed them over like a baby. She said,

“We’ll do magnificent things, Michael.”

I was on the verge of saying Mitchell, but let it go.

On the way down the stairs, Jordan was gliding up. Not a sound.

We didn’t speak, nor did he even look at me.

Back in my room, I cracked a brewski, tried to read her work.

It was gibberish. I couldn’t follow one single sequence. I slung it on the bed, said,

“Turkey.”

I must have been asleep a few hours when the cell phone went.

Jeez, where was the bloody thing . . . found it, muttered,

“Huh.”

“Are you finished?”

“What?”

“Were you sleeping?”

“Lillian. No, of course not, I was totally engrossed, lost in it.”

I was trying to see the bloody time . . . three fifteen . . . fuck. She said,

“Give me your verdict.”

“A masterpiece.”

“Isn’t it.”

“Oh . . . beyond praise.”

“Shall I come over, read some now?”

“No . . . no . . . let me just wallow in the magic.”

“Good night,
mon cherie
.”

“Right.”

I’ve had lots of worry, fear, anxiety in my time, But that I’d
ever
get to see her perform filled me with outright dread.

NEXT MORNING
I headed for the kitchen. Got some coffee and toast going. Already I had the run of the place. Jordan came in and said,

“There are some suits you’ll need for driving.”

“You have them already?”

Tight smile and said,

“We try to cover contingencies.”

I offered him some coffee. Nope . . . unbending, but he stayed, so I asked,

“Have you heard of Bailey?”

“The theater person?”

I was surprised and said,

“So he does exist?”

“Three times he has phoned for Madam.”

“You spoke to him?”

“I
always
answer the phone.”

I’m on the second toast when he says,

“In regard to Madam’s script, I do hope you haven’t become a critic.”

Steel in his voice, I said,

“No way, pal, I think it’s brilliant.”

“Good. I wouldn’t like Madam to be upset.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Madam wonders if you’re free on Wednesday night.”

“Free?”

“For bridge.”

“Jesus, I don’t play bloody bridge.”

He gave a long breath of patience,

“We don’t expect you to play, merely to accompany Madam when her friends play.”

“Sounds like a gas.”

The suits got left on my bed. Three of them in

black

gray

blue.

I checked the brand: Jermyn Street. Half a dozen white shirts.

I went to the garage, and the Silver Ghost was shining, waxed and polished. Jordan was standing alongside. I whistled in true admiration, said,

“You did some job, pal.”

“Thank you.”

“When did you get the time?”

“Last night when you were reading Madam’s script.”

“Oh.”

“I checked with Mr. Bailey’s office, and they’ll expect you at noon at the Old Vic.”

I went upstairs to shower and get those exercises done. Gonna need to be fit for Madam. In the shower, I went,

“What the hell?”

I noticed deep bite marks on my chest. The bloody bitch bit me. Bridge that, Jordan.

There were some old mags on top of the closet. No, not porn.

Titles like

GQ

Vanity Fair
.

I came across this by Courtney Love:

Fuck all this gender difficulty, fuck all this female experience rage shit. That’s Polly Harvey’s job.

Now if I could just work this into conversation.

IN THE
nick, I came across an old guy who done fifteen hard in Peru. On release, he was deported, and after one week in London he was arrested for robbery. Got seven years.

Said to me,

“I like English prisons, they’re kinda cozy.”

“Yeah, tell that to the queen who got strangled.”

He wasn’t listening, away again on his story. Like this:

“First off they strip you and steal anything you have. Then they’d duck your head in a bucket of cold water, put electric wires on your balls. San Juan de Lurigancho—isn’t that a lovely name? It was run by the inmates. Cells were sold by the prison mafia. Shit and mosquitos everywhere. But worst is the silence. Silence meant all-out gang warfare.”

I could see his point about cozy.

A knock on my door—Jordan.

“Madam is ready.”

He’d brought the car round front. She emerged a few minutes later. Dressed in a white linen suit and a fedora. She looked . . . old. I held the door open for her, then went round to the driver’s side.

Now I know why people who drive them are arrogant. The damn car makes you superior. As we cruised outta there, I said,

“All right?”

She never spoke the whole way. I could care. The car had my total focus. Thing is too, how could you ever drive anything else? I mean, if I was to get behind the wheel of a banged-up Volvo, was I going to think—“Yup, this is good?”

It sure pulls attention. From admiration through amazement to contempt. A lot of young drivers try to cut you up, but it would take more than a Japanese town car. I was beginning to believe you’d need someone riding shotgun.

We got to the Old Vic, and I pulled in to the side. I said,

“I’ll just go and announce you.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The doorman, a young kid, never heard of her, said,

“Never heard of ’er, mate.”

We were arguing when an older man appeared, asked,

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve got Lillian Palmer outside, she’s expecting to see Mr. Bailey.”

His face lit up,

“Lillian Palmer, my God!”

He went to fetch Bailey. The young guy asked,

“What, is she famous, then?”

“We’re about to find out.”

A man came striding out, a gaggle of assistants in tow. He looked like an ironed George C. Scott. He had no riding boots or megaphone, but it looked as if he did. He said,

“I’m Bailey.”

I told him my story, and he shouted,

“This sounds like Philips’s work, get him. Meanwhile, let’s meet Miss Lillian Palmer.”

He sure knew how to work her. Escorted her by her arm into the theater, led her up onto the stage, turned and said,

“Ladies and gentlemen, fellow thespians, I give you the star.”

A spotlight was trained on her, and people flocked round her.

She was transformed, thirty years just vanished from her face. I was thinking,

“Wow, she must have been something.”

Bailey must have read my face, answered,

“She was, and a damned fine actress. Is Jordan still around?”

“Yes, he is.”

“He was married to her, you know. Hell, at some point, most of us were.”

He looked at me, asked,

“Are you drilling there?”

“What?”

“Wouldn’t blame you, buddy, she’s a class act.”

“Did you see her script?”

“At least once a year. Hard to believe it gets worse.”

Bailey had champagne and canapés delivered, and they had them on the stage . . . Philips was finally found, and yes, he had rung three times. They wanted to rent the Ghost for promotion. Bailey said,

“In the end, it’s all car commercials.”

Lillian wasn’t told. They followed us to the car, giving her a wonderful send-off.

She was near delirious with joy, said,

“Did you see . . . did you hear? They loved me! I’m going to regain my place. Pull over someplace. I need you to love me.”

I pulled over near the north side of Hyde Park. Got in the back and did her as if I meant it. When I got out after, two park keepers gave me a round of applause.

It was a day of performances.

T
HURSDAY, BACK TO
the day job. Up on that roof, knocking down stray slates. I’d hear them land on the patio, break like glass. If I were fanciful, I’d say like dreams, but they were only worn slates. Madam was on the phone all day, ordering new clothes, the hairdresser, cooing to her friends. I’d yet to meet any of those but figured “bridge night” would answer that.

Come evening, I was showering and resolving I’d get takeout fish and chips and read Edward Bunker. I was holding the new Pelecanos as a special treat. My phone had been installed, and I was settled. Now it rang.

“Mr. Mitchell.”

“Hi, Doc.”

“How did you know?”

“Doc, have a guess at how many Indians are calling me.”

“Oh.”

“How’d you get the number?”

“Briony did, she’s very resourceful.”

“That too . . . so was there something?”

“Yes, could I see you? Let me buy you dinner.”

“OK.”

“Splendid. There’s a wonderful Italian place at Notting Hill, named De Vinci’s. Shall we, say eight?”

“Italian?”

“You don’t like Italian?”

“Well yeah, sure I do, OK. And call me Mitch.”

“Right, Mr. Mitch.”

I’d been kinda banking on them fish and chips, but what the hell. I wore the blue suit and a white shirt. Checked myself in the mirror, said,

“Smokin.’

Wouldn’t you know—every one, including the doc, in casual gear.

The place was warm and friendly, and they knew the doc. Good opening. We ordered clams and linguini, then followed with spaghetti bolognese. The bread was crisp and fresh like an idealized childhood. I even liked the wine. I’m mopping up the sauce with that bread, the doc is ordering more wine, and I go,

“What’s up, Doc?”

“It’s Briony.”

“
Quelle surprise
.”

“You speak French?”

“Nope, just that one bit, so I got to ration it. You’d be amazed how often I get to use it with Briony around.”

“Can I be honest, Mr. Mitch?”

When you hear that, pay the bill and run. I said,

“Go for it.”

“I love her very much.”

“But she’s a nutter, right?”

That took him aback but also gave him his cue, said,

“When I was a medical student, I seriously considered a career as a psychologist. I learned about borders.”

“You mean like perimeters.”

“No.”

The waiter came and cleared the debris. It was considerable. They like that, like you to eat. Great people. The doc had pavlova for dessert. I settled for cappuccino, without the chocolate sprinkle. I hate that shit. The doc said,

“Essentially they split their feelings from their behavior. The tragedy is, borders never recover. The best you can do is help them coast.

“In the beginning they appear normal, good jobs, but it’s a constant tightrope between madness and sanity. Unable to form relationships, never free of a deep rage that leads to self-destruction.”

“Her shoplifting?”

“Correct. They live from one disaster to the next. They excel at role-play and have overwhelming feelings of emptiness. They never change.”

“Actresses.”

“Yes, many borders do well onstage, but then . . .”

I was thinking of Lillian, asked,

“Where’s the problem, Doc? Walk away.”

He looked down at his dessert, then pushed it from him, said,

“I am besotted with her.”

“C’mon, Doc, I’ll bring you for a drink in an English pub, if we can find one.”

I took him to the Sun in Splendour on Portobello. At least it used to be an English pub. Ordered two best bitters and grabbed a table, said,