Nocturne (48 page)

‘
So where
’
s Brendan?
’
I inquired,
‘
in all this?
’

The fact that I should even have to ask the question was obviously a
shock to Gary. Once I
’
d confirmed who was the baby
’
s father, I think
he
’
d automatically assumed that Brendan and I were, as they say, still
an item
.

‘
You don
’
t know what he
’
s been up to?
’

‘
No idea.
’

‘
America? Australia? All that?
’

‘
Pass.
’

We were on the
A3
. Gary slowed to
8
5
m.p.h. and brought me up to
date. With Sandra serving divorce papers, and threatening to wind the
company up, Brendan had been circling the globe, trying to secure
Doubleact projects he could properly claim as his own. The crown
jewels in this bundle of programme rights was undoubtedly
Celebrity
Home
Run
,
and he
’
d spent the best part of a month commuting
between Sydney and Los Angeles, making sure the money was rock
solid. Gary wasn
’
t privy to all the details but word in the
Celebrity
Home
Run
production office suggested that this first series, at least,
was safe.

‘
But what
’
s he going to do?
’
I insisted.
‘
Start a new company?
’

‘
Something like that.
’

‘
Has he got a name? Premises?
’

‘
A name, yeah.
’

‘
What is it?
’

Gary sniggered. Deep-down, I think he
’
d always regarded Brendan
as a bit of a prat. Clever guy. Mega-talented. But a prat.

‘
Solo
Productions,
’
he said at last.
‘
It
’
s supposed to be a joke.
’

Solo Productions. I gazed out at the blur that was Esher. If Gary
was
right about Brendan
’
s wanderings,
then it certainly explained why
he
’
d left me alone for so long. Not even Brendan would pop back
from Oz
to
N17
for coffee. Not when he was in mogul-mode.

‘
When
’
s he back?
’

‘
Next week, as far as I know.
’

‘
And the show? The programme?
’

Gary patted my arm, a gesture of reassurance. Underneath the
action man affectations - the thin-lipped smile, the unwavering gaze -
I think he was infinitely more sensitive than I
’
d ever imagined.

‘
It
’
s going fine,
’
he said.
‘
That
’
s all you need to know.
’

‘
But what about you? Are you enjoying it?
’

‘
Loving it.
’

‘
That
’
s bullshit.
’

Gary said nothing for at least a mile. Then he yawned.

‘
You might be right,
’
he admitted.
‘
But the money
’
s fucking
wonderful.
’

We were heading, of course, for Portsmouth. I gave my mum a little
wave as we sped down the Petersfield by-pass. Fifteen minutes later,
we were climbing Portsdown Hill. On the crest of the hill, beside one
of the sprawling Victorian forts, there
’
s a pub called The Churchillian.
Gary knew it because I
’
d taken him there a couple of times when we
were working with the kids. It served decent beer, and the food was
OK, and from the big picture windows at the front you could get a
sensational view clear across the city to the Isle of Wight.

We parked the car. It was a blustery, rain-washed day, perfect after
the drizzle and traffic fumes we
’
d left behind in London. I stood in the
car park a moment, feeling the wind in my
hair, remembering
days like
this that I
’
d spent on Hayling Island, way over to the left. Thanks to a
friendly sandbank, Hayling offered some
of the best windsurfing in the
country, and it was there that I
’
d first s
ensed that I was good. Not just
averagely good, but exceptionally good. That particular year -
1992
-
was the summer I
’
d caught the eye of one
of the national coaches but it
had taken another couple of seasons, a
nd some of the hardest physical
work I
’
d ever known, before I made it into the British team.

I was still warming to the memories when I felt the touch of a hand
on my arm. It was Gary. He was gesturing at one of the big picture
windows in the pub. Behind it, looking out at us, were the kid
s he and I
had chosen for
Home
Run
.

We went inside. The kids cheered. One of them started singing
‘
Happy Birthday
’
. Even the barmaid joined in.

I waddled across. A youth we
’
d always called Wrigleys couldn
’
t
take his eyes off my stomach. I might have just landed from Mars.

‘
You never,
’
he said at last.
‘
That
’
s well out of order.
’

‘
I
did,
’
I told him.
‘
Does it upset you?
’

‘
Yeah,
’
he offered me a stick of gum.
‘
It does.
’

I think the others felt pretty much the same way. They didn
’
t
actually say so but they
’
d never been over-keen on spontaneous
conversation and to begin with it was Gary and I who made most of
the running. Gary had arranged food - eighteen vari
ations on pastie
and chips - an
d as the kids fought over the sachets of brown sauce, he
told them how the new series was shaping.

Little bits and pieces had already been in the local press and the
name on everyone
’
s lips was Brad Pitt. Had Gary met him? What was
he like? For my part, I still didn
’
t believe he
’
d have anything to do with
the series but that wasn
’
t the point. T
he point was the kids and their
attitude to what we
’
d planned together. Not once was there any
mention of the training session up north,
or regrets that their own part
in Gary
’
s little adventure was over. On the contrary, I got the
impression that they were rather glad to be back in Portsmouth,
basking in a limelight they hadn
’
t really earned. Gary was right. That
one taste of the real thing, five wet nights on S
kye, had convinced most
of them that watching Brad Pitt on
a Saturday night was infinitely
preferable to dangling on a rope, scare
d witless, with nothing but the
prospect of more terror to come. In a
way, I suppose I didn
’
t really
blame them. Pregnancy seemed to h
ave robbed me of some of my own
thirst for physical challenge.
Maybe th
ey were right, I thought. Maybe
it
’
s better watching it, than doing it.

The serious baby gear arrived that same week. I stood in the front
room,
watching
two men unloading a c
ot from the back of a van. With
the cot came a playpen, a collapsibl
e pram, a set of yellow plastic
ducks, a changing mat, and sundry othe
r goodies. I
’
d been planning to
pick up most of these items over the
next few weeks, taking my time,
and the fact that someone had robbe
d me of this pleasure wasn
’
t an
altogether wonderful surprise. There wa
s no card with the delivery, no
clue to the sender
’
s identity, and m
y suspicions fell at once on my
mother. Forgetting to add a
tag of any kind would have been
completely typical but when I phoned her she denied all knowledge.

‘
What
did they send?
’

I went through the list again. In all, as my mother pointed out, it
would have cost hundreds.

‘
Who could it have been?
’
she wondered aloud.
‘
Who
’
d do such a
thing?
’

My heart was already sinking. If my mum hadn
’
t sent the stuff then
it had to be Brendan. He was the only other suspect, the only other
interested party. He must have returned from Los Angeles, or Sydney,
or wherever he
’
d been, and lifted the phone to Mothercare and told
them to get on with it. Staying anonymous was his style, too. A gesture
like that would earn him the right, at a time of his choosing, to spring
another little surprise. Like appearing in person to claim the credit.
That
’
s what he
’
d do. I was sure of it. He
’
d turn up tomorrow, or the
day after, and invite himself in, just like the last time.

I
’
d piled the stuff in the front room. The big items were still boxed. I
toyed briefly with sending them back, then decided against it. There
was another option, altogether bolder. I
’
d go and find Brendan myself,
seize the initiative, turn the tables. I
’
d be very polite, very cool. I
’
d say
thank you and then bring the conversation to a rapid end.

I rang the Doubleact number. Brendan wasn
’
t there but I managed
to talk to Andi. She confirmed that Brendan and Sandra had split for
the second time and that everyone was prepared for the worst.
Accountants had been crawling over the books for weeks and it now
looked like a take-over was in the offing. As for Brendan, she thought
he was back in the flat at De Beauvoir Square. He still had the tenancy
and the flight schedule he
’
d left on the office computer indicated that
he
’
d returned to the UK this very morning. That seemed a bit on the
tight side for the Mothercare pressies but when I told Andi the story
she said that he often snuck back on an earlier flight. Give him a ring,
she suggested. Wake the bugger up.