Temptation (12 page)

Which, in turn, means that you will be denied my company for the next couple of days. I’m certain you’re heartbroken, bereft, and popping champagne corks as you read this. We seem to have gotten on each other’s wick yesterday. Of course, you were totally in the wrong. Of course, I also hope that we’re still friends.

Enjoy the island. You’re a complete jerk if you don’t. I’ll try to get back here in a couple of days – by which time Herr Host should be back with all the minnows he’s snagged.

Go easy. You really do look like shit – so a couple of days in the sun should make you look less shitty.

Later,

Bobby

I couldn’t help but smile. Bobby really knew how to reel in his friends just when they were about to permanently write him off.

Breakfast arrived, accompanied by a bottle of Cristal 1991.

‘Drink as much or as little as you want,’ said Meg, setting up the plates on my balcony.

I actually drank two glasses, and ate the plate of tropical fruit, and sampled the basket of exotic muffins, and drank the coffee. I listened to Grieg’s Lyric Pieces for Piano as I ate, discovering that there was a discreet speaker built into the balcony wall. The sun was at full wattage. The mercury seemed to be in the mid-eighties. And, bar a quick check of my e-mail, there was nothing on the agenda for today – except sitting in the sun.

I regretted my decision to go online. Because the morning’s communiqués from cyberspace were anything but cheery. First came a strident missive from Sally:

David

I was surprised and hurt by your description of my current imbroglio at Fox as nothing more than a ‘little crisis’. I am fighting for my professional life right now, and what I need more than anything is your support. Instead, you were patronizing, and I was so incredibly disappointed by your response. I so want to know that I have your confidence and your love.

I have to fly to New York this morning. Don’t try to buzz me, but do send me an e-mail. I want to believe that this is all just a bad call on your part.

Sally

I read her e-mail twice, stunned by her complete misinterpretation of my words. I went into my AOL filing cabinet and reread my e-mail of the previous night, trying to figure out how the hell she could have taken offence. After all, all I’d written was:

Oh, I get it. She hated the idea that I would consider her battle royal to be
little
– whereas my attempted implication was that, in the great scheme of things, this crisis would eventually seem like small beer.

Jesus Christ, talk about touchy. But I was in a no-win position here, and I knew it. To date, Sally and I had had that rare thing: a relationship free of misunderstandings. I certainly didn’t want this to be the first. So, knowing that she would not react well if I told her, ‘You totally misread my meaning’, I decided it was best to fall on my sword. Because if there was one thing that many long years of marriage had taught me, it was this: if you want to sweeten the atmosphere after a disagreement, it’s always best to admit you were wrong . . . even if you think you were right.

So I clicked on the Reply button and wrote:

Darling:

The last thing in the world I want to do is upset you. The last thing in the world I think is that anything you do is little. All I meant was you’re so brilliant at anything you tackle that this crisis – though large right now – would eventually be regarded in the future as small, because you’ll manage to work it out so well. My fault was not expressing this sentiment clearly. I realize I’ve hurt you. And I now feel awful.

You know I think you are wonderful. You know you have my complete love and support for everything and anything you do. I am so damn sorry that my inappropriate choice of words sparked this misunderstanding. Please forgive me.

I love you.

David.

All right, I was grovelling a bit. But I knew that, for all her professional stridency, Sally had a most permeable ego – and one which needed constant bolstering. More to the point, at this early stage of our relationship, stability was all. I repeated my mantra of the past few days:
She’s under extreme pressure. Asking her the time of day right now would probably be misinterpreted. But she will calm down when the situation calms down
.

Or, at least, that’s what I was banking on.

Once I dispatched that e-mail, I turned to the next one. It was from Lucy, which essentially was straight out of the ‘Fuck You, Strong Letter Follows’ school of communication:

David:

You will be pleased to know that Caitlin was in floods of tears yesterday when I told her that you wouldn’t be coming this weekend. Congratulations. You’ve broken her heart again.

I have managed to convince Marge to fly down from Portland to look after Caitlin for the two nights I will be away. However, she could only find a Business Class ticket at the last moment, and she must also put Dido and Aeneas in the local cattery for the weekend – and the total cost, including airfare, comes to $803.45. I will expect a check from you imminently.

I think your behavior on this occasion underlines everything I’ve felt about you since you became acquainted with that bitch goddess called success: you are completely motivated by self-interest. And what I said to you last night on the phone still holds: I will get you back for this.

Lucy.

Instantly I reached for the phone and punched in some numbers. I glanced at my watch. 10.14am in the islands. 7.14am on the coast. With any luck, Caitlin wouldn’t have left for school yet.

My luck held. Better still, my daughter answered herself. And she sounded thrilled to speak to me.

‘Daddy!’ she said happily.

‘Hey kiddo,’ I said. ‘Everything okay?’

‘I’m going to be an angel in our Easter play at school.’

‘You’re already an angel.’

‘I’m not an angel. I’m Caitlin Armitage.’

I laughed.

‘I’m sorry I’m not coming this weekend.’

‘But this weekend Auntie Marge is coming to stay with me. But her cats have to go to a cat hotel.’

‘So you’re not angry at me?’

‘You’re coming next week, right?’

‘Without fail, Caitlin. I promise.’

‘And can I stay in your hotel with you?’

‘Absolutely. We’ll do whatever you want all weekend.’

‘And will you bring me a present?’

‘I promise. Now can I talk to Mommy?’

‘Okay . . . but as long as you don’t fight.’

I sucked in my breath.

‘We’ll try not to, sweetie.’

‘I miss you, Daddy.’

‘I miss you too.’

A pause. Then I could hear the phone being handed over. There was a long silence, which Lucy finally broke.

‘So, what do you want to talk about?’ she asked.

‘She really sounded devastated, Lucy. I mean, totally gutted.’

‘I have nothing to say to you . . . ’

‘Fine by me. I don’t really want to talk to you either. But don’t you ever try to lie to me about her emotional state again. And I warn you, if you try to turn her against me . . . ’

The line went dead as Lucy slammed down the phone. So much for a mature, adult exchange of views. But, at least, I did feel so damn relieved that Caitlin hadn’t at all been distressed by my inability to make it up to see her this weekend. The issue of Aunt Marge and her $803 weekend tariff was another matter. Marge was a circumferentially
challenged New Age goof who lived by herself with her beloved cats and her crystals and her recordings of Nepalese goat chants in her one-bedroom ashram. I will say this for her – she did have a good heart. And she adored her only niece, which made me happy. But eight hundred bucks to cart her size 42 waist down to San Francisco . . . not to mention providing five-star accommodation for her precious feline friends (who the hell christens a pair of cats ‘Dido and Aeneas’?). Anyway, I knew that, like it or not, I’d have to fork over the dough – just as I also knew that Swami Marge was probably going to pocket half the $800. But I wasn’t going to argue. I had already effectively won the argument with Lucy. Just to hear Caitlin tell me she missed me wiped out all of the morning’s accumulated angst, and put me in a good mood again. And now I had an entire Caribbean island to myself.

I picked up the phone. I asked if a newspaper might be available. I was informed that the
New York Times
had just arrived by helicopter. ‘Please send it on up.’ I touched the audio/video screen. I went to the music library. I chose some piano sonatas by Mozart. The paper arrived. Meg set up a sunbed for me on the balcony. She disappeared into the bathroom and re-emerged with six different brands of sun cream, covering all the potential burn factors. She refilled my champagne glass. She told me to call when I wanted lunch.

I read the paper. I listened to the Mozart. I toasted gently in the sun. After an hour, I decided it was time for a swim. I picked up the phone. I was connected with Gary.

‘Hey there, Mr Armitage. Having a good day in paradise?’

‘Not bad at all. I was just wondering, is there a specific
place for swimming on the island? Besides the pool, that is?’

‘Well, we’ve got a great little beach. But if you were in the mood for snorkelling . . . ’

Twenty minutes later, I was aboard the
Truffaut
(that’s right, like the French director) – a forty-foot Cabin Cruiser, with a crew of five. We steamed along for around thirty minutes until we came to a coral reef near an archipelago of tiny islands. Two of the crew helped me into a wetsuit (‘It’s a little chilly in the water today,’ one of them explained), then kitted me out with flippers, mask and snorkel. One of the crew was also dressed in scuba gear.

‘Dennis here is going to guide you around the reef,’ Gary told me.

‘Thanks, but there’s really no need,’ I said.

‘Well, Mr Fleck kind of insists that guests never swim alone. Anyway, it’s all part of the service.’

That was an expression I heard over and over again on Saffron Island.
It’s all part of the service
. Having my very own swim-along guide to the coral reefs was all part of the service. Having an entire four man crew looking after me on the Cabin Cruiser was all part of the service. So too was the shelled lobster they served me (and me alone) on board the boat, accompanied by a Chablis
premier cru
. When we were back on dry land later that afternoon, and I asked if they had this week’s copy of the
New Yorker
on hand, they dispatched the helicopter to Antigua to buy a copy for me (even though I strenuously attempted to persuade them not to go to all that trouble –
and expense!
– for one damn magazine). But, once again, I was told that it was
all part of the service
.

I returned to my room. Laurence, the island’s chef, called me, and asked what I would like for dinner. When I asked him to suggest something, he simply said: ‘Anything you want.’

‘Anything?’

‘Just about.’

‘Suggest something.’

‘Well, my specialty is Pacific Rim cuisine. And since we have plenty of fresh fish . . . ’

‘I’ll leave it up to you.’

Minutes later, Joan called from Business Affairs. She was half-way through my script, and had around ten queries regarding my appalling handwriting. We went through them all. Then she told me that the script would be retyped by midday tomorrow, as Mr Fleck was due back in the late afternoon – and as soon as he heard that I had revised the screenplay, he’d want to read it immediately.

‘But won’t you be up half the night typing?’ I asked.

‘All part of the service,’ she said, adding that, with my permission, she’d have a copy of the newly revised script brought in with my breakfast tomorrow. If I could read it through, she could make any amendments later that morning.

I stretched out on the bed. I nodded off. When I came to, an hour had slipped by . . . and a note had been slipped under my door. I went to retrieve it.

Dear Mr Armitage:

We didn’t want to disturb you, but outside your door you’ll find the copy of the
New Yorker
you requested, as well as the catalogue for the island’s film
library. We thought you might like to set up a screening of something tonight. If so, give me a call at extension 16. Also – when it suits you, could you please call Claude the sommelier. He wants to discuss your wine choice for dinner tonight. You can also tell him when you’d like to eat. The kitchen is completely flexible on this matter. Just let them know.

Once again, it’s a pleasure having you with us. And, as I said last night, I really do hope to see you at the movies . . .

Best

Chuck

I opened the door. I collected the film catalogue and the copy of the
New Yorker
which had been airlifted in at my request. I flopped back on the bed, wondering how they knew that I was napping – and therefore shouldn’t be disturbed. Was the room bugged? Was there a hidden camera somewhere? Or was I just being paranoid? After all, maybe they simply deduced that, after a strenuous, workaholic day in the sun, I needed a little siesta. Maybe I was over-reacting to all the attention I was being paid.

An old literary anecdote suddenly came to mind: Hemingway and Fitzgerald sitting in a Paris café, watching a bunch of swanky folks sauntering by. ‘You know, Ernest,’ Fitzgerald said grandly, ‘the rich are different from you and me.’ To which Hemingway gruffly replied: ‘Yeah – they’ve got more money.’

But now I realized what that money actually bought them was a
cordon sanitaire
, within which you could fend off all the tedious mundanities with which the rest of the world
had to grapple. Of course, it gave you power as well – but ultimately, its dominion was to be found in how it separated you from the way everyone else lived their lives.
$20 billion
. I still kept trying to grapple with that figure – and with the statistic (quoted to me, naturally, by Bobby) that Fleck’s weekly interest from his fortune was around $2 million . . . and that was after tax. Without touching a penny of his fortune, he had a net income of around $100 million per annum to play with. What a complete absurdity. $2 million a week as spending money. Did Fleck remember what it was like to worry about making the rent? Or having to scramble about to pay the phone bill? Or putting up with a ten-year-old car which never shifted into fourth gear, because you couldn’t afford to get the busted transmission fixed?