Wishful Thinking (21 page)

‘You never called Garry a bastard before,' I said.

‘I loved him,' Lin said sadly. ‘But you have to face things. He could be horribly cruel when he was drunk or drugged and he left me high and dry financially. I don't call that very caring. I've felt guilty about his death for years, but I've had enough of it. I hope wherever he is now he feels guilty about me.'

From Lin, that was a nasty speech. She was definitely undergoing an apostasy lately.

‘Sean stole my purity,' she continued, her Presbyterian background emerging in her terminology, ‘but Garry took my self-respect. He loved me, but he always made me feel I failed him. No matter how hard I worked at the relationship – no matter what I did – it was never quite right. It's awful to know that you've failed the person you love. The thing is, love ought to be enough for happiness, but Garry wanted more. He wanted success – on his own terms. He wanted audience adulation, even though he said he despised it. He wanted publicity and privacy – things that contradicted each other – things that would never work. Fame without the price. Hangers-on who were really friends. Shallow people who cared deeply about him. He
wanted
to be happy, but he was
determined
to be unhappy. I used to feel his muddle was all to do with creativity and genius, but I think it was selfish too. If he'd thought less about his own problems and more about the children and me we'd have been fine. So you see,' she concluded, ‘he was a bastard too, in a way. Not like Sean, but still bastardly. I only seem to attract bastards.' She gazed again at the final communication from the pension salesman before deleting it. ‘Even by e-mail.'

Georgie and I were temporarily silenced, slightly stunned by the adjustment in her thinking.

Lin stared gloomily at the computer screen. ‘I had no idea there were so many awful men in the world,' she said. ‘I hate this Internet dating lark. All it does is show you how isolated you are.'

‘Don't say that!' Georgie, ever optimistic, was shocked. ‘What about Derek? I know you didn't fancy him, but at least he was nice.'

‘What's the point of being nice if you're not fanciable?' Lin mourned. ‘There could be heaps of nice men out there whom I won't fancy. I might have to date them all to find out – the same date, over and over, like
Groundhog Day
. Endless conversations about what he does, and what I do, and his divorce, and mine, and his children, and mine, and how we both want a meaningful relationship, and all the while I'm thinking:
Not with you
. I can't face it.'

‘You've only had one date so far,' Georgie said, becoming pragmatic. ‘Don't give up yet. You're too young to despair.'

‘No, I'm not,' Lin insisted. ‘I'm thirty-two next week. That's practically middle-aged.'

‘Bollocks!' said Georgie with understandable indignation.

‘I think you should just go home and contemplate suicide,' I said. ‘We can start again in the morning. Tomorrow
is
another day.'

‘There you are,' said Lin. ‘Rhett Butler. Another bastard. Besides, where on earth did he get a stupid name like Rhett?'

‘Short for retro,' Georgie said.

On Friday, armed with careful directions, I went to see Jerry Beauman. He lived in a flat off Berkeley Square, the kind with a sub-tropical roof garden and rooms so large there were whole areas of floor with nothing to do. I was admitted by a Filipino maid whom I mistook – briefly – for the Oriental girlfriend. Shown into a vast living room, I stayed close to the wall in case I got lost. I had been expecting a designer interior worthy of the colour supplements, but instead I was confronted with a sort of sumptuous banality, a bland tastelessness without the flourish of vulgarity or the style of natural elegance. The furniture was antique, presumably genuine, but so lustrously polished, so artfully restored that it appeared fake. There were acres of gleaming parquet scattered with Persian rugs, chandeliers adorned with electric candles, swags of brocade curtain tied back with tasselled cords. The paintings included several big landscapes (one, I guessed, might be identifiable as a Constable, had I known anything about art), a simpering Venus clutching a handkerchief to her crotch amid trailing
putti
, and a couple of conscientiously modern abstracts. I was sure Beauman was a Collector: the pictures looked Collected, somehow, rather than simply bought for fun. There was also a portrait of a gentleman called the Sieur de Beaumont whom I learned later Jerry claimed as an ancestor, on no grounds whatsoever. The nearest bookshelves to catch the visitor's eye were packed with his own oeuvres in a variety of languages, side by side with Shakespeare and translations of Horace. Optimist, I thought. I was studying a
Lorna Doone
vista of gloomy rocks and tumbling water topped off with a windswept tree and some pretty foul weather when Beauman came in.

To my surprise he was both genial and friendly, turning on something that might have passed for charm in the Klingon world. He had barely noticed me when we met at the Bel Manoir, but then I had been of no use to him; now, I was going to tidy up his book. Or rather, as he put it, ‘assist the creative process'. He showed me round the flat in an expansive spirit, possibly with the object of adding me to the exclusive ranks of his admirers, told me the value of every picture (the Constable
was
a Constable), even demonstrated the workings of the alarm system. Not for the last time, as I was to discover, I experienced a sudden impulse to become a professional burglar. He made me stand respectfully in front of the inevitable photos of him with various iconic figures, including Nelson Mandela. (I do feel the Hero of our Time could be more selective about the company he keeps.) ‘I call that one Old Lags Together,' Jerry joked. I blenched. Mandela had been a prisoner of conscience on Devil's Island, or some such island; Jerry had done time for fraud, mostly in a cosy open prison. Did they
really
have anything in common? Besides, the photos obviously predated Jerry's stint as a guest of Her Maj. Other pix showed him pally with politicians, ageing popstars, and all-purpose celebs like Peter Stringfellow and Neil Hamilton. You'd have thought he would have removed the last one, but he seemed oblivious to its impact on visitors. In fact, he seemed oblivious to a lot of things. His self-assurance was absolute, turning his seedy little crime into a dashing adventure, transforming inconvenient truth with the light of fantasy. In a warmer personality, it might have been endearing. But there was coldness and calculation underneath the buoyancy, and an expression in his eyes – or lack of one – which gave him away. They were narrow, beady, ratty orbs without depth or soul, unaware of anything beyond his own appetite and need. This, I thought, is a man with no real friends – but he doesn't know, he doesn't care. He's perfectly happy with pretend ones.

When the tour was over we retired to his study, a slightly smaller room with a panoramic view of the backs of expensive houses. He had all the accoutrements of a successful writer: teak desk with wafer-thin laptop, wodge of manuscript, Mont Blanc pen for hand-written alterations, telephone, Dictaphone, printer, reference books. Everything but the blackened coffee mug – and that could have been cleared away by the maid. But it all looked faintly like a stage set. I got the feeling he wasn't so much writing as Being a Writer. Listening to him talk about his current book I realised that here, again, his blinkered vision enabled him to take an idealised – if narrow – view of himself. He held forth on his creative genius as if he expected to make the Booker shortlist. The fact that the end result needed to be revised, re-punctuated and partially re-structured by someone else seemed to bypass him. He
believed
he was a great writer. His self-belief was like armour-plating. Other people's perceptions, doubts, criticisms, bounced off it. He was the best thing since Shakespeare, and he knew it. After all, every book with his name on it had sold at least a million.

It was a daunting thought.

‘Hope you'll enjoy working with me,' he said, with a smile that stopped short of his eyes. (They always did.) ‘Nice to have an attractive female colleague after poor old Buckle. Came across as quite a he-man; just goes to show, you can't be too careful these days. Not that I've got anything against pansies – I just wouldn't want to live with one.' This was clearly meant for a joke. I looked blank. ‘Never been that way inclined, even at public school.' I was sure he hadn't been to public school. ‘How about some coffee?'

I didn't ask for tea; there was no point. Beauman wouldn't have noticed.

We had coffee. Jerry talked about himself, moving from his chair to perch on the edge of the desk where he could have gazed down my cleavage, had I been showing any. Actually, I was covered to the clavicle, but my bosom tends to obtrusive at all times and there was nothing I could do about it. He suggested that on these long hot summer days I could always do my editing up on the roof terrace. ‘Bring a bikini. Have a sunbathe. I really wouldn't mind.'

A few pounds off, I thought, and now Jerry Beauman, of all people, wants to see me in a bikini. The Wyshing Well fairy had certainly picked her moment to endow me with sex-goddessness. No doubt about it, she had a
very
nasty sense of humour.

‘Thanks,' I said noncommittally. ‘Er – don't you think we should talk about the book now? We do have a pretty tight deadline.'

He grinned and went back to his chair. ‘I thrive on deadlines. Never missed one yet. They call me Mister Deadline. We'll make it, you'll see.'

We
?

‘Of course we will,' I said.

We discussed plot and character exhaustively for a while – at least, I was exhausted. Like many writers, Jerry threw out half a dozen new ideas at every turn, though his were more far-fetched and implausible than most. I did my best to discourage them, diplomatically, and insinuate a couple of my own, while making him believe they were his. Laurence had told me this was the standard procedure. By the end of the session Jerry was beaming. ‘I can see we're going to work well together,' he declared. ‘You're a lot brighter than old Buckle. You can help to give me that feminine slant which, I must admit, has often eluded me. I've always been more of a man's man.'

So's Laurence, I felt like saying, but resisted the temptation. Jerry evidently hadn't registered that many of my suggestions were those which Laurence had kindly passed on to me – suggestions which Beauman had previously rejected out of hand when he realised they came from a poofter.

‘Got to go now,' Jerry said, skirting the desk to grasp my hand and plant a kiss on my cheek. ‘Lunch with Jonathan Aitken. A good chap – much misunderstood.'

He was gone, leaving me temporarily speechless. Anyone in his position ought to be anxious to rehabilitate himself, avoiding other notorious ex-crooks like the plague. But not Jerry Beauman. Clinton might apologise, David Mellor resign, George Galloway deny and sue, but Beauman remained brash and unashamed. He was right, he was wronged, he was the comeback kid who'd never been away, the star who could outshine all the mud that stuck to his image. I really,
really
didn't want him to get away with it.

‘He will, you know,' Georgie said, back at the office. ‘Everyone knows he's a liar and a cheat and a thief – everyone except him – but it doesn't matter. His sheer arrogance will carry it. Did you see the latest
Private Eye
, or that sketch on
Dead Ringers
? Talk about savage – but it's all grist to his mill. It wouldn't work if he was a politician, or anything in public life – it would finish him in TV and probably as an actor – but no one cares what writers do. Any publicity is good publicity. It may be bloody hard to get coverage for some people but, believe me, this is the one business where the adage really does apply. His book will come out in a furore of indignation, criticism and contempt, and
everyone
will buy it, just to see what the fuss is all about.'

‘
His
book?' I said. ‘It's totally derivative.'

‘So what?' said Georgie. ‘All writers do that.'

There was only one thing to be said, and I said it. ‘Fuck.'

Jerry Beauman has that effect on everyone's vocabulary.

While Lin's Internet dating exchanges were driving her to contemplate suicide, Georgie's quest for a millionaire seemed to have come to a full stop. After her night at the opera she had allowed herself to hope that Neville would call again: he had been attractive enough, and amusing enough, for her to consider taking things further, and when, after more than a week, she had had no word, she was conscious of disappointment. Her marriage might have been a long-term catastrophe, but Georgie wasn't used to failure in the short-term, and it left her feeling rather damped. She knew looks and charm alone wouldn't inspire every passing male – or any passing male – with true love, but she did expect the combination to engender lust, particularly after an evening's exposure. ‘I must be getting old,' she said. ‘Over the hill. I just can't do the
femme fatale
thing any more.'

‘Of course you can,' I assured her. ‘You're not at all old.' First Lin feeling middle-aged, now Georgie old. It was getting to be too much.

‘Don't be kind. I know I am. I looked in the mirror and counted the lines.'

‘We've all got lines,' said Lin, on the strength of her one or two.

‘How many?' I asked Georgie with curiosity.

‘Fifteen. And that's
before
I smile. Maybe I should give up smiling.'

‘
I
can't see fifteen.'

‘You aren't looking as closely as I was,' Georgie retorted.