Cast in Order of Disappearance (2 page)

‘His last ambition. Reckoned he might get one this New Year.'

‘Services to the Theatre?'

‘I suppose so. And I suppose I let down the image. Well, I don't care about him.' She snuggled up to Charles.

‘Jacqui, am I being used merely for revenge? As a sex object?'

‘Yes. Any objections?'

‘No.'

Charles kissed her gently. He felt protective towards her, as if she might suddenly break down.

Her tongue flickered round the inside of his mouth and they drew apart. ‘You smell like a distillery,' she said.

‘I am a distillery,' he replied fatuously and hugged her close to him. She had a comforting little body, and the smoky taste of her mouth was familiar. ‘Hmm. We had a good time in Worthing. We were better than the dirty postcards.'

Jacqui smiled closely into his eyes and her hand fumbled for his zip. She couldn't find the little metal pull-tag. An exasperated breath. ‘You know, Charles, I always think it's simpler to take your own things off. If you're both in agreement.'

‘I'm in agreement,' said Charles. He rolled over to the side of the bed and fumblingly undressed. When he turned round, Jacqui was lying naked on the bed, familiar in the pale street light. ‘Charles.'

‘Must take my socks off. Otherwise I feel like an obscene photo.'

He lay down beside her and hugged her, warm on the fur. They held each other close, hands gliding over soft flesh.

After a few moments Charles rolled away. ‘Not very impressive, am I?'

‘Don't worry. It doesn't matter.'

‘No.' A pause. ‘Sorry. I'm not usually like this.'

‘I know,' Jacqui said meaningfully. ‘And I know what to do about it.'

He felt her moving, a soft kiss on his stomach, then the warmth of her breath as it strayed downwards. ‘Jacqui, don't bother. I'm not in the mood. It's the booze or . . .'

‘OK. Poor old Baron Hardup.'

‘I'm sorry, Jacqui.'

‘Don't worry. All I really need is a good cuddle.'

‘Tonight I'm afraid that's all I can offer you.' And he hugged her very closely like a teddy bear in his arms. In a moment he had sunk into a heavy, but troubled sleep.

II

The Fairy Godmother

AS CHARLES WALKED past the manicured front gardens of Muswell Hill, he tried to piece together his feelings. It was a long time since he had been so churned up inside. For years life had jogged on from hangover to hangover, with the odd affair between drinks, and nothing had affected him much. But now he felt jumpy and panicky.

Impotence is perhaps not unusual in a man of forty-seven. And anyway it probably wasn't impotence, just the dreaded Distiller's Droop. Nothing to worry about.

But that wasn't the important part of his feelings. There was a change in his attitude to Jacqui. He felt an enormous need to protect the girl, as if, by failing in bed, he had suddenly become responsible for her. She seemed desperately vulnerable, like a child in a pram or an old man in a launderette. Perhaps these were paternal feelings, the sort he had somehow never developed for his daughter.

Together with this new warmth came the knowledge that he had to go and see Frances. ‘Marriage,' Charles reflected wryly as he clicked open her wrought-iron gate, ‘is the last refuge of the impotent.'

She wasn't there. Still at school. Not even six o clock yet. Charles had a key and let himself in. His hand instinctively found the light-switch.

The house hadn't changed. As ever, a pile of books to be marked on the dining table, concert programmes, an old Edinburgh Festival brochure. Earnest paperbacks about psychology and sociology on the book-shelves. Auntie May's old upright piano with the lid up. And on top, that terrible posed photograph of Juliet with pigtails and a grim smile over the brace on her teeth. Next to it, the puzzle jug. Then that windswept snapshot of him, Charles Paris, taken on holiday on Arran. It was a real LP sleeve photograph. Better than any of that expensive rubbish he'd had done for
Spotlight
.

He resisted the temptation to raid the drinks cupboard, switched on the television and slumped into the sofa they'd bought at Harrods when flush from selling the film rights of his one successful play.

He heard the guarded voice of a newscaster, then the picture buzzed and swelled into life. The news was still dominated by petrol and the prospect of rationing. Charles couldn't get very excited about it.

Police had identified the motorist shot off the M4 at Theale. A blurred snapshot was blown up to fill the screen. It had the expression of a man already dead. There had been no petrol in the victim's car; the back right-hand wing was dented; he had been shot through the head and left by the roadside. Police were still trying to find a motive for the killing.

‘In the second day of the Sally Nash trial at the Old Bailey, a 17-year-old girl, Miss C., told of sex-parties at London hotels. A lot of show-business people—' Charles switched over to the serious face of Eamonn Andrews talking to someone about petrol rationing. He switched again and got a sizzling snowstorm through which a voice imparted mathematical information.

‘Sodding UHF.' He got down on his hands and knees in front of the box and started moving the portable aerial about. The snowstorm varied in intensity. Then he remembered the UHF contrast knob and went round the set to turn it.

‘Television repair man.' He'd been too close to the sound to hear Frances come in.

‘Hello.' He stood up. ‘Look. The picture's perfect.'

‘Are you doing an Open University degree?'

‘No. I was just getting it right. It's the UHF contrast.'

‘Ah.' She looked at him. ‘How are you?'

‘Bad.'

‘I thought so. Do you want something to eat?'

‘I don't know.'

‘That means yes. Did you have lunch?'

‘Pie in a pub.'

‘Ugh.' Frances went into the kitchen and started opening cupboards. She continued talking through the serving hatch. It was restfully familiar.

‘I went down to see Juliet and Miles at the weekend.'

‘Ah.'

‘Nice to get out of town.'

‘Yes.'

‘They said they'd love to see you. You should go down, it's a lovely place.'

‘Yes. I will. At some stage. How's Miles?'

‘Oh, he's doing very well.'

‘Ah.' Charles visualised his son-in-law, Miles Taylerson, the rising executive, neat in his executive house on his executive estate in Pangbourne with his executive car and his executive suits and his executive haircut. ‘Do you like Miles, Frances?'

‘Juliet's very happy with him.' ‘Which I suppose,' Charles reflected, ‘is some sort of answer.' Thinking of his daughter made him think of Jacqui again and he felt a flutter of panic in his stomach.

Frances produced the food very quickly. It was a dish with frankfurters and sour cream. Something new. Charles felt jealous at the thought that she was developing, learning new things without him. ‘Tell you what,' he said, ‘shall I whip down to the off-licence and get a bottle of wine? Make an evening of it.'

‘Charles, I can't “make an evening of it”. I've got to be at a PTA meeting at 7.30.'

‘Parents-Teachers? Oh, but can't you—' He stopped. No, you can't come back to someone you walked out on twelve years ago and expect them to be instantly free. Even if you have kept in touch and had occasional reconciliations. ‘Have a drink together later, maybe.'

‘Maybe. If you're still here.'

‘I will be.'

‘What is the matter, Charles?'

‘I don't know. Male menopause?' It was a phrase he'd read in a colour supplement somewhere. Didn't really know if it meant anything.

‘You think you've got problems,' said Frances.

She was always busy. Two things about Frances—she was always busy and she was never surprised. These, in moments of compatibility, were her great qualities; in moments of annoyance, her most irritating traits.

The next morning she cooked a large breakfast, brought it up to him in bed, and hurried off to school. Charles lay back on the pillows and felt mellow. He saw the familiar gable of the Jenkinses opposite (they'd had the paint work done blue) and felt sentimentality well up inside him.

Each time he came back to Frances, he seemed to feel more sentimental. At first. Then after a few days they'd quarrel or he'd feel claustrophobic and leave again. And go on a blinder.

The impotence panic seemed miles away. It was another person who had felt that nausea of fear in his stomach. Long ago.

They had made love beautifully. Frances' body was like a well-read book, familiar and comforting. Her limbs were thinner, the tendons a bit more prominent and the skin of her stomach loose. But she was still soft and warm. They had made love gently and easily, their bodies remembering each other's rhythms. It's something you never forget, Charles reflected. Like riding a bicycle.

He switched on the radio by the bedside. It was tuned to Capital Radio—pop music and jingles. So that's what Frances listened to. Strange. It was so easy to condemn her as bourgeois and predictable. When you actually came down to it, everything about her was unexpected. What appeared to be passivity was just the great calm that emanated from her.

When he was dressed, he needed human companionship and so rang his agent. ‘Maurice Skellern Artistes,' said a voice.

‘Maurice.'

‘Who wants him?'

‘Maurice, I know that's you. It's me, Charles.'

‘Oh, hello. How'd the radio go?'

‘Ghastly. It was the worst script I've ever seen.'

‘It's work, Charles.'

‘Yes, just.'

‘Were you rude to anybody?'

‘Not very. Not as rude as I felt like being.'

‘Who to?'

‘The producer.'

‘Charles, you can't afford it. Already you'll never get another job on
Doctor Who
.'

‘I wasn't very rude. Anything coming up?'

‘Some vacancies on the permanent company at Hornchurch.'

‘Forget it.'

‘Chance of a small part in a
Softly, Softly
.'

‘Put my name up.'

‘New play at one of these new fringe theatres. About transvestites in a prison. Political overtones. Written by a convict.'

‘It's not really
me
, is it, Maurice?' in his best theatrical knight voice.

‘I don't know what is
you
any more, Charles. I sometimes wonder if you want to work at all.'

‘Hmm. So do I.'

‘What are you living on at the moment?'

‘My second childhood.'

‘I don't get ten per cent of that.'

‘No. What else is new?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Come on. Give us the dirt.'

‘Isn't any. Well, except for the Sally Nash business . . .'

‘Oh yes?'

‘Well, you know who the disc jockey was, for a start . . .' And Maurice started. He was one of London's recognised authorities on theatrical gossip. Malicious rumour had it that he kept a wall-chart with coloured pins on who was sleeping with who. The Sally Nash case gave him good copy. It was the Lambton affair of the theatre, complete with whips, boots, two-way mirrors and unnamed ‘show-business personalities'. For half an hour Maurice named them all. Eventually, he rang off. That's why he was such a lousy agent. Spent all his time gossiping.

By the Thursday morning Charles' mellowness felt more fragile. When he woke at nine, Frances had already gone to school. He tottered downstairs and made some coffee to counteract the last night's Beaujolais. The coffee tasted foul. Laced with Scotch, it tasted better. He drank it down, poured a glass of neat Scotch and went upstairs to dress.

The inside of his shirt collar had dark wrinkles of dirt, and his socks made their presence felt. Soon he'd have to get Frances to wash something or go back to Hereford Road and pick up some more clothes.

He sloped back downstairs. Frances'
Guardian
was neatly folded on the hall chest. No time to read it at school. Organised read in the evening. It had to be the
Guardian
.

Charles slumped on to the Harrods sofa and started reading an article on recycling waste paper. It failed to hold his attention. He checked the television times and switched on
Play School.
The picture was muzzy. He started fiddling with the UHF contrast knob. The phone rang.

‘Hello.'

‘Charles.'

‘Jacqui. Where on earth did you get this number?'

‘You gave it me ages ago. Said you were contactable there in the last resort.'

‘Yes. I suppose it is my last resort. What's up?'

‘It's about Marius.'

‘Yes?'

‘I tried to contact him again. Went to the house in Bayswater. It was a stupid thing to do, I suppose. Should've left him alone. Should be able to take a bloody hint. I don't know.'

‘What happened?'

‘He wasn't there. But this morning I had a letter.'

‘From Marius?'

‘Yes. It wasn't signed, but it must be. It's horrid. Charles, I'm shit-scared.'

‘Shall I come round?'

‘Can you?'

‘Yes.' A pause. ‘Why did you ring me, Jacqui?'

‘Couldn't think of anyone else.'

After he had put the phone down, Charles switched off
Play School
. He took an old envelope from the table and wrote on it in red felt pen, ‘THANKS. GOODBYE. SEE YOU.' Then he left the house and set out for Highgate tube station.

III

Who Was at the Ball

CHARLES LOOKED AT the sheet of paper. It was pale blue with a dark bevelled edge and, on it, scrawled in black biro capitals, was an uncompromising message. Basically, it told Jacqui to get lost when she wasn't wanted. And basically was the way it was done. The language was disgusting and the note anonymous. ‘Charming. Are you sure it's from him?'