Cinnamon Twigs (26 page)

             
‘I’m kind of busy at the moment, babe.’ I was learning lines for a new movie.

             
‘It’s very important.’

             
‘What is it?’ I asked, registering the seriousness in her tone of voice.

             
Lauren took the script from me and sat on my lap.

             
‘I love you,’ she said.

             
‘I love you too.’

             
‘And I can’t wait to start a family with you… I’m pregnant.’

             
‘You are?’

             
‘Yeah! I found out this morning.’

             
We studied each other’s eyes in a moment of contemplative silence.

             
‘That’s great!’

             
We kissed. We’d never spoken about having kids before. I’d always assumed we’d be parents one day, but I’d never given it much thought.

             
We decided we didn’t want to know the sex of the baby until it was born. Within the first couple of weeks of discovering she was pregnant, Lauren started making the necessary preparations. Painting and decorating a bedroom. Months too early of course but nothing could be more exciting than knowing our child would sleep there one day, surrounded by those walls, cuddling toys, wrapped in the most comfortable cotton blanket we could buy. We spent hours pondering baby names. I liked the name Emily for a girl. She preferred Abigail. And we both fancied the name Harry for a boy. I could imagine my arms around her, as she held our baby in her arms. She would be a great mother. So caring and maternal. I hadn’t known what it was like to have a dad, so I wanted to make up for that by being as good to my child as I could be. I loved resting my hand on her belly, knowing a part of me was growing inside her. A baby. It was hard to fathom. I’d be leaving something to posterity no matter what. My own blood. All I thought about from that moment in my study room was gently swinging our little toddler between us as we walked down the beach, making sure he or she had enough sun cream on. The reality of changing nappies. The baby’s first smile, first words, first steps. As soon as you know you’re going to be a dad it’s hard to think of anything else. It excited me more than any movie role. More than anything. I was going to be responsible for the upbringing of a real person, a little man or woman who would grow up, share our looks, our personalities. I couldn’t wait!             

             
But Lauren suffered a miscarriage a month later, leaving us devastated. I had to be strong for her. I held her in my arms and we cried together. We’d lost a part of ourselves. The doctors said the loss of our baby was probably just a ‘chromosomal abnormality,’ unlikely to reoccur. But we decided we wouldn’t try for another baby. We were too scared we’d have to go through that pain again.

Nothing could hurt more than waking up during the early hours of the morning, hearing her sobbing into a pillow, feeling that emptiness inside her. She blamed herself. Believed there was something wrong with her, that a baby couldn’t live and grow inside her womb. I wondered if it were my fault. Felt so useless. So pathetic. I couldn’t give Lauren what she wanted. She thought she couldn’t give me what I’d been talking about every minute of every day in a constant excited voice. At times she would be snappy, defensive. We’d argue, have to stay in separate rooms for hours. It took a while to get over it. Losing that little baby, that dream, affected our relationship. It had felt like a natural progression, a step we were going to take together. Didn’t happen. Trapped. Just the two of us and a freshly painted room, four walls laughing at us.

              We had to carry on with our lives. But I often brooded on the beach, my thoughts drifting with the waves in that glistening sea, unlike anything in Cardiff. And yet, I couldn’t help thinking about what was in Cardiff, at home where I’d grown up, that was so unlike anything in Spain.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Mace Productions

I’
ve painted an erratic picture of my mother. And to be honest, she
was
pretty erratic. She’s probably not going to be regarded as a likeable character in this memoir, and I’ve failed to highlight her kindness, the countless lessons she taught me, the fact that my whole world revolved around that woman. Everything I ever did I did to make her proud. It’s true that behind every great man is an even greater woman, and I have to give Lauren credit for being there for me all the way through my career, for giving me advice, for governing many of the steps I took. But my mother was the spark, the drive, the stimulus for my success.

             
One birthday, when I was a kid, I invited a group of school friends down for a little party. But nobody turned up. My mother became my only true friend for the day, taking me to the cinema to watch a movie about the dashing masked defender, Zorro. When the movie ended, I forgot all about my absent friends. I dashed about, mimicking Don Diego de la Vega, thrusting my imaginary sword into airy opponents. A meal at an American-style diner, chunky chips drenched in cheesy sauce and a fat sizzling beef burger, fizzing cokes and a chocolate sundae, came next. As my mother tucked me in and kissed my forehead, wishing me good night, I had no idea that she was on the bones of her arse and couldn’t really afford the treats she’d given me. All I knew was that I didn’t need my father. She could give me all the love and care I’d ever want. When I thought about being a dad, all my inspiration came from memories like that one.             

Fleeting dreams of parenthood had been dashed. The beautiful Spanish horizon couldn’t bring our baby back. Nor could it erase our fear that t
he same thing would happen if Lauren and I tried for another baby. We just had to carry on with our lives. Knowing we’d failed in that miracle. New life. It continued to put a strain on our relationship. And even though Lauren and I had a long chat about how we’d have to get on with things, the ghost of our failure haunted us. Every time we saw a child. Saw parents on the television or walking around Spain. Little steps. Sometimes smiles. Or the child playing up and the parents scolding them, all bloodshot eyes and tired voices because they hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since their kid had been born. We’d never have that and it killed us, but not as much as the fear that we’d feel the pain of losing a baby again.

             
I continued to focus on my career. I was constantly associated with the role of Dean Mathis, even though the part had been given to a different actor, another relative unknown: the wiry figure of Jeffrey Stephens. In fairness the series got back on track with his three movies and he exceeded expectations, being known foremost as a TV actor. I only wish I’d been given some of his scripts when playing that role. Fans tend to look more favorably on me than the following Mathis incarnations, probably because I was considered the ‘original Mathis’ - but Stephens made sure the legacy continued. His emotional range was flabbergasting, and his cruel, sardonic face matched Boyle’s literary description of the character better than my scruffy demeanor and dimpled cheeks. I was devastated to hear of his sudden death from a heart attack during pre-production of his fourth movie
Iron Light
, but Robert Shields was another fine choice for the part.

             
I wanted to be tested emotionally, sink my teeth into a meaty role. I needed more control over the projects I got involved with. The press were more interested in my private life than my career. They took an unhealthy interest in what clothes I wore, what people I associated with and whether I was clean-shaven or going for the stubbly look. I couldn’t understand why people would be interested in reading about such tosh. Was that what fame was really all about? I’d always been aware of the importance of image but I wanted to be renowned for my work, not for having my face in gossip magazines. The media had more control over my career than I did. Gossipy columnists and the paparazzi came hand-in-hand with my success. The fans wanted to know as much about me as possible, and the magazines and tabloids gave them information. The information was often confused or sheer bullshit, but I had to accept that. I’d always dreamt of immortality, of people remembering my accomplishments after my lifetime. But I’d become a picture in a magazine, a name in a newspaper, and a new picture, a new name, could replace me any day. I hoped I’d be remembered as an artist and not the subject of old gossip.

             
I let the media know about my concerns, but they didn’t give a rat’s arse. One man, however, paid attention to an interview I did. A man named James Johnson, who had considerable credentials. He gave me a call and said he’d discuss the formation of a production company with me if I’d meet him the next day in his London office. Well, things had suddenly progressed, and I grew excited at the prospect. It would give me a lot of freedom. So I traveled to London to meet James.

             
James Johnson was the most eccentric man I’d ever encountered in the movie business - a proud homosexual and an expert in wine, literature, films and musicals. During his time as a film director he developed a reputation for palinoia. He had furious outbursts when actors didn’t perform as he wished. I imagine those outbursts were terrifying, what with James’s wild black hair, bushy grey mustache and six foot seven stature. He resembled a classical music composer, a modern Jean-Baptiste Lully.

             
I sat in a brown faux leather covered chair, gazing at the four walls plastered with framed posters of operas and old musicals. A vintage 16mm Bolex H-16 movie camera rested on a Victorian walnut cabinet in the corner, along with some old movie reels. James was sitting on the other side of his mahogany Empire style desk.

             
‘You know, I’m thinking of changing my religion again. May take up Scientology. Seems fashionable,’ he said nonchalantly.

             
It took me a while to get used to James’s randomness.

             
‘Do you change your religion often?’

             
‘Depends on the weather really. Sometimes I don’t even have a religion, but I can assure you that I’m devout when I do. Life’s too short to worship only one god. It’s a shame that history is littered with so many dead gods. The necropolis of man’s past is laden with the likes of Enki, Atum and Odin. We must sample every faith because blind faith is faithless. My fear is that at the end of my journey I’ll discover the truth: life’s just one big hermeneutic void.’

             
I said nothing as I cast an admiring eye over his three buttoned, pinstriped Brioni suit jacket.

             
‘Plus I’m growing old now. I’ll be seventy this year. I’ve probably got about ten years left in me, but I’ve always wanted to die a nonagenarian.’ James straightened his silk tie.

             
I told him I admired the undecidability in his movie plotlines.

             
‘I like to think I took maverick filmmaking to the next level,’ he said. ‘I’ve always loved the film industry. It’s a magnificent business to work in.’

             
James said the word ‘magnificent’ a hell of a lot.

             
‘Yeah, I agree. But I’m young to it all, especially compared to you.’

             
‘Ah, but I can assure you that a man who understands the art of moviemaking cannot be young to it. Age is irrelevant in the eyes of art.’

             
‘Really?’

             
‘A movie can instill a viewer with the visual pleasure of the Sistine chapel. Dialogue can emulate the rhythmic beauty of a Shakespearean sonnet, and a movie score can echo Beethoven’s symphonies. An artist is an artist, intrinsically so, and is never young to his or her work. Instead, the work is young to the artist, until the artist grows in prosperity. Juvenilia always contains the shadow of a trace, the ghost of a smile that has yet to break on a viewer’s face, if you’ll forgive the inadvertent internal rhyme there. A true artist recognizes art,
truly
recognizes it. You show great subtlety in your performances. That’s a sign of greatness.’

             
‘Well, as you know, I’m here foremost to talk about producing.’

             
‘You understand the business, so you’ll do well in conquering it. But I daresay you’ve yet to paint your Sistine chapel. When you do, you’ll be magnificent. M-a-g-n-i-f-i-c-e-n-t.’

             
‘Thank you.’ I rested a finger on my temple.

             
‘Producing is hard to define. I daresay most people in the industry couldn’t tell you what a producer does. It involves much silent moving of the mind, like a long legged-fly, as the poet Yeats would say.’                           

             
‘I don’t doubt it.’

             
‘Yes, I can assure you.’

             
He said ‘I can assure you’ a lot as well.

             
‘I’m hoping that if I produce my own movies I’ll have more freedom with my career,’ I said.