Golden Hour (33 page)

Laura is loading her shopping onto the moving belt. She takes one of the plastic barriers and says to Mrs. Huxtable, “What would you call that?”

“I've no idea. I wouldn't call it anything.”

Laura asks the checkout girl for plastic bags, avoiding her
eyes. As she pays for her shopping, pressing the numbers on the credit-card keypad, she points to one of the plastic barriers.

“What do you call those things?”

“Those?” says the checkout girl. “I call them thingies.”

At home, putting away the shopping, Laura finds that the bandage has fallen off her finger. She examines the cut. It's far from healed, but it looks clean and healthy. She hates not wearing her ring, it's become so much part of her. She decides not to put a new bandage on, which means she can wear her ring again.

She runs up to her bedroom and opens the Moroccan box.

The ring isn't there.

She takes everything out of the box, lays all the beads and earrings out on her dressing table: but her engagement ring is not among them. Baffled, she looks round the carpet at her feet, and under the dressing table. No sign of the ring.

She goes downstairs to Henry's study. He's on the phone, but he pauses his conversation, seeing her anxious face.

“Have you seen my engagement ring anywhere? I took it off when I cut my finger the other day. I thought I'd put it on my dressing table, but it's not there.”

“No, I've not seen it,” says Henry.

He goes back to his conversation.

“I could come up today, I suppose,” he says.

Laura returns to the kitchen, thinking maybe she's misremembered and left the ring on a cup hook. She looks in all the possible places where she might have put it, but finds nothing. Can it have fallen down the sink plughole?

She revisits her memory. It's perfectly clear. She took the ring upstairs and put it in the Moroccan box. And now it's gone.

She feels a sense of panic. She loves that ring. It's not just
that it's beautiful and irreplaceable. It represents her marriage. If the ring is lost, her marriage will fall apart.

This is nonsense, of course. She knows it's nonsense. She tells herself not to be so silly. But she wants with a dreadful fearful longing to find her ring again.

Carrie comes into the kitchen, followed by Toby.

“We're going out driving,” says Carrie.

“Have you seen my ruby ring?” says Laura. “I've lost it.”

“No,” says Carrie. “Okay to use the car? My test's next week.”

“What does the ring look like?” says Toby.

“It's antique gold, with a single uncut ruby set in gold leaves. On the inside, on the back of the setting, it's engraved with our initials, L and H. It's my engagement ring.”

“Pretty special,” says Toby.

“Yes. It is.”

“Come on, Toby,” says Carrie, taking the car keys from Laura's handbag.

“I'm good at finding things,” says Toby. “I'll take a look when we get back.”

They go out.

Laura feels sick. She tells herself it's not an omen of disaster, but it feels as if it is. Henry's going through a difficult time. Carrie's about to have her heart broken. The hot summer's about to end. Her dinner party's in chaos. On Saturday it's the anniversary of her engagement to Henry, and she's lost her ring.

Henry himself appears, his phone call over.

“That was Aidan Massey,” he says. “He's doing a new series, the history of India. I thought there might be something for me there.”

All Laura can think about is her lost ring. But she can feel the tension in Henry. He won't have enjoyed making that call.

“You said you never wanted to work with Aidan Massey again in all the rest of your life.”

“Oh, he's not so bad. He says he'd like to have me on the team, but it's not up to him. Anyway, he's going to fix for me to meet the series producer.”

“You hate working for other people.”

“I can cope with it, if I'm left alone.” He looks round for his leather satchel. “I'd better buck up. I told Aidan I'd be there by eleven. Then if all goes well, I'll spend the rest of the day in the production office getting myself briefed.”

“You're going to London now?”

“Yes. Now.”

He finds his bag, his phone, his car keys. And he's gone.

Laura doesn't understand why he isn't more disturbed by the loss of her ring. But maybe he's right and it'll just turn up.

A tap on the back door. It's Terry Sutton.

“Just come to fix that orchard gate,” he says.

“Oh, right,” says Laura. She has no idea what he's talking about.

I put the ring in my Moroccan box. I know I did.

She returns to the bedroom. There lies the contents of the box, spread out on her dressing table; but no ring. She takes the box itself and shakes it. She tugs out its blue silk lining. There beneath the lining is a folded paper napkin. She opens it out, and sees on it writing from long ago.

Will you marry me?

She gazes at it. Then she starts to cry. She sits in front of her dressing-table mirror, weeping silently, because seeing the writing on the paper napkin pierces her heart. She never cried back then. But somehow the years in between have granted the moment retrospective weight, as if her future with Henry is laid out in a few faded ink strokes on that soft white paper. And that blue
biro tick by the box labeled
Yes
, made by her more as an act of faith than love, was the first real step in the creation of what is now her entire life.

Alan comes to the end of the script emailed him by Jane Langridge. He's only skimmed through it, not wanting to torment himself with too close a knowledge of what has been changed. Most of all he has avoided the speeches of the dog. All the time that he was working on the screenplay, mocking himself for colluding in its absurd premises, he was finding ways to channel his true self.

So deep down I'm a sheepdog with a talent for financial trading. Who knew?

But of course it's not the financial skills or the dog-ness, it's the view of the world. “The trouble with people is they're always on heat. They need a good long rest from thinking about sex.”

Jane has sent the new script with a disingenuous cover note implying it's still a rough draft, despite the fact that it says on the title page: SHOOTING SCRIPT. And as it happens they're out there right now, shooting it.

Liz looks in at the door.

“I have to go out.”

Alan knows Liz is still cross with him, but the need to vent his feelings is too strong.

“This is it,” he says, holding up the new draft. “A quirky
character comedy now stripped of quirkiness, character and comedy.”

“I have to go,” says Liz.

“Where are you going?”

“To a donkey sanctuary the other side of Hailsham.”

“Why?”

“You know the Russians who made a donkey parasail over a beach? The
Sun
has rescued the donkey. So now Mark wants a piece on rescued donkeys.”

Henry finds this hard to take in.

“Does anyone care?”

“Mark does.”

Alan wants to talk to her about his screenplay.

“They've made the dog American,” he says. “The only thing that was ever funny about the dog swearing was that he was English.”

“Don't tell me. Tell them. Go and tell them.”

She's heading for the front door, bag swinging. He follows her into the hall. Caspar is there, gazing at him.

“I'll tell them, Dad.”

“What?”

“I'll tell them Rocky has to be English.”

The front door closes. Liz has gone. The phone rings. It's Bridget, worrying about Liz's mother.

“She hasn't phoned,” says Alan, speaking more sharply than he needs. “The whole point is to get her to realize for herself that she needs help. She's got her emergency-call button if she gets into trouble.”

He puts down the phone.

“If you're going to the filming,” Cas says, “please take me with you.”

Alan draws a long breath to calm himself. He doesn't like it when there's unresolved business between him and Liz.

“I'm not going,” he says. “It'll only make me angry. There's no point.”

“Yes, there is. You have to tell them.”

Alan looks down at his son. No self-doubt there, no self-punishment.

Maybe I should go back. Something has to give.

The mix of rage and powerlessness is making him ill. And he doesn't want to sit around the house feeling sorry for himself, waiting for Liz to come home.

Maybe I should have a private word with Jane. Ask her why they did it behind my back, as if I don't exist. No, not that. Express concern. My fear that the story might have lost some originality. Might have turned into a crock of shit.

Cas is still staring expectantly up at him.

“If I let you come, you're to buzz off when I tell you, okay?”

“Okay.”

So Alan sets out like a soldier going to the wars, and Cas runs along after him like a soldier's son who wants to go to the wars too.

The sun is bright, high in the sky. The morning golden hour is long over, the evening golden hour is yet to come. Today is scheduled to be the last filming day on the Downs. Alan wonders if they got the light they wanted on Wednesday, or yesterday. It hurts him so much, not being a member of the unit, sharing their daily triumphs and disasters, on this story that has been a part of his life for over two years.

“Dad,” says Cas as they drive. “You made Rocky up, didn't you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“So you're the most important person of them all.”

“I don't think they think so.”

“But you are. If it wasn't for you, none of them would be there, doing the filming.”

“They'd be doing some other film. There are so many films.”

“But not
this
film,” says Cas firmly. “
This
film is only being done because of
you
.”

“That is perfectly true,” says Alan.

When they get to Cuckmere Haven they find no one controlling the entrance to the film-unit car park, and they drive in unhindered. There's a crowd of crew round the catering van.

“Mid-morning break,” says Alan.

He sees no one he knows. They park at the far end to be out of everyone's way, and walk back to the cluster of production trailers. Alan's plan is to locate Jane Langridge and speak to her in private. He doesn't want to see either the director or the new writer.

Caspar is looking round for Billy. He can't see him anywhere.

“Can you ask, Dad?”

Alan asks a member of the crew who is standing in line for coffee, but the crew man doesn't know. Then Alan sees a trailer just ahead that says on its door: PRODUCER—Jane Langridge. He crosses, and is about to tap on the door when it opens. Out steps the young man with the dark curly hair. The new writer.

He gives Alan a questioning look, tipping his head on one side.

“I'm guessing you're Alan Strachan.”

“Yes,” says Alan.

The young man shoots out his hand.

“Harlan,” he says. He gives Alan a crinkly smile. “I'm the jerk who's fucking up your story.” He sees Caspar behind Alan. “Hey, sorry about my language.”

“Caspar,” says Alan. “My son.”

“Your dad did a great job,” says Harlan.

“If it wasn't for him,” says Cas, “none of you would be here.”

“Hundred percent true,” says Harlan. “He's the giant. We're the pygmies, standing on his shoulders.”

None of this is what Alan has expected. He doesn't know how to respond.

“Hey,” says Harlan, “come on in. Have a coffee.”

“Do you know where Billy is?” says Cas.

“Billy?”

“The dog actor who acts Rocky.”

“Oh, sure.” He calls out to a young woman in the line for the catering truck. “Greta. Show this young man where the dog handlers are pitched. He's a VIP visitor, so make nice.”

Caspar runs off with Greta. Alan follows Harlan into the production trailer. They have it to themselves. There's a table with a laptop open on it where Harlan has evidently been working. A coffee machine in the galley kitchen.

“Your first screenplay, right?” says Harlan.

“Yes,” says Alan.

“You did a great job.” He pours strong black coffee. “The morons have no idea. They fly me over to give it what they call
topical edge
—” he makes the phrase sound like a fashion accessory—“which turns out to mean referencing a movie made all of sixteen years ago. The dog has to say, ‘Greed is good.'”

“I saw,” says Alan.

“This dog,” says Harlan, “is so fucking self-aware that if he were ever to say ‘Greed is good' he'd say it like with an up-tick, you know? Greed is good? Like he's amused by the old-time religion of it all. But try explaining that to Nancy Kravitz. You've met Nancy?”

“Only on the phone.”

“Nancy has all the thrust of the first stage of a Saturn rocket. Her job is to blast off and then fall away. She has no idea what's up there in the nose cone.”

He gives Alan a polystyrene cup of coffee and throws himself across the couch at one end of the trailer.

“Stretch out. Put your shoes up on the soft furnishings. We're just here for the ride.”

Alan sits down, sips at his coffee. He pulls a face at the bitter taste.

“Yeah, even the coffee's shit,” says Harlan.

“So,” says Alan. “How long ago did they bring you on to this?”

“I guess it must be three months now. No one told you, of course.”

“No.”

“Welcome to the movie business, where every call is a good-news call. We don't do criticism. We do praise, and we do silence.”

“Have they done it to you?”