Nocturne (61 page)

‘
Well-known?
’

‘
Household name.
’

‘
Are you going to tell me who he is?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
Is his name Tom?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
Is it Morris?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
But Morris knows him?
’

‘
They keep the same political company.
’

‘
Like minds?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Cabinet minister?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Who is it, then?
’

Brendan didn
’
t answer me. I shrugged, not bothering to argue, no
longer wanting to give him the satisfaction of pleading for the name.
Numbed by the exchange, I didn
’
t want to hear any more about drama
projects, about points of view, about international sales projections. I
didn
’
t even flinch when Brendan taunted me with the working title
he
’
d come up with for the series. He wanted to call it
Trickledown
,
he
said. He thought it was rather witty.

I ignored him. All I could think about was Gilbert and the
make-believe
world he
’
d probably inhabited for most of his waking
life. A world where his precious mother was still alive. A world freed
from the shadow of the father he hated. A world where - when the
going got truly unbearable - he could seek a kind of solace by
pretending to be his step-brother. Soon enough, with the little word
processor I
’
d just bought, I
’
d be able to re-run all those phone
conversations in my head and try to understand the way things really
were. I
’
d get everything in order, exactly the way it had all happened,
and see what sense it made. For now, though, I
’
d had enough.

I got to my feet and brushed the crumbs from Billie
’
s Babygro.
Brendan was looking up at me. He said he hadn
’
t finished. He
’
d got
more to tell me, more trumpets to blow,
more ways of pointing out just
how much I was missing by no longer being
part of his busy, busy life. I
shook my head. I
’
d heard far too much already.

‘
You
’
re either crazy or inadequate,
’
I said softly.
‘
And you
’
re not
crazy.
’

The word inadequate stopped Brendan in mid-flow. It was the one
accusation he couldn
’
t handle, the one home truth that seemed to get
through.

‘
What do you mean, inadequate?
’

‘
You copped out,
’
I said savagely.
‘
You copped out then and you
’
re
copping out now.
’

‘
Then?
’

‘
With us. When we were together. The little lies. The big lies. The
not facing it.
’

‘
Facing what, for fuck
’
s sake?
’

‘
Life, Brendan. You could have been honest with me. I
’
m glad now
that you weren
’
t but it was there for you, there on a plate. I trusted you
completely. God knows, I even loved you. You took it all, didn
’
t you?
You took it all, and you played your little games, and when you
’
d had
enough you ran the fucking credits.
’

Varenka blinked. The last bit seemed to have impressed her.

‘
I
t was over,
’
Brendan muttered. I
t was finished.
’

‘
That
’
s not what you said later.
’

‘
That was different.
’

‘
How?
’

‘
You were pregnant. You were going to have a baby. I had rights.
Responsibilities.
’

‘
Responsibilities?
’
I held Billie a little tighter.
‘
What would you
know about responsibilities?
’

‘
Quite a lot as it happens.
’
Brendan had composed himself now,
pulled himself together.
‘
Are you saying I was wrong to get Billie out of
there? Out from under that loony upstairs?
’

‘
He
’
s not a loony.
’

‘
He
’
s not? He watches you? Follows you around? Breaks into your
flat? Pisses through your ceiling? Have I been away too much? Has the
language changed? Am I missing something here?
’
He
’
d raised his
voice again, letting his anger get the better of him.

Billie was beginning to stir.

‘
So you did take her,
’
I said quietly.

Brendan didn
’
t answer, just stared at me. I stepped towards the
desk, came very close. On top of the pile of scripts was a glossy
presentation brochure.
Celebrity
Home
Run
,
it said
,
Japanese
Edition
.
I bent towards him, cradling Billie in my arms.

‘
You
’
ll never see this baby again,
’
I said.
‘
Not if I have anything to
do with it.
’

‘
Really?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
And you think you can do that?
’

‘
I know I can do that.
’

‘
How come?
’

I glanced down at Billie. Her Babygro looked bulky enough to
conceal one of those tiny audio recorders.

‘
I wired Billie,
’
I lie
d.
‘
And I made some good mates
in the police. So
just leave us alone, eh?
’

I looked him in the eye. He didn
’
t flinch. By the door, on the way
out, I paused.

‘
Life
’
s not a game show, Brendan.
’
I glanced at Varenka.
‘
Not quite
yet.
’

Billie and I visit Gilbert as often as we can. His room looks south, over
the soft green hills towards Charmouth, and
we
spend the afternoons
chatting, or playing with Billie. Gilbert has acquired a huge library of
children
’
s books and Billie sits on his lap gazing up at him while he
reads her stories. For each of the characters, he puts on a different
voice. The one she loves best of all is Pino
cchio, at which Gilbert is very
good indeed. He
’
s had enough practice, bless him.

At four, the staff at the home serve afternoon tea. We generally have
scones and little glass bowls of Dorset cream and home-made
strawberry jam. Billie adores the strawberry jam and since the New
Year Gilbert has been giving her big jars of it to take away. We carry
them back to London with us, trophies of our expeditions to see Uncle
Gillie, and once the jar is empty we know it
’
s time to go back. Lately,
the jars have got smaller and smaller but I think that
’
s because Gilbert
misses the company and wants us back again sooner.

As a special treat for Billie he
’
ll sometimes play the flute. With
Gaynor
’
s help, I managed to rescue it from Napier Road and Gilbert
dances awkwardly around the room, inventing little jigs, pursued by
Billie. She
’
s only just learned to walk but I know she
’
s rea
lly deter-
mined to catch him. And o
ne day, if she
’
s as lucky as her mother, she will.