A Hidden Life (33 page)

I'll be brave, she thought. I'm not embarrassed about Mickey. She imagined a scenario where everyone was gathered round Matt and Phyl's table together, with her female lover there instead of Gareth. Phyl wouldn't mind. She'd always been tolerant. Too tolerant, in Nessa's opinion, never putting her foot down over anything. Being wishy-washily kind all over the place, which had nearly driven Nessa mad when she was a teenager. There was nothing to kick out against with Phyl and she'd always been able to make you feel like a swine for throwing even a tiny tantrum.
I'm being kind and reasonable so why can't you?
was the message she was conveying and it had made the young Nessa grind her teeth and want to hit her. She'd be just the same now.

Matt was a different matter. His attitude to gay people was reasonably modern and enlightened but it hadn't been tested. It was one thing not to have prejudices when you were reading articles in a newspaper, or laughing at things on the TV, and quite another to welcome a lesbian couple into his house, particularly when one of them was his stepdaughter. No, he'd be all right. Whatever he felt, he'd not make a fuss, but underneath, she was sure, he'd be disapproving and if asked he'd mutter something about Tamsin: her welfare. Quite bad enough, he'd be thinking, to be the child of divorced parents without also being the daughter of someone gay.

I could tell Ellie. She'd just laugh and want to know what she'd undoubtedly refer to as ‘the gory details'. In fact, Nessa thought, it wouldn't surprise me a bit if she hadn't been there, done that and got the T-shirt. Ahead of the curve in matters sexual, that was Ellie. The thought of confiding in her would have been comforting. It would have given Nessa someone with whom she could discuss Mickey, but she didn't trust Ellie not to give away a secret. Discretion wasn't her thing. No, far better to keep the whole thing under wraps. In fact, she told herself as she went downstairs to try and make it up with Mickey, I love the idea of knowing something, doing something, that no one else knows about. The truth was, she liked the secrecy. She got a kick out of people not realizing who she was: assuming she was one kind of person when in truth she was someone quite different.
And it was years since she'd felt this overwhelming longing, this wanting to be with someone all the time, wanting to say her name to everyone, wanting wanting wanting. I love her. I'm in love with her, she thought. I'm in love with a woman. Nessa shook her head. It was true, and yet she hung back, didn't want to tell anyone, still felt as though – as though this relationship was a kind of dizzyingly beautiful holiday from real life; not who she really was.

‘Could I possibly have a word with Ciaran Donnelly?'

The woman who'd opened the door to Lou looked as though she'd been artificially stretched: she was only a couple of inches taller than the average but so thin that she seemed to Lou, as she stood in the porch of the Donnelly house, to be looming and swaying over her. Lou had left Poppy's pushchair at the nursery with Poppy, just this once, with special permission from Mrs Warren, who looked as though she were giving temporary shelter to a Chieftain tank. Lou had put a skirt on for the occasion and it felt strange after months of living in trousers. Her shoes, quite high-heeled for her, made her long for her trainers.

It had taken her ages to screw up her courage sufficiently to walk up the drive and knock on the door, but she'd done it at last and was a bit disappointed not to see the man himself, but that was ridiculous. Of course a top Hollywood producer would have a staff: a secretary, a PA, or even a housekeeper. Why had she thought he'd be living like an ordinary person who opened his own door?

‘I'm afraid Mr Donnelly is rather busy this morning. May I help you?' Help was what her mouth was offering, but her body language, the way she was standing in the hall, suggested she was ready to fight to the death anyone seeking to cross the threshold.

‘Harry Lang has sent me over. I work for Cinnamon Hill Productions and …'

‘Who's that, Monique? What's happened to coffee?' A short, fat man who looked like Santa Claus out of uniform stuck his head round
the door of one of the rooms opening off the hall. ‘Did I hear Harry Lang's name mentioned?'

‘Yes, I mentioned him,' Lou said, leaning to the right a little so that this man – it must be Ciaran Donnelly himself – could see her. She smiled at him, trying to appear nonchalant and as if she spent every day delivering screenplays by hand.

Monique had the grace to step aside as Mr Donnelly said, ‘Come in, come in … Monique, coffee, please. D'you drink coffee?'

‘Yes, thank you.' Lou stepped into the house. ‘But I don't want to disturb you.'

‘You're not, I swear. I'm bored beyond words. Nothing but phone calls asking for money. Don't you just hate that?'

He sounded American, though Lou could still detect the Irish accent in his voice. She said, ‘No one's ever asked me for money and I wouldn't have any to give them if they did.'

Ciaran Donnelly laughed uproariously, much more than her remark deserved and went to sit behind a desk heaped with CDs, books, papers, newspapers, magazines. She couldn't see him properly till he'd cleared a few of them away. He did this by picking up a handful of stuff and chucking it haphazardly on to a chair that was already quite full to begin with.

‘So, Harry Lang sent you. Why was that?'

‘There's a screenplay he wants you to look at.' Lou was beginning to feel hot with guilt. Ciaran Donnelly was being so friendly, so nice to her, and she was deceiving him. And deceiving Harry too.

‘He's in the States, right?'

‘He emailed me …' Lou started to say and then couldn't bear it any longer. She stood up. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Donnelly. I've done something awful. I've got to go …' it's … I'll see myself out. Really. I didn't mean to disturb you …' To her complete amazement and horror, there were tears in her eyes and she wanted more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. She turned and began to cover what seemed like a mile of carpet that lay between her and the door.

‘Wait a minute, please. I don't even know your name, but please – come back here and sit down for a moment. You seem … you're upset. Just sit down and take a deep breath.'

She couldn't, she just couldn't. Where would she find the courage to turn round and face him? As she was wondering whether to make a run for it, try for the front door, she found herself gripped quite firmly by the arm and led like an invalid to the leather chair in front of the desk and gently pushed into it.

‘I'm sorry,' she said again. ‘I must go. Really. You …'

‘Please stop apologizing, Miss … do you mind telling me what to call you?'

‘I'm Lou. Louise Barrington.' Lou sniffed. She was trying very hard not to start howling with embarrassment. What in the world had she been thinking? How had she reckoned she could get away with this madness? Stupid. Stupid and reckless, and if Harry found out he'd never want to talk to her ever again, nor read one of her reports, much less get into any kind of romantic relationship. Oh, God, she thought, let me just escape from this whole thing and I'll never, ever again do anything so ridiculous and mad.

‘Nice to meet you, Louise. Now,' he beamed at her across the desk. ‘Please tell me why you're so distressed. I'm curious. Really. What I have so far doesn't make much sense. Harry Lang sent a screenplay over and you're having some kind of conniption.'

‘Harry doesn't know I'm here. I came off my own bat. I wanted to – well, I wanted you to read my screenplay and I thought this was a clever way of getting you to do that. It's mad, stupid and unprofessional and if Harry knew about it, he'd kill me. Please don't tell him I came. Can you not tell him?'

‘I
could
not tell him and I'm intrigued, I must say. Why haven't you shown this screenplay to Harry?'

‘I thought – I think he might not be able to tell me what he really thinks of it. Because he knows me. He might not want to hurt my feelings, so he wouldn't be completely honest. I need a completely honest opinion.'

‘You say you work for Harry? What d'you do?'

‘It's nothing very much. I read stuff that's sent into Cinnamon Hill and write reports on what I think might be worth pursuing.'

‘Don't tell me. You read so much rubbish that you thought you'd have a go yourself? Is that it?'

Lou shook her head. ‘No, that's not why I wrote it – this screenplay,
I mean.' She took a deep breath. ‘What I mean is, yes, I've always wanted to write for the movies, but this – well, it's a personal thing. An adaptation of a novel by my grandfather. The novel's called
Blind Moon.'

‘Your grandfather wrote a novel? Okay, Louise Barrington. This is what's going to happen. I'm intrigued, I confess. I'll read your screenplay, then I'll get in touch with you and tell you what I think. We won't, either of us, say a word to Harry. Deal?'

‘Really? You'd do that? I don't know what to say. It's … it's so kind of you. I'm … I'm speechless. Sorry, that's stupid of me, but I can't …'

Stop talking, Lou said to herself, before you start to sound like a drivelling idiot and he changes his mind. She smiled and handed him the file which she'd been clutching to her bosom. He took it and placed it on top of a tottering paper mountain. Lou glanced round the room. She could see at least a dozen files that looked exactly like hers. There must be others hidden under something which she couldn't see. These probably also contained screenplays. For a split second she wondered whether this was going to be the end of everything. The other files probably contained scripts which were much better than hers; more commercial, more artistic, more everything. She didn't have a chance, she was sure of it. But still, here was Ciaran Donnelly willing to read what she'd written.

‘Thank you so much,' she said, getting to her feet. ‘It's very kind of you.'

‘Not at all, not at all,' he said, coming out from behind his desk and escorting her to the front door. ‘Not a word to Harry, right?'

‘Yes. And I'm very grateful.'

‘My pleasure, Louise,' Ciaran Donnelly said. ‘I'm looking forward to reading what you've written. I'll be in touch …'

Lou felt as though she were floating down the drive. She wished she'd had the gumption to ask Ciaran Donnelly why – why he was willing to read a screenplay handed over to him by someone who'd simply walked up and knocked on his door. Willing, also, not to tell Harry about it. Never mind, he'd taken it, and now she had to wait. She had no idea how long it would be before she heard from him, but she was willing to wait however long it took. Just don't let
him forget about it and then lose it under someone else's file, she thought. It wasn't till she was on the Tube to Poppy's nursery that she realized Monique hadn't brought in the coffee Ciaran Donnelly had asked for. Perhaps she was protesting at the way her boss had taken over and allowed Lou to walk in off the street.

‘I have done this before, you know, Lou,' Phyl said. ‘Poppy's been living with us for several weeks, remember?'

‘You haven't done it in London. It's different. You're not used to the Tube … the pushchair might be a bit of a problem.' Lou was prowling round the flat, going over to the small suitcase that had been standing packed and ready by the door when Phyl arrived. There was a list of foods, the doctor's telephone number and the numbers of three taxi firms pinned up over the table in the kitchen. The cupboards were groaning with all the stuff Lou had considered necessary for Poppy's welfare in the next forty-eight hours.

‘I'll be fine with the pushchair,' Phyl said, ‘and you've got enough food in to last us a month. Considering you're going to be back tomorrow night, I think we're going to manage.'

‘And you'll leave plenty of time for going to fetch her, won't you? There are sometimes holdups on the Tube.'

‘Stop! Just stop, Lou. You're driving me mad. You're like – I don't know what you're like. You've got time for a drink before you have to leave so just sit down there. Go on, sit. I'm going to make us a nice cup of tea.'

‘Coffee.'

‘Okay, okay, coffee. The idea is for you not to move. I'll get everything. I will even open a packet of biscuits, how's that?'

Lou sat down in the armchair. Phyl called out from the kitchen, ‘Is it serious, this thing with Harry? I mean, he's going to Paris with you, so …'

‘I wouldn't break out the champagne just yet, Mum. It took me all my courage to ask him. He was the one, actually. He sort of invited himself when I told him I was going.'

‘Just like that? Out of the blue?' Phyl handed Lou her cup.

‘No, not really. It was my idea to begin with. I emailed him about
it while he was in America. I hinted – well, no, I suppose I did suggest he might like to come with me. For company. Because he likes Paris so much. And then last week he asked me about it. Whether I'd really meant it, so of course I had to say yes. I mean, I was going. I've been meaning to go for ages.'

‘Aah …'

‘It's okay, Mum. Separate rooms and everything. He's a friend, and that's it.'

Phyl said, ‘Listen, this is the first time since – well, for ages, that you've shown the slightest interest in anyone, so I'm not giving up the hope of a boyfriend so easily. You must like him. Go on, you can tell me. Do you like him?'

Lou said nothing for so long that Phyl began to think she'd overstepped the mark. How long will it be, she wondered, before I don't have to watch what I say? How long before we can all stop tiptoeing round the subject of Lou's love life? Why can't I simply ask her if she fancies him and if it's going anywhere?