Carnforth's Creation (10 page)

November; three months since Roy had recorded the track of the ‘Image Man’ ad and just twelve days since the
commercial
started hitting the nation’s TV sets. So far, three record companies had approached Exodus with a view to signing up song and singer. Roy had also learned that there had been a flood of calls to regional ITV stations, about when, where, and whether people could get their hands on ‘the record’.

His career poised for blast-off, Roy’s only real headache was the film. He’d tried hinting that it mightn’t be too sensible to be funny about his image just when they were starting to get it taken seriously, but Paul was still banging on about getting there by shredding all the usual rules for success. ‘Why be like the rest of them, Roy? Beavering away behind the scenes, but pretending to be a nice easy-going lad. So stuff that; we’ll lay it on the line: what we’re going to do,
how we’re going to do it, and then … watch us do it. And what’s wild about it is how they’re going to love you for being that straight.’

Today, November 8th, they were shooting again for the first time in three months; and according to Matthew the messing-around stage was over. There’d be no more talk about things depending on how the single went. The film was going to go the distance now, whatever.

Roy was standing in one of the window bays in the Long Gallery at Castle Delvaux, watching a group of gardeners burning leaves under an oyster-coloured sky. Outside it looked freakily dark, but only because the gallery was
glowing
like a lighthouse. A few yards behind Roy, Matthew Nairn was conferring with his film bods, who were having problems with reflections stabbing back at them from a row of display cabinets. When Paul had first said it’d be a knock-out visually to have them both filmed, eating off gold plate at a small table, slap in the middle of the biggest room in the house, Roy had thought so too. Like after the grotty footage of Desolation Row, it’d be a mind-blowing contrast to see them here, chatting about pop with a couple of blokes in flunkey outfits dancing round pouring out wine. Then if this codded-up graceful living was followed by kids wetting themselves at a concert … what a film.

But when he’d been bowled over by Paul’s quirky ideas, he hadn’t cottoned to what a spooky guy Matthew was. No need to look at him closely to guess what he thought of the present set-up. Not that he wasn’t getting on with the job like a pro, but the way he was smiling one moment and then looking like a man with a mouthful of lemons, wasn’t reassuring. And as if that wasn’t enough, Paul had pissed off somewhere with Gemma, without saying what they’d actually
talk
about
when Matthew’s camera started rolling. Presumably Paul knew what
he
was going to say, which Roy reckoned would mean he’d be tagging along second-fiddle all the time. But if he started getting at Paul, he’d look a jerk to have agreed to play along in the first place. When he saw Gemma coming towards him from the far end of the gallery, he remembered what
she’d said about Matthew not liking people who didn’t believe in their act.

But as Matthew came over and said the lighting problems were licked, Roy couldn’t stop himself. ‘Thought you liked doing things strictly realistic.’

Matthew nodded. ‘Quite true, Roy … but you tell me how to treat Paul realistically?’ He smiled. ‘Maybe the only way’s to show the kind of set-ups he wants to mount.’

‘So you can do what with ’em?’

Matthew tugged at his curly hair and made a Christ knows face. ‘This’ll be one day’s filming out of I don’t know how many. Most directors don’t begin to know the score till they’ve spent a week or two in the cutting-room.’

Roy turned away. Matthew was great on boyish honesty, but when it came down to it he was a match for Paul in keeping his thoughts to himself. Roy heard him say pleasantly (perhaps for Gemma’s benefit, since she’d just joined them), ‘Actually it’d be easier to shoot this
semi-rehearsed
stuff like drama. Camera on Paul for all his bits; then shift around and have it on you for your lines. Much easier to cut. As it is, with only one camera, we have to vary a basic two-shot with pans from face to face, pull in, pull out …’

Gemma laughed lightly. ‘Obtuse as ever, Matty. Roy hasn’t a clue what he’s going to say.’

‘Perhaps
Roy
doesn’t know, but I daresay Paul could tell us.’

Gemma took Roy’s arm solicitously. ‘It’s really very touching that Matty thinks so much of Paul.’

‘Not the word I’d have used,’ said Roy, moving away.

A moment later he saw a man wheel in a trolley with covered dishes on it. If the food had arrived, maybe Paul might choose to put in an appearance. Moments later he did choose. And the second Roy saw him, his mood did one of those instant shifts that Paul somehow produced when least expected. For a start the man was wearing an embroidered coat and poncy ruffled shirt, which made him look like Errol Flynn about to stick his sword into a villain. He sauntered up
to Matthew, drawing on a cigar, and suggested he start filming after the food had been dished up. And that was how it happened.

A little later Roy was sitting opposite Paul, while a man in a check shirt fiddled about amongst the Fort Knox crockery, placing a pair of microphones where they wouldn’t get knocked. Then he asked them to talk how they were going to, so he could get ‘some level’.

After telling Roy to have fun, Paul started talking
nonsense
for the sound recordist’s benefit. Did Roy like spiders? Yes, said Roy, if they were big and hairy. Delicious in chocolate sauce, agreed Paul. When the sound bod was satisfied, Matthew called, ‘Quiet please.’ Then came the routine Roy was already used to: ‘Turn over …’ ‘Camera’s running.’ And one of the crew banging the clapper-board, and saying, ‘Rory Craig, slate forty-two, take one.’ Next a long silence Roy didn’t like, because, though he knew they’d cut out all the duff bits later, he still felt a twat sitting there waiting for Paul to kick off, while half-a-dozen blokes crouched round the camera looking hopeful. Paul didn’t make any kind of move but just sat like a contented dummy, sucking at his cigar (which had to be wrong with a plateful of turtle soup steaming under his nose). Five more seconds and Roy had had enough.

‘Know what you remind me of?’ he asked abruptly.

Paul blew a smoke ring. ‘What?’

‘One of those nurds who advertise cigars on telly. Butlers oiling around … antique furniture …’

Paul put down his cigar on his side-plate, and lifting his wine glass, sniffed the contents. He smiled dreamily and crooned, ‘Only the rich smooth taste of fine old vintage snobbery will do for people who
care
about the quality of their social climbing.’

‘Okay,’ spluttered Roy, not meaning to laugh. ‘But what’s that kind of ad saying about people like you?’

Paul looked worried. ‘I suppose … that we’re still big enough in the public mind to sell over-priced luxury items.’

‘Not much of an image,’ muttered Roy, sipping his soup.

‘Dead right,’ sighed Paul. “But that’s where you’re such a help, Roy.’

Roy’s heart hammered as he tumbled to the kind of flip word-play Paul wanted, to set up their relationship on film. ‘Calling all nobs,’ he intoned nasally. ‘No common touch? No chins? Wake up feeling fossilized? Dial Rent-a-Pleb
now.
Be seen with one in public; chat to one on TV …’

‘And pop stars aren’t isolated?’ Paul enquired softly. ‘Publicity machines, gossip columns, mass envy. We’ve a lot in common, Roy.’

‘Arms and legs?’

‘People never seeing
us
; only media clichés. The hunting and shooting peer. The pig ignorant singer, who can’t tell Mantovani from Monteverdi …’

‘Or Manfred from Thomas Mann …’

‘You’re no lunkhead, Roy.’

‘Did half an “A” Level … Can say, “Pass the brown sauce” in Spanish.’

Paul lowered his spoon. ‘That’s incredible.’ He shook his head. ‘What gets me is the unfairness. I mean, it’s fine for me to eat off this stuff, but a flogging offence for anyone who’s earned enough to bid for a set at Christies.’

‘A sneer a day keeps envy away,’ replied Roy, quoting Paul, who laughed like he’d never heard the phrase before.

‘Come to think of it, being beastly to the nouveau riche must be the most popular national sport after soccer.’

‘I say let ’em get on with it.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ declared Paul. ‘Suppose … not very likely … but still suppose a star turned up who knew the whole cultural wangle from Wittgenstein to Warhol? A star so super-sneer-proof he could drive the pensions-before-pleasure brigade barmy.’ He gestured to one of the flunkeys to fill his glass. ‘He drinks better claret, collects better pictures, says brighter things. Who’d be sneering then?’

‘So be like your uncle Rory, kids,’ stage-whispered Roy. ‘Get clever or you’ll sure as hell get conned.’

‘You’d be striking a blow for democracy.’

Roy raised an eyebrow. ‘Giving back condescension to the people?’

‘Why not?’ asked Paul, ‘It’s too much fun to be hogged by the privileged few.’

‘You oughta join the Labour Party.’

Paul leaned forward enthusiastically, ‘Actually; what you said … “Getting clever” … Could make a song.’

Roy started quaking. ‘Is this where we sing and tap-dance together?’

After a sip of wine, Paul shook his head.
‘I
don’t
do
things, Roy. I think of them.’ He left a brief pause, then turned to Matthew, ‘That’ll do for now.’ The cameraman glanced at Matthew, who said nothing.

‘Fine by me,’ said Paul. ‘You want to waste film …’ He turned to Roy. ‘The soup’s cold; so let’s have the salmon.’

‘Got to have chips and vinegar with mine,’ said Roy.

‘I’ll see if cook can manage it … He’s a bit rough on the refinements.’

Roy heard Matthew say, ‘Cut.’ Only then did he realise how shaky he felt; as if he’d been riding pillion on a
motorbike
with a driver who didn’t believe in brakes, but had somehow stopped without an accident. Gemma came up beaming.

‘That was terrific, Roy.’

‘Terrific?’ he snarled. ‘Jesus, baby, you’ll have to say better than
that
if you want a part in my movie.’ No trouble, he thought light-headedly.

She pouted; then said briskly, ‘How are you going to establish this scene, Matty?’

Matthew seemed puzzled. ‘You mean shots of Roy
arriving
, the butler leading him through twenty reception rooms?’

Gemma looked delighted. ‘It’d be hysterical. Let’s do it.’

‘It’ll take a month to light … otherwise, great.’

She jabbed a finger at him. ‘All right maestro, let’s have some ideas.’

‘I’d rather hear yours first.’ He rattled some change in a
trouser pocket. ‘You were the ones who wanted some hammed-up sequences …’

Gemma smiled. ‘Give us enough rope and we’ll hang ourselves?’ She picked up Paul’s glass and drank from it. ‘Only trouble is, we’ll hang you too.’ She tut-tutted
school-ma’amishly
. ‘A pop star
and
a peer in the same film. Dear me, Matty, not at all your usual fodder … what will the critics say?’ She rolled her eyes in sympathetic horror. ‘Have to do something special.’

Matthew turned to his crew. ‘We’re breaking for a script conference.’

‘Script conference be damned,’ laughed Paul, ‘this is strictly improvised.’

As he cantered through various suggestions, Matthew contented himself with comments based on technical grounds. Exterior set-ups would be best because not
requiring
lights, and so forth. On the whole Matthew thought Paul’s basic idea perfectly viable; a montage of conversation pieces, using house and grounds to advantage, would work well visually. If some scenes were covered in long shot – Paul and Roy rowing on the lake for instance, or looking down from the battlements – any appropriate conversation could be used, and a seemingly unbroken dialogue carry on from set-up to set-up on sound. Both funny, and useful in creating the ironically nonchalant impression Paul seemed set on giving his efforts as a promoter. How this would mix with
verité
coverage of actual events – concerts, recordings, etcetera – Matthew wasn’t sure (except that Paul was taking a colossal risk). If Roy triumphed, Paul’s comically off-hand statements would make him look a casual genius; but if Roy failed, Matthew didn’t imagine there would be many people wanting to change places with Paul for all his money.

As soon as the next set-up had been agreed, Matthew decided to dispose of a question that’d been niggling him since his arrival. Affecting only marginal interest, he said,

‘Why didn’t Eleanor stay to see the fun?’

Paul turned sharply. ‘I thought you knew she’s not wildly enthusiastic about our efforts.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Matthew, ‘that’s why I was surprised she didn’t stay to keep an eye on things.’

Paul shrugged. ‘How can that effect what we’re doing?’

Knowing that Paul would only brush it aside, Matthew saw no point in telling him that his wife had vowed to stop the film.

*

On a drab winter day, a month after the filming at Castle Delvaux, Eleanor was walking along Pall Mall, chatting to her father. Although Paul’s invitation to Matthew and his TV people had shaken her, seeming to contradict everything agreed after the ‘happenings’, Eleanor had nonetheless shied away from treating it as a crisis. She had also done her best to avoid burdening her parents. But already she fancied her success had been limited. As she and her father passed the grimy façades of the clubs, she was often aware of covert glances, concerned yet somehow reproachful.

Today she had picked up her father at the Travellers’ (more often it would be White’s), and they were now on their way to Prunier’s for another of the regular luncheons he had been dutifully arranging, since learning that she was
spending
more time in town. Passing the RAC, Lord Herrick asked Eleanor whether she had recently been reading the papers. She wondered, with a flutter in her stomach, whether he had seen anything about Paul. To her relief it became clear that he was referring to rumours of a summer election. Lord Herrick had reasonably well-founded hopes of a junior ministry should the Tories be returned to power. When her father began ruminating on the week’s principal foreign news – another Viet Cong offensive and more genocide in Biafra – Eleanor found it bizarrely incongruous that her own attention should recently have been engaged by matters such as the announcement of Rory Craig’s forthcoming single (archly entitled ‘Getting Clever’), and the news that the record of ‘Image Man’ had now risen to number three in the charts.