Fallout (24 page)

‘I see,’ said his father, Yorkshire vowels flattening his tone into irony. ‘And apart from this
play
your friend has written . . .’

‘Luke.’

‘Right. Apart from that, Paul, how’s business?’

This had been the tenor of Paul’s day. His elder brother’s success, his younger brother’s entertaining antics and his own assumed failure. He did not see how in his father’s eyes he would ever be anything else.

‘And what about Leigh?’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s gorgeous,’ said his brother, sweeping.

‘Are you going to make an honest woman of her?’

‘She’s an honest woman already.’

‘We used to call it living in sin. Can you support her?’

‘She supports me just now,’ said Paul, sick of it. He handed back a roasting tin in childish revenge. ‘Still dirty.’

By the time they went home Paul was weighed down by his father’s disapproval and couldn’t remember ever having felt differently. Neither he nor Leigh spoke in the car.

Erica rattled through her impressions of the day. They were ‘good people’, his mother could cook, could she do anything else?

‘She’s been a teacher for thirty years,’ said Leigh. ‘You didn’t bother to ask.’

‘
Jesus Christ bloody hell!
’ she shouted when they had dropped Erica off and she was back in the passenger seat.

Paul gave a laugh, grim. ‘Bloody Christmas,’ he said.

The moment they had let themselves into the flat Paul took Leigh in his arms and kissed her.

‘Leigh,’ he said, ‘shall we get married?’

Leigh, caught off guard, recoiled. She tried to arrange her face into something he would want to see, but it was too late.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘That answers that, then.’ And he walked into the kitchen.

She stood by the front door and shook. She had not known she would feel like this.

She thought of Paul’s nieces tottering around, their mother following in patient compromise. She thought of registry offices and love songs; her father and the shadow-memory of abandonment he’d left. The picture her mother painted of all the years of deception; late-night waiting, the smell of other women, drudgery and the constant knowledge of his appetites. She thought of Luke and Nina, endangered by their passion and Luke’s restless hunger, the used-up girls left behind. Marriage.

She took off her coat and went into the kitchen. Paul was standing with his back to her. He wasn’t putting on the kettle or opening the fridge – his back, his hands by his side, were action enough. They were not used to crisis.

‘You know I’m going to Oxford tomorrow with Luke,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she answered.

‘Will you miss us?’

Us. Not me. Us.

‘Of course I will,’ she said automatically, trying to read him from the way his shoulders were set, the angle of his head.

He turned to her. He looked straight at her. And he said it. ‘Who will you miss most?’

Leigh’s heart began to thump uncomfortably. She couldn’t look away because his hurt eyes met hers in brave challenge.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, hearing in her voice the falsest liar, the weakest creature on earth. She faced his courage with denial. He wouldn’t ask her again. She could see he couldn’t make himself.
I’ve got away with it
, she thought, with self-disgust.

But still. And yet. She knew that she loved him. Beyond him was the precipice.

‘It’s kind of funny, when you think about it,’ she said.

‘What is?’ Paul didn’t raise his head.

‘That your father thinks you’re some kind of a drop-out when you’re the steadiest person in the world.’

Paul looked up. ‘Yes. I’m Mr Reliable,’ he said, hurt and doubting.

She smiled. She didn’t know how she did it. ‘Just what he wants his son to be. If he could only see it.’

‘What about what you want?’ he asked.

There, again, his courage; more than she could imagine.

‘I want you,’ she said. She meant it.

Late at night, after supper and some wine, after music and a joint, when normality had given them enough safe distance, they made love. But even in the heart of it – when he was lost in her and helpless – she could not forget herself, and in the safety of his arms a cool voice within her took inventory of her pleasure and the qualities in him upon which she relied. Early in the morning, as she rose from the depth of sleep, her first thought was,
Luke is coming back today
. And before denial of it, before the unwelcome image of Nina and even before she registered Paul’s closeness in their bed, all she felt was joy.

It was early afternoon at King’s Cross when Luke got off the train. He would go home to the flat to wash Seston off himself and then straight to the theatre to see Nina, and not think about having to leave her the next day.

He came in just as Leigh was setting off for work; coat and bag trailing, startled by his sudden close proximity at the opening of the door.

He put his arms around her and hugged her, burying his face in her.

‘I’m home,’ he said. ‘Happy fucking Christmas.’

Leigh extricated herself and smiled. ‘How was it?’

‘Yours all right?’ he asked, instead of answering. ‘Your mum still here?’

‘I’m meeting her now. Paul’s in the bath.’

‘Paul!’ shouted Luke. ‘I’m back from the city of death!’

Paul shouted something they couldn’t hear that might have been ‘ahoy –’.

‘See you later,’ said Leigh, and left.

She slammed the door behind her.

Luke, blasted by blissful gratitude to have a home to come to, put his hands to his face and grinned. He shook off the last three days and exalted. Then, recovered, he stood in stillness, and resolution. He would not live in silly dark and lying. He would not have himself defined by infidelity. Nina would have to steel herself, and choose. But anyway, he thought, he did not care, he did not care; so soon, that day, in hours, almost now, he’d see her – and there wasn’t anything else at all but that.

Then, after the longing and the loss and the pained breath-held waiting, the half-hour at the theatre that she gave him was not enough. Not happy. Not private. They had to stay outside in the cold because she hadn’t been able to get away from Tony, and there was nothing to talk about that meant anything. They just stood unhappily and searched for common ground.

He did not feel connected to her, just distaste and dissatisfaction. The separation had begun before they were even parted. The loneliness to come subdued them.

‘Was it all right, your Christmas?’ he asked and she shrugged, expressionless.

He had nothing to tell her about his either and didn’t press her.

‘You’ll forget me,’ she said, which seemed to him so ridiculous it made him doubt she felt the same as he did about anything.

He wanted to be in bed with her, or else –

‘Let’s forget it. I’m going,’ he said abruptly.

‘Right now?’ She was bereft.

‘I hate this. I’ll ring you.’

He kissed her head and went, without properly looking at her. He had almost reached the street before he heard her call.

‘Luke!’

He turned.

‘Postcards,’ she said.

There it was – with her smile the feeling came back; it filled the twenty yards of space between them, miraculously living in the empty air. Happiness.

He nodded. ‘I promise,’ he said.

‘Oxford isn’t far.’ She was as hopeful as a child, as though he could make her better. ‘Will you visit?’

She was shivering inside her coat. She shouldn’t be outside.

Luke tried to arm himself. He shook his head.

‘I’ll be working. I mean, maybe while I’m gone you can decide if—’ He stopped. Realised he didn’t dare go on.

He gestured the narrow gap between the buildings, the service doors and dirt.

‘We aren’t just this,’ he said. ‘It will be a new year.’

‘I know,’ she said, and smiled, but he saw her face, uncertain, as he went.

It was cleaner to be away altogether, just for now.

He and Paul made the journey to Oxford the next day with three drafts of
Paper Pieces
and Luke’s typewriter, a bag each of jeans, socks, pants, shirts. Books.

The unknown.

Paul stood on the pavement outside Oxford station, frowning down at his map, trying to find the street with their boarding house on it, while Luke bought twenty postcards – the Bodleian Library, some dreaming spires – and shoved them into his back pocket. Now he had two women to send postcards to; news to his mother, love to his girl.

‘Hope it’s not a dump,’ he said as he came out.

‘I think I stayed there before once, when you were up north with The Majority. It’s all right. Good breakfasts.’

‘We’re all right, then,’ said Luke, and they set off.

They shared a room, twin beds, because Paul wouldn’t be there all the time.

‘Eric and Ernie,’ said Luke, cheerily, slinging his stuff onto the floor and pushing aside the net curtain at the window to look out at the houses, the dripping trees. Paul had been quiet all day. Luke was making up for it with jokes, trying to draw him out, or just throwing chance remarks into the silence hoping something would interest or irritate him into talking. He got his radio from one of the bags and put it on the floor, pulling up the aerial.

‘Radio bloody Oxford, probably,’ he said, switching it on and spinning the dial through the static. ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ came dimly through the noise. Then Jimmy Osmond. He turned it off.

‘Wanna get something to eat?’

Paul gave him a flat look. ‘We’re meeting them all in town, Luke. John, Scott-Mathieson . . .’

Luke twitched through one of his imaginary shudders.

‘Is he going to be dead grand and difficult?’ he asked.

‘No idea. Suppose we’ll find out.’

‘Well, I’ll go for a walkabout, then.’

Paul didn’t look up.

Luke hesitated. ‘I can’t sit round here going mad, I’ll . . .’ He gestured the door.

‘Yeah. Go on.’

Something in the way he said it was angry. Luke turned to ask, thought better of it, and left.

He walked into town along the Woodstock Road and went to Blackwell’s. He kept nearly being hit by bicycles – they were so quiet. It felt like a cheap television costume drama because the students wore gowns and then had flared jeans sticking out underneath – or brightly coloured tights, clogs. He wrote his first postcard to Nina, addressed it to the theatre and posted it.
In Oxford. Wish me luck.
He hadn’t meant to write about himself, rather something clever and pretty about her, but suddenly he felt quite alone.

He walked to the Playhouse; different to the times he’d visited as audience with his ticket bought and paid for; now
he
was bought and paid for. The scruffy canopy showed Alan Gifford in
The Dame of Sark
, and fresh vertical posters to the side announced Archery Theatre’s arrival and new season. Luke did a massive double-take – his name. Not his real name. But his name. Luke Last. Orange and yellow geometric design and the leads:
Jennifer Ellis, Jonathan Yates in Paper Pieces by Luke Last
– as if it belonged. Then
Twelfth Night
in March. Then something by F. Scott Fitzgerald – he hadn’t known Fitzgerald had written any plays, was momentarily distracted; he’d see if he could find it. Then he looked again:
Paper Pieces by Luke Last
. He laughed and looked round to see if anyone else was watching. There it was:
From 21 January – Paper Pieces
. His strong feeling of joy was replaced by a clear presentiment of disaster. Empty seats and silence. Dismissive reviews. No – worse – vicious ones. Luke Last. Why did he choose that name? He should have taken Joe Furst’s name, the unknown bastard with the winning name would never have noticed.

‘Fuck,’ he said.

‘Hey! Shit! Paul!’ Luke burst into their room.

Paul was where he’d left him, on the bed with his arms behind his head.

‘At the Playhouse,’ said Luke. ‘The poster for
Paper Pieces
! You have to come and see, man. It’s fucking mental. Shakespeare, Fitzgerald and me: God, the Son and the unholy upstart. Shit. And David Bowie’s going to be playing at the New. No one’s going to come.’

Paul grinned despite himself. ‘Don’t worry, not your audience.’

Luke hovered in the doorway, hopefully, but Paul didn’t get up.

‘I didn’t know Fitzgerald wrote any plays,’ he said.

‘That’s what I thought!’ said Luke. ‘So you coming or what?’

‘I’ll see it tomorrow.’

Three weeks later, 20 January 1973 at the Duke of York’s, Nina stood barefoot on the warm stage facing the living darkness of the auditorium. For the last time her interrogator came onto the stage carrying the wooden chair and placed it next to her. For the last time, she turned to him, held out her hand and smiled at him as he took it.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He gently helped her to the chair and she sat, and kept holding his hand as he put her other one to the gun on his hip. The lights went to black. One, two seconds, and the applause began as the curtain fell, with the heavy, soft movement of air around them. Exhale. Pause. The two actors hugged and quickly stood. The curtain lifted again and they stepped forward in bright light.

It’s finished
, she celebrated.
It’s over.
Her mind dancing with release as the applause grew louder.

Even as she took her bows she imagined herself gone. She thought of Luke in Oxford, that just as she was freed from the long run of her play, his was about to open. She had been held in this relentless commitment for so long. As the house-lights slowly came up she seemed to see her future in the rows upon rows of people standing to applaud her leaving.

Backstage, Tony heard the outbreak of applause from the auditorium as he climbed the stairs to Nina’s dressing room. In the corridor he pushed open her door. He glanced at the disarray. She hadn’t yet cleared out her things or taken the pictures from the mirror, it was just as it had been for the months of the show’s run.