Learning by Heart (22 page)

‘Shit,’ Nick murmured. ‘He was a genius.’

‘Nobel winner four years ago.’

‘
The Light
,’ Nick agreed. ‘Quite a book.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘He couldn’t have been that old?’

‘Fifty.’

There was a momentary silence.

‘How’s your new book?’ Andy asked.

Nick made a hissing sound. ‘Crawling on its hands and knees.’

‘How far on with it are you?’

‘Not far enough. Half-way.’

Nick closed his eyes briefly. Half-way was worse to him than the beginning: it felt like he had climbed a mountain and wasn’t yet at the peak. Fifty thousand words was death. Fifty thousand done and fifty to go. No man’s land. Out in the middle of the big, empty ocean.

‘You still got the story, though?’

‘Yes,’ Nick said. But he didn’t meet Andy’s eye. He had lost track of the book since the beginning of the week; any excitement that he had felt in progressing with it seemed empty now. He didn’t trust his judgement. He had looked at what he had written that morning and hadn’t been able to get a handle on it, whether it worked, even at the most basic level. The three pages he had done today had been purely mechanical: a response, a routine. The way he normally spent his mornings. But he didn’t feel any of it in his heart, where it mattered.

‘What’s the problem?’ Andy asked. ‘Is there a problem?’

Nick paused. ‘Zeph left me,’ he said.

There was a beat of surprise, of shock.

‘She what?’ Andy raised his hands, then let them drop. ‘No! When was this?’

‘Three days ago.’

‘Where’d she go?’

‘To Cora’s.’

‘Somerset?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus,’ Andy said. He frowned deeply, his usual good-humour gone. ‘What about Josh?’

‘She took him with her. She won’t let me talk to him or see him.’ Nick’s voice cracked. ‘She won’t discuss anything.’

‘Jesus,’ Andy repeated. ‘I’m sorry.’ He regarded Nick for some seconds. ‘It was the picture,’ he guessed.

‘Yes.’

‘Hell of a thing,’ Andy muttered. He looked at Nick sympathetically. Exhaustion and anxiety were written plainly on the younger man’s face now. ‘But she’ll be back, Nick.’

‘I don’t know,’ Nick muttered. ‘It doesn’t look like it.’ He put a hand to his head; it had ached for the last forty-eight hours. He felt numb with fatigue. He could have put his arms on the table, his head on them, and slept now. He had woken up during the night from a fully fledged nightmare. He hadn’t had anything like it since he was a child.

He had been dreaming that the house was getting narrower and narrower, the walls bowed in the centre, as if terrible pressure were being exerted from above. He had been walking down the stairs when the treads began to fragment. He had run to the front door, and found it too warped to open; on running to the back of the house, he had heard the crash of splintering glass as the windows shattered. Barefoot, he stepped on to a carpet of shards. The house rocked, in the grip of what felt like an earthquake. Then, far above him, in the bedroom, he had heard Zeph and Joshua crying.

He had woken with a jolt, swung his legs out of bed, then hung his head, realizing suddenly that his wife and son weren’t there. Even in the three a.m. gloom, he could see the torn photograph on the bedside table. He picked up the glass of water next to it and drank; it tasted brackish and bitter.

He had gone downstairs, wandered about aimlessly, switched on the television and stared at the picture with the sound down. It was an old comedy programme, a rerun of a once successful series. He looked in blank incomprehension at the images, then flicked channels. Other faces stared back at him: a woman clutching a small girl to her side, talking to soldiers at a checkpoint; a man in a street staring in the direction of an explosion. Each face turned to the camera mirrored his own disorientation.

He had switched off the set and sat on the couch in the dark, head in his hands. He almost wished for the cataclysm, the explosion, the earthquake and the dream: something to wake him and propel him out of the silence. He almost wished he could tear up his whole life and start again somewhere else, assume another identity. He wished he could say to himself that the other life had been erased. But it could never be true. The earthquake, the explosion would never come. There would never be that kind of dramatic release, that incontrovertible shift. Instead, his life with Zeph and Josh would ease away by degrees.

He had gone back to bed, and tried to sleep.

At last, when it was almost light, he had moved to Joshua’s room and lain down on his son’s small bed. He could smell the child on the covers, on the pillow.

It had been something. Not much, but something.

‘Have you seen Bella?’ Andy asked.

Nick tore his mind from last night. ‘She came to the house,’ he said, ‘if you can believe that. After the picture in the paper.’

‘Did Zeph see her?’

‘No. She’d already gone. This was yesterday.’

‘Well, thank God for that,’ Andy observed. ‘Could have been timed worse.’

Nick shook his head. ‘It’s Bella all over,’ he muttered. ‘The bare-faced cheek of it, to walk straight up to the house. She just …’ He was lost for words.

‘So you and she …’

‘Nothing,’ Nick replied. ‘And there never should have been.’

‘These things happen.’

‘Not to me.’ Nick ran a hand through his hair, propped his elbow on the table and supported his head as if he couldn’t carry the weight of his thoughts. ‘I don’t know why,’ he murmured, almost to himself. ‘That’s the fucking stupidity of it. I don’t know why I did it.’

‘There’s such a thing as making a mistake.’

Nick didn’t reply.

‘Bella is a beautiful girl.’

‘Yes, she is.’

‘You know, this next film she’s doing is a big deal.’

‘Is it?’ Nick was staring down at the tablecloth, drawing a line with his fingernail on the white linen.

‘Didn’t she tell you? Huge budget.’

When Nick didn’t respond, Andy tapped his arm. ‘Hey.’

‘What?’

‘Want some good news?’

‘That would be a novelty.’

Andy smiled broadly. ‘You have an offer for film rights.’

‘On what?’

‘
The Measure
.’

Nick stared at him.
The Measure
was his first book.

Andy reached across the table and patted his arm. ‘I told you something would come of doing this latest script.’

‘But it’s an old book,’ Nick objected. ‘Five years.’

‘So what? It’s not old to them. They just read it. They’ve made an offer.’

‘How much?’

‘A lot. That’s not the best bit.’

‘Well, what is?’

Andy’s broad smile was back. At that moment, their attention was drawn to the entrance: a man had just come in. He was talking to the waiter when he saw Andy and waved.

‘The rest of our party,’ Andy told Nick. He stood up.

Nick stood alongside him. The stranger advanced on them, holding out his arms to Andy. About sixty, he was overweight, shaven-headed and dressed in a striped golf shirt and chinos that accentuated his bulk.

‘Hey, Mike,’ Andy said. He indicated Nick. ‘This is our star.’

Nick found his hand vigorously shaken.

‘Mike Kovic.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Nick murmured.

They all sat down.

‘Well,’ Andy said, beaming, ‘this gentleman is your biggest fan.’

Nick looked from one to the other. He had no idea who Mike Kovic was, but felt that he should. Andy kept glancing at him, nodding.

‘I loved that book,’ Kovic said. ‘Loved it.’ He leaned forward and tapped Nick’s arm. ‘You know when some critic says, “I laughed out loud”?’ he asked. ‘At a film, at a book? In a review?’

‘Yes,’ Nick said.

‘Yeah.’ Kovic winked at him. ‘But nobody does, right? Never heard anybody laugh out loud, have you? When you see somebody reading a book on a train, on a beach, ever see them laugh out loud?’

‘Never,’ Andy agreed.

Nick stole a sideways glance at him.

Kovic was smiling broadly. ‘Well, I did,’ he told them. He spread his hands wide, palms facing upwards, an appeal to heaven. ‘Hey! I did!’ he said. ‘I laughed out loud when I read this book!’

Andy’s grin became wider as he looked at Nick. ‘Mike is the one making you the offer for
The Measure
.’

‘Oh,’ Nick said. ‘Well, thank you. Thank you very much.’

Kovic smiled. ‘We’re over here for a couple of weeks,’ he said. ‘Family and I. Vacation. But meeting a few people. Met someone you know last night.’

‘Yes?’

‘Went to see Georgina Lyle,’ Kovic said, naming the director of the film Nick was currently working on. He turned to Andy and raised an eyebrow.

‘I haven’t told him,’ Andy said. He looked at Nick. ‘Mike here heard good things about the script you’re doing now.’

‘Not good,’ Kovic corrected. ‘Brilliant.’

Nick sat back in his seat. He had suddenly experienced a perfectly defined moment of claustrophobia.

‘How would you like to work in the States?’ Kovic asked.

‘The States?’ Nick echoed.

Andy put his hand on Nick’s shoulder and made a half-slapping, half-massaging motion. ‘Come on, Nick,’ he said. ‘Somebody’s got to write
The Measure
.’

‘You want me to write the script?’

‘That’s the idea,’ Kovic said.

‘But authors don’t write scripts,’ Nick expostulated. ‘Not of their own books. It’s like – well, it’s like death, isn’t it? Nobody wants a novelist to screenwrite their own stuff.’

‘You write scripts,’ Kovic reminded him.

‘Not of my own books.’

‘Funny scripts, too.’

‘But not of my own books.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Nobody ever asked me.’

There was a second of silence, then Kovic and Andy laughed together.

Andy signalled to the waiter. The first bottle of champagne was opened.

‘You like this stuff?’ Kovic asked Nick.

‘Actually, I don’t,’ Nick said. ‘Not really.’

‘I’m with you,’ Kovic said. He called the waiter back. ‘Bring us a bottle of single malt,’ he said.

Andy looked momentarily crestfallen, but hid it. He put his champagne flute to one side and lined up his whisky tumbler with the rest of them.

‘Look, Nick,’ Kovic said, ‘let’s not beat around the bush. I can’t stand those industry committees, you know. Talking in circles.’

‘OK,’ Nick agreed.

‘I want to make the film of
The Measure
. I like what you did. I like this kind of humour.’ He sat back with his drink. ‘We had a hell of a mess last year. I had four sets of writers. They were shit. I wrote half the thing myself. And I can’t write.’

Nick smiled.

‘That’s right,’ Kovic said, catching his expression. ‘Pretty funny. It showed. Maybe you saw the film.’ And he named it.

Nick tried to look noncommittal.

‘Well,’ said Kovic, ‘I appreciate your kindness, I really do.’ He took a swallow of his Scotch. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I got this idea. Maybe it’s also shit. But you wrote the book, you write good scripts, I want you to do the script. And I’m willing to pay you three times what you’re getting for the script you’re doing with Georgina.’

Nick blinked. His current script had been manna from heaven; it had quadrupled his previous annual earnings. The sum Kovic was talking about was almost eight times what he had earned eighteen months ago, far into six figures. It was a lottery win. Yet, despite Kovic’s presence, despite Andy’s patent excitement, which, uncharacteristically, he was failing to hide, Nick felt curiously unmoved. The pain in his head was getting worse, like a steel band tightening just above his eyes and running in a circle to the back. He wondered vaguely if he was getting a migraine. His mother had had them. She had described them to him exactly like this. He put a hand to his forehead.

‘You OK?’ Kovic asked.

‘It’s shock,’ Andy quipped.

‘I’m OK,’ Nick said.

‘You’re American,’ Kovic said. His gaze had narrowed slightly.

‘Yes.’

‘From?’

‘Maine. Portland.’

Kovic raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You don’t sound it.’

‘I went to Stanford. I lived out there for ten years. But I guess I don’t sound from anywhere in particular.’

‘So,’ Kovic mused, ‘what brought you to England?’

‘My dad persuaded me to come with him. He paid, so … and I wanted to see it.’

‘You and your dad close?’

Nick huffed. ‘No. It was a big mistake. Our last try to get on. Didn’t work.’

‘That right?’ Kovic commented. There was a pause. ‘Ever want to go back to the west coast?’

What was the right answer, Nick wondered. The right answer was what he wanted, not what they wanted. But he had no idea what it was. ‘Maybe,’ he muttered.

‘Perhaps your family would like to live in the sun for a while?’

‘Yes,’ Nick said. ‘I’m sure.’ He had tried not to hesitate this time.

‘Maybe for a good while … you never know, right?’

‘Right,’ Andy said.

Kovic leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘Look, Nick,’ he said, ‘I’m not in the business of forcing anybody.’

‘It’s a great offer,’ Andy said.

‘Sure it’s a great offer, but if it doesn’t appeal to Nick, it’s not such a great offer, am I right?’ There was an edge of irritation in Kovic’s voice.

Nick had a moment of acute homesickness for Stanford; for the Lawrence Frost, the Hanna House. He used to go and sit in the arena of the Frost amphitheatre and look up at the magnolia and manzanita trees. He was there in ’89, when the Loma Prieta struck. He wondered what it would be like to go back there. To live there. To regress to a single life somewhere along the Bay, maybe. He had run there once before, to escape the atmosphere in his family home where nothing had ever run smoothly: he had grown up listening to his father’s smug authoritarianism, and when he had gone back for his mother’s funeral and had seen his father again, he had assumed that it would be for the last time. Instead, he had allowed himself to be persuaded to come to England, hoping against hope that his father would behave differently in another country. Foolishness.

‘No,’ he murmured. ‘Just … taking it in.’ He looked up at Kovic. ‘Thanks for the offer. I appreciate it.’