Strangers (18 page)

“When did you last take any sort of dope, Charlie?”

“Over a week ago.”

“Alcohol?”

“The same.”

“Tell me why I should have you in my movie?”

“Because I’ve cleaned up my act and I’m perfect for the part.”

“And?”

Charlie wondered what he wanted him to say.
“I admired what you did with
The Way Back
and
Rainwalker
.“ Not too much sucking up.
“But I would have been better than Depp.
He was too off the wall.”

Kesner laughed.
“You may be right.
Okay, Charlie Storm, you’re in.”

For a moment, Charlie didn’t react.
For a few elongated seconds, he didn’t grasp he’d been offered the role.
Then he smiled.
He’d done it.
He wanted to jump up and down and scream.
He supposed kissing the guy was a bad idea.
Polite thanks, on the other hand, should be totally acceptable.

“Thank you.
I appreciate you giving me another chance.”

“Don’t let me regret it.
My assistant will send a contract to your agent today and email you later with a shooting schedule.
We have a pre-production meeting coming up soon in Ireland.
Looking forward to working with you, Charlie.”

Charlie shook hands again with everyone, walked out of the airport meeting room and then rushed around looking for the Gents so he could throw up.
His stomach eventually moved from rock and roll to a slow waltz.

When he’d pulled himself back together, he took his phone from his pocket.
The first person he should have called was Ethan.

“Kate?
I got it!
Kesner just told me.
I made some crap comment about being better than Depp and he laughed and gave me the part.
Christ, I can’t believe it.”

“Well done, Charlie,” Kate whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

“I can’t let Mel catch me on the phone.
Hang on.
I’ll hide somewhere.”

Charlie tapped his foot, excitement bubbling through every pore.

“Okay, safe now,” Kate said.

“Are you going to tell me how great I am?”

“Didn’t anyone else show up for the audition?” she asked.

His heart sang.
He loved the way she reacted to him.
“Of course they did.”

“People who were actually trying out for the part?”

When Charlie thought about that, he realized he didn’t know.

“Hey, stop thinking,” Kate said.
“You know it gives you a headache.
You got the part because you’re going to be great in the role.
Let’s face it.
You’re a fantastic, talented, wonderful human being.
You’re too good for this film.
With your unrestrained energy, brutal power and visionary futurism, Kesner should be thanking you.
They’re lucky to have an actor with your incredible artistic integrity.”

“I knew I’d impressed you.”

Kate guffawed.

“There are quite a few love scenes,” he said in a silky voice.

“Well, that’s why you got the part.
This last week was one long audition.
Kesner and I go way back.
He wanted me to be sure you were up to the job.”

“And was I?”

“At times.”

“Hmm.” Charlie wished she was there.
He wanted to kiss her, kiss the smile he knew was on her face.

“What are you doing to celebrate?” she asked.

“Taking you to bed tonight around nine?”

“Ah, Bed, that new restaurant in Knightsbridge where they get out the whips if you spill ketchup on the table?”

He laughed.

“Sorry, I’m already going out tonight,” Kate said.

And disappointment swamped his happiness.
“Where?”

“I’m helping at Rachel’s art gallery.”

“When will you be back?”

“Eleven, I think.”

“Okay.” He’d be there at five past eleven.

“Where are you now?” Kate asked.

“In the Gents at Edinburgh airport.
Where are you?”

“In the Ladies at Crispies.” Kate chuckled.

“I’ve just thrown up.”

“I’ve just had a wee.”

He laughed.
“While I’ve been talking to you?”

“The toilet was too tempting and I don’t get many breaks.”

“Kate?
I phoned to tell you first.”

“Don’t tell Ethan.
He’ll be jealous.”

“Bye, Mermaid.”

“Bye, Hippo.”

Charlie didn’t ring Ethan until he’d booked a seat on the next flight to London.
Ethan had him on a flight at four and Charlie didn’t want to wait that long.
A few words charming the desk clerk, a couple of autographs, and he was now due to leave in a little over an hour.
He settled down in a corner of the executive lounge with a newspaper, coffee and a chicken tikka sandwich and rang Ethan.

“Hi Ethan, I got it.”

“Thank God.”

“I meant the whisky.
I didn’t get the part.”

“Charlie, don’t joke.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Charlie said, his voice overflowing with happiness.

“I knew you could do it.
Well done.
When’s the contract coming?”

“Kesner’s assistant will send it today.”

“Don’t fuck things up now,” Ethan said.
“You don’t need to get drunk or high to celebrate.”

“Nope, not anymore.”

There was a slight pause.
“So the rumors about you and Jody Morton are true?”

Charlie slammed his cup back on the table and splashed coffee over the newspaper.

“I told you I never slept with her.
She wanted to, but I wasn’t interested.
Not my type.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Charlie sighed.

“You’re not taking her to the AIDS dinner?” Ethan asked.

“Is she going?” Charlie asked.
“I didn’t even know she was in the UK.”

“Who are you taking?”

“No one.
I
was
taking Jennifer Ward, but I don’t think she’ll be available.”

Charlie heard Ethan mutter under his breath.

“So, who are you currently fucking?” Ethan asked.

Charlie stayed silent.

“Come on, Charlie.
I know you too well.
If you’re off drink and dope, you’ve found something else to do.
Actress or model?”

Charlie pressed his lips together.

“I’m your fucking publicist.
I’m supposed to know.
Actress or model?”

“Neither.”

“Singer?”

“She’s a waitress.”

“Oh shit.”

Charlie’s good mood evaporated.
“Fuck off, Ethan.
I really like her.”

“You really like everyone while you’re fucking them,” Ethan snapped back.

“Kate’s different.”

“I suppose she’s pretending not to be impressed that you’re Charlie Storm?”

“Actually, she’s not impressed,” Charlie said.

“Jesus, Charlie.
Get a life.
You are who you are.
You know what this world is like.
You can’t trust anyone.
This is the wrong time to start a relationship with a nobody.
You’re supposed to be committed to your job, not to shagging a fucking waitress.”

Charlie struggled to find the off switch on his phone, his fingers shook so much.

Chapter Eleven

By the time Kate reached Bellingham Gallery, it was almost seven.
An incident on the underground had left lines closed and everything chaotic.
She hoped to get a lift back to Greenwich with Rachel and Dan, but if it didn’t look as though they planned to set off by ten, Kate would go back alone.
She knew Charlie would come.

The closed sign was up, but the door opened at a push and the bell tinkled.

“Lock up after you,” Rachel called.

Kate couldn’t see anyone.
“How do you know it was me?”

“The latest piece by Gustav Mazov.
A hole.
Look.” Rachel poked her head though a huge red canvas hanging in the center of the gallery and pulled a grotesque face.

Kate gave a mock scream.

Dan emerged from the office, holding a bottle of wine.
He looked at Rachel and sighed.
“I wish I could say it improves the artist’s work, but I can’t.
Want a drink, Kate?”

“Just a very large glass.”

“You’ve guessed what pleasures lie ahead, then?” He pulled a face similar to Rachel’s.

Kate took the glass from his hand.
“When are you two next going out?”

“Meal tomorrow,” Dan said with a goofy smile.

“Well, you can go to the pub tonight, if we do this quickly.” Kate didn’t add that she’d like them to pick a pub in Greenwich so they could drive her home.

Bellingham Gallery catered mainly for London tourists, but Rachel used one annex to showcase more innovative work.
Her first exhibition had taken place a few weeks after they’d moved into the apartments in Greenwich.
Rachel invited Lucy and Kate to help make the gallery look busy and to pretend to buy paintings.
Dan was there because one of his pieces hung on the wall.
That evening, he’d eavesdropped on a conversation between Kate and Jack Bellingham and afterwards Dan had dragged Kate past every painting, demanding her opinion.
Fifteen minutes later, he accused her of being a professional art critic and frequently pestered her to find out how she knew so much.
Kate hadn’t told him.

“Number one on the list,” Rachel said, pen poised, clipboard ready.
“Go slow so I can write down every word.”

“It’s called Wall.” Dan read from the label.

Kate ran her eyes over the piece.
A medium-sized oil on canvas, showing part of a deep red brick wall with a brilliant blue, cloudless sky as the background.
She took a deep breath.

“Okay.
The cropped image is offered as a contradiction, a balance between the intimately familiar and the clinically abstract.
The backdrop one of static energy with the suggestion of suspended dysfunction in the way the bricks are aligned.
The sense of dislocation, arising from the incompleteness of the image, poses questions about the functionality of everyday objects.”

Rachel scribbled.
Dan gawped.

“I still can’t see how you do this,” he said.
“It’s like listening to someone spout Korean.
Are you sure you didn’t study Modern Art, History of Art, Art of bullshit?”

Kate laughed.
“No.
I left school at sixteen.”

“Then you must be an artist.”

“I told you, I can’t paint a circle.”

“Stop disturbing her,” Rachel said.
“I don’t care how you do it, Kate.
Keep going.”

“Do you like the painting?” Dan asked.

“No, simplistic crap,” Kate said and moved on.

The next one featured a young child pulling off or putting on her clothes.
The child’s head was covered by the garment.

“Ready for Bed,” Dan muttered.

“I like this.
It’s cute,” Rachel said.

Kate swallowed hard.
“Is it?”

“Don’t you think?” Rachel looked confused.

Kate bit her lip for a few moments before she spoke.
“A shocking and unsettling image, where bold, sweeping brushwork is used to match the blurring of the distinction between innocence and sexuality.
The sense of catastrophe waiting to happen is echoed in the way color is compartmentalized, so that the painting appears to descend into dysfunctional breakdown.”

“Another dysfunctional?” Dan asked.

“Aren’t all artists dysfunctional?
Anyway, I like the word.” Kate grinned.

“But not the painting?” Rachel asked again.

“Not much.
Nicely painted though.” Kate moved on.

“I don’t think I like it anymore,” Rachel said.

Kate turned to her.
“Don’t say that, Rachel.
If you see it as cute, that’s fine.
It’s what it means to you that’s important.
You shouldn’t be influenced by what I think.”

“So remind me why we’re here?” Dan asked.
“What’s the point in a catalogue?”

“Because what Kate says gives the pieces authenticity,” Rachel said.

“You mean it makes them sound better than they are?” Dan raised his eyebrows.

“And you can charge more for them.” Kate moved to the next work.

“Careful what you say,” Dan said.

Kate stood in front of one of his portraits.
“A talented new artist reveals his sparkle and irreverent style in its full, explosive glory.
The subject’s mischievous state of mind is paralleled in the twisted brush stokes and exquisite detail given to the eyes.
How about that?”

“I love you,” Dan said.

Kate grinned.
“Who is it?”

Dan pretended to thump her.
The portrait was of his sister, Mel.

“I haven’t finished,” Kate said as Rachel started to move on.
“But beneath the surface lies a confused individual, whose face both frightens and attracts.
The hint of madness is subtly present.”

“God, don’t write that, Rachel.
Mel will kill me.”

“Oh, is it Mel?” Rachel asked.

Dan turned in horror, only to see her smiling.

Kate romped through the rest, particularly admiring one artist’s work, where in a very dark painting of a kitchen, the single area of light issuing from a fridge had been created using a mass of silken threads.
Unless you stood close, it looked painted.

“Is that it?” she asked, looking at a bare patch of wall.
“Or is this
very
modern art?”

“The artist promised it would be here by tonight, but it isn’t, so tough.
Thanks so much for this, Kate.
I know I should be doing it, but I can’t come up with the right words.”

“To be honest, no one ought to write about paintings.
That’s the whole point of them, isn’t it?
Images, not words.
The only person who can say what they’re meant to be is the one who created them.
Assuming they know.
Maybe you’re right about the child getting ready for bed.
Maybe that’s just what it is, painted by a loving father or mother.
But maybe it was painted by a pedophile.”

Rachel paled.
“Goodness, I hope not.”

“The problem is half the time these modern artists have no idea what they’re doing.
Isn’t that true, Dan?” Kate asked.

“I always know.”

“That’s because you do portraits,” Rachel said.

“A painting should be interesting whenever you look at it, not just the first time you see it, otherwise what’s the point having it on your wall?” Kate said.

“How do you get your ideas?” Dan asked.
“When you were a kid, did your parents drag you round the Tate and the National Gallery?”

“I don’t know where I get the ideas.
I open my mouth and crap comes out.
Are we done?”