The Queen of New Beginnings (27 page)

Agents, thought Clayton. Sensitive souls. Cut them and unbelievably they bled just like a normal human being. Amazing.

“Aaah…Oooh…Yes…do that again…”

“Sorry, Alice, could we give that another go? Only you really didn’t sound like you were enjoying it.”

That’s because I’m not, Alice thought crossly. She adjusted her headphones, folded her arms in front of her and stared back at the group of people on the other side of the glass. They all looked about fourteen years old, making her feel about a hundred and ten. A man-child was speaking into her ear. “Remember what we said, Alice: lots of sex. Really bring it home. You’re being hit on by a sex god. You’re powerless against him. But you’re loving it. This is the most fun you’ve ever had in the bathroom. What’s more, you’re trying to convince the punters this is the most fun
they’ll
ever have in a bathroom. We’re selling them the dream. The fantasy. Life will never be the same again for them after this. I know it’s a big ask, but can you do that?”

Alice nodded. She’d give him a big ask in a moment. Right up his backside! “Yes,” she said, ever the professional, “let’s give it another go, shall we?”

Sex to sell a toilet cleaner? Where would it all end? What she couldn’t understand was why Johnny Phoenix had agreed to voice-over the product. He certainly didn’t need the money—his career was going from strength to strength. Having made a name for himself on the small screen he was now wooing them in Hollywood, for pity’s sake. Was it simply too much of a temptation for him to turn down the opportunity to say, “I don’t only go round the bend, but I reach right under the rim…”? Heaven only knew how much he was being paid to front the campaign in its bid to challenge the other market leaders when it came to limescale and stains of an unmentionable nature. Well, good luck to him. And good luck to her too; she was being paid more money today than she had received in a long while for a job. Now, if she could just get into character—that of a toilet—and pretend she was enjoying the experience of Johnny Phoenix tackling her stubborn build-up in one easy squirt, she would be home and dry.

The hours dragged by, until mercifully the session was over and she was putting on her coat to leave. It had been a tiring job and she was eager to get away. In her experience it was always a mistake to have too many bright young things from the ad agency in the studio during recording; they all felt compelled and uniquely qualified to have their say on proceedings. Mostly because each and every one of them hoped to make their mark and couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else coming up with a better idea and stealing a march on them. She wondered how the earlier studio session with Johnny Phoenix had gone. Had they been as inclined to interrupt and direct him as they had with her? Or had his star status been sufficient to ensure they’d kept their traps shut?

Hazel had been overjoyed in nailing this job for Alice. “It’ll become a series of ads, no doubt about it,” she had enthused. “You and Johnny will be like the Nescafé couple back in the eighties. Or was it Maxwell House? No matter, what’s important is that this could be the beginning of something big for you, Alice.”

Alice had heard it all before. What’s more, she had believed it all before. Every single word. Now she didn’t. She didn’t believe a word anyone said to her. Clayton had seen to that. He had robbed her of the belief that there would always be something better around the next corner. Once that was taken away from a person, what was left? Only the resounding conviction that life was pretty shitty. So how apt was it that she was providing the voice for a talking toilet about to be seduced by a squeeze of pungent green liquid? What next for her? What further lows could she achieve? Plenty, she was sure of it. The world was her oyster when it came to screw-ups. There was no one to touch her for it. She was too trusting, that was her trouble. Wasn’t that why she had spent so many years forcing herself not to get close to another person? All those failed relationships because she refused to trust anyone. And look what happened when she did lower her guard! Was she just a bad picker, or were all men the same?

She had read several articles in the newspapers about Clayton, including an interview in the
Times
in which he appeared to be at his most candid. Yeah right; she could tell them a thing or two about his candidness.

It was Bob who had brought the first of the articles to Alice’s attention. Alice had told Ronnetta everything, about Clayton stealing her childhood to write a script, and naturally, Ronnetta had kept Bob informed. As to be expected, Bob had not wasted any time in voicing his opinion, that he had known straight away that Clayton was a poncey-arsed shyster. He’d been all for taking Clayton apart by telling the local newspaper what he had done to her, but Alice had made him promise he wouldn’t. “I couldn’t take the shame of everyone here knowing what a fool I’ve been,” she had explained to him. To her relief, Bob had respected her wishes and backed off. He’d offered to take her out several times, “just to take her mind off things” and now it had become a regular thing, every Friday evening he took her for a curry. “I know you don’t fancy me,” he said the last time they were dining at the Bombay Mix. “Not now, but give it time and who knows, you might just change your mind. You’ve got to admit, I’m not a bad-looking bloke. It’s not as if I’ve got a face on me like a red arse of one of them baboons. And I’d always be straight with you. Not like some folk I could mention. What did you ever see in him, Alice?”

Good question. What had she seen in Clayton? It was hard now to remember. Had it been nothing more than getting caught up in the heat of what could only be described as a very strange moment?

George had been annoyingly bullish on the subject. If anything, she had taken Clayton’s side. “All I’m saying is that the man should have been given the opportunity to explain himself fully,” she had said to Alice.

“There was nothing he could say to explain or justify his actions,” Alice had retorted. “He conned me.”

“And you can’t think of a single good reason why he didn’t tell you what he was doing?”

Without answering her, Alice had said, “George, he wrote about you as well.”

“I should hope so. And I hope he wrote about me warts and all. I’d hate to think he sanitized me into an insipid old dear.”

“He certainly didn’t sanitize you. He made you appear very eccentric. Positively off your trolley.”

“Excellent! I think Eileen Atkins would play me rather well, don’t you?”

“Forget about Eileen Atkins!” Alice had said, exasperated. “It’s not excellent what he did. It’s awful. It’s an infringement of our rights. He came here and in the face of our good will he exploited us.”

“Really? You honestly think that?”

“What would you call it?”

“I think he got drawn into a situation and found himself a changed man as a result. A happier man. You were mostly responsible for that. You enabled him to write again. Aren’t you just a little bit flattered and proud that you were responsible for that and that he thought your childhood worth writing about?”

“He should have asked for my permission.”

“And you would have refused it. He couldn’t take that risk. Any fool can see that.”

“You’re saying I’m a fool?”

“Unquestionably so.”

Always nice to know where one stands, Alice thought now as she stepped out onto the street.

Soho: it was a world away from her life in Stonebridge. But not so very far from Clayton, she supposed. How easy it would be to call him on her mobile and suggest they meet for a drink and a chat. Would he come? Would she manage to be civil? After two and a half months, would she be able to refrain from telling him exactly what she thought of him?

Not a chance. And if she couldn’t take him to task, what else would they talk about? Finished that script yet…had it commissioned…is my life about to be trivialized in the name of comedic drama?

Comedic drama. That was a laugh. Or rather it wasn’t. She could see nothing remotely funny in what Clayton had written. It was pitiable and catastrophic from start to finish. Just as their all-too-brief relationship had been.

Why, she wondered, did happiness have to be so fleeting? And fragile. One little knock and it shattered and was gone. Why, when a relationship ended, could the happiness one had previously experienced not remain? After all, the past couldn’t be changed. What she had experienced with Clayton had actually happened, so why couldn’t she hang onto those precious good memories? Why could she no longer recall how happy she had been with him?

Because her happiness had been based on a falsehood. It hadn’t happened the way she thought it had. It had all been a lie. Clayton had deceived her into being happy. And that was unforgivable.

A man in a suit with a rucksack slung over his shoulder barged rudely past her, waking her up to the fact that she had been drifting aimlessly. It was almost six thirty and the streets were heaving with people intent on their journey home. She ought to be heading towards the underground herself, then onto Euston for her train home, but she couldn’t bring herself to join the mass of commuters yet. She stood for a moment to check out the window of a shop selling vintage clothes. She spied an interesting black lacy dress, and thinking about the money she would receive for today’s work, she put a hand to the door to go inside.

“Alice? Is that you?”

She spun round at the sound of the voice. “
James!
” she exclaimed, unable to conceal her surprise.

“Well, of all the gin joints,” he said with a smile. “What brings you here?”

“I’ve been in a studio all day recording an advert for the telly. With Johnny Phoenix,” she added, mustering some professional pride and stretching the truth accordingly. So what if she hadn’t set eyes on the man himself? James wasn’t to know that.

“Wow!” he said. “Good for you. Hey, you don’t fancy a drink do you?”

Why not? she thought.

• • •

There were no tables free, so they grabbed the last two stools at the crowded bar. The place was packed, and with its wood-panelled interior and French-style aproned waiters, it also had the feel of being extremely expensive. But that was OK because Alice had no intention of paying. This one was down to James. She reckoned he owed her.

With two glasses of wine in front of them, along with a selection of olives and Macadamia nuts, she said, “so what have you been up to since we last met? Finished another book? I miss Matilda.”

He pushed a hand through his dangling fringe. A gesture that reminded her all too uncomfortably of Rufus. “I miss you reading Matilda,” he said, “and if I’m honest, just between you and me, the new voice isn’t half as good as you.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me yourself that I was being dropped in favour of a big name?”

Another rueful push of his hand through his hair. “God, Alice, I was all set to, but I lost my nerve. I’m sorry. But it sounds like you’re going gangbusters. Working with Johnny Phoenix, no less. What’s he like? As irresistible as just about every woman I know thinks he is?”

“He’s OK, if you like that kind of man,” she lied easily. Changing the subject, she said, “Tell me more about Matilda. What’s her latest adventure?”

He smiled. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve just signed a contract for a TV adaptation to be made of the first book in the series. It’ll go out next Christmas. A primetime slot on Boxing Day. If it goes well, others could follow.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I still can’t quite believe it. What’s more, my agent found me a brilliant production company. They’ve worked on some great projects in the past. Right now they’re putting the finishing touches to Clayton Miller’s new drama. Do you remember all that hoo-ha when he disappeared last year? Well, it transpires he was holed up somewhere in the frozen north working on a completely new project. The word is, this is his best work yet. A change of direction, too.”

“Is that so?” Alice said as calmly as she could. “Any idea what it’s about?”

“All I know is that it’s called
The Queen of New Beginnings
. Good title, don’t you think?”

There was only one person Alice could talk to with regards to what she had just learned and that was George. George was the only person who knew the whole story. The silly old woman was also in need of a reality check and Alice was in the perfect frame of mind to give it to her. All that talk about Eileen Atkins playing her. What rubbish! What vanity! What self-inflated nonsense! And who would have thought that George, of all people, could be seduced by the thought of fifteen minutes of television fame? Unbelievable. Well, she wouldn’t be so cockahoot when she saw herself on the screen.

She parked behind George’s Morris Minor and went round to the back door. She didn’t bother knocking or ringing the bell. She was in no mood for social niceties. Ever since she had arrived home from London last night, she had had a foul temper on her.

There was no sign of George in the kitchen. Standing guard over a couple of hens who were pecking optimistically at the hearth rug, Percy eyeballed Alice with ferocious hostility. He thrust out his chest and pulled himself up to his full height. “Oh, put a sock in it, Percy,” she said, “I’m not in the mood.”

She called out to George. “George, it’s me, Alice.”

No reply.

“George?” she tried again, now moving beyond the kitchen. In the hallway she poked her head round several doors. Nothing. Only the sound of a grandfather clock ticking. Deciding George was either upstairs or in the garden, Alice climbed the stairs to rule out the first possibility. Taking care on the threadbare stair runner that was dangerously loose in places, she tried to remember the last time she had seen the upstairs of Well House. She drew a blank. She then realized that in actual fact, she had never stepped beyond the confines of the ground floor. Covering uncharted territory, Alice became uneasy. She suddenly felt like an intruder. She had a strong desire to turn around and go back downstairs. She looked back the way she had come and saw Percy a few steps behind her. He was acting his socks off, giving her the kind of manic stare Jack Nicholson had won awards for. “You missed your calling, Percy,” she muttered. “You should have gone to drama school.”

He cocked his head, giving her yet more attitude, then hopped up onto the next step, which had the effect of propelling her towards the landing. He continued after her. “George,” she called out. “It’s me, Alice.”

Still no reply. She must be in the garden, Alice decided, not wanting to intrude into George’s most private quarters. Percy was now on the landing with her. Still eyeballing her with plenty of attitude, he came right up close and pecked at one of her shoes. She took a step back. He advanced and pecked again. Another step. Another peck. Their two-step continued until he had manoeuvred her along the landing and had her jammed up against a door that was half open. “Am I being daft, or are you trying to tell me something, Percy?” she said.

He ignored the question with a baleful look and strutted past her into the room. The most obvious thing to do seemed to be to follow him.

The room was in semi-darkness, the curtains drawn. But not so dark that Alice couldn’t make out the shape of a body on the floor by the side of the bed. She rushed forward and dropped to her knees. “George!” she cried out. Lying on her back, her head turned to one side, her mouth open at an unnatural angle, the old lady looked like a small, discarded doll dressed in oversized pyjamas. Her eyes were wide open and were darting over Alice’s face as if trying to take it in. There was fear in her eyes. Relief too. And then tears. Huge tears spilled over and rolled down her crumpled cheeks.

“It’s all right,” Alice said, choking back her own tears. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’re not to worry.” She grabbed the eiderdown off the bed, covered George with it to keep her warm, then took out her mobile. She tried to stay calm, tried not to shake. She spoke slowly and clearly to the woman at the other end of the line, giving precise directions on how to find Well House and when that was done, she went over to the window and yanked back the curtains. Daylight flooded in. When she looked back at George, the old lady had screwed up her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Alice said, “is it too bright for you?”

George didn’t answer.

Percy stared reproachfully at Alice as if to say, “What the hell do you think?”

• • •

The doctor explained things to Alice with brutal detachment. George had had a stroke. A massive stroke. There was no question of her going home. Hospital was where she would be staying for the foreseeable future. “It’s possible that she might regain some movement,” he said, “maybe even some speech, but right now, given her age and frailty, I think that’s unlikely. In all honesty, the end will probably come sooner rather than later.”

Alice could have cheerfully pushed a knife between his ribs. How dare he dismiss George so offhandedly. Didn’t he know what an incredible woman George had been? What a tour de force she had been all her life? How dare this young whippersnapper, barely out of medical school, pronounce her life over?

“She can still see, hear and feel, can’t she?” Alice said pointedly.

“To a degree, yes,” the doctor said.

“Well then, let’s not write her off just yet, shall we?”

“I understand your desire to hope for the best, but the reality is your aunt is gravely ill and I think it only right to prepare you for the worst.”

“Thank you for your concern. May I see her now?”

“Visiting hours are—”

Alice quelled him with a look that Percy would have been proud of.

“All right. But not for long.”

• • •

The ward smelled of institutional cleaning fluid and the lingering and unappetising odour of what had been served for lunch several hours earlier, or so Alice presumed. Maybe the ward always smelled of canteen food.

With the curtain drawn around them, Alice sat by the side of the bed, on the right side so George could see her. She held the old lady’s hand. “I go down to London for a day,” she said softly so as not to disturb the other patients, “and look what happens while my back is turned. You really can’t be trusted, can you?”

George stared at Alice, pale and glassy-eyed.

Alice swallowed back the painful lump in her throat. She couldn’t bear to see George so debilitated. She dabbed at the old woman’s distorted mouth, wiped away a small amount of dribble. “We need to devise some form of communication,” she said. “One blink is yes. Two blinks, no. Can you manage that?”

George blinked.

“Good.” Alice fought against the constriction in her throat, determined to maintain an air of hopeful optimism. “I’m going to help you get well, George,” she said. “Together we’ll soon have you up and about.”

George blinked twice.

“Wrong answer,” Alice said. Her chest tightened.

George blinked once.

“You think it’s the right answer?”

Another single blink.

“You’re just going to give up?”

One blink.

George’s eyes slowly fluttered as if alternating between yes and no and then stayed shut.

Alice gently squeezed her hand. There was no response. But then there wouldn’t be. Just as the doctor had explained. She dabbed at George’s mouth once more. A swish of movement had her turning round. A nurse, about the same age as Alice, appeared in the gap in the curtain. “I think your aunt needs to sleep now. And don’t worry, she’ll be in safe hands here with us.” The girl was softly spoken and had a gentle manner about her. Alice felt inclined to trust her.

“You’ll call me if there’s any change, won’t you?” she said, reluctantly rising from the chair and finding it hard to let go of George’s gnarled and callused old hand.

“Of course.”

• • •

Alice drove home tired and depressed. Poor George. How long had she been lying on the floor of her bedroom alone and terrified? If only Percy could talk. She almost smiled at the thought of Percy, who was clearly as smart a rooster that had ever lived. If only he’d been able to channel his intelligence into using a phone and calling for an ambulance. George would worry about Percy and his harem; Alice knew that she would have to take on their care herself. In the short term it wouldn’t be a problem, but what if the doctor was right and George was never going to get better and return home?

In her heart, Alice knew that this was the reality of the situation: unless a miracle happened, George would never return home to Well House. Her days as an independent woman were over. No wonder she had communicated to Alice that she wanted to give up. Who wouldn’t, in her shoes?

The word “reality” resonated inside Alice’s head. It had cropped up several times today. The doctor had used it to describe the severity of George’s situation, as had Alice in her thoughts when she had gone to see George that morning and had been all steamed up in her desire to ram home what James had shared with her. “See!” she had wanted to say to George, “this is no longer a joke. This is really going to happen. The reality is we’re going to be portrayed on national television as laughing stocks!”

Now none of that seemed important. Let Clayton Miller have his great comeback moment. So what if it was at the expense of anyone else? Yes, she could try to take out an injunction, or whatever it was called, to stop him going ahead with what he’d written, but there was always the danger that that would attract even more attention to her. The one thing she had to hang on to was that at least he’d had the decency to change all the names in his script and its setting. She had to hope that if she kept her mouth shut, no one would ever know that it was her family he had written about.

But there were others involved; others who would know as clearly as day followed night that they had been written about.

Rufus and Natasha.

And not forgetting Isabel.

What if they saw the programme and tracked Alice down? What if they started screaming defamation of character? What if they wanted to sue Clayton? She couldn’t imagine Rufus wanting anything less than revenge in its purest form.

But there was nothing she could do about it. It was beyond her control. Besides, she had more pressing matters on her mind now. She had to do all she could to help George over the coming days and weeks. At the hospital she hadn’t hesitated to fill in the necessary forms describing herself as a niece and therefore next of kin. No one had questioned her. Just let them try.

• • •

As the days slipped slowly by George showed no sign of getting any better. She had completely lost the ability to swallow and so a nasogastric tube had been fitted to get fluids into her, along with what passed for food. The sight of the tube, along with a drip attached to her arm, had initially alarmed Alice but she had quickly grown used to both things, seeing them as something positive, a means to build up George’s strength.

Their method of communication had been extended; as well as yes and no, they now had established that a glance to the right meant that George agreed with Alice; a glance to the left meant she thought something was funny and a roll of her eyes meant what it always had—that she thought Alice was being an idiot and that she was to cut the bullshit.

There had been a good deal of eye rolling during this afternoon’s visit. Alice had told George about her meeting with James Montgomery in London and the latest news on Clayton and how his script was soon to be put out as a two-hour feature-length drama and that it was called
The Queen of New Beginnings.

“George, if you roll your eyes like that any more, they’ll pop out,” Alice said. “And I for one won’t scrabble about on the floor looking for them.”

George glanced to her left.

“I’m glad you think I’m being funny. Because actually I’m being deadly serious.”

Two blinks.

“You don’t think so, eh? Well, I tell you what I am serious about; I have no intention of watching that lying cheat’s programme when it goes out. Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re rolling your eyes again.”

Two blinks.

“Stop saying no to everything.”

Two blinks again.

Alice wiped George’s mouth. “You’re being very difficult today. I hope you’re not trying to tell me that you want to watch his programme.”

One blink.

“I might have known. You’re desperate to see how Clayton’s portrayed you, aren’t you? You’re the vainest person I know.”

One blink. And a glance to the right.

Alice sat in silence for a moment. She stared off into the distance. On the other side of the ward, a group of people were gathered round the bed of a woman. She looked very ill, very tired. More than anything she looked as if she just wanted to be left alone. When Alice returned her attention to George, she found herself confronted with a gaze so intense she sat back a little. It was as if George was trying to tell her something. Something that their limited system of communication couldn’t handle. “What is it?” Alice asked.

Nothing from George.

“Do you need something? Do you want me to fetch a nurse?”

George blinked twice and rolled her eyes.

“You think I’m being an idiot?”

One blink.

Alice took a stab in the dark. “I’m being an idiot with regards to what we were just discussing?”

One blink.

“Clayton and
The Queen of New Beginnings
?”

One blink.

“You wouldn’t be trying to blackmail me emotionally?”

One blink.

“Just because you’re ill, don’t for one minute think you can make me do something I don’t want to do.”

George’s eyes remained open and fixed on Alice.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, if it’s so important to you, I’ll do you a deal. Stop nagging me and I’ll try to arrange it so that we watch the wretched programme together. OK?”

One blink.

Alice could have sworn that if George had been able to, she would have smiled a smile of triumph.