The Thief of Time (5 page)

‘Anyway,' she continued, ‘I got into bed and tried to fall asleep as I waited for Charlie to appear, which he did after about fifteen minutes.

‘“Get up,” he said in a firm voice as he came into the room and slammed the door behind him. “Get up and go.”

‘“What?” I asked, pretending that he'd just woken me up. “What's wrong, Charlie?” I asked him.

‘He leaned over the bed, pressed his hands down on my shoulders so they would bruise and said very clearly, each phrase precisely enunciated: “Get up. Get dressed. Get out.”

‘When I started to ask him why, what I had done wrong, he packed a few things for me, cursed me for bringing that boy out to the pool when he was talking to Godowsky. “The man is maybe the greatest pianist in the world,” he roared, his arms flailing around dramatically. “And you inflict some unemployed actor on me just so you can whisk him away to flirt with him in another room? Not enough for you, am I?”

‘“I never –” I began, but he wouldn't let me finish. He was purple with rage, as if I had orchestrated the whole scene myself when all I had done was try to rid myself of a bore and not interfere with Charlie's business. Anyway, the scene grew terrible and at four O'clock in the morning I found myself out in the street attempting to call a cab. He didn't speak to me for months, but I called him constantly. I was in love, you see. I wrote to him, turned up at the studio, sent him telegrams, but he ignored everything. I was in absolute despair. Then, one afternoon, while having lunch in the city with Amelia, I saw him enter the restaurant with a couple of his cronies. He saw me and grew a little pale as he tried to get away before I could spot him because he has always hated public scenes and could see one coming now. I determined not to approach him. Then he saw my sister, who was staring at him with wide eyes and within a few minutes the room and the world were spinning on me. He joined us for lunch, he spent the day with us, and never once referred to anything that had happened between us over the previous few months, acting as if we were simply good friends who liked nothing more than to run into each other every so often and catch up on the latest society gossip. When he and Amelia became more serious, I refused to disappear. It was my way of staying close to Charlie, you see. The fact is, Matthieu, I've been very dishonest about all of this right from the start.'

I nodded and felt sick. All this time she had been deceiving me? It seemed outrageous. I was sure she had been falling in love with me.

‘Then I met you,' she added after a moment. ‘And everything changed.'

‘How so?' I asked.

‘Do you remember that day you came to see Charlie at his home and the four of us stayed up all night together, drinking Martinis and Highballs?' I nodded. ‘Well, I'd been there before, you see,' she continued. ‘I'd seen rich men come through that house on more than one occasion and they were all looking for a little piece of him, hoping to receive a little of his reflected glory. You didn't. You seemed suspicious of him. You didn't laugh at his jokes too loudly. You didn't even seem to like him very much.'

‘You're wrong,' I said honestly. ‘I did like him. I enjoyed his self-confidence. I hadn't seen that in some time. I found it very refreshing, to be honest.'

‘Really?' She seemed surprised. ‘Well, regardless. You didn't fawn on him. I admired that. For the first time, I thought that I could see past him. To another man. I began to conceive of having nothing more to do with him and that was when you and I began to see each other and I realised that I didn't love him any more, that I didn't even need him. That I loved you.'

My heart jumped and I came towards her and took her hand. ‘You do love me?' I asked.

‘Oh yes,' she said, almost apologetically.

‘So why stay here then? If you feel nothing more for him now, why stay here? Why insist on spending time around him?'

Her voice grew cold and she spoke her next sentence with conviction. ‘Because what he did to me, he will do to Amelia. I survived it, she might not. And I need to be here for her when it happens. Can you understand that, Matthieu? Does that make any sense at all?'

I paused and stared at her. A thin line of perspiration had broken out along her upper lip. Her eyes were tired and her hair hung loosely around her neck and needed washing. She was more beautiful than I could ever remember her being.

We were married on a Saturday afternoon in October in a small chapel on the eastern side of the Hollywood Hills. Eighty people were in attendance, mostly socialite friends of ours from the circles in which we moved, a lot of studio people, a few newspaper columnists, a couple of writers. We were famous for being famous and adored for being adorable and everyone wanted to celebrate our celebrity with us. We were Matthieu and Constance, Matt and Connie, celebrity couple, socialite darlings, the talk of the town. Doug had sprained his ankle in a tennis match and arrived on crutches, supported as usual by Mary, and received an awful lot of attention for someone with such a minor wound. William Allan Thompson was there, and, as it had been rumoured that Warren Harding was about to appoint him Secretary of War, he represented another centre of attention. (In the end, he lost the job when a scandal involving a bordello erupted and the Senate vetoed his appointment; he lost heavily in gambling thereafter and killed himself in 1932, on the day F.D.R., his mortal enemy, was elected president for the first time.) My young nephew Tom arrived from Milwaukee where he was living with his wife Annette and I was pleased to reacquaint myself with the lad, even if I did find him a little churlish. He seemed more interested in trying to spot movie stars than in telling me of his life and career plans and I was a little surprised that he had failed to bring his bride to meet me. When I challenged him on it, he said that she was newly pregnant and that the thought of a trip – any trip – made her ill from morning to night. If I didn't want a scene at my wedding, he said, it was for the best that he leave her at home. Charlie and Amelia arrived arm in arm, the former grinning away as usual with the smile that now served no purpose other than to infuriate me, the latter looking red eyed and dazed, barely even acknowledging me when I reached down to kiss her cheek. She appeared drained, as if life with Charlie had all but vanquished her, and I didn't hold out much hope for their future happiness together, or hers on her own.

The ceremony was simple and quick; Constance and I exchanged vows, we were pronounced husband and wife and the whole wedding party repaired to a large marquee which had been erected outside a building a few hundred feet away where a dinner was to be served, followed by dancing and revelry. Constance wore a simple, figure hugging dress of pale ivory, a lace veil covering her perfect face, offering only whispers of her features to me as we stood at the altar. Afterwards, when she removed it, her smile was perfect and joyful, her happiness absolute. Even when Charlie kissed his congratulations, she was smiling, making no unpleasant associations which could spoil our day. He was simply another guest whom she could barely even see, so intent were we on staring at each other.

Speeches were made. Doug called me a ‘lucky son of a gun', Charlie wondered aloud why he had never proposed himself – then made the audience laugh by saying it was because he realised he had not been attracted to me and so it would never have worked out. Even Constance and I found him amusing and I felt a warmth for my fellow man which had not been present for a good sixty or seventy years. We danced late into the evening, Constance performing a perfect tango with a young Spanish waiter which was one of the highlights of the evening. The young lad – who couldn't have been more than about seventeen – appeared flushed with pride at his success on the dance floor and his tan deepened by several shades when his dancing partner kissed his lips hard at the end. The day had been perfect and, in retrospect, trouble was almost inevitable.

Constance had gone to change clothes – we were leaving for an overnight express train which would bring us to Florida, where we intended beginning a three month honeymoon cruise. I stood alone in the corner of the marquee, nursing a banana milk shake, having decided not to drink too much alcohol on such a special day. A friend of mine, a banker named Alex Tremsil, came up to wish me well and we were speaking animatedly of wives and responsibilities and suchlike when I noticed Charlie strolling around outside with a young girl, the daughter (I believed) of one of the Richmonds. She was about sixteen years old and bore a striking resemblance to Amelia, so striking that at first I wasn't sure whether it was her or not. But then I looked around and saw my new sister-in-law helping herself to something off the fruit trolley and saw her waver slightly as she sat down to eat, the result of one too many glasses of champagne, I thought. I was afraid of what might happen if she saw the scene being enacted outside and wished that Constance would hurry up so that we might leave soon. It wasn't that I didn't care about Amelia – I did, she was an extremely pleasant, if troubled girl – but I cared about my new wife more and, hang it, our own happiness together. I didn't want our lives to be run by Constance's refusal to allow her sister to make her own mistakes and live with their consequences.

I kept one eye on the chapel where my wife was changing and was shocked to see Amelia coming towards me and the view to the outside. Charlie and the girl were now engaged in a little mutual flirtation, and it was plain to see his hand caressing her cheek as she laughed at his jokes. Amelia froze when she saw it too and dropped her glass which landed softly on the grass beside her. She ran out to Charlie and, pulling her hands back to her side as she approached them, pushed the girl over with such force that the poor thing went rolling down the side of the hill a little, muddying her pale yellow dress. If it hadn't been so ludicrous, I would have laughed. Charlie looked down at the girl and helped her up, saying something to Amelia which made her run towards him and throw her arms around his legs, a gesture which embarrassed me so much that I turned away. Before long, all our guests could hear the commotion and Charlie strolled inside, his ubiquitous smile a little forced now, as Amelia followed him in, alternating between cursing at him for a cheat and announcing how much she loved him. When she stopped, he turned and looked at her and the entire wedding party, everyone from the cheap seats to the circle to the stalls, fell silent, waiting for his response.

‘Amelia,' he said, his voice holding steady and cutting through the room, ‘go away now, you silly girl. You bore me.'

I looked past him and saw Constance standing in the distance, also looking on in horror as Amelia turned on her heels and ran towards the cars which lined the side of the hills.

‘Amelia!' called Constance and I ran towards her.

‘Leave it,' I shouted. ‘Let her calm down. Let her be alone.'

‘You saw what he did to her,' she cried. ‘I can't leave her when she's in this condition. I have to go after her. She could injure herself.'

‘Let
me
go then,' I said, not releasing her arm, but she pulled away and charged after her sister instead. I turned back to the party and shrugged indifferently at my guests, as if it had just been a minor disagreement, glared at Charlie who, to his credit, stared at the ground in shame and went quickly towards the bar.

Later, I discovered that Constance had managed to clamber into the car whose ignition Amelia was turning on and that the young girl drove erratically down the mountain at top speed. The two of them were observed shouting and trying to take the wheel from each other, before the car careered off the hillside, did a double flip, landed head first on the road beneath where my nephew Tom was standing talking to a teenage starlet and promptly exploded.

We had been married for the best part of three hours.

It was late at night – past twelve O'clock, by which time I am usually fast asleep – when I had a moment of epiphany.

It started earlier in the evening when I was alone in my apartment. I was listening to
The Ring of the Nihelung
and was on my third night of it, playing
Siegfried,
eating some pate on toast and enjoying a bottle of red wine.

It had been a troublesome day. I visit the offices of our satellite broadcasting corporation every Monday, when I attend a meeting of the major shareholders, have lunch with the managing director and generally fuss around the building a little, seeing if I can think up any ideas to improve our ratings, boost profits, increase our consumer base. It tends to be a pleasant enough experience, although I couldn't bear to do it more than once a week and have no idea how people with jobs actually manage to survive. It seems like terrible drudgery to spend one's entire life working, leaving only the weekends free for relaxation, at which time one is probably too busy recovering from the excesses of the week to enjoy oneself anyway. Not for me, I'm afraid.

On this day, however, there were some problems to be sorted out. It seemed that our lead anchor for the six O'clock news – a Ms Tara Morrison – had been made a serious offer by the BBC and she was considering accepting the position which they were dangling before her like a noose. Ms Morrison is one of our prime assets and we could scarcely afford to lose her. She has led our advertising campaign with gusto, her face and (I'm embarrassed to admit) her body have adorned billboards, buses and the walls of tube stations for the past twelve months and her considerable physical appeal has been held responsible for our increased market share of almost three per cent within the same time period. She gives interviews to the glossy magazines on the subject of the female orgasm, appears as a contestant on television quiz shows, specialising in her Ph.D.-calibre knowledge of the Cretaceous period, and even brought out a book last Christmas, detailing how one can combine relationships, motherhood and a career, entitled
Tara Says: You Can Have It All!
That's her catchphrase.
Tara Says:.
It seems that everybody says it now.

We already pay her a ridiculous amount of money and James Hocknell, the managing director of our station, implied to us at the board meeting that he wasn't sure that was what was behind her desire to leave.

‘It's all about exposure, gents,' said James, who personifies a certain type of Fleet Street journalist turned television mogul. He's all pinstriped suits, pastel shirts with white collars, rings, the sides of his hair combed over the balding centre. His face is permanently red and he wipes his nose with the back of his hand, but for all that we'd be lost without him. We employ him for his talents, not his beauty. We don't expect him to be a guest model in any designer's spring collection. His control over his employees is absolute, his ability at his job unquestioned, his commitment unparalleled. In the business it's known that he's screwed half the women and screwed-over half the men. The lack of a conscience has taken him to the top. And he knows this industry better than I or my two fellow investors do. We are businessmen, he's in television, that's the difference. ‘Tart wants to be seen on the BBC, it's as simple as that.' Tart is James's nickname for Tara, one which he is always sure to use very discreetly. ‘Childhood dream or something, she says. It's got nothing to do with the money she's being offered, which I can tell you, gents, is not that much different to the money we shell out on her as it is. She just wants fame, that's all. She's addicted to it. Says she even wants to have a go at investigative documentary stuff, as if the powers-that-be over there would ever let her do any of that. Chances are they'll have her fronting
Top of the Pops
in about a fortnight's time and five minutes after that she'll be in the tabloids for shagging some poncey boy band member just out of short trousers. I hear there's soon to be a spot opening up as co-host of
Tomorrow's World
though. Big money there, gents. University circuit's crying out for them too.'

‘Well, we can't lose her, James, you realise that,' said P.W., the ageing world famous record producer who invested his life savings into this business and lives in constant fear of losing the lot, which is unlikely. ‘She's about the only big name we have.'

‘There's Billy Boy Davis,' said Alan, another investor, old money. He's almost eighty and it's well known that he has pancreatic cancer, although he never speaks of it to anyone, not even his closest friends. I did hear a rumour that he was waiting for an offer from Oprah Winfrey, but that's unconfirmed. ‘We still have The Kid.'

‘No one's interested in him,' countered P.W. ‘His heyday was twenty years ago. He's been put out to pasture here, commentating on second rate sporting events and trying to forget that the entire country knows that he likes to dress up in a nappy and have his bottom spanked by sixth-formers. And why does he still insist on being called “The Kid” anyway? He's fucking fifty, if he's a day. He's a joke, for God's sake.'

‘He's still a big name.'

‘I've got a name for him,' said P.W. ‘Wanker.'

The animosity between P.W. and Alan continues week after week and dates back to a derogatory comment the latter made about the former in an unauthorized biography (which he himself wrote) ten years ago. Although they attempt to keep relations on a strictly professional and polite basis, it is obvious to all that they cannot stand each other. Every week at the meeting one of them waits for the other to make some comment and then jumps in, trying to discredit the other fellow.

‘What Billy Boy is or isn't doesn't matter right now, gentlemen,' I said, placing my hands on the table in an attempt to stop their petty bickering. ‘I imagine what matters is that Ms Morrison wants to leave us for pastures new and we would prefer it if she didn't go. Isn't that it, in a nutshell?' There was a grudging round of head nodding, and Yes, Matthieus. ‘In which case, our question is a simple one: how do we persuade her to stay?'

‘Tart says there's nothing we can offer her,' said James, and I leaned back in my chair and shook my head.

‘Tara says a lot of things,' I countered. ‘Tara's made a virtual career out of saying things. What Tara is actually saying is that we haven't made her the
right
offer yet. Believe me, that's what she's saying right now, only none of you are listening. You surprise me, James.'

James, P.W. and Alan looked at each other blankly and only James started to smile. ‘All right then, Mattie,' he said – a diminutive that always sends a shiver down me in recollection of an old friend, two hundred years dead – ‘what do you suggest?'

‘I suggest I take Ms Morrison out to lunch with me today and find out exactly what it is that she's after. Then I shall attempt to give it to her. It's as simple as that.'

‘I know what I'd like to give her, gents,' said James with a laugh.

Ms. Morrison – ‘Tara Says:' – and I had lunch together in a small Italian restaurant in Soho. It's a pleasant, family run place, and one to which I often take business acquaintances if I'm trying to get something out of them. I know the owner and she always takes time to come out and talk to me when I dine there.

‘How are you and yours?' she asked, true to form as we were seated in a quiet booth away from the door. ‘Keeping well, are they?'

‘We're all perfectly well, thank you, Gloria,' I said, despite the fact that me and mine consists solely of Tommy and I. ‘And you?' The pleasantries continued for a few minutes. Tara took the opportunity to visit the ladies' room and came back looking refreshed, lipstick subtly applied, a scent of perfume mingling with the crostini. She walked between the tables as if the centre aisle was a catwalk in Milan, the waiting staff store buyers, our fellow diners photographers. Her hair, a professional blonde bob, simple and easy to control, is one of her most recognisable features, and her beauty stems much from the fact that her face is perfectly symmetrical, each feature reproduced perfectly through recognition of a central line. One can only stare at her and marvel. She'd be perfect if one could only find a flaw.

‘So, Matthieu,' she said, taking a sip of wine gingerly, careful not to leave a lipstick trace along the rim of her glass, ‘are we going to make small talk for a while or get straight down to business?'

I laughed. ‘I simply wanted to enjoy a pleasant lunch with you, Tara,' I said, feigning offence. ‘I gather we may not be seeing you around the office quite so much in the future and I want to enjoy your company in the daytime while I still can. You might have told me you were fielding offers, you know,' I added, a hurt tone – entirely natural – creeping into my voice.

‘I had to keep it quiet,' she said. ‘I'm sorry, I wanted to tell you, but I wasn't sure what was going to happen. Anyway, it's not as if I went out there
looking
for work. The Beeb came to me, I swear it. They've made me a very generous offer and I do have my future to consider.'

‘I know exactly the size of the offer they've made you and, in all fairness, it's not that much more generous than what you have already. You really should hold out for more from them. They will pay it, you know.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘Oh, I know so, believe me. They could up their offer by a good ... ten per cent, I imagine, without so much as breaking a sweat. Maybe more. You're a valuable commodity. I hear you could be offered
Live & Kicking.'

‘But you won't be able to go that far,' she said, ignoring the dig. T know what the budgets are like, remember.'

‘I have no intentions of even attempting to go that high,' I said, twirling a little pasta around on my fork. ‘I don't intend getting into an auction for you, my dear. You're not cattle. Anyway, you're under contract to me as it is. And there's not an awful lot you can do about that, is there?'

‘For another eight weeks, Matthieu, that's all. You know that and so do they.'

‘So in eight weeks' time, we'll negotiate. Until then, let's not talk of dismissals or resignations or reassignments or anything so distasteful. And, for heaven's sake, let's keep the press out of it this time, can we?'

Tara looked at me and put her cutlery down. ‘You're just going to let me go', she stated matter-of-factly, ‘after all we've been through together.'

‘I'm not
letting
you do anything, Ms Morrison,' I protested. ‘I'm inviting you to see your contract through and at the end of that time, if you wish to leave us for a better offer, then you must follow what you believe to be the correct course of action for you and your career. Some would call me a generous employer, you know.'

‘Must you talk like that all the time,' she muttered, staring at the table in disgust.

‘Talk like what?' I protested.

‘Like a fucking lawyer. Like someone who's afraid that I'm recording every word you say so that I can use it in a lawsuit six months down the line. Can't you speak to me in a normal tone of voice? I thought we meant something to each other.'

I sighed and looked out of the window, unsure whether I wanted to be dragged down this well worn road once again. ‘Tara,' I said eventually, leaning forward and taking her tiny hand within my own, ‘for all I know you may very well be recording this conversation. It's not as if you have a very good track record of honesty with me, now is it?'

I suppose at this point I should point out a few things about my relationship with Ms Tara Morrison. Approximately a year before, we attended an awards ceremony together – well, not so much together as part of a group representing our station. Tara was accompanied by her then boyfriend, an underwear model for Tommy Hilfiger, while I had booked a professional escort – nothing sexual, purely accompaniment -for the evening as I was between relationships at the time and really had no desire to begin a new one with anyone. Considering that I hit puberty over 240 years ago, it can't come as too much of a surprise to learn that I grow weary of the endless round of dating, breaking up, dating, marrying, dating, divorcing, dating, widowing, etc. Every few decades I need a little time alone.

On the night in question Tara had a disagreement with her model friend – something about him actually being a homosexual, I believe, which was bound to throw a spanner into the works – and she accepted my offer of a lift home. After driving my escort back to her own house, we stopped off for a drink at my club and talked well into the night, mostly about her ambitions, which were plenteous, and her commitment to journalism and our television station, which she called ‘the future of broadcasting in Britain', something even I didn't believe. She cited a number of responsible role models and I admired her grasp of the history of her profession, her awareness of how the professional and the sleaze raker can co-exist in one industry, and how it can be difficult at times to differentiate between the two. I remember a particularly interesting dialogue we had on the subject of the public interest. Afterwards we returned to my apartment, where we said goodnight to each other and slept in the same bed without so much as kissing, an unusual but appealing arrangement at the time.

The next morning, I cooked breakfast and invited her back for dinner, which in the end we skipped in favour of a return to bed, where rather a lot more happened than had taken place the previous night. After that we continued our relationship for some months in an extremely discreet fashion – I told no one and to the best of my knowledge neither did she. I was fond of her, I trusted her and I made a mistake.

She was intrigued by the fact that Tommy DuMarque was my nephew. (I didn't tell her that it was actually his great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather who was my nephew; such information seemed surplus to requirements). She'd been watching his programme for years and had apparently had a crush on him since he'd first turned up on television in his teenage years. When I first revealed the relationship between us, she went quite red, as if I had caught her doing something she shouldnt, and almost choked on some cantaloupe. She begged me to introduce her to him and I did, one fairly pleasant evening the previous summer, when she practically tore his trousers off in front of me. He wasn't at all interested – he was in a volatile relationship with his screen grandmother at the time and she was apparently a jealous lover – and I think he found her a little silly, although to be fair to her she had had a little too much to drink that night and alcohol does bring out the schoolgirl in her. She called him the next day and invited him out for a drink; he declined. So she faxed him and invited him to dinner; he passed. Then she sent him an e-mail with her address and the promise that if he came around ‘NOW', he would find the front door open and her lying naked on a Persian rug before an open fire, and that a bottle of champagne was chilling in an ice box even as she typed. This time he laughed and phoned me up to tell me what my girlfriend was up to. I was disappointed but not surprised and took his place on the date, arriving at her apartment to find her in exactly the position she had described. She looked surprised to see me but recovered well and tried to pretend that she had thought I might call around and wanted to surprise me. I told her that she was lying, that I didn't mind particularly, but that it was all over between us now and it would be best if we returned to a strictly professional relationship.