Authors: Charles Cumming
This is when I see her for the first time, standing just a few yards away through a narrow break in the crowd. A sudden glimpse of the future.
She is wearing a backless cotton dress. For now, all that is visible is the delicate heave of her pale shoulder blades and the faultless valley of skin that lies between them. It is not yet possible to see her face. Her husband, twenty years older, is standing opposite her, bored as a museum guard. His back is stooped and his thick graying hair has been blown about by the wind that is whipping around the garden. You can tell right away that he is an American. It’s in the confident breadth of his face, the particular blue of his shirt. He seems somehow larger than the people around him.
There is an older man standing with them, thinned out by age, his cheeks like little sacks. This is Doug Bishop, former CEO of Andromeda, moved upstairs in 1994 but with one hand still on the tiller. The fourth member of the group is a monstrous suburban matron wearing pearls and Laura Ashley, her hair piled up in a beehive like an astronaut’s wife. The pitch and yaw of her voice whinnies across the garden. These words are actually coming out of her mouth:
“And this is why I told my friend Lauren that feng shui is an absolute scandal. And Douglas agrees with me. Don’t you, Doug?”
“Yes, dear,” says Bishop, in a voice of great fatigue.
“And yet not only ordinary members of the public but actual corporations are prepared to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to these Oriental tricksters just so’s they can rearrange the alignment of their plant pots.”
Listening to this, Katharine takes a sip of her drink and smiles weakly. Then she turns and her face is more clearly visible. Male heads in the immediate vicinity spring to catch a glimpse of her, alert as dogs.
“When were you thinking of writing the piece?” Cohen is asking Peppiatt. “In the near future or is this an ongoing project?”
“The latter, most definitely,” Peppiatt replies, accepting a champagne refill from a passing waiter. “I want to talk to the tobacco industry, to car manufacturers, to all of these huge corporations who are making big moves into Central Asia.”
The Hobbit comes up behind me.
“Can I have a word, Alec?”
I nod at the others and say, “Excuse me a moment. Back in a second.”
“Sure,” says Cohen.
When both of us are a few paces away, moving toward a corner of the garden, the Hobbit turns and says, “That’s them. That’s Katharine and Fortner.”
“I know,” I tell him, smiling, and he grins sheepishly, realizing that he has stated the obvious. He wouldn’t have wanted to let on how nervous he is.
“We should do it now,” he says “While Bishop is with them. I know him and I can introduce you.”
“Good. Yes.” I feel a slight lift in my stomach. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” the Hobbit says wearily. “The whole fucking office fancies her.”
And in that instant, Katharine seems to sense that we are talking about her. She turns her head and looks directly at me through the crowd, smiling in a single movement. It is as if the shape of her glance, the timing of it, has been minutely planned. My face freezes, and I cannot summon a smile. I merely stare back and then almost immediately look away. The Hobbit acts smartly, quick on his feet. He has smiled back at her, a colleague’s acknowledgment, using the eye contact to legitimize our approach.
“Here we go,” he says, moving toward her. “Bring Saul.”
So, as we pass Cohen and Peppiatt, I extract him from their conversation.
“Come with me, will you, mate?” I say to him. “You remember Matt, don’t you?” They met at my flat a few months ago, to ease this evening’s events. “He wants to introduce us to some people he works with.”
“Sure,” Saul replies, acknowledging the Hobbit with a nod. “You don’t mind, do you, guys?”
“No,” they say in unison.
And we are on our way, the three of us moving through the crowd toward the Americans. My sense of nervousness is suddenly overwhelming.
“Mr. Bishop,” the Hobbit says as we arrive, playing the ingratiating underling to great effect. “Could I just introduce you to an old friend of mine? Alec Milius. And Saul…”
“Ricken,” says Saul.
“Of course.”
Bishop transfers a glass of champagne to his left hand so that he can effect the handshakes.
“Good to make your acquaintance,” he says. “How do you know Matthew here?”
“Long story,” I tell him. “We met traveling in 1990 and just bumped into each other at a social occasion a few months ago.”
This is also the story I told Saul.
“I see. Well, allow me to introduce my wife, Audrey.”
“Pleased to meet you.” She scans the two of us up and down.
“And this is Katharine Lanchester and her husband, Fortner Grice.”
Katharine looks at me. There is now no flirtatiousness in her manner, not with Fortner so close.
“How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you,” she says. Her hand is cool and soft.
Now it’s Fortner’s turn. He pumps my arm, doing a little side jerk with his head. His forehead is dark and creased by frown lines, as if he has spent a lifetime squinting up at a bright sun.
“Good to meet you guys,” he says, very unruffled, very cool. “You in oil, like everybody else here?”
“With Abnex, yes. Caspian development.”
“Oh right. Kathy and I work as consultants for Andromeda. Exploration. Geological surveying and so on.”
“You spend much of your time down there?”
Fortner hesitates, clearing his throat with a stagey cough.
“Not for a while. They like to keep us in London. Yourself?”
“Ditto.”
There is a gap in the conversation, to the point of becoming awkward. Doug takes a half step forward.
“We were just talking about politics back home,” he says, taking a mouthful of champagne.
“We were,” Beehive adds animatedly. “And I was asking why that grotesque man from Little Rock is living in the White House.”
Bishop rolls his eyes as Fortner cuts in. He must weigh 200 or 220 pounds, and not much of it is fat.
“Now hold on there, Audrey. Clinton’s been doin’ a lot of good. We’ve all just been away from home too long.”
“You think so, honey?” Katharine asks, disappointed that he should hold such an opinion. She’s from Republican stock, New England money.
“Damn right I do,” he replies forcefully, and the Hobbit laughs politely. Things are awkward again.
“Is anybody else hot?” Bishop asks.
“I’m okay, actually,” Saul tells him.
“Me too,” says Fortner. “Maybe you should be wearing a cocktail dress, Doug. You’d feel more comfortable.”
I smile at this and Saul lights another cigarette.
“Can we go back to Clinton, for a moment?” Audrey is saying. Somebody on the far side of the garden drops a glass and there is a momentary hush. “What I mean to say is…” She loses herself, struggling to find the words. “Is it your interpretation that Clinton will be reelected this year?”
“What do you guys think? You reckon our president will be reelected in November?”
Katharine looked at Saul rather than me as she asked this, but it is the Hobbit who answers, “I think he’ll be reelected, if only because Dole is too old.”
“Mind what you’re saying there, son,” Douglas says to him, his voice low and sly. “Old Dole’s only got a few years on me.”
“So do the Brits like him, then?”
This comes from Audrey. She must have used up a can of hairspray tonight. Her beehive hasn’t budged an inch in the wind.
“I think he has the most impressive grasp of insincerity that I’ve ever seen,” I tell her, though that isn’t the first time that I’ve used that phrase. It just sounds good coming out now. “I think the British people like him. We tend to admire your politicians more than our own, but it’s a hypocritical approval. We wouldn’t want any of them running our country.”
“Why in hell not?” Fortner asks, and for a moment I am concerned that I may have annoyed him. Saul drops his half-finished cigarette on the ground and steps on the butt.
“Your political system is seen as being more corrupt than ours,” I reply. “Unfairly, I think.”
“Too right unfairly,” he says. “What about Matrix Churchill? What about Westland? What about arms to Iraq?”
“The Scott Inquiry will clear everyone,” Saul announces solemnly. “The old-boy network will see to that.”
“Oh, yes,” says Douglas wistfully. “The old-boy network.”
“You wish you were a part of that, Doug?” Fortner says, nudging him. “An old Etonian? An Oxford man?”
“Princeton’ll do me fine.”
“So how long have you been with Abnex?”
Katharine wants to change the subject.
“About nine months.”
“You enjoying it?”
“Yes and no. I’ve had to learn a lot in a short space of time. It’s been a real eye-opener.”
“An eye-opener,” she says, as if she enjoys this expression. “So your background was in…?”
“Russian and business studies.”
“You just out of college?”
“No. I worked in marketing for a bit.”
“Right.”
Now Saul joins in. “How long have you and your husband been living here?”
“Long time now. About four years.”
The Hobbit has cleverly started up a separate conversation with Bishop and Audrey, one that I cannot hear.
“And you enjoy it?”
“Oh, yeah.” The heavy, interjectory way that Fortner comes forward, answering the question on Katharine’s behalf, seems to reveal something about the dynamic of their relationship. “We love it here. Spending time with the allies. What do you do for a living, Saul?”
“I’m in advertising. Commercials. I’m an assistant director.”
“And, what? That will lead into television, into movies?”
“Something like that,” he replies. “I’m working on a script at the moment, trying to get some development money.”
“What’s it about?” Katharine asks.
“It’s a kind of spoof thriller. A comedy about a serial killer.”
“No shit,” Fortner says, laughing. “A comedy about a serial killer?” He clearly thinks the idea is ludicrous. “I gotta say I prefer different kinds of movies myself. Old Bogarts and Cagneys. Westerns mainly.”
“Really?” Saul replies enthusiastically. He is, albeit unwittingly, playing his role to perfection. “You like Westerns? Because the National Film Theatre is doing a John Wayne season at the moment.”
“Is that right?” Fortner looks genuinely interested. “I didn’t know that. I’d love to catch one or two.
The Searchers, Liberty Valance
…”
“Me too.” I sensed immediately that I could use this as a way of establishing a bond between us. “I love Westerns. I think John Wayne is great.”
“You do?” Saul has screwed up his face in surprise. I have to be careful that he doesn’t undermine me.
“Yeah. It’s a little fetish of mine. I used to watch them with Dad when I was growing up. Henry Fonda. Jimmy Stewart. But especially John Wayne.”
Katharine clears her throat.
“So you like him too, Saul?” she asks, as if it is a test of character.
“Not as much as Clint,” he replies. “But Wayne’s great. One of the best.”
“The best,” says Fortner with emphasis. “Eastwood’s just a pretty boy.”
“Maybe it’s a generational thing, honey,” Katharine suggests. “Sorry, guys. My husband has a weakness for draft dodgers.”
I don’t know what she’s referring to, and Fortner says, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“John Wayne didn’t fight in World War Two,” Saul informs him. “He did everything he could to avoid conscription.”
“Right,” says Katharine triumphantly.
“So what?” Fortner replies. Although his tone is aggressive, he may be enjoying the argument. “Wayne did more for the war effort as an actor than he ever coulda done getting shot at on Omaha Beach. He was a patriot, an anti-Communist—”
“—Who hated riding horses, hated wearing his cowboy outfits, and actively encouraged American participation in the Vietnam War,” Katharine interrupts him in full flow. She has a brazen, mischievous intelligence, a self-confidence not dissimilar to Kate’s.
“But he made some great films,” Saul says, perhaps as a way of defusing what he thinks is tension.
And then the idea comes to me. As simple as it is shrewd. A way of guaranteeing a second encounter.
“Well, I have an idea,” I suggest. “We should solve this by going to see one of these films at the NFT. I was going anyway. Why don’t you join me?”
And without any hesitation, Fortner says, “Great,” shrugging his shoulders. “You wanna go too, Saul?”
“Sure,” he replies.
Katharine looks less enthused, a reaction that may be more instinctive than premeditated.
“Count me out,” she says. “I can’t stand Westerns. You fellas go right ahead. I’ll stay home with Tom Hanks.”
The Hobbit, Bishop, and Audrey have by now been pulled away into a larger group of six or seven people, two of whom are employees of Abnex. And, across the garden, David Caccia is coming down a short flight of stone steps, joining the party late. He catches my eye, but when he sees that I am with the Americans a mild look of concern passes across his face. In his right hand he is balancing a little pastry parcel oozing feta cheese.
“Is that David Caccia?” Fortner asks. “That guy looking at ya?”
“That’s right.”
“He and I had a couple of meetings back in the New Year. Tough negotiator. We were discussing the joint venture. You know about that?”
“A little. Fell through, I hear.”
“That’s right. Not a smart move if you ask me.”
“I have to say—off the record—I agree with you.”
My voice is quiet here, collaborative.
“You do?” Katharine seems surprised by my candor. This may be a good time to leave.
“Look, I have to have a word with him about something. Will you excuse us?”
Saul takes an instinctive step backward and Fortner says, “Sure, no problem. It sure was nice to meet you fellas.”
He takes my hand and the shake is firmer than it was before. But I am worried that the plan to visit the NFT will be forgotten as a casual passing remark. I cannot mention it again at the risk of appearing pushy. The invitation will have to come from them.