According to YES (22 page)

Rose picks up Thomas's letter from the floor, and hands it to her.

‘You read it to me' says Glenn.

‘Sure?' says Rosie.

‘Sure.'

Rosie turns on the overhead light, carefully opens the envelope, and removes the single sheet. Then hesitates.

‘Read it' says Glenn, firmly. So Rosie does,

‘Wife.

This is husband.

Foolish, ashamed husband.

I am so sorry for hurting you.

I love you.

I don't know how to be without you.

Please please come home.

We need to fix it.'

Glenn listens, and she takes the letter from Rosie and holds it close. Then, silently, Glenn weeps some of the melted ice as
hot tears. She covers her wet eyes with her right hand, and she reaches out to Rosie with her left.

‘Help me. Don't let him see me like this. Feed me,' says Glenn quietly, through soft sobs.

Rosie gently takes the offered hand.

‘I will' says Rosie.

In a shadowy corner of the appointed swanky downtown hotel Thomas Wilder-Bingham sits, nursing a whisky and fidgeting in his seat. It's five past seven. She is late. That's OK, it's her prerogative. In fact, he should expect it. However much he reassures himself, he is still looking at his watch every thirty seconds to check. He can't remember the last time he was this anxious. He checks his flies. Yep. He checks his shirt isn't gaping over his expanding belly. Yep. He straightens his best maroon tie. He checks he isn't sweating by swiping the napkin that's under his drink, across his forehead. He tries to settle. He can't. He checks his breath into his cupped hand. He hasn't done that since he was a teenager. He's all jitter. Now it's nine minutes past. Where is she? Perhaps this was a bad idea. Maybe she has bottled out?

Just as he starts to seriously doubt the wisdom of this whole enterprise, she appears by the bar and heads straight toward him, twinkling and smiling all the way. He wishes he could
halt time and freeze this moment or at least see it in slow motion, so that it could last longer.

In the gorgeous flesh, Nicole Kidman is so much more than he imagined, and what he imagined was pretty stunning. Tall, elegant, alabaster skin, pale red hair, dark red lips, an unequivocal beauty.

‘Thomas?' she asks as she approaches him. He can't believe his name is on her luscious lips.

‘Indeedy,' he replies, and immediately cringes at how fake and over jocular that sounds. What an idiot.

‘Lovely to meet you. Sorry I'm late, it's all a bit hectic …' He immediately warms to how friendly and real and Australian she is.

‘No. Seriously. No. I don't mind waiting … all night if needs be …' Shut up, Thomas! How has he managed to sound both needy and reprimanding all at once? Get a grip, man, and be normal, like her. Breathe and be normal, come on!

‘And sorry about this ridiculous dress' – indicating the strapless bejewelled sky-blue chiffon floor-length number she's wearing. Typically male, Thomas hasn't even noticed, so beguiled by her is he – ‘but I'm just off to the premiere of this film I did last year. That's why I'm in New York. Home again tomorrow …'

‘Right, yes, home, to … Australia?'

‘No, I live in Nashville.'

‘Tennesee, yee ha!' Thomas can't believe quite how much of
a cretin he's become in the last three minutes. He really must shut the eff up. He decides quickly that the only way to redeem himself is to tell it like it is. So he begins, ‘OK Miss Kidman, may I call you Nicole?' She nods. ‘Nicole,' he continues, ‘first of all, I want to say thank you for agreeing to meet me, I know that George asked you as a favour …'

‘I love George, and he spoke so highly of you,' she says.

‘Well, I did threaten to kill off his entire family unless he made this happen …'

At this, Nicole laughs, freely and easily. Thomas can't believe it. He's made Nicole Kidman laugh! Could he love her any more? No, he couldn't.

‘But nevertheless,' he goes on, ‘
it's extremely generous of you, and I just want you to know that I asked for this meeting because, y'see, I'm eighty three and I have decided to cherry-pick little moments of joy to have, in whatever few years I have left. Some are little things, like wearing bright socks, or dancing a waltz, and some are gigantic things like this, meeting you. And you've made a long-held dream happen. So thank you.'

‘Delighted I'm on your bucket list, sir, very flattered,' she says, and she smiles at him. As he sees himself reflected in her eyes, he knows that she regards him as a harmless sweet old man. Not for a moment does she think of him as a charming and smooth lothario, an international playboy and man of mystery. Somewhere in his silly fantasy about her, he thought that might have been a possibility. It isn't. Of course it isn't.

It's better than that. Two strangers are meeting for a fabulous fleeting moment. Just that. Just that.

Then, she says, ‘Y'know Thomas, I admire you for ekeing out every last bit of fun you can have. We're not here for long. I know that. I wish my dad had got to eighty-three.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know.'

‘No, it's OK, just … makes you realize how precious the time is. And how important family is, eh?'

‘Yes, indeed,' he says, and knows it. More than ever.

‘Well, I have to race, I'm afraid, they have a car waiting for me outside …' she says.

‘Of course, of course …'

‘But truthfully, Thomas, I'd rather stay here with you, and shoot the breeze anyday.'

‘Bless you,' he says, looking at this beautiful kind woman. She's not exactly begging him to stay, but it's near as, dammit. Job done.

‘But just before I go, can I ask to see what socks you're wearing?'

Thomas laughs, and lifts his trouser legs to reveal snazzy bright-purple socks.

‘Impressive,' she says, ‘keep it up, Thomas, don't lose sight of the good stuff. And … in the interest of that bucket list?' He looks puzzled.

‘Might I be granted a quick waltz before I go?'

Thomas can't believe his ears so he gets up from his seat,
trying to ignore his achy joints, takes Nicole Kidman in his arms and there, in the bar, they dance a few glorious, unforgettable steps. She kisses him on the cheek, and whispers in his ear, ‘Bye,' and then she rushes off towards an impatient-looking PR lady, who is wildly beckoning her at the door. She turns, waves, and she's gone.

He is still waving ten seconds after she is out of sight, and he suddenly realizes that other people are watching this, slack-jawed in amazement, and boy, does he enjoy that.

He sits back down, and smugly polishes off the rest of his whisky, and chuckles to himself. He can't wait to tell Glenn about this.

Ah. Glenn. Yes.

Glenn is his reality. This was the fantasy which he was lucky enough to experience in the flesh, for five crazy minutes. And that's the point, he realizes, all this frivolity is like candy, he can have some occasionally, and he likes it, but Glenn is his bread. He needs her to live. Alone with his truth in the corner of the bar, Thomas Wilder-Bingham is lonelier than ever.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Rosie Kitto is feeding Glenn Wilder-Bingham chicken soup. Literally spooning it into her mouth.

And Glenn is allowing it, and every now and then, she says ‘thank you' to Rosie.

And Rosie says ‘It is alright.'

                         ‘It is alright.'

                         ‘It is alright.'

And Glenn is beginning to believe her.

Later that same night, and gently sozzled, Thomas sits in the messy kitchen back at the apartment, with his grandson Teddy. He is teaching Teddy about the finer points of the best Scotch.

Teddy says, ‘… but I don't particularly want hairs on my chest, Granpops, seriously …'

‘Come on, Teds, just a wee dram of what they call Wall Street Wine. Won't do you any harm. And we are celebrating, buddy, celebrating the beauty of women, you shoulda seen her Teds. Exquisite. Nothin' like a dame. And if a dame were a drink, she'd be whisky. And in my humble opinion, which ain't all that humble if I'm honest, this, m'boy, is the best of them all. Glenfiddich, single malt, eighteen years old. Same age as you.'

‘Not for long. And I have drunk whisky before …'

‘Not like this, you haven't. This is crafted by Scots and angels combined, and you can taste the mountains and the lochs in it, this is whisky with no ‘e' Teds. W. H. I. S. K. Y. Scots
say the time taken adding the ‘e' is time away from drinking the nectar. Here …'

Thomas pours an inch of the orangey yellow liquid into a tumbler, and Teddy goes to drink it.

‘Nah ah ah,' Thomas quickly intercepts, ‘not so quick, Mr Hastypants, first of all, “the eye”, – we look at it. Hold it up to the light, and ponder the years it took to brew. It's a sunset. A thousand sunsets. Then, “the nose” – we smell it. Move it around in the glass a bit, we could add a drop of water or an ice cube now to open it up, but, I think, maybe not yet. So put your nose in, and whaddya get?'

They both take a deep sniff, and Teddy can tell from the slight sting in his nose that this is going to bite. He's not sure exactly what he can smell, but he closes his eyes and goes with his instinct.

‘Um, I think I smell … wood.'

‘Yes! Yes, good man. That'll be the oak barrels it's aged in. Can you get a whiff of orchard fruit? Faintly sweet baked apple?'

‘Hey, yeh, maybe.' Teddy isn't sure.

‘Now, “the palate.” Taste it. Just a sip.'

Thomas puts it to his lips first, then Teddy follows suit.

‘It's rich, candy peel, and there's the apple again, cheeky fella. Roll it over your tongue before you swallow it, Teds,' says Thomas.

Teddy stifles a wince as the powerful alcohol hits the back
of his throat. He coughs a little bit, but he cannot detect a taste he can describe, which is ironic because in years to come, Teddy will always associate whisky with this moment, so the taste is key. For him, it's entirely sensory though, it's not about actual taste, it's about effect and memory. There is his grandfather, clearly transported to somewhere wonderful through the power of this strange amber spirit. He will remember that.

‘And now, Teds, most importantly, “the finish”, which is the aftertaste that lingers. For me, this determines the success, how many flavours will reveal themselves? How long do they stay? Do they change as the first flavour decays? What pushes through?'

Teddy stares at Thomas. What the hell is he yabbering on about? All Teds can feel is a ferocious alcoholic burn. He would prefer to call an ambulance than give a flowery analysis.

Thomas is still pontificating, ‘And … exhale … there she blows … warm, distinguished, ah yes, a layer of … of … what? … salted toffee.' He breathes out slowly. Thomas is in his own heaven, ‘Welcome to the world of whisky, boy. Long may you enjoy it. Here's to women in all their glorious, mysterious complexity.'

They chink their glasses. And sip. It burns Teddy again. Ow. He twiddles his glass in the ensuing silence.

‘Pops?' says Teddy.

‘Yep' says Thomas

‘There's this girl …'

‘There nearly always is. Are we talking about the cutie in the band?'

‘Shit, man! How did you know?' Teddy is astonished, ‘Yes, her name is Izzy. I really like her, but y'know, I don't want to … rush it. Like with Rosie, y'know … so … what do I do?'

‘Do you think she likes you?' asks Thomas.

‘Well, she kinda smiles a lot. How do I know? I've only ever been with … well … y'know …'

‘Well, in my experience, if a girl likes you, she usually puts herself in the places where you'll find it impossible not to ask her out. That's what your granma did.'

This jolts Teddy. He has never stopped to think of Glenn as anything other than an old lady. She is always affectionate towards him, in her own prickly way, but he can't imagine her as anyone's object of lust, absolutely not. But Teddy knows that his grandfather is missing her terribly at the moment, being the wise boy he is, so, he shuts up and lets Thomas indulge in an intoxicated ramble.

‘Your granma isn't … she never used to be like she is.'

Teddy takes a bigger sip of whisky. OW.

Thomas carries on, ‘She used to be … so shy when I first knew her. The slightest thing would make her blush. Just lke you.'

On cue, Teddy blushes, at his grandfather's uncanny insight, at it's accuracy, concerning him. But this stuff about Glenn is a revelation.

‘She finds the world hard, Teds, bit like you. I think that's why she has a soft spot for you. She can see under your skin.'

‘No way. Yeh. Can she?' says Teddy, as he blushes again. He loves hearing that he and Glenn have something in common. He loves belonging.

‘Yeh, she can. She's the person who would give you the lowdown on Izzy, she's eagle-eyed when it comes to people.'

‘But she's so … scary.'

‘Not really, Teds, that's just the face she puts on to deal with our big difficult world. She's soft on the inside y'know. She used to … laugh and stroke my hair, and sing me to sleep sometimes.'

‘Granma did?!'

‘Yep. She did. I think it might be my fault that she changed so much. I let her down. She became Mrs Thomas Wilder-Bingham. Only. Glenn, the woman I married, a person in her own sweet right, just disappeared slowly, sorta … wilted, as the years passed. And I let that happen. I made way for it. Because it was my fault. And then along came Rosie …'

‘You don't have to tell me that …' says Teddy, worried.

‘No, I'm just saying we can all mess up, Teds, and I'm no exception. Seriously. Don't get me wrong, I loved that you looked up to me when you were a little guy, but now hey, you're a big tall man. Look across at me instead. We're the same, Teds, made of the same stuff. BUT. Listen, take my advice, don't try to be like me. Be you. Honestly, believe me, you are
SO worth being. You are really something. It's so clear. So clear.'

The burbling Thomas has another sip of whisky.

So does Teddy. Ow.

‘Sorry, Pops, but you can't stop me admiring you. I just do and that's that. Deal with it.'

Thomas laughs at his grandson's chutzpah. How he loves this boy. He leans towards Teddy. ‘Listen up chum. Let yourself off the hook with Rosie, OK? She doesn't want you feeling so responsible, neither do I, neither does anyone. We're all gonna look after her, you don't have to be the one, OK? You don't have to set fire to yourself to keep her warm. Seriously, Teds, go to college, kiss Izzy and be eighteen. Let the ol' man pick up the slack, yeh? Do me that favour eh? Be part of it, of course, but no heroics necessary. I know you. You'd sacrifice it all. And you mustn't, I mean it. Promise me.'

Teddy gets up and goes to his beloved grandfather, and they fall into a big boy bear hug with lots of back-slapping to make it more palatable for both of them. When they pull apart, Thomas pours more whisky into their glasses, much to Teddy's dismay,

He raises his glass. ‘To Glenn Wilder-Bingham, the finest woman in Manhattan, wherever she may be. And may she come home soon …' They chink again, and Thomas takes a gulp this time, ‘God that's delicious, Teds, isn't it? Robust, with a soft underbelly. Just like Glennie …'

Teddy sees the glisten in Thomas's eye, and decides to rescue the moment,

‘Hey. Get your guitar. Let's slaughter the Beatles til they beg for mercy …'