Sicken and So Die (14 page)

But, as ever when Alexandru Radulescu was following the thread of a new idea, he did not even hear counter-arguments. ‘Excellent, good, yes. They are wearing T-shirts that would offend his puritanism. “Legalise cannabis”, this would be a good one, I think.'

‘What?'

‘Or “Fuck the Pope”. You can, I think, get T-shirts that say “Fuck the Pope”.'

‘Except it's a sentiment that Malvolio, as a puritan, would probably agree with, anyway,' Charles couldn't help objecting.

‘Good point, good point. So we won't have that one. “Guns ‘n' Roses”!'

‘What?'

‘You will have a “Guns ‘n' Roses” T-shirt under your doublet. That would certainly offend Malvolio.'

‘But, Alexandru . . .'

It was hopeless. Once the director had got the bit between his teeth, nothing could stop him galloping over the horizon with his latest brainwave. Anachronisms began to erupt all over the play.

Viola, as Cesario, was taken out of doublet and hose and put into doublet and Levi's, ‘To stress the refreshing informality of her approach to Olivia.' Antonio was to wear a leather peaked cap and biker's jacket over his puff-sleeved shirt and slashed hose, ‘To emphasise the gay thing.' Benzo Ritter and the First Officer were armed with pistols in holsters, ‘So that the audience realise the real threat to Antonio.' Feste, in his disguise as the parson Sir Topas, was given a clerical dog-collar and, of all things, a laptop computer on which to note down Malvolio's answers to his questions. Maria, when flashing a leg, would reveal sexy stockings and a suspender belt.

It was only with reluctance that Alexandru Radulescu was dissuaded from having Orsino deliver his opening ‘If music be the food of love . . .' while listening to a Walkman.

It was the end of their last day's rehearsal in London, the Saturday. Sunday off, then all reassembling at Chailey Ferrars on the Monday morning for a no doubt agonising sequence of technicals and dress rehearsals before the Tuesday night opening. They'd done a full dress run in the rehearsal room that day and the general view was that it had gone very well.

Charles Paris did not share that general view. Chad Pearson had been encouraged to put all kinds of new business into his performance as Sir Andrew Aguecheek, and the whole balance between the dominant, manipulative Sir Toby and his petulant dupe had been lost. Alexandru Radulescu's policy of ‘challenging accepted stereotypes' had resulted in something merely eccentric.

The homosexual kiss had not yet been written in, but it had already been discussed. Charles had the ominous feeling that its inclusion was only a matter of time. And no doubt if, when the moment arose, he objected, he would be once again branded as racist. And homophobic. People of Charles's age found mere survival tricky, bulls in the china shop of modern political correctness.

The cast dispersed quickly at the end of the run. Benzo Ritter was once again left droopy, like a rejected spaniel, as Sally Luther shot off with only the most perfunctory of goodbyes. But everyone was in a hurry. Once they moved to Great Wensham, the tour had effectively started. Most of them had sex-lives to put on hold or partners to placate.

Charles Paris, wondering whether his partner could ever be placated again – and indeed even whether the word ‘partner' was still appropriate – lingered. He'd persuaded Frances to let him take her out for dinner that evening, but he didn't approach the encounter with enthusiasm.

Then on the Sunday she was going to visit their daughter Juliet, husband Miles and three grandchildren. Charles had been assured that he'd be welcome too, but somehow didn't see himself going. So he recognised he was close to some sort of goodbye to Frances.

How permanent a goodbye he couldn't be sure, but he didn't feel optimistic. He tried to pinpoint the moment during the last few weeks when things had started to go wrong. It really all dated from Gavin Scholes' illness. Uncertainty over the change of director had got Charles drinking again, and the drinking had once again been a contributory factor to his soured relations with Frances.

As he moved morosely towards the Green Room to pick up his bag, the decision formed in Charles's mind to stop for a couple of large Bell's on the way back to the flat. He'd a feeling he might need bracing for the evening ahead.

He was about to enter when he heard the sound of voices from inside. He wouldn't have stopped if he hadn't heard a mention of his own name. In the event, he loitered out of sight and listened.

There was no problem identifying the speakers. Charles immediately recognised the dark, guttural sounds of Vasile Bogdan and the lighter, lilting tones of Chad Pearson.

‘No, Charles Paris is in a different play from the rest of us,' said Vasile.

‘Well, he's a traditional kind of actor,' Chad Pearson offered in mitigation. He had an exceptionally amiable disposition; it really hurt him to think ill of anyone.

‘Yes, but he's getting in the way of what Alex is trying to do. His scenes just aren't working.'

‘He'll be fine. Everything'll shake down when we get into the run.' Chad Pearson still didn't want the boat rocked. ‘It's too late for anything to be done about it, anyway.'

‘Is it?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, you're playing Sir Andrew Aguecheek, aren't you?'

‘Sorry, Vasile? I'm not with you . . .'

‘Until last week Sir Andrew Aguecheek was being played by another actor who didn't fit into Alex's scheme of things. Then fortunately he got ill, and now you're playing the part.'

‘Yeah, well, I feel rotten about poor old John B., but it's an ill wind.'

‘Yes. Wouldn't it be great if another ill wind could just . . . blow away Charles Paris?'

‘But if that happened, who'd play Sir Toby Belch?'

‘I could do it,' Vasile Bogdan replied. ‘I'd do it bloody well, actually . . . if only Charles Paris wasn't around.' There was a silence. ‘Still, better be moving.'

Charles backed away from the Green Room door and tried to look as if he was fascinated by a copy of the
Daily Mail
somebody had left lying on a chair. But he knew it was a bad performance, and the look Vasile Bogdan gave him in passing only confirmed it.

He knew his words had been overheard. In fact, Charles got the distinct impression Vasile had only spoken as he had because he
knew
Charles was listening.

His words had been a deliberate threat.

‘It's just the predictability, Charles.'

They were in a Hampstead bistro they'd often been to before. Soon Charles would feel the need to order a second bottle of wine. On previous occasions they'd happily knocked back two and then moved on to the Armagnac. But this evening Frances was only sipping at her glass. The order for a second bottle was likely to prompt a sigh and a raised eyebrow.

‘How can you call me predictable? You can accuse me of a lot of things, Frances, but not that. We make an arrangement – I may turn up, I may not turn up. I say I'll call you tomorrow, and you may not hear from me for three months. That's the secret of my great appeal – you never know where you are with me.'

Had he looked into her face earlier, Charles might not have completed the full speech. He'd clearly chosen the wrong tack. Light-hearted irony was not what the occasion demanded. Frances shook her head wearily and pushed the hair back out of her eyes.

‘It's the predictability of your unpredictability I'm talking about, Charles. That's what gets me down. I mean, how many new dawns am I expected to greet? How many times am I supposed to believe in you as a born-again dutiful husband? How many good intentions am I meant to listen to, while all the time I hear the Hell Paving Company truck revving away in the background?'

Charles grinned at the conceit, then looked serious. ‘Look, I do mean everything I say at the moment I say it.'

‘Well, thanks. That's a lot of help, isn't it? I'm sure a goldfish is surprised every time it does a circuit of its bowl and sees the same bunch of weed.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘That, OK, maybe you do mean everything you say at the moment you say it, but that doesn't mean you're always saying it to the same person.'

He looked puzzled, so she spelt it out for him. ‘Charles, it's very difficult for me to believe anything you say to me – anything caring, anything about loving me, for instance – when I know the next day – or the day before – you'll either say or have said exactly the same words to someone else.'

‘Oh, Frances, that was ages ago. I've grown out of all that. I now know what I want in life, and it's you.'

‘So all those other women . . .?'

‘There never were that many, and none who really meant anything to me.'

‘Must've been nice for them to know that, mustn't it?'

‘Frances. ‘You should never worry about me and other women.'

‘I agree. And, generally speaking, I've found the best way of not worrying about them is to close my mind to the fact of their existence. Which is a lot easier to do when I'm not being constantly reminded of the fact of your existence.'

‘You mean when I'm not around?'

‘In a word, yes,' she replied brutally.

‘But, Frances . . .' He knew he was sounding pathetic. He didn't want to sound pathetic, but that was how the words came out. ‘There's still so much between us.'

‘Is there? Listen, Charles, what you don't realise is that things change. I change. You think I'm just the same person. You go away, have an affair, and when you get bored with it or she gets bored with it, you think you can come bouncing back and I will still be exactly where you left me. Life doesn't work like that. Every pain takes its toll. Each time you've hurt me it's left a mark – and strengthened my defences against you, against the same things happening again. I'm a lot stronger than I was when you first walked out, Charles.'

‘I know. That's part of your appeal for me.'

‘I haven't built up that strength for
your
benefit. Rather the reverse, actually. I've built it up for me, so that I've got the strength to lead my own life – on my own – which is what I was doing, quite cheerfully, until, a few weeks ago, you shambled back into it.'

‘You were pleased to see me. You welcomed me.'

‘Yes, you're right. I did manage to forget about the past. I managed to forget the predictability. Once again I deluded myself that – this time – it'd all be different.'

‘And it has been.'

‘Has it, Charles? Oh, the first two or three weeks were fine, yes, I agree. But would you say the last two have been very different from the way it always was?'

‘Well.' Charles looked away from her and, as he did so, caught the eye of a passing waiter. He lifted up the empty wine bottle. ‘Could we have another one of these, please?'

On the landing back at the flat, he put his arms round her. ‘Good night,' Frances said. ‘As you know, I'm going to Juliet's tomorrow. I don't suppose you . . .?'

He shook his head.

‘No, no, I thought not. Well, Charles, I hope everything goes well at Great Wensham.'

‘Mm. Thanks.' He'd had plans for organising first night tickets for her and . . . But it all seemed a bit pointless now.

‘. . . and keep in touch, eh, Charles?'

‘But not too much in touch?'

She looked up and the pain in her eyes burnt into him.

He still had his arms around her. He really wanted her. Maybe if they made love it'd sort everything out.

He squeezed her tighter. ‘Frances . . .'

‘What?'

What indeed? There was no point in trying to make love to her if she didn't want to. It wasn't just an act of sex he wanted; it was the coincidence of two people who really wanted to have sex with each other.

Slowly he released his hold. ‘I'll ring, you know, keep you up to date with how things're going.'

‘Mm.' The disbelief in her monosyllable was not quite overt. ‘Take care, Charles.'

She leant forward and gave him a soft peck on the cheek. Then her bedroom door opened and closed, and she was gone.

Charles Paris went through into the sitting room and poured himself a large Bell's.

HE WOKE IN the spare bed, tired and headachy. The stableyard taste in his mouth suggested he'd passed out before cleaning his teeth the night before. Nausea lurked in the cobwebs at the bottom of his throat. Why did he do it? Convivial drinking with other people was at least fun while it was happening; drinking alone was nothing more nor less than self-punishment.

There was an empty stillness in the flat. He glanced at his watch. After ten. God knows what time he'd fallen into bed. He didn't want to move, but his straining bladder insisted.

Being upright didn't help the headache. In the bathroom he peed copiously, sluiced his face in water and cleaned his teeth. The mint wasn't strong enough to swamp the other taste in his mouth.

The door to Frances's bedroom was closed. He knew she wasn't there, but still tapped on it before entering. The room seemed almost clinically neat, the edges of the bedspread regulated into neat parallels.

The whole place smelt of Frances. A strong whiff of her favourite perfume in the air suggested she might only just have left. Maybe the closing of the flat's front door was what had woken Charles.

He sat on the bed, hunched in misery. This time he really had screwed up. Frances had given him a chance, and he'd blown it. What was more, it felt ominously like a last chance. They'd made no plans to meet again.

He could have stayed there, marooned in self-pity, all day, but he forced himself to stand up. His weight had left a semicircular indentation on the bedspread. He smoothed it out. The bed was once again a rigid rectangle, as if Charles Paris had never been there at all.