She knew, then, that I’d found the memory stick and read her letter! She knew, and she’d said nothing, and had continued to write to me. While I tried to take that in I wandered about the flat looking for something of hers to eat. She was right about that, at least. I searched in the bathroom, hoping that she’d left something behind—a used toothbrush that I could suck, or a lipstick that I could take a shaving from. But there was nothing. Apart from a few pieces of unwanted clothing, she had cleaned the place out, and there was little sense of her in the flat—it was all Felix, Felix, Felix.
I lay on her bed, rereading the letter, marveling at her change of tone. Distraught Tilda had gone—she was now digging deep inside, trying to be optimistic, imagining a new future, and I should have felt happy for her. But I didn’t. It was too soon. I knew that, in truth, she was still in the first stages of grief, that her real emotions were a maelstrom of pain and anger. The upbeat force of the final words in her letter could only be explained by their heartbreaking falseness, and I thought that if she could make such an admirable, incredible effort towards survival, then I should be strong too. I shouldn’t give in or rest, however weary or defeated I felt, and I opened up the dossier again, scrolling down, randomly stopping, and reading words that I’d written at the beginning of the summer, concentrating on my observations of Tilda’s appearance, the gaunt look of her face, her nervous eyes, her unkempt appearance. Then I read a note that I’d completely forgotten about: Does Felicity Shore realize something is wrong? Have further information? It seemed so long ago—that day when I’d searched the Curzon Street flat for clues, and listened to the answering machine, to Tilda’s agent pleading with her, “Come to lunch or something, and let’s go through your options.” But I thought, one last push—for Tilda’s sake, I’ll see Felicity Shore.
? ? ?
As it happened, she said, she could spare a few minutes in the afternoon. So I walked across town to her office, which was in Soho.
“Hello, Callie.” She held out her hand; her manner warm, her plump palm slightly moist. She was a large lady, wearing large-lady clothes, a purple batwing sweater over a long green jersey skirt. And she was lavishly decorated—a statement silver necklace, with dangling ingots, vaguely African, fat silver bangles, oversize blue spectacles.
Her room was cluttered—photographs everywhere of her clients, some of them glossy head shots, others of actors acting in plays and films, and I sat down in the comfy chair that she offered, mildly distracted by the cigarette smell and the photos, also thinking about how to explain myself, how to start the conversation. My mind was blank, but then she said:
“I’ve been trying to get hold of Tilda, but she’s not returning my calls. So I’m guessing that she’s avoiding dealing with me directly—has she sent you as an envoy?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I lied. “You know she’s gone to LA?”
“What? No I didn’t know that. Not at all . . .” She put her fist down on the table, not hard, but it made her bangles and bracelets rattle as they fell down her arm like a Slinky.
“Oh.” My embarrassment was obvious. “She’s only just left . . . a few days ago.”
She leaned forward, parking her big breasts on her messy desktop. “I see. Well that’s what she wanted all along, isn’t it? To make it in America? But she knows my opinion—she needs to mend fences here first. You know she alienated people on Rebecca? Behaving like a diva when you’re just starting out—it’s not a clever move. It’s made it hard for her to get jobs.”
“But she has the Envy role coming up?”
Felicity laughed, in a derisive way. “Really—that’s all very well, but it’s low budget, and Robert Galloway—he’s an inexperienced director. It’s not going to help. But she doesn’t listen to advice these days. . . .” Even though she was sitting down, she seemed out of breath.
“She did listen to Felix, though,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he was tough with her. Telling her not to take second-rate roles . . .”
The bangles arm moved again, with percussionary sound effects, as she put her elbow on the table and her fingers to her chin.
“Is that so?” she said. “She didn’t give me that impression when she came to see me. Second-rate roles, as you put it, were all that were coming her way, and not very often. She seemed only too keen to take them.”
I had a sense that, although I’d been in her office only five minutes, I knew that she didn’t like Tilda. Also, she’d given me the information I needed, and I could leave now. In a businesslike way I said: “Well, thank you, Felicity. Tilda wanted me to tell you that she’ll be away for a while, but will be back in eight weeks for filming on Envy and she’ll call you then.”
As I was leaving, I looked around at the chaotic room—books piled up on chairs, posters of her clients untidily pinned and taped to the walls, a tapestry throw draped over a cupboard. Then I noticed a photograph propped up on a bookcase—it was of Tilda and a bunch of other actors from her student days. I studied it, Tilda with her arms around her two best friends at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, looking relaxed and joyful. The three of them seemed so bright-eyed and optimistic—young people about to break free and make their mark on the world.
I hurried back to Curzon Street, and in the dossier I wrote: Tilda wasn’t honest with me about her career. It hasn’t been going well—she behaved badly on Rebecca, and the only role she’s managed to get since—Helen in Envy—is a low-budget movie with an unknown director. She’s gone to LA against the advice of her agent, Felicity Shore. It sounds like a desperate move, and I fear she is in one of her depressions, heading for a breakdown.
44
It was 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday and I was at Curzon Street, lying in bed with Wilf, my legs across his, both of us staring at the ceiling, and in that moment I wasn’t thinking of Tilda; I was in Wilf-world, feeling safe and cocooned. “I love helping in the garden,” I said. “I think it’s because it stops me thinking. At the bookshop I’m thinking all day long, and that’s how I become so obsessive and paranoid. . . . But in the garden my mind shuts off; it’s wonderful, and I can enjoy the sense of things—without my bloody thoughts intervening and screwing everything up. I can just feel. The fresh air and the soft ground, the animal life, the earthworms and birds. There’s always a robin that turns up when you start digging—I’ve noticed that.”
“I’m pleased that you get it,” said Wilf. With a finger, he was following the contours of my waist and stomach and hip bones.
“Oh I do. Absolutely.” I rolled over, on top of him, and he held me in his arms, his finger now following the curves of my shoulder blades and my back. “You know,” I said, “when I was little, on my seventh birthday, I was in the Kent countryside, running down a long hill, and I fell right into a bush. I was stuck in there, and I put my hand deep into the earth and found the skull of an animal. Mum said it probably belonged to a lamb, and I was so moved by it, it made me cry.”
“It was everything at once, birth and death, and you felt protective of a life that didn’t last . . . and of the mother who lost her baby.”