In his loft at TriBeCa, Tomas Court adjusted his clothing and stepped back from the girl. It was not his practice, in such situations, to waste time once the required act was over. The brief allure the woman had possessed for him had now gone, and he was without further interest in her. His one concern now was to extricate himself as quickly as possible from this formulaic event, and, looking down at her, he was just considering which of his old formulaic devices would ensure her swift departure, when something caught his eye.
The woman was still kneeling, head bent, face hidden; during the course of her ministrations she had removed her blouse, which now lay beside her on the floor. As she bent forward to pick it up, Court’s eyes rested on her bared back; he had been looking down at the discernible line of her spine as he assessed the best way to get rid of her; as she moved, the strands of dark hair that fell across her shoulders parted, and Court glimpsed—he was not sure what he glimpsed, but he heard himself make a small, disbelieving sound.
The woman’s face jerked up towards him; she made another quick movement, but Court was too swift for her. Before she could rise, he stepped forward and forced her back down. With a low exclamation of anger and surprise, he parted the thick strands of dark hair, exposing her left shoulder. And no, he had not imagined it: there, in almost precisely the right place, high on the left scapula, was a tattoo—a tattoo of a small, crouching and delicate black spider.
He jerked away from her and pushed her aside. He stepped back, his face pale. Slowly, the girl straightened up. She wiped her hand across her mouth, met his gaze and frowned.
‘I told you I admired your movies,’ she said.
‘That’s a foolish way to express admiration. Write a letter next time. I’ll make sure one of the secretaries answers it.’
‘Write a letter?’ Colour swept up into her face. ‘That’s what you advise? Mr Court, I’ll remember that.’
She reached for her blouse, put it back on and began to button it up. Court watched her in silence. When she had put her coat on also, and began to move towards the door, his anxieties eased somewhat. He began to tell himself that he had been lucky, that the risk had been greater than he had realized, but that the risk was over now. In the doorway, however, she paused.
‘You don’t remember, do you?’ she said, resting her yellowish gaze on his, and voicing the question in a quiet tone.
‘Remember what?’ Court replied, moving further away.
‘The last time we did this.’ She looked slowly around the room; Court frowned.
‘You’re mistaken,’ he began. ‘I think it would be better if you went now. I told you—’
‘Oh, I’m not mistaken, you are.’ She hesitated, a shy, almost coy note coming into her voice. ‘It’s OK, I don’t blame you. Why would you remember? I was blonde at the time. Quite a lot younger. It was very brief—nothing special, I guess, as far as you were concerned. Why would it be? I was the third that week, after all.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about; we’ve never met. I don’t even know your name…’
‘It’s Jackie.’ She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘No? Well, never mind. I understand how it is. I understood then. I mean, you were under a whole lot of pressure, I could see that. The great director! Only the movie wasn’t going too well; you were having technical problems—problems with Natasha too, I think…’
The use of his wife’s name startled Court and angered him.
‘Whatever problems I was having,’ he said coldly, ‘I wouldn’t have discussed them with you, I’m very sure about that. So—’
‘No, you didn’t.’ She gave a low laugh. ‘The way I recall it, you didn’t say too much of anything. You fucked me that time…’ She paused, the tiny frown reappearing on her face. ‘Think about it and you may even remember. On location, outside LA? The Soloist, and it kind of bombed at the box office. We went to your wife’s caravan…You know I always liked that movie? One of your best. It really made me laugh, all those asshole critics eating their words, reappraising it after Dead Heat came out. Boy, are they dumb. I could have told them…’
‘Look,’ Court interrupted, hearing a new droning and fanatical note enter her voice, ‘you’re mistaken. I’m sorry, but let’s leave it at that, shall we? For your information, not that it’s any of your business, I was happily married when I made that movie—’
‘Oh, yes? You’ve never been happily married.’ Her voice rose. ‘If you were so happily married, how come you did what you did? You fucked me from behind. I was bent double over your wife’s make-up table. I had a picture of your kid right in front of my face; he was only a baby then. It took you less than five minutes, start to finish. Women tend to remember things like that…’
There was a silence. Court had been listening with the closest attention. He could remember that location well; he could remember the caravan she spoke of, and he could remember very vividly the difficulties he had encountered when making that movie: the groping after solutions, the script rewrites, the elation that accompanied creation, and the despair.
Of the event she described, he had no recollection at all—but that did not mean she was lying; it simply meant that she had been useful, and having been useful, had been erased.
‘Are you threatening me?’ he said quietly, after a long pause. ‘Is that why you’re here today? What do you want? Some form of revenge? An apology? If you’re waiting for an apology, you’ll wait a long time.’
‘An apology?’ She gave him a blank look. ‘No, I came here…I guess I came to see if you’d changed. You might have been different now. I thought…’ She hesitated. ‘You’re older now; you’re divorced. People say you’re pretty ill—I guess I thought you might be—kinder, you know.’
‘And do you find me altered?’ Court asked, watching her closely.
‘Oh no.’ She glanced away. ‘You’re exactly the same. I never quite got you out of my head, you see—so I guess I wanted to be sure…’
‘Maybe we should meet again,’ he said, with care. ‘You might revise your views. Do you have an address? A phone number? You live here in New York? I’m going to be in the city for a few more days…’
A small derisive smile flickered across her features. ‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘Maybe we’ll run into each other—you never know…’
And with that, before he could prevent her, she was out of the door. She left it ajar; Court, knowing there were better methods of pursuit, did not attempt to follow her. He could still hear her footsteps on the stairs as he reached for the telephone and began dialling. Then another idea came to him. He replaced the receiver and picked up the videotape she had brought with her. His hands a little unsteady and his breathing tightening, he inserted it in his machine.
He had expected some message, some revelation, some clue. The tape was blank; discovering this, he reached again for the phone.
‘Now,’ Colin heard, through the door, as he reached Tomas Court’s landing. ‘I’m not interested—just find the records; they must be on file. I want to know her name and who hired her…I told you, The Soloist—that’s five and a half years ago. You check the payroll records. What? No, I don’t know. Try Wardrobe, Continuity, Make-Up…You think I don’t realize that? Goddamn it, I know it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow. I don’t give a fuck if it’s Thanksgiving, Christmas and your son’s bar mitzvah all rolled into one. You get me that information and you get it now…’
Colin hesitated, tapped on the door, then pushed it open. Court swung around, as if startled; then, seeing it was Colin, waved him towards a chair and continued speaking. Colin ignored the chair; he looked at his watch, placed the file of photographs on Court’s black work table and edged back towards the door.
‘How long to run those checks?’ Court was now saying. ‘Yes, but she could be using several names. What? Everything—credit cards, licence registration, sure, sure. Then cross-check with that LA photography lab—you still have their employee records? Fine. Then try UCLA—she could have st
udied there. Try student records for their Literature courses—never mind why, just do it. And any courses that they ran on movies. What? I don’t know; it’s difficult to say: twenty-five, maybe twenty-seven, no older than that. Go back over the past decade and that should do it…’ He hesitated, glancing towards Colin. ‘And she mentioned a boyfriend…What? Just in passing, never mind how it came up, but you do see? Yes. Yes, precisely. I know a man has to be involved, goddammit; you don’t need to spell out the obvious…What? I don’t know. She just said he was some kind of an artist—I hadn’t realized it could be important then. No, I was only half listening, I had my mind on other things…What? No, an artist, that’s all she said, and she was probably lying…’
He paused; Colin, impatient to leave, edged towards the door again. He considered interrupting, then, seeing Court’s expression, thought better of it. When Court’s gaze moved in his direction, he embarked on some complicated semaphore. He pointed at his watch, then pointed at the door; he mouthed the words, ‘cab waiting’, and when this had no effect—Court indeed seemed blind to him—he gave a small dance of agitation and mouthed the words, ‘Late—have to go’.
Court gave no sign of receiving this message either; he had begun speaking again. Stealthily, Colin edged into the doorway. He was about to turn and flee when, after a pause Court said, ‘Ah, God, yes,’ and replaced the phone.
The way in which he spoke halted Colin. There was a note of extremity in his voice which Colin had never heard before, and which awoke an instant anxiety. He began to realize that this was not an ordinary conversation, and that Court was in the grip of some strong emotion. Forgetting his cab and his haste for a moment, Colin saw that Court’s face was blanched of colour, and that he was now breathing with difficulty. As Colin turned back to him, he leaned against the table as if to steady himself, and stood there in silence, head bowed.
‘Tomas, are you all right?’ Colin began, moving towards him. ‘What’s happened? Here, sit down…’
He reached for a chair, but Court, straightening up and steadying his breathing, waved it aside.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ His pale gaze rested on Colin’s for an instant. ‘Some problem’s come up—casting, nothing for you to worry about; not your concern. Those are the pictures I wanted? Thank you…’
‘Tomas, you don’t look well…’ Colin hesitated, fighting his conscience. He thought of his late-night conversation with Court at the ranch, a few days before. He thought of the candour and bleakness with which Court had spoken of his love for his wife and his continuing hopes for a reconciliation. Colin had sensed it was the first time he had ever discussed this with anyone. He had pitied him then, and looking at Court’s drawn face, he pitied him now.
‘Let me call someone, Tomas,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t be alone. Maybe I should call that doctor of yours, just to check you’re all right…’ He hesitated again, then submitted to his conscience. ‘I can stay,’ he continued, ‘if it would help. I can stay for a while…’
‘I think not.’ A flash of dour amusement came into Court’s eyes. ‘I appreciate the generosity of the offer, but you mustn’t keep this Lindsay of yours waiting. I promised you you’d be on time—I don’t want to break my word.’
‘I can call her,’ Colin began, trying hard to hide misery. ‘Really, Tomas, she’ll understand. You look ill—you’re terribly pale.’
‘It’s nothing. It’s passed. Off you go…’ He gave a dry smile. ‘And I hope you’ve remembered a present. It is Thanksgiving, after all.’
Colin felt a rush of gratitude and liking. He thought of the elegant pale-blue Tiffany’s box safely stowed in his bags.
‘I have. I bought it in New York, the morning before I left for the ranch. Just in case I couldn’t find anything in Montana…’
‘Very wise. What one finds in Montana doesn’t take too portable a form.’ Court paused, then added, somewhat awkwardly, ‘I hope you liked the ranch.’
‘I did,’ Colin replied.
‘It’s isolated, of course. My son loves it. Ah well.’ He gave a sigh, held out his hand and clasped Colin’s.
‘Enjoy your Thanksgiving. I’ll be speaking to you on Monday, in England, as arranged. And you can relax—it won’t be before.’
Colin hesitated still, alarmed by something in his manner, by a note of resignation or fatigue he had not heard in Court’s voice before. With another dry smile, Court turned away from him and took out the photographs he had requested. He waved Colin away and Colin, moving towards the door, watched him blend over these images of a bleak northern landscape. He thought of Thalia’s assertion that Tomas Court was without friends. He could believe that. Court seemed to him to be a man inexperienced at intimacy, slow to trust, and awkward at indicating regard. His attempts to convey liking, both at the ranch and now, touched Colin. He wished Court goodbye, unease and affection tugging at his heart.
Then he remembered Lindsay; his spirits rising at once, he sprinted down the stairs and out to his cab. He told the driver to get him uptown to the Plaza by the best route, and to break every record when doing so. The driver, amused by this demented Englishman, duly did so. Half an hour later, all thoughts of Tomas Court forgotten, Colin was walking into the lobby at the Plaza, his heart beating hard.
He was five minutes late. Meeting Lindsay, who was waiting for him, and who sprang to her feet as soon as he entered, he saw that she was even more nervous than he was. He took her hand, which felt small and cold, in his own. He watched colour come and go in her face; her eyes rested on his, their expression dazed and a little afraid. Colin, who had planned an amusing speech, found he was struck dumb; he could say nothing at all.
He booked them both in under the name ‘Lascelles’, told the desk clerk to hold all calls until further notice, overtipped the porter who showed them to their room, and, the second the man departed, fixed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice to the door.
He locked it. Lindsay had retreated, he saw; she had backed away, past a table decked with flowers, and was standing in front of the tall windows that overlooked Central Park. Joy welled up in Colin’s heart. She was wearing a new dress, and a coat he had not seen before; they were black, like most of her clothes. She was smaller than Colin remembered, and slighter in build; with a sudden sense of her frailty, he saw that her small white hands were tightly clasped at the waist of her funereal coat. He saw the anxiety flare in her eyes, and he sensed a new defencelessness in her. At this he felt a great tenderness for her, and his own anxieties melted away.
‘I’m so afraid,’ she said, as Colin began to walk towards her.
‘Don’t be,’ Colin replied.
‘I did plan what I’d say and do. Now—you look different. I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing…’
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Colin answered. ‘Darling, you don’t have to say anything at all.’
He took her hand gently in his own and kissed it. Lindsay made a small, nervous, disconsolate sound. Colin drew her back across the room to the bed, which was large. Lindsay sat down on it and looked up at him. Colin saw that her hands were trembling.
‘I spent all morning shopping,’ she said, panic in her voice. ‘I bought an illicit coat and an illicit dress. I’m wearing them both—and now I don’t feel illicit at all.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Colin quietly. All desire for pretence fell away from him; a new, and unmistakable expression came into his eyes. Lindsay, reading that expression, gave him a half-fearful look, then gave an odd, breathless sigh.
Colin thought of all the things he had intended to say, and realized just how wrong and how inadequate they were. Her face, lifted to his, was alight with contradictions and doubt; seeing that, he felt a second’s fear. He could see questions in her eyes, and he could sense some tidal pull in the room, exerting its force on him. For a moment he felt at sea, in uncharted waters, with no experience of how to navigate here.
‘I love your illicit clothes,’ he began, somew
hat nervously. ‘I love you in them, and I know I’m going to love you out of them…’
He paused; Lindsay saw him battle with his pride and struggle against some final constraint. Then his face cleared.
‘The truth is—I love you,’ he said quietly. ‘I expect you’ve realized that. I tried to hide it when I wrote, and it couldn’t be done. I meant to hide it now too—and I can’t do that either. I love you so much it actually hurts. That’s never happened to me before.’
Lindsay, moved by a sadness in his expression, by the directness and simplicity of his words, felt a rush of pure affection for him flood her heart. She gave a small flurried gesture of the hands; she raised her eyes to his, then looked quickly away. ‘Oh God,’ she began, her voice catching. ‘You mustn’t—I can’t—I don’t know who I am any more, Colin…’
Colin was hurt by that reply, but he hid it; it seemed to him that words were better avoided now. In a way that brooked no argument, he drew her to her feet and took her in his arms. He began to kiss her, and that kiss silenced them both. Feeling blind with sudden happiness, and certain he could see a similar blindness in her eyes, he caught her against him. He felt a mad conviction that they had no need for words, and that the language of his body was one she must understand.
He began to make love to her, in ways which he had had 101 hours to dream of and plan. By the time this eloquence was finally over, it was dark in the city outside, and a full moon was riding above the bare trees in Central Park. Lindsay, her body pleasured, and her mind in disarray, gave a small cry of loss as he withdrew from her. She felt both broken and whole. In a frantic way, she began to press kisses against his throat and his chest, and to murmur endearments; taking his hand, with mingled sadness and happiness, she began to kiss his face, and his eyes, and his hair.
Colin’s heart lifted; he felt a certainty of purpose, a contentment, and a calm deeper than he had ever known. He kissed Lindsay with great tenderness, then, having learned when it was wiser to remain silent, lay with her clasped against him, making no comment and asking no questions, when she began to weep quietly in his arms.