Nocturne (11 page)

Brendan nodded. He said he
’
d been going through the stuff I
’
d sent
up with my application and thought it was about time we kicked the
odd proposal around. I was astonished and - to be truthful - a wee
bit guilty. Just ten weeks ago, I
’
d had absolutely no doubts about
what really mattered in television, promising myself regular evenings
at the spare room desk, developing ideas, polishing submissions,
plotting my assault on the world of social documentary. None of
that, of course, had happened, partly through sheer pressure of work,
but partly too because of the growing realisation that I
’
d chanced
upon something that I was good at. I didn
’
t want to spend a lifetime
conjuring order out of chaos, and in the shape of people like Brendan
I could see exactly where this kind of non-stop madness led
, but just
now - in mid-series - I
was quietly pleased with my
own performance. I
’
d survived.
I
’
d won myself a decent promotion. And the fact
that I hadn
’
t even been to Texas or B&Q for the flatpack desk really
said it all.

‘
Documentaries,
’
I mused.
‘
What brings this on?
’

Brendan mumbled something about taking stock. The restaurant
had a bare,
chilly,
unfurnished feel - quite at odds with what you might
expect from a place serving Irish food
-
and the fact that we were
virtually the only people there made us mildly self-conscious.
Brendan had lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘
You get to an age,
’
he was saying,
‘
when it isn
’
t bloody funny any
more.
’

‘
Change the gags,
’
I suggested automatically.
‘
Change the writers.
’

Brendan didn
’
t react. He was looking hard at the table placing. His
glass, for once, was untouched.

‘
I mean it Jules,
’
he muttered at last.
‘
I
’
m in the shit.
’

At this point I recognised, rather belatedly, just why he
’
d been so
keen for us to talk. It wasn
’
t about me and my documentary ideas at
all. It wasn
’
t even about
Members
Only
,
or any of the other half-dozen
shows churning through the Doubleact production machine. It was
about Brendan.

I touched his hand, a gesture of reassurance, and felt him give a little
involuntary jump. Maybe the rumours are true, I thought. Maybe he
’
s
finally overdone the coke, or the vodka, and any of the other little
treats that flag your path to the first million quid.

‘
What is it?
’
I asked as gently as I could.

He glanced up, almost furtive. He looked terrible, his face gaunt
with exhaustion.

‘
You want a list?
’

‘
Only if you
’
re offering.
’

‘
OK,? he shrugged.
‘
Let
’
s start with you.
’

I let him get it off his chest. He said he
’
d fallen in love with me. Right
from day one. That
’
s why I
’
d got the job. That
’
s why I
’
d slipped so
effortlessly into Doubleact. He
’
d noticed the photo, and he
’
d heard the
voice behind my various submissions, and once I
’
d turned up in the
flesh he was doomed.

He looked up, seeing the expression on my face, sensing my anger at
this self-confessional drivel. Hadn
’
t I won the job on merit? Because I
was good? Because I deserved it? He stilled my protests, holding up
both hands. That was exactly the problem, he said. I
had
been bloody
good. I
was
bloody good. And the better I got, the more I got on top of
the job, the worse it became.

‘
Worse?
’

‘
For me. Loving you. Being in love.
’

He went on and on, talking about th
e long nights he
’
d had,
not sleeping,
the days he
’
d had,
laying little ambushes for me around the office,
making sure he got his hourly fix of glimpses, chance meetings,
corridors, stairwells, even the fucking kitchen, for Chrissakes. I
nodded, afloat on this torrent of self-revelation, wiser now about his
obsession with Doubleact
’
s jar of instant coffee. The stuff Sandra gave
us was dreadful. Why would anyone want more than one cup a
month? Why hadn
’
t I wised up?

‘
Your desk
’
s outside
the kitchen,
’
he pointed out. I
use the kitchen
to see you, to watch you, to warm my hands at your fire. I know it
’
s
adolescent but that
’
s just how fucking appalling it is.
’

The bit about warming his hands at my fire made me want to laugh.

‘
Give it up then,
’
I
suggested.
‘
Knock it
on the head. Cold turkey.
Jules
Anonymous. I
’
ll give you a phone number.
’
I was back in
Doubleact mode. I couldn
’
t help it. Pure self-defence.

With a little tight-lipped grimace, he mentioned Sandra. She
’
d
noticed. He knew she
’
d noticed. Next thing, there
’
d be a confronta
tion, and that he very definitely couldn
’
t deal with.

He looked up. I returned his gaze. I felt angry again. I didn
’
t want to
laugh any more.

‘
You want me to leave?
’

‘
Christ no, anything but that.
’

‘
What then? How can I help you? What can I suggest?
’
He studied me for a long time.

‘
We could fuck,
’
he said uncertainly.
‘
We could fuck and it might be
a disaster and then it would be OK again.
’

‘
You
’
d like me to go to bed with you to hav
e a bad time?
’

‘
Yes. Sort of.
’

‘
You
’
re crazy. What kind of offer is that?
’

‘
You
’
re interested?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
But you understand what I
’
m trying to say? How bad it is?
’

‘
No.
’

He stared at me, not quite knowing where to take the conversation
next, and I stared back, equally frustrated. He was obsessed with me.

‘
Maybe you really should try therapy,
’
I said slowly.
‘
People make
jokes about it but it
’
s helped friends of mine.
’

‘
I
’
m in therapy.
’

‘
You are?
’

He nodded gravely, telling me about a woman he visited in
Hampstead, how perceptive she was, how much she
’
d begun to help
him, but then the waiter arrived and I seized the menu, glad of the
interruption. With the greatest reluc
tance, Brendan turned his atten
tion to the blackboard on the wall. I ordered a plate of sausage and
mash and a side salad. While Brendan was still hunting for something
to eat, I looked up at the waiter, asking whether he was on every
evening.
He nodded.

‘
What did you think of the guy with the flute?
’
I asked him.
‘
The one
who was playing the other night?
’

The waiter looked confused a moment, then shook his head.

‘
We
’
ve had no guy with a flute,
’
he said.
‘
The guv
’
nor prefers to stick
with the CDs.
’

The meal over, we took a mini-cab back to Napier Road. After
three hours at the
confessional
, Brendan still had a lot to get off his
chest and it was obvious that he wanted m
e to invite him in. I tried to
make it equally obvious that it was time to say goodnight and he
’
d
been pleading with me for a couple of minutes before the driver
brought things to a head.

‘
You
’
re up for ten quid,
’
h
e muttered.
‘
Do you want to go
somewhere else, or not?
’

Brendan was out of the car in seconds, fumbling with his wallet. I
’
d
noticed before how well he responded to deadlines. As he turned
towards the house, I took his place on the pavement. The driver was
pocketing Brendan
’
s tip.

‘
Come back in an hour,
’
I told him pointedly.
‘
That
’
ll save the cost
of the phone call.
’

In the kitchen, I busied myself with coffee. Brendan, who
’
d eaten
barely anything in the restaurant, had disappeared into the bath-
room. I could hear him being over-emphatic with the loo-flush and
the handbasin the way you do when you
’
re trying to cover something
up. When he came back into the kitchen, he was grinning, shiny-
eyed.

‘
I
apologise,
’
he said at once.
‘
I
’
ve been fucking silly.
’

‘
Apologise for what?
’

‘
Giving you all that
bullshit in the restaurant. Christ
knows what
you must
think. I
’
m your boss, for God
’
s sake, and probably double
your age.
’

He took the coffee from my hand. His nose had started to run. I tore
off a sheet of kitchen roll and passed it to him, and he eyed me for a
moment or two, sniffing.

‘
You want some? I
’
ve got plenty.
’