Nocturne (44 page)

‘
What?
’

‘
It
’
s the biggest mistake I ever made.
’

‘
Going back to Sandra?
’

‘
Letting you go.
’

‘
I
agree.
’

He looked up again. He desperately wanted me to smile.
‘
You
agree
?
’
he said,
‘
You mean that?
’

‘
Yes,
’
I nodded.
‘
It was a crazy thing to do, and cruel, too. You hurt
me, if that
’
s what you came round to find out. And it still hurts.
’

‘
I know.
’

‘
Yet you still did it.
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Well, that makes you very foolish, doesn
’
t it? Throwing something
like that away? Something that good?
’

‘
That brilliant.
’

‘
Quite,
’
I nodded.
‘
And then going back to your wife.
’

Brendan began to talk about Sandra again. He
’
d been under
immense pressure. Things weren
’
t as simple as they
’
d looked. When it
came to fighting dirty, she was the all-time expert.

‘
You could have stayed with me,
’
I pointed out.
‘
We could have
talked about it.
’

‘
I
had no choice,
’
he insisted.
‘
None at all.
’

‘
I don
’
t believe you.
’

‘
You don
’
t? You want to know why?
’

‘
Not especially.
’

‘
You don
’
t want me to tell you
?
’

I could taste the anger inside me. This man had walked into my life
and helped himself to whatever had taken his fancy. Emotionally,
sexually, any way you like, his was the worst kind of smash and grab.

And now here he was, doing it again, uninvited, blatant, and - in some
curious way - wronged.

‘
Tell me,
’
I said wearily.
‘
And then get out.
’

He hooked a chair towards him with his foot, turning it round,
sitting down. When we
’
d first met he and Sandra had b
een on the point
of agreeing terms for the flotation of Do
ubleact. I nodded. I could even
remember the sums involved.

‘
Three
million,
’
I said.

‘
Yes. And that was just my share.
’

I shrugged. The arithmetic was irrelevant. You can
’
t put a figure on
betrayal.

Brendan ploughed on. When he
’
d started to see me, Sandra had put
the flotation on hold. When he
’
d bailed out completely and moved
into De Beauvoir Square, she
’
d cancelled it.

‘
Cancelled it,
’
he repeated, staring at me, wide-eyed.

‘
Am I supposed to ask why?
’

‘
Because of you. Us.
’

‘
So what?
’

‘
So
what
?
Ten years work down the khazi? Ten years grafting my
arse off? Ten years wanking around with crap quiz shows? So
what
?
’

I half-smothered a yawn. I felt, quit
e suddenly, monumentally tired.
Giving in to his emotions, to his better self, had cost Brendan
£3
million. So what?

Brendan was explaining about the joint shareholding, himself and
Sandra, in Doubleact. I, like everyone else, had always assumed it was
a
50/50
partnership. Now, it seemed, that wasn
’
t the case at all.
Sandra had come to the party with money and the organisational
skills, Brendan with talent and programme ideas. Sandra being
Sandra, the money had won. It was she, not the pair of them, who
effectively owned the business.

I had a sudden vision of Brendan on
his knees, his head between my
legs.

‘
I
’
m sure you have a say,
’
I suggested.
‘
I
’
m sure she needs you.
’

‘
Yes, but on what terms?
’

‘
You
’
re a grown-up, Brendan. Whatever terms you make, you live
with. That
’
s one of the glories of capitalism, isn
’
t it? Taking control?
Keeping it?
’

‘
I never took control. I
’
ve never had control.
’

‘
Tough shit. You should have thought of that earlier. Besides, I
’
m
still not with you. We were in love, my darling. Love
’
s different. It
’
s
got nothing to do with any of this.
’

‘
It
’
s got everything to do with it.
’

‘
How come?
’

‘
Because that
’
s the money we were going to use to launch. That was
the three million quid we needed.
’

‘
Who? Who needed?
’

‘
You, Jules. You and me.
’

I began to laugh. He looked so earnest, so fervent, he might have
been back in his teens again, the passionate adolescent, all promise.

‘
You
’
re telling me you expected Sandra to give you
£3
million? So
we could go off and make films together? Is that what you
’
re saying?
’

‘
She
’
d have to.
’
Brendan had the grace to blush.
‘
At least that
’
s what
I thought.
’

‘
And it turns out you were wrong?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
So you went back?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
For the money? To get the money?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
For who? For me?
’

‘
Of course.
’

‘
And you really think that
’
ll fix it? Kiss and make up? You, me, and
three million quid?
’

He stared at me, baffled, and I thought of the cheques he
’
d been
sending. Same logic. Same medicine. Money cures all.

‘
It wouldn
’
t have worked anyway,
’
Brendan muttered.
‘
She
’
s got
everything tied up in big, fat knots. Even my brief says it
’
s hopeless.
But that
’
s why I went back. That
’
s the truth of it.
’

‘
And you never thought of discussing it with me?
Talking it over?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
Why not?
’

‘
Because I didn
’
t want to burden you.
’

‘
Burden
me? You think splitting up is better than burdening me?
’

‘
I never wanted to split up.
’

‘
Then we should have talked. Like real people do.
’

‘
Real
people?
’
He gazed at me, expecting me to go on. When I
didn
’
t, he got to his feet, returning the chair to its
little slot beneath
the table.
‘
I
want you back, Jules, before the baby comes. Fuck the
money. Fuck the flotation. She can have it all.
’

‘
Even Brad Pitt.
’

‘
Especially Brad Pitt.
’

‘
Whose idea was that? As a matter of interest?
’

‘
Hers.
’
He looked rueful.
‘
And mine, too. Bottom-line, it
’
s shaping
to be a fantastic deal. Not that I expect you to agree.
’

‘
I
don
’
t. As a matter of fact I don
’
t even believe you. Brad Pitt
doesn
’
t get out of bed for less than ten squillion quid. Do you have
that kind of money?
’

Brendan didn
’
t answer me. Instead, he reached out a hand to touch
my face. Instinctively, I withdrew. I didn
’
t want to get in
any deeper.
I wanted him out.

‘
I love you, Jules. I waited three hours in that fucking restaurant.
Me? Three hours?
’
He shook his head, scarcely believing it.

I stood up, signalling that our little chat was at an end. My bump
was visible now, though I did my best to hide it under the folds of the
dressing gown. When Brendan asked me again whether we couldn
’
t
give it another go, pick up the threads, I shook my head.

‘
It
’
s over,
’
I told him.
‘
It was your decision. You made it. It
’
s
finished. It
’
s gone.
’

‘
I
’
m not hearing this.
’

‘
You
’
d better, my love, because I mean it. And no more phone
calls, either.
’

He shook his head, as stubborn as ever, refusing to concede an
inch. His sperm, he said. His baby. His rights. I took him by the arm,
angry again, but a different kind of anger, quieter, calmer, more
resolved. By the front door, desperate, he made one more lunge at
what he
’
d come to tell me. He
’
d learned a great deal. It would be
different this time round. And I was right, dead right, about the
money. The three million quid didn
’
t matter a fuck. Not compared to
us. Not compared to me.