The Nothing

  ‘Only because he’s telling her about himself. What a famous producer he was. How he lost it because of someone else. How he’ll be getting it back. How he’ll be investing in her new movie. How he’ll be—’

  She covers her ears. ‘Shut up!’

  When Anita leaves, Zee takes Eddie into her bedroom. I can’t hear the details; they are arguing. Their voices low. She goes down on him. He’s not a man to waste an erection. At his age you can’t, I’m telling you. His semen is better than bubbly.

  They emerge to clean their palates with a nice Chablis. I try to catch Eddie’s eye, but he keeps his distance.

  *

  That evening Zee is excited. She wants to talk to me. The business idea isn’t bad. They will do it together. She calls it her ‘baby’. Eddie inspires her. She wants more.

  It is our destiny to feel forever deprived of something. The world I offer her is too small, and she is keen to start something new. Don’t I know that feeling? What do I, an old man, have to offer any woman now?

  I notice she has returned with her hair loose, her skirts tight and new perfumes. She has an ankle bracelet and a leather jacket. I’d like to see her naked, except for the black jacket, perhaps with spike heels. Definitely with rouged lips. Right now wouldn’t be a good time to propose such a pose.

  I lie in bed looking at the selfies my wife sent to her lover. Then I text Anita. ‘Any news?’ And again, ‘Am black as hell here. What’s going on?’

  Nothing.

  TEN

  Anita doesn’t reply the next day. Or the next. Four days pass. I’m worried. I text her. She doesn’t get back to me. Has she gone away? Is she wildly busy?

  My confidence is dented but it hasn’t disappeared. With my iPad on my lap, I study the photographs of Eddie’s diary. I am shocked by how little he earns and how often he goes to the doctor. When he makes love he puts a tick. I like an organised man. If I had a future, I’d do that myself.

  I watch. I haven’t seen my own feet for years. I can see my reflection in the mirror. I asked the maid to move it. If she turns it a little so that the mirrors can exchange glances, I can lie down and see into my theatre – the living room – even as I record. Many movies feature voyeurs, and I am perfect for the part, with James Stewart’s patience. Many other movies, I recall, feature our other neighbour, the serial killer.

  The next morning, while Zee is on the running machine, I notice, as I wheel myself about the place, other alterations. Eddie is moving into my office. He places my files and Sundance award on a shelf in the hall behind the coats. He puts my notebooks and storyboards into a box. He moves my sketchbooks and my Peter Blake print.

  When he is done with the removals, he sits down and works at his phone and computer, his DVDs and books next to him, his rat-tail throbbing with excitement.

  They are becoming more careless. For the last few days I’ve left my iPad on the sideboard, with the video camera running. They forget it’s there, and walk in and out of the frame, talking as I snooze.

  Later, I lie in bed watching it.

  I hear her voice. ‘Waldo never comes in here … He never uses these things … He never will again … He’s holding everything up … It’s like living in a museum … He’s too drunk to notice … Do you notice how he hogs the vodka? We’ve got to get on – what does he want space for? He hardly remembers the films he’s made. I’m not sure how strong he is now—’

  ‘It’s true the poor man’s in a bad way. If he was a dog he’d be put down. He said the other day, “I may be due a one-way ticket to Switzerland”—’

  ‘Buy it, please, Eddie, dear. He can barely breathe as it is.’

  Their yoga teacher arrives. Zee and Eddie meditate together, practising ‘belly breathing’. Emptiness doesn’t come cheap. While seeing Eddie do the ‘downward dog’ is its own reward, there is the bonus of hearing them discuss the nature of cosmic happiness. This resides in the moment rather than materialism. Zee informs Eddie that he is too left-brained. Something in him has been frozen by trauma. Zee wants the teacher to help him. Together they can bring that part of him back to life. It will benefit everyone, accelerate fat loss, boost brainpower and increase mental clarity.

  When Zee is not in search of vacuity, she sits next to Eddie on the sofa with her new computer. She also bought Eddie a new MacBook Pro. Salmon, vodka, cakes, steaks, wine, champagne arrive from Harrods. We have picnics in the front room on damask throws. We are living the high life. In the afternoon they have massages. He has never been more relaxed, he tells her. No woman has done so much for him.

  My nights are empty. I cannot even masturbate.

  He takes her to the theatre and to the opera. They go backstage, where he introduces her to the actors in their dressing rooms. There’s dinner after and good wine. He knows the best places and makes the bookings with her credit card.

  Spending my money isn’t an effort for him. They go to the V&A for lunch. A bit of shopping in South Kensington after. The flat fills up with curtains, carpets, cushions, bed linen. She’s started buying prints. They’re expensive: thousands of pounds each. She can’t believe we’ve been so deprived while others have so much. And Eddie: he is one of the finest men that money can buy.

  She’s getting changed and talks to him in the living room. Hidden by the crimson drapes, I am not here but motionless on the terrace watching the neighbours.

  When Zee gets agitated, her voice is loud. If I switch on my hearing aid and lean back, I get the idea.

  ‘It’s been rough, Eddie, you sweetheart. Pour me a white wine, will you? Until recently I’d hardly been out because of you-know-who, and you know what a damn chatterbox I am.’

  ‘You have friends. You’re always at lunch gossiping with nice people.’

  ‘Dull old women with their cancers, talking about illnesses, funerals and wills, and none of them with all their original organs. Someone is always dying, and no one charms me. Until you, Eddie, there was nothing.’

  ‘I thought you’d be too snobbish to be interested in me.’

  ‘Why? Waldo’s been ill for ten years. At one point, when he broke his arm falling over, I was doing all the cooking; cutting up his food and feeding him before putting him to bed.

  ‘He never liked to be left alone. He got depressed, sad and cruel. He’s was a pervert – anything normal bored him. I refused to urinate on him but he made me spit on him. I liked that.’

  ‘I can see why. I do it to people whenever I can.’

  ‘He taught me gaiety. He said, “Be sure to do something new in sex every time.” I can’t satisfy his lusts. You can’t love someone your whole life, can you? Have you done that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Before you, I had a dream over and over,’ she continues, ‘that someone was holding my hand. One evening I saw you looking at my hands. You reached over and stroked me. It was lovely, but I wondered if you thought they were veined and withered. I was too old for love. It’s gone.’

  ‘But you texted me.’

  ‘I did! It took the courage of Boadicea. I was so ashamed and nervous. I wanted to throw my phone away.’

  ‘I apologise, but I didn’t see you like that, Zee. Forward with men. What was it you said? That if I wanted you I could have you.’

  ‘I’d never kissed a man before he kissed me. I dithered for days. I changed my mind over and over. I thought you’d reject me. I was in a state. I was so relieved when you sent me that picture of your mouth making a kiss that I cried.

  ‘Now be truthful with me, Eddie. Have you ever been faithful to any woman?’

  There is a pause. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not? Is infidelity a belief or an instinct?’

  ‘Sex is the only time I don’t have anxiety, and can forget myself. I am at peace briefly, and my mind is not full of hate and noise. Everything falls into place.’ Then he says, ‘Sweetheart, what do you want?’

  ‘I wanted to live in America. I begged Waldo, to be near the girls and the grandchild. He said
they didn’t want us around all the time. Their husbands would rebel. It became all the same here – dullsville. Dying is hard work and takes so long.’

  ‘You told me he’s fascinating.’

  ‘Once it was a whirl. But I became a carer in my fifties. It was my duty and my love. I wanted him to have a wonderful last decade. But I was trapped. I would sit with him, that penis in a wheelchair—’

  ‘Please—’

  ‘—looking out of the window. And I’d start to shake. Like a palsy. My therapist said it was claustrophobia. I was getting fat too …

  ‘My friends said I was lucky to get out of India. Pakistan – where my husband was headed – would have been worse. Waldo took me away. That was kind. He saved me. I have to love him for that.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’m grateful. I have everything here. How can I complain …? Oh, Eddie, do you see what I mean?’

  ‘I do, I do.’

  ‘Waldo didn’t want me to work. He liked me with him. Together we went through his scripts, the costumes, editing, music. He asked me about everything and even nodded his head and looked thoughtful, and changed things if I suggested it. Now he never even shows me his photographs or little films.’

  ‘You want to see them?’

  ‘Of course. And he prefers to have Anita read to him. Do you find me boring, Eddie?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  She kisses him. ‘I hope you’re less afraid and more relaxed since we had the massages and paid off that last bastard, the landlord. I can’t believe he shoved a sweetie like you against a wall and threatened you in that squalid corridor. Let me kiss you again.’

  I endure this pause.

  He says, ‘I was desperate, but I came clean. I admitted what I did. I forged something and it annoyed him.’

  ‘That’s all in the past. You’ll never have to do that with me by your side. How long did you have to live there?’

  ‘Three, no, four years.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare touch me. I’d have kicked him in the balls. And all that for just a few thousand pounds.’

  ‘You know I have other debts?’

  ‘Didn’t I promise all will be taken care of, in time?’ She laughs. ‘Are you going to give up your other women for me? Your “ladies-in-waiting”?’

  ‘There are none now, darling.’

  ‘You’ll be surprised, Eddie, but I can be very fierce. One day I’ll tell you my family history. Come and hold me in your strong arms, baby.’

  I sit there, frozen, struggling to remember where I am until they’re done with their hugging and fondling and come fetch me.

  Then I see a text from Anita.

  ELEVEN

  I have a cold and am draped in several blankets like a broken sofa. But at least Anita has got back to me.

  She brings news of the fabulous fabulist. We must talk. She is coming straight over. She has organised a picnic. A driver will take us to the Serpentine, which was one of my favourite places to loaf and goof as a young man.

  It is a lovely day, and the park is crowded. The lake shimmers. I like to see people cycling, roller-skating, lying in the sun. This is London: peaceful, pleasure-loving. I enjoy her pushing me. The water calms me. Anita wears cropped jeans with gold sandals, a white T-shirt, big sunglasses and a hat. Still she is recognised and never fails to smile gratefully and keep her head down.

  I’m hoping for a last outing in a pedalo.

  She finds us a pool of shadow and we sit together eating smoked salmon sandwiches and drinking champagne.

  ‘Sorry it took so long.’ She’s serious and concentrating. ‘There was a lot. I was surprised.’

  ‘You believe me now?’

  ‘My boys and their slaves were busy. You’ve got it going on, Waldo. I was waiting to see what we had. If it was real.’

  I turn to her as much as I can. I catch a glimpse of her face. The truth is not deep. It is not even hidden. It is just unbearable. ‘One must dare all things with women,’ Stendhal advises. I’ve long known Eddie was capable of taking liberties. It is in his nature, as a dog must piss against trees.

  ‘Anita, push me into the water. Watch me go down and hold my head under if I kick. I don’t want to hear more. I love Zee. I can’t help it. She’s a little naive and I’m not sure I can protect her from this man. Or if she wants me to.’

  I explain that there are, as I’ve gathered from the diary, at least two other women at the moment, along with several from the past who still take an interest in him. I find ten women’s names under his ‘keep in touch’ list. Love is consuming work. Eddie is generous with his time. He gives the women a lot of himself. No wonder he never finished or indeed started his ‘definitive’ history of British post-war cinema, not something which would take anyone more than a weekend to knock out.

  I inform Anita of this. She nods, impressed. Now it is her turn. On her side, as she says, her people have been busy and thorough, and she has a clipboard. There are several pages. With photographs.

  She begins. ‘You confirm our work. The most significant is a widow called Patricia Howard. She has had a mastectomy and been alone for five years. She’s keen to be loved. She is hot and wealthy, but has three grownup children who are suspicious of Eddie and protective of their mother.

  ‘He’s persistent, as you know. He keeps it going, talks to her every day and sits through Wagner for her. He even reads her novels and gives her advice.’

  ‘That is commitment.’

  ‘Indeed. He is hoping she will forward him some money to make one into a film – directed by him. He has slept with her but can’t make a move to a more permanent arrangement. I’m not sure he will – he’s afraid of her children.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s another one, Sarah Adler, twenty-eight. An artist, mad as a cut snake, his favourite fuck.’

  I take the clipboard and look at some Facebook photographs of her.

  ‘There they are together at the opening of her art show.’

  I say, ‘When he claimed to be in Brighton.’

  ‘She has a beautiful body with delicious breasts that she likes to have pegged. She wears a pretty chain between her tits. She talks and he listens, which is unusual with men. She is dependent, and threatens suicide once a month. She sucks him off better than anyone ever has.’

  ‘I hope my wife doesn’t get to hear about this.’

  ‘Sarah was the woman he disappeared with. He promised to help her with her show and she held him to it. But apparently he was anxious that day. He was shuffling and making guttural noises, which alarmed the gallery owners …

  ‘We tracked down another woman who had a scene with him. She had made him a considerable loan so he could research a documentary on you.’

  ‘I think a documentary on Eddie would be more interesting.’

  ‘She’d have come to your place. She wants her money back. Failing that, she couldn’t wait to give us the dope. Wait for this. If you want to hear about his virtues—’

  ‘I’ve never been keener.’

  ‘Eddie is known as a prodigious cunnilinguist. He is the Jacques Cousteau of pussy work. He can stay down there for hours without breathing. He gave her crabs.’

  ‘What’s his technique with the women?’

  ‘He deals in futures. And hope. He tells them how beautiful and intelligent they are. They’ll live together in New York or Rio. They will start a business. They will eat lovely food, talk lovely words, and make lovely love for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘Are people so easily fooled?’

  ‘They flee the truth like Ebola. I don’t need to tell you.’

  ‘Yes, and as with all movies which feature detectives or investigative journalists, we only learn the truth when it is too late.’ I say to her, ‘I know women like to be talked into love. Doesn’t Othello do that to Desdemona? I envy Eddie’s agile tongue, Anita. I hate the fact I’ve grown impotent – even in my hate.’

  ‘Waldo, you had better locate your mojo.’ br />
  ‘Is there a rush?’

  ‘At the suggestion of his close pal Gibbo, Eddie is hiding out at your place. I think he will squeeze you. Eddie needs a big steal, Waldo. He’s been bankrupt twice. He doesn’t have a credit card or chequebook. We discovered he owes money everywhere. To the government in taxes, to his wives, one of whom has cancer and can’t work. The children are difficult.’

  ‘What’s the situation there?’

  ‘One girl disabled. The older boy is psychotic – anyhow, off the planet. He’s on a locked ward.

  ‘Another boy lives in Italy. The one Eddie loves most is his daughter in her mid-teens. But she is difficult, to say the least. Demanding, when it comes to money. More?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Years of this sadness made Eddie more off-beam. Even shits want to be good fathers. He spent thousands on doctors, psychiatrists, therapists of all kinds for his kids and for himself. There isn’t a quack in the land who could turn off the noise in his head. Or resist his money. Even he has had more hands on him than Linda Lovelace.

  ‘Eddie has borrowed widely for years. He owes money to his friends, to the banks, to landlords and film producers. He’s being pursued by bailiffs. He has nothing to his name and wants something. If a person wants to take you, if they are determined, they can strip someone of their soul, even.’

  As far as I’m concerned, we need less action and more whining. I say, ‘Doesn’t a man deserve peace at this time of his life? Surely, if she wants a broken man, what’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Don’t weep.’ She takes my hand. ‘She wants to see how you will deal with it. She wants you to pull her back from him. Perhaps your demands have become weak. What is a husband for?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She almost yells at me. ‘To protect a woman from herself. Now, let jealousy be your spur.’

  ‘It will be, Anita.’