Sweet Sorrow(119)

‘Nothing but ghosts.’

‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ said George. ‘We thought about not coming.’

‘It is weird,’ I said.

And I thought, ‘we’?

‘I saw Helen. Isn’t Helen great?’

‘She is great.’

‘Have you spoken to …?’

‘No.’

‘I know she’ll want to speak to you.’

And I thought, how do you know?

‘You look good, Charlie.’

‘You too, George.’

He did look better, healthy and assured, though even without glasses he still retained that blinking, surprised quality, as if woken by a bright light. ‘Contact lenses and no dairy.’ With the old gesture, he put his hand to his face. ‘Skin should clear up any day now.’

‘Your skin looks fine.’

‘Yes, people have been telling me that for twenty-five years.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine. It’s fine.’

‘So. What else, George?’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Tell me everything that’s happened in the last twenty years.’

He didn’t tell me everything, but enough.





Last Love Story


George Pearce went to Cambridge, as planned. One tangible legacy of Full Fathom Five was an interest in Shakespeare, the Elizabethans and Jacobeans, and after graduating with a first he took his MA, then his PhD. He steered clear of acting – too many Miles-es involved in that game – and Shakespeare too, because what was left to say? Instead, he specialised in Jacobean playwrights, their grisly tragedies and confusing comedies, and when a London company put on a production of Webster’s The White Devil, he was asked to talk to the cast about the play. There, in the back row, grinning broadly, playing the role of Lady-in-Waiting, was Fran Fisher.

It was all he could do to speak in proper sentences, and afterwards they embraced and went for coffee to catch up and talk about old times. Fran was married to another actor, a wild, impulsive move on a long world tour because ‘you’ve got to fill the days somehow’. That was five years ago, and now they had a daughter, Grace, two years old. Coffee turned to wine and Fran began to drop dark hints about the marriage – the husband was a drinker, a possible philanderer, irresponsible, stupidly handsome and handsomely stupid. But she loved him and loved being a parent, and thought they could stay together, thought they could survive, if he sorted himself out. She was going to give up acting, though. She was nearly thirty and was never going to make it, not in a way that would ever make her happy. Doing all those plays as a kid was one thing, but now it made her feel silly and powerless, and one actor in the family was enough.

‘Our scene in Romeo and Juliet, d’you remember?’

‘You were good in that.’

‘We both were, George. Frankly, it was all downhill after that.’

They said goodbye on Waterloo Bridge, exchanged details and promised to keep in touch and George Pearce walked away, furious and elated. His great first love was his great unrequited love and also his only love, a combination that can derail a life entirely, and it was maddening – in the sense that it might send him mad – to see her like this. He had her number but he would not call it. What was the point? He was no Paris, throwing his dignity, his life, away on someone who would not and could not love him back.

He changed jobs and moved, coincidentally, to London. Met a girl, moved in, broke up, moved out, and five years passed. One Friday he was invited to a dinner party; a woman would be there, a French translator, single mum. He didn’t want to go, of course, thought he’d stay at home and read, but the friend insisted and …

God, I don’t know, I listened, but I couldn’t really take it in. What did I feel? Jealousy? Not precisely. Of course I knew that there’d be others, some mistakes and some that she’d cut out in little stars, and it would require a sourer heart than mine to resent George’s obvious happiness, his glee, doting on the stepdaughter who had joined us now, hanging from his arm.

‘Grace, this man here,’ he told the girl, ‘used to know your mum when she played Juliet.’ Grace looked indifferent and I felt the pompous indignation of the ex-boyfriend. Has she not spoken about me? Do you have any idea who I AM? ‘Charlie and your mum were very close,’ said George. ‘Of course, I was furious about it.’

Was I furious in return? Hardly. There was a kind of sense to it; they’d always made each other laugh and I was pleased that George had shaken off that persecuted air, was happy and successful and in love. Someone who I liked very much was with someone who I’d loved. Good news!

Still, I was silent for a while and perhaps it was envy, not of the fact of Fran and George, but of their story. It was a good story, a better story than mine; it made sense and ended in the right way, which is to say that it didn’t end at all. Even after all these years without seeing them, I knew that they would be happy together and once Grace had gone, I put my hand on his shoulder, squeezed it hard and tried to express this.

‘George, you bastard.’

He laughed, a little nervously. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it? I can see that it’s weird.’

‘No, it’s very … romantic.’