yes she has and tells a boring story that reveals only that she has misunderstood the plot. More summer blockbusters are discussed- Independence Day, Die Hard with a Vengeance, one with Schwarzenegger I haven’t heard of called Eraser -and everybody gets to share his views about whether Arnie is past his prime. Dave plays the art-house card by revealing that he has seen “the new Bertolucci.” As far as I can tell, it’s just a story about a bunch of seedy British ex-pats sleeping around in Tuscany. In the middle of all this, Katharine says simply, “Honey, have you taken your medication?”
Which is Fortner’s cue.
“Dunno why I bother,” he says, getting up from the table with the slowness of a geriatric. His voice is a low grunt. “Goddamn pills never do any good.”
And with that he lumbers toward the entrance hall. He makes this look so natural that the others would never suspect a thing.
Dave carries on: “I often think, would Bernardo Bertolucci have half the reputation he has if his name were Bernard Bell or…or Bob Bower or something?”
From the hall I can hear the slap of my briefcase falling onto the carpet, and the successive snaps of the brass catches flying open.
“I mean don’t you think that the success he’s enjoyed has something to do with the allure of the name ‘Bernardo Bertolucci’? He already sounds like a great movie director before he’s even shot a frame of film.”
There’s a rustle of papers in the hall, clearly audible to all of us and not at all like the sound of a pill bottle or a foil pack of antibiotics. Then the briefcase is closed. Almost immediately another case, clearly Fortner’s, is opened. The sound of this is much fainter. Only someone who was deliberately listening would hear it. Fortner must have held the catches with his fingers, drawing them up slowly to smother any sound. I look at Saul and Susannah, but they have been sidetracked by Dave, who has segued into Last Tango in Paris. I listen for further noises, but Dave’s voice smothers everything. Katharine catches my eye, but the expression on her face does not change.
Then, at a convenient break in the conversation, Saul says, “I’ll get pudding. Will Fortner want any, Kathy?”
This could be dangerous. If he heads out into the hall, he may see Fortner. I try to think of a way to delay him, but Katharine reacts more quickly.
“Hey,” she says, thinking on her feet. “Before you do that, just tell me about something. It’s been bugging me all night. You see that book there?”
“Which one?”
Saul is wavering near the door, looking back at her.
“On the second shelf.”
“Here?”
Saul points to a book with an orange spine, coming back into the room.
“No, just a little farther along. To the right.”
“The one by James Michener?”
“That’s it, yes.”
By now we have all swiveled and are looking at the book in question.
“That’s right. Now, was he British?”
“Michener?”
“Yes,” Katharine says.
“I don’t know,” Saul admits. “Why?”
“Because I have an ongoing argument with my father that he’s from Connecticut.”
Saul doesn’t know that Katharine’s father is dead.
“I’ve no idea,” Dave says. “I’m fairly sure he’s British.”
Fortner comes back into the dining room.
“No idea about what?” he says confidently, a spring in his step. Everything must have gone smoothly.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Katharine tells him, settling back into her chair with a faint grin. “D’you want any dessert, honey?”
There is pudding, there is cheese, there is coffee.
My sense of relief at the success of the handover has made adrenaline gradually dissipate from me like a deep, muscle-softening massage. For the first time in hours, I begin to relax. Out of this comes a tiredness that flattens me toward eleven o’clock like jet lag. Katharine notices this and offers me more coffee. I drink it and pick at the pudding, a chocolate goo that goes some way to restoring my energy, but it remains difficult to involve myself in the party.
At midnight, Katharine begins to fade and is soon making excuses to leave, which Fortner is only too keen to pick up on. He came here for the briefcase, after all, not the conversation. Having stood up, he walks over and kisses Susannah twice on the cheek and shakes Dave’s hand, telling them what a pleasure it’s been to make their acquaintance.
“Good-bye, young man,” he says to me, placing his arm on my shoulder. “We’ll be seeing you soon, I hope.”
“I asked him for supper next week,” Katharine says, disengaging from her farewell to Dave.
“Terrific. See you then.”
Saul then walks them to the front door-I remain where I am, listening to Dave talk about his job-and he sees them out. When Saul comes back, he smokes a joint with Dave in the sitting room while Susannah makes a vague attempt at clearing up. By one o’clock, the two of them have gone out into the hall arm in arm with warm smiles and promises of meeting again that I do not deserve and do not believe.
Saul now goes for a pee and I sit on the sofa. It’s late and he’s stoned, and, when he comes back, he doesn’t want to talk. I was expecting a long, involved chat into the small hours, but he just wants to sit in front of the television watching a videotape of Match of the Day. As the cassette is rewinding he asks me what I thought of Susannah, and I say how nice she seemed, how funny and smart and easy, and that seems to satisfy him.
On the sofa, beer in hand, Saul follows the match between Chelsea and Manchester United with the attentiveness of the lifelong fan. I half watch it, my mind wandering back through the events of the day. Fortner will be home by now, going through the contents of the file, preparing the information before handing it over to his case officer in the morning. Will Katharine help him with this or leave him to it? A car horn sounds long and hard in Queen’s Club Gardens as a Manchester United player is tracked closely down the wing by a defender stooped low like a piano player.
“Andy fucking Cole,” Saul mutters. “I know caged hens who are more creative in the box.”
Ten minutes later, as I am getting up to go to bed, Saul mutes the sound of the television and looks up at me.
“Alec?” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry I had a go at you before. About Abnex. I think it’s great you’re doing so well there, doing something you believe in. A lot of people would give their arse to be in your position.”
“Don’t bother…”
“No, hear me out,” he says, raising his hand. He’s more drunk than I had realized. “I don’t have any right to criticize you for working hard, for spending time with people in the business. And I like Fort and Kathy, they’re not the issue. I’m just reacting to how little time all of us have now, away from our careers. It’s taken me a while to adjust to the fact that we can’t always be fucking about like we used to. I don’t really know when the fun stopped, you know? We’ve all had to get a lot more serious.”
I nod.
“Truth is, I admire you,” he says. “You were in a bad place after not getting into the Foreign Office, and you sorted yourself out.”
Now is when it is most difficult. Now is when none of it seems worthwhile at all.
“Thanks,” is all I can say. “That means a lot to me.”
He leans back and I decide to call it a night.
“I’m bushed,” I tell him. “Going to get some sleep.”
“Sure,” he replies. “See you in the morning.”
