Bastian and Laura are fascinated by Lorenzo’s profession and the actors he’s been working with on the TV show. They ask questions about his day-to-day life, what so-and-so and so-and-so are like as people. They offer their opinions on what so-and-so and so-and-so are like in real life even though they’ve never met them. Bastian mentions somebody he was at school with who’s now famous, but none of the others have heard of him. Lorenzo is discreet but makes it clear that he is not totally convinced by the project, and that he’s even thinking of looking into a career change.
“What would you be if you weren’t an actor?” Glenda asks.
Lorenzo shrugs. “I’m not sure. The thing about being an actor is that, in theory, you get to be a bunch of different things at the same time. One day you can be a doctor, and the next day you can be a medieval prince, and the day after that you can be an astronaut. You don’t have to settle down at any point. But it’s also kind of disconcerting, for that very reason. I’m not sure it’s good for me. I’m not sure it’s good for anyone but, well, some people are addicted to that feeling of endless possibility.”
One of the waiters walks towards them carrying a spit struck through a huge hunk of pork. Some of the pork fat drips onto the floor. The waiter places the meat on a wooden board at the center of their table and begins to carve it with a long steel knife. The four friends eat in silence, digging their teeth into the roasted flesh, biting down on crackling. They wipe their chins with paper napkins. When they are done, they sit back in their chairs.
During pudding Lorenzo makes his excuses and heads off towards the men’s toilets. On his way he takes a left, through a door labelled private, and follows a corridor round to where he supposes the pantry might be.
“Can I help you?” says someone in kitchen whites.
Lorenzo sees no reason to lie. “I’m looking for Cheryl Lavery.”
The man in kitchen whites looks confused by the request but leads him into a back storeroom where Cheryl is stacking boxes. She is still wiry, dreadfully thin, as he remembered, but she seems healthier. Her skin is smoother, her hair is sleek. She appears at least two decades younger than she used to—younger than Lorenzo, just about.
“Cheryl,” says the man in kitchen whites. “There’s someone here to see you.” He raises his voice at the end as if it is a question, clearly surprised.
Cheryl puts down the box she is holding. It hits the floor with a heavy thud. She turns towards Lorenzo. Her face exhibits confusion, then recognition, then confusion.
“You’re that man from the pub,” she says. “But why are you here?”
He isn’t sure he’s ever heard her speak before. Her voice is unexpectedly ethereal.
“Did you know a Robert Kerr?”
“Yes,” she says. “He was kind to me.”
“I was appointed executor of his will. He’s left you a little bit of money. This letter, addressed to you, was among his papers.”
Lorenzo pulls out Robert’s letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. Cheryl takes the envelope from him and turns it over in her hands, now pale, clean, manicured. She opens it and begins to read, and Lorenzo turns. He gets to the door of the storeroom but then Cheryl says, “He’s not my father.”
Lorenzo turns back but doesn’t say anything. He feels disappointed for Robert, but it is too late now anyway.
“My dad’s dead,” Cheryl continues. “My mum told me. He was some kind of businessman. And he was geriatric. Eighty-four or something. He had a heart attack right afterwards, while he was still in bed with my mum.” Then she laughs. “Knocked up my mum and got killed in the process. Hahahahaha.” Her laugh is as ethereal as her speech. It echoes around the storeroom, against the boxes and shelves, stacked with glasses and plates. “He kicked the bucket right on top of her, with his willy still inside.” She laughs and she laughs. Lorenzo turns and leaves, and hears her laughter as he walks back along the corridor, and he even thinks he hears it still when he’s back at the table talking to Glenda and Bastian and Laura, though they say they can’t hear anything and throw him quizzical looks. But Lorenzo hears it. He hears her laughing and laughing, the sound rising from the basement of the restaurant, hahahahaha, up through steel girders and polished floors, hahahahaha, up through the foundations of the building, hahahahaha up from the belly of the city.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Leslie Gardner, Darryl Samaraweera, Angus MacDonald and Jon Curzon at Artellus Ltd.
Thank you to everyone at Algonquin Books for their continued enthusiasm and hard work, especially Betsy Gleick, Abby Muller and Michael McKenzie.
Thank you to everyone at John Murray Press, especially Becky Walsh who has supported me throughout the writing of this book, Yassine Belkacemi who has looked after me at public events and Jess Kim who has made sure everything looks good.
Thank you to early readers and good friends: Alastair Bealby, Veronica Bennett, Francesca Bratton, Sarah Cawthorne, Tim Curtis, Jennie England, Natalie Ferris, Cameron Foote, Robin Foote, Marianne Forrest, Caitlin Girdwood, David Girdwood, Lisa Girdwood, Jeremy Goldberg, Wendy Grace, Sophie Howard, Ian Lea, Nicola McDonald, Celia Moodie, Philippa Morris, Emily Nott, Karl O’Hanlon, Catherine Rogerson-Yarrow, Thomas Rogerson-Yarrow, Nicola Runciman, Helen Spriggs, Alice Taylor, John Weir.
Love and thanks to my family: Caroline Mozley, Harold Mozley, Olivia Johnson, Neil Johnson and Lily Johnson.
Most of all, thank you to Megan, who makes it all worthwhile.
About the Author
Fiona Mozley was born in East London and raised in York, in the North of England. She studied history at Cambridge and then lived in Buenos Aires and London, working at a literary agency and at a travel center. Her first novel, Elmet, was shortlisted
