Living Proof

Twenty

Curtis Woolfe's film had been well received. Of course, there were always those who wanted nothing more than the latest glossy mishmash of unarmed combat and special effects, and who found anything pre-seventies slow and dull and boring.

"Nothing happens," they would say, mooching down to the bar for their designer lager. Nothing happens. Well, nobody's head came off, nobody's blood spurted a perfect technicolour parabola across the screen, nobody humped naked in the shower or the kitchen sink; there was no Chuck, or Steven, or Cynthia, no Jean Claude, Arnie, or Sly; not even (the heavens forfend) Bruce Willis. But the moment when Albert Dekker steps into the darkness of his hotel room, twists the key in the lock behind him, slides the bolt and turns back into the room to see Martha Mac Vicar feral face illuminated through the slanting blinds by the light across the street, still had most of the audience catching its breath. The smile that died in her eyes as her teeth bit down into her lower lip.

In the auditorium, Curtis Wooife had been pleased with the audience's reaction and had answered questions with self-deprecating charm. What had it been like working with Mitchum?

"Delightful, especially when he was stoned." Who was the most beautiful femme fatale'1.

"Gail Russell ask John Wayne." What was his favourite film noirl

"Aside from my own. Out of the Past." Why hadn't he made a film in over twenty years?

"Nobody asked me."

Here in Sonny's restaurant, he was even more relaxed. Gesticulating over the food in his assumed Gallic manner, almost anxious to talk about the other films in the season, Wooife was lavish in his praise for Tyrell and the festival.

Resnick had arrived early, drunk a Beck's alone at the large reserved table and been about to leave when, through the curved corner window, he had seen Mollie Hansen leading the group along Carlton Street, past the George Hotel. There were a dozen of them in all, Dorothy Birdwell the last to arrive, leaning on Marius Gooding's arm. Cathy Jordan, her hair trimmed back and partly covered by a black velvet beret, had taken a seat alongside Resnick; her husband, facing them, sat beside Mollie.

"So how was the film?" Resnick asked, starting on his second beer.

Cathy Jordan speared a piece of bread, spread it lavishly with butter and took a generous bite.

"I had an aunt once, lived all her life in this town near Jackson, Wyoming. So small it didn't even rate a pimple on the map. You could turn up there any time, day or night, unannounced, nothing in her store cupboard to speak of, yet inside half an hour you'd find yourself sitting down to the tastiest snack you could ever have imagined." She brushed a crumb from the side of her mouth and tried the wine.

"Well, Curtis's film was like that.

Considering what he had to work with, it was a small miracle. " She lifted the menu towards the light.

"How d'you think this rack of lamb would be? I'm good and tired of steak and chicken."

Across the city in his hotel, Peter Farleigh and the dark- haired woman were back in the bar. Michelle – she had told him that was her name, Michelle had developed a taste for blue cocktails afloat with tinned fruit and Farleigh had kept pace with her, drinking brandy now and talking in a voice that was just this side of loud. On and on about crop yields, fertilisers, EEC farming subsidies.

When Michelle's eyes began to glaze over he changed the topic to his family, his three kids the one at university, the one who was already an accountant, the one who had gone off with a bunch of travellers and sent them marigold teas and pictures from the I-ching.

The pianist had trawled his way from Cats to Carousel and eventually given way to piped music: bland arrangements of the Beatles for saxophone, six strings and a drum machine.

From behind the bar, a voice called last orders. Farleigh looked hard at Michelle and she looked away; he let his hand drift down towards her leg and with a look she stopped it well short of her knee.

"I hope, Peter, you're not going to make a move on me."

"I'm sorry, no, look, I…" He could feel his face reddening and that only made it redden more. What was he doing sitting there, blushing like a schoolboy whose mother had chosen the wrong moment to come into the room?

"What was going to be the next step, Peter?" She was leaning towards him, almost touching her shoulder to his arm.

"Asking me up to your room?"

Look. "

"Well…?"

"Michelle, I…" Suddenly he became aware of his own sweat, sweet and rancid; the muscles of his stomach tightened and refused to let go.

"Was that it?" her voice rising.

"Because if it was, Peter, well, I have to say you'd have been disappointed."

Farleigh was certain everyone else in the bar could hear.

"All right, look, it's been a nice evening, let's just forget it."

Forget it? "

Yes. " He pushed an almost empty packet of cigarettes down into his pocket, brushed the heel of his hand across the eyebrow of his right eye.

"I think that's best, don't you?"

"Best?"

"Yes." Standing now, while she leaned back into the comfort of the chair and surveyed him with amused eyes.

Peter? "

"Mmm?"

"You know I'm teasing you, don't you?"

He could still smell himself, hear his own breath.

"I am teasing you."

"Yes, well, like I say…" All the while, backing away.

"I would if you asked me1 mean, I would like to… go with you, you know, to your room."

Farieigh looked clumsily round. A man with a shock of almost pure white hair was staring back at him from a stool at the corner of the bar. As Farieigh continued to look, the man smiled, more a simper than a smile, and Farieigh quickly looked away.

"Unless," Michelle said, 'you've changed your mind. "

He sat back down. There was a mole, a small one he hadn't noticed before, just to the right of her cheek, and her eyes, what would you call that shade of brown?

She inclined her head towards him.

"Have you changed your mind?"

The answer, not instant.

"No."

"Good. Let's not waste any more time, then, down here." She was on her feet now, holding out her hand.

Peter took it, but as soon as he was standing she pulled it away.

"After you."

As they were waiting for the lift, she slipped her arm through his.

Another couple stood waiting, a little behind them, younger, the woman fidgeting with the cuff-links on the man's right sleeve. They had been out to some formal occasion and were wearing evening dress.

The woman was pretty in an obvious kind of way and somehow reminded Farieigh of his daughter, not the one at university, the other one.

The one who sent him tea and blessings and whom he rarely saw. She was wearing a silver dress cut low and once they were in the lift, despite Michelle's proximity, he found it difficult not to stare at the tops of her breasts.

"A hundred and fifty," Michelle said.

At first, Farleigh wasn't even sure she was talking to him.

"A hundred and fifty."

"What about it?"

"That's what it'll cost' " What? "

The. For the rest of the right A hundred and fifty pounds. "

Farleigh was still staring at the young woman, unable to look at Michelle. The young man, embarrassed, was staring at the buttons beside the lift door.

"Well?" Michelle said.

"Don't you think I'm worth it?"

Close to Farleigh, the young woman suddenly threw back her head and laughed. The lift stopped at the sixth floor and the couple Scrambled out. After a moment, the doors sighed shut and the lift continued its ascent "I thought you knew," Michelle said. Farleigh shook his head and she smiled.

"Knew that I was working."

"No, how could I?"

The lift stopped again and they got out into the empty corridor.

"What did you think was going on then?"

"I don't know. I suppose I just thought, you know…"

"That I'd let you pick me up? That I fancied you?"

"Yes."

"Marvellous, isn't it?" Michelle said.

"The way we deceive ourselves."

Threading through the sounds of the restaurant, the voice of a woman singing

"Someone to Watch Over Me." Resnick thought it might be Carmen McCrea, but he 110 couldn't be sure. Whoever had decided, ten years or so ago, that jazz was a good accompaniment to fashionable eating, he felt he owed them a vote of thanks.

Beside him, Cathy Jordan was tucking into an unhealthy portion of sticky toffee pudding, while Resnick, with unusual restraint, confined himself to his second large espresso.

"See that?" With her spoon, she made a dismissive flicking gesture across the table.

"Lothario in action."

Oblivious, Frank Cariucci was engaging Mollie Hansen in intense conversation; if he got any closer he would be eating his creme caramel out of her lap.

"Doesn't bother you?" Resnick asked.

Cathy glanced across at them and then away.

"Not any more." The look in her eyes suggested she might almost mean it.

"Besides, that young woman can handle herself."

Resnick drew breath slowly and nodded. About that, he thought she was right. Along the table, Dorothy By-dwell, back upright, head tilted forward, sat quite asleep.

"That was all it took," Frank Cariucci was saying to Mollie, 'a little investment here, little advertising there. One minute I'm the guy who won silver snatching the big one at the Games, face all over the sports pages for weeks. The Olympics, right? A big deal. "

Mollie yawned.

"A while after that," Frank said, 'things got kinda slow. That's till I met Cathy there. Married her. Wake up and what am I? Mr Cathy Jordan, that's what. "

Oh, God, thought Mollie, here we go. Another everyday story of emasculation. Tennessee Williams without the style.

"I could only take that for so long," Frank was saying.

"I knew I had to do something for myself. Something big. So I look around, talk a little here, a little there, a favour to be called in, you know what I mean? Now here I am, heading up the fastest-growing catering franchise on the West Coast. Shops everywhere, those little carts, signs Cariucci's cappuccino, the coffee with muscle. Truckers pull over and drink my stuff without there's guys looking at 'em strange for drinking something with a fancy name, bunch of froth on top. You understand what I'm saying?"

"I understand," Mollie said quietly, 'if you don't take your fucking hand off my leg, I'm going to stick this fork right through it' There was a scar on one of her breasts, curving beneath it, a thin ridged line, small and white. Peter Farleigh lay on his back and Michelle knelt above him, straddling his thighs. She was still wearing skimpy bikini pants. They had fooled around for a while earlier, Michelle finding some baby oil in her bag, and now a small pool of it floated in one of the folds of his stomach, glistening a little in the light from the window, the only light in the room.

"Are you ready?" she said.

She could see he was ready.

"All right," she said, 'just a minute. " And leaned sideways, reaching down again to where her bag lay beside the bed.

Bloody condoms, Farleigh thought, shifting his position to accommodate her move. Still, better safe than sorry.

But then he saw what was in her hand, the look in her eyes, and he knew that wasn't true.