Score!

86

Melanie, one of the Academia Awards publicity team, very young, pretty and silly, met Tristan at the airport and made him feel that by catching the right flight he had successfully landed on the moon.

‘It’s so good of you to come all this way — may I call you Tristan? We all love Lily in the Valley so much — we’re going to give away little bottles of Diorissimo by the way. It’s fast becoming a cult movie with my generation. Madame Lauzerte’, she added reverently, ‘has already arrived. She asked me to give you this letter.’

She was obviously so dying to know what was in it that Tristan had to sit with his back to the taxi window to stop her reading over his shoulder.

My darling [Claudine had written],

I am so longing to see you. It has been such a difficult seven months. Jean-Louis is still adamant he doesn’t want a divorce, but he has agreed to turn a blind eye to you and me as long as we are incredibly discreet. I am staying at One Devonshire Gardens in Glasgow tonight. You can join me there this evening, without even having to go through Reception. Call me at the Caledonian as soon as you get in. Your loving Claudine

‘Which of us is happy in this world?’ quoted Tristan bitterly. ‘Which of us has his desire, or having it, is satisfied?’

Seven months ago that letter would have orbited him into the seven hundred and seventy-seventh heaven. Now he felt like a small boy being shunted into care.

Melanie had already seen the ecstatic review Alexander Walker had given Don Carlos in the Evening Standard. Now she was going on and on, reeling off the celebs and incredibly distinguished academics who’d jetted in from all over the world.

‘We feel the Academia is more prestigious than BAFTA or the Césars or even the Oscars. Oh, look at those queues for Don Carlos already going round and round and round the cinema.’

They had reached the outskirts of Edinburgh, passing square charcoal-grey houses and sooty gardens where the first daffodils were being blown horizontal by the east wind. There was the cardboard cut-out of the castle against an angry sky of racing clouds.

Tristan gasped at the cold as he jumped out of the taxi, but as he scuttled towards the warmth of the Caledonian, he noticed a beggar slouched on the pavement. An empty whisky bottle lay beside him. In an upside-down tweed cap on the pavement gleamed a few coins. But what caught Tristan’s already watering eyes was the total despair of the beggar’s dog, a very old, lanky lurcher, whose opaque rheumy eyes gazed into space and who, despite his matted russet coat, was shivering uncontrollably. Thinking how uncomfortable the unrelenting pavement must be for his bony hocks and elbows, Tristan handed the beggar a tenner.

‘And bloody well spend it on dog food,’ he snapped.

At the sound of Tristan’s voice, however, the old dog suddenly pricked up his brown velvet ears and staggered to his feet, making little whining noises in his throat. Next moment his long tail was frantically hitting his sticking-out ribs as he lumbered unsteadily forward.

‘James,’ croaked Tristan incredulously, ‘oh, James,’ and dropping to his knees, he hugged the dog until he had red hairs like larch needles all over his smart navy blue overcoat. ‘We thought you were dead. Where did you find this dog?’ he demanded furiously.

‘He’s not mine,’ said the beggar, in a surprisingly educated voice, hastily pocketing the tenner. ‘I think he came from some gypsies,’ he added defensively. ‘He lives in a squat, but we all borrow him. He looked so thin and pathetic all the passers-by used to fork out for him. Now, he’s lost heart and doesn’t sell himself, and people tend to walk by in embarrassment. We’re going to club together and invest in a cute little terrier. Much better returns.’

Tristan rose to his feet, somehow controlling the fury gathering force inside him. ‘Go and drink yourself into an early grave,’ he shoved a wad of notes into the beggar’s hand, ‘and give me that dog.’

‘Oh, there you are, Tristan.’ It was Melanie, braving the cold again in her twinset, short skirt and very high heels. ‘You’ll be late for pre-lunch drinks. So many people want to interview you,’ she went on, through the streaked blonde hair that blew across her mouth. ‘Madame Lauzerte rang again, and this’, she handed over a fax with an excited little giggle, ‘has just come in from Rupert Campbell-Black. He’s a cult figure for our generation too. Tristan. Tristan!’

But Tristan and James had vanished into very thin air.