16

IT WAS A GIGGLE, COMING ACROSS NANCY’S LOVE letters in Jake’s bottom desk drawer. (“… I never did that before, darling, not with any other man …”) Oh, wasn’t she the grand duchess! (“… previously took precautions, because there was no man’s child I wanted …”) Such transcendental thoughts! Such high-flown sentiments! As if she wasn’t made like all the others, with the answer between her legs.

Digging deeper into the drawer, Harry came up with some pages of script.

Harry began to skip.

Interesting. How very interesting. If Jake secretly fancied that sort of stuff, what right had he to have feigned such superiority, mingled with disgust, when Harry had trusted him sufficiently to show him some of the photographs he had taken. Mocking him. Bloody superior. Even when Harry had spoken more freely than he had with anybody else. Patronizing bastard. His smile so smug, Harry remembered, that he had had half a mind to clobber him with his tripod. After all, he had everything. Beautiful wife. Three kids. House in Hampstead. Numbered Swiss account. Fuck him, Harry thought, suddenly unable to endure even another minute in the house.

Outside, it was raining. Once more into the breach, Harry, for England and cunt. He tried his charms to no avail in the coffee bars along the King’s Road and Kensington Church Street, feeling despondent by the time he returned to Finchley Road and managed to elbow his way into The Scene just before closing time.

The girl who caught his eye was sullen but certainly pretty, with lazy blue eyes and long blond hair. Sitting alone, puffing on the butt of a handrolled cigarette. Tit-hugging sweater, miniskirt. Whoever had been sitting with her had gone, leaving his coffee unfinished and cheesecake uneaten.

“I don’t know how to put this, actually,” Harry said shyly, “because you won’t believe me.”

“That is right,” she agreed, the accent German.

“I am a film director.”

She tittered, seemingly drifting.

“You see,” Harry began, sliding into the empty chair beside her.

“You are not invited. Hey, I do not recall …”

“Give me two minutes and then just say it and I’ll be off,” he said, flicking his fingers, “like that,” and he held his light meter close to her, studying it. “You are absolutely beautiful.”

“Tick-tock, tick-tock.”

“I’ve been searching all night and without a doubt you’re it.”

“Tick-tock, tick-tock.”

“Now then, I am a film director, as it happens. Look here,” and he shoved a credit card at her.

“Jacob Hersh,” she read aloud, indifferent.

“And look at this.”

Not without effort, blinking, she read a review of Jake’s last film and scrutinized his union card. Then she picked up the clipping once more, reading it more slowly this time, moving her lips, and absently passing him her cigarette butt. Pretending to inhale deeply, Harry said, “Lovely.”

“And so. What is it you want?”

“Let’s split and go to my pad for a drink. It’s not far,” he said, half rising.

But she didn’t budge.

“Are you an actress?”

She nodded, no.

“Beautiful. Fab.”

“I am a student. An au pair girl.”

“Would you believe it?” Harry shook his head; he smacked a fist into his open hand. “Would you believe it?”

“Believe what …?”

“Lightning strikes twice.”

“I do not understand.”

“Elke Sommer. She was an au pair girl, you know, right here in Hampstead. When she was discovered.”

This time, when he took her arm, raising her from the table, she did not resist.

“Mind you, I can’t promise anything,” Harry continued. “Your English isn’t bad, it’s charming in fact, but there are some lines I’d like you to read for me. Are you up to it?”

Shrugging, she said, “Why not?”

Outside, giddy with achievement, his heart pounding, Harry said, “Walk ahead of me.”

“Why?”

“Do as I say. Please.”

She floated on ahead of him.

“Smashing. Absolutely smashing,” Harry said, catching up to take her arm. “Let’s go.”