Part 24 (1/2)
”Are you serious?”
”I wouldn't joke about something like this.”
Meredith began to hiccup uncontrollably. ”It...it's kind of funny.”
Of course. The ”arrangement.” Barnaby was gay.
”I wanted to tell you now because I'm thinking of bringing them both to the wedding.”
”Oh f.u.c.k, Elle's sister. When is that again?”
”This Sat.u.r.day. In Florence. Did you RSVP?”
”Yes, then I completely forgot about it. We were supposed to bring hot dates, weren't we?”
Mish made an embarra.s.sed sound. There was a drumroll of mutual silence before they laughed again.
After hanging up the phone Meredith tried to picture Ozzie at a wedding.
It was impossible.
Avalon, meanwhile, was a whole new movie.
Meredith had solved the problem of the plot by beginning the film at the end and moving the narrative backward, from the tragic end of the love affair toward its blissful inception. The result was a simple, dreamlike story that seemed to occur as much within the minds of the players as it did in the eyes of the audience. In this way she compensated for the discontinuous look of the film-the varying ages and stages of the actors and the changing texture and color of the filmstock all fell into place as part of the heady universe of Avalon. For a silent art film, Meredith decided, rewinding the reel, it didn't suck at all.
Ozzie had not been this pleased since the Macedonian builders stripped the paint off the kitchen wall and found a seventeenth-century fresco. In a fit of excitement he woke Reno and Marcella from their beds (it was the wee hours of the morning by the time Meredith finished her cut) and showed them the film, projected outdoors on the side of the garden shed. The two actor-servants seemed immensely relieved. It was obvious to Meredith that they had long ago come to view the making of Avalon as merely another eccentric aspect of their duties as butler and housekeeper at the villa. The continuity girl's recut meant they might finally be able to imagine a future as actors outside of the crumbling Etruscan garden walls of Ozzie's obsessive imagination.
The following night, Ozzie a.s.sisted Marcella and Reno in the preparation of a celebratory feast. Slabs of decadently marbled Florentine-cut beef were served with simple white beans drizzled in the palest green olive oil Meredith had ever seen. Bottles of fine Tuscan Chianti were brought up from a secret cellar and set out with platters of steamed asparagus, spaghetti tossed with caviar and unsalted bread. After dinner they retired to the library, and Reno and Marcella exhorted giggles from Meredith by performing dirty stock sketches from commedia dell'arte. Ozzie brought out his harmonica and played sly overtures to their scenes. Just the sight of him holding the harmonica to his lips like a dreamy hobo made Meredith feel her rib cage was a spun-sugar sculpture dissolving inside her chest. When Marcella offered her a choice of digestives, she yawned and took a thimble-sized gla.s.s of Limoncello, thinking she would go to bed straight afterward.
When they were alone for a moment, Ozzie looked at Meredith.
”You are a fantastic girl, aren't you,” he said, reaching over and ruffling her bangs.
”Depends who you ask,” Meredith said with a mock-petulant shrug.
Ozzie leaned back into the library sofa. ”G.o.d, I can't believe it's done. After all these years of shooting and shooting, labouring toward some invisible idea of perfection, and all I needed was a new set of eyes.” He looked at her solemnly. ”I hope you will be happy with an editor's credit.”
Meredith shook her head hard. ”Don't do that.”
”I insist,” Ozzie said, so insistently that she gave up arguing. ”And after that I want you to direct.”
”Direct!” Laughter bubbled up from her gut. ”What would I direct?”
”Whatever you wanted to,” Ozzie said, looking as serious as she'd ever seen him. ”Within reason of course. Probably romantic comedies, or tragic love stories. The sort of thing young women seem to direct. If they ever do, which is a rare occurrence. You're very talented, Meredith. You're able to make sensible stories out of...other people's messes.”
Meredith raised an eyebrow to object, but Ozzie silenced her by raising his hand.
”I will not see your gift wasted on note-taking and stopwatch--clicking and whatever else it is you continuity girls do.”
”Actually the official t.i.tle is 'script supervisor,'” said Meredith, feeling suddenly quite defensive. ”And we do much more than take notes. For instance there's back-matching of the action, which is very important, particularly when keeping track of the coverage for a scene shot on a range of different axes-”
”You can be a bit of a bore, can't you.”
Meredith shut up to indicate she was not in the mood to be kidded. She wondered why the idea of his wanting her to direct bothered her so much. Ozzie placed a hand over hers.
”Tell me, Meredith, what is it you want, if not to direct?”
The feeling came over her again. A tingling in her ears followed by a deep belly yawn. The Quest. For a split second she considered telling Ozzie about it.
”What I really want,” she said after a moment, ”is to know exactly how you know my mother.”
Ozzie exhaled. It was the sort of preparatory deflation that indicated a speech of heavy importance was on the horizon. But before he could speak, another voice interrupted him-this one rich, familiar and as American as the smell of brewed coffee.
”Mind if I join the party?”
Kathleen Swain, long back arched into tight jeans meant for a woman half her age, stood there. At her side swung a two-liter bottle of Evian water all but drained. She did not seem to register, let alone recognize, Meredith.
”Well, well. What have we here? Did you take the train?” asked Ozzie.
”Nah.” Swain dumped herself into an armchair and threw one leg over the side. ”Hitched a ride with my friend Fadi. He was flying over Italy on the way back to Saudi Arabia anyway.”
Meredith watched Ozzie examine for the first time a small spot of red wine, or blood, that had appeared at some point just below the breast of his camel cashmere cardigan.
”And to what do we owe this pleasant surprise?” he said into his chest. ”Shouldn't you be working on my movie? What are we calling it now?”
Swain looked extremely bored. ”Death Is for Martyrs. My scenes were finished yesterday,” she said, ”and I just needed to get the h.e.l.l out of London for a bit.” She tossed her head back and s.h.i.+fted her hips in the chair so that a peach-curve of flesh appeared between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her T-s.h.i.+rt. She sighed and yawned, covering her mouth just at the end.
Meredith felt Ozzie should offer something to drink but he didn't. Nor did he get up from his place on the sofa. Instead he reclined deeper into the green satin, closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose. The air was thickening. Meredith felt slightly sick.
She remembered the story Tony had told her of Ozzie and Kathleen, and shuddered.
”Are you cold, darling?” Ozzie asked, placing his hand on Meredith's forearm.
Meredith shook her head. He had never called her ”darling” before.
This was enough for Kathleen. ”There's actually something I wanted to speak to you about,” she said to Ozzie.
”And all the telephones in London were broken?”
Kathleen laughed ostentatiously. Meredith felt she should just leave, but Ozzie's hand on her forearm pressed down, indicating he wished her to stay.
”I wanted to come and see you as soon as I could,” Kathleen began, her posture collapsing. ”I've been seeing doctors. The ones you recommended and others. One in particular who was actually pretty good and, anyway, I thought it would be nice... Basically I thought it would be nice if...we could...” Her voice trailed off, and she looked at Meredith as though she had only just noticed her in the room. She arranged her face in a wincing smile. ”Do you mind if I have him to myself for a bit?” she said. ”Thaaanks.”
Before she made it out the library door and down the hall, Meredith heard Kathleen laugh. ”Brunettes?” she said in a voice that made no effort to conceal itself. ”You aren't lowering the bar, are you?”
What could Meredith possibly do but eavesdrop?