A Certain Age. Lynne Truss
south of Devizes, she’s hardly likely to be sympathetic to the fate of my little self-earned millions. [Worried sigh] I suppose it IS just the money Julian is after? Have I done enough to protect it? Why do I still feel as though I’m sitting on an unexploded bomb? That session with Dougie this afternoon was quite painful, but very interesting, because, of course, HE has an older brother who makes HIM feel insignificant, too! How could I have forgotten about Hamish? “But, Dougie,” I said, “you’re one of the best-paid lawyers in London.” Since I was writing a very large first-consultation cheque to him at the time, I happened to know what I was talking about. “What does Hamish do?” I said, handing it over. “Is he Lord Chancellor or something?” And he said, as he smoothed the cheque and smiled at it in a loving kind of way, “Oh no, he runs golfing holidays in the Algarve.” Astonishing. Of course, I nearly commented on the coincidence of the woman on the plane’s husband being currently in the Algarve playing golf, but reconsidered just in time, and thereby saved myself – by retrospective calculation – the price of a fairly good ticket to the entire Ring Cycle at the Met.
[Getting back to business; a sigh] What a letter, though. I hope Gideon didn’t look at it when he opened it. I’d hate him to know that anyone ever called me “Timmy”. I showed it to Dougie, of course. In fact, I left it with him. He said there was something puzzling about it, and asked if I could find the envelope it came in, and I said I’d try. Gideon is terribly efficient, I said. He’s probably shredded it. [Not to Dougie] I didn’t tell Dougie, but the interesting thing, actually, is that Gideon also has an older brother who belittles HIM; yes! I suppose it’s bound to be quite common, but it’s quite a comfort none the less. In fact, when we happened to talk about our shared plight – it must have been just before I went to New York – Gideon said he had a theory that men with big brothers are a very particular brutalised personality type, and that they often have an unconscious bond with each other as a result. “Really?” I said. “Oh yes,” he said. “Little brothers need to stick together,” he said. “We’re very easily taken advantage of.” That’s why he understood completely, you see, when I snapped into raise-the-drawbridge mode the moment I’d read that letter. I had only to call him and say, “Julian’s coming! And he’s calling himself head of the family!” for Gideon to say, “Mm, don’t panic. I’ll pack up the stock at the gallery and phone the bank! I can have everything in Paris by tomorrow afternoon!”
I’ll go home soon. There’s nothing more I can do here. I just keep thinking, if Julian’s arriving on Thursday, he must already have set off. He’s heading this way, and I’m rooted to the earth; it’s like having the wrath of God galloping towards you; or Birnam Wood supernaturally on the march; or a hundred thousand orcs swarming across Mordor with battering rams and unbelievably long ladders. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. I’ll have to congratulate him when he gets here. How clever to give me just enough notice to turn me into a nervous wreck.
Dougie thinks it was a bit strange to do that, though. [Shrewd] “Why did Julian forewarn you?” he said.
“Oh, he’s a sadist,” I said. “Julian won the amateur sadism trophy four years running at Marlborough.”
Dougie looked unconvinced. He took a fork to a succulent Portuguese custard tart from Fortnum’s, and masticated slowly. “Well, I think it’s an odd thing to do. He’s given you and your young Gideon two whole days to organise yourselves. You have to ask yourself, T.J.: what’s the advantage to Julian of tipping you off?”
Scene Four: the Night Before the Big Day. Tim is at his desk at home; classical music in background; he has been drinking; he’s slowed down a bit
[A bit slurred already] So. [Drinks] Three days ago, I was in New York. And I was so, so happy! [Emotional] I was on top of the world – at least, in the international art dealership sense of the thing. I had a lovely gallery waiting for me at home, a peerless Maffei under my arm, and I was in a yellow cab to Newark, the old wide rubber tyres bouncing over the bumps and potholes on the Manhattan cross-streets, the steam rising from the manhole covers; I could hear the honk of the early rush-hour traffic and the whistles and sirens of the traffic cops. [Overcome; comically miserable] I was somebody!
I haven’t seen Gideon since Monday, because he’s been overseeing a few complications in Paris; indeed, I’ve hardly spoken to him. [Drinks] So thank you, Julian, for that! [Pours drink, with difficulty] I don’t know what plane Julian’s on. I should have called the airlines, but – ugh, I’d need a [looks round helplessly] well, a phone and, and, and a pencil and everything, and I’d have to GET UP, and [he can’t] oof. Anyway, whatever time he comes, I’m ready. I’ve done everything. [Drinks; he’s beginning to slip into unconsciousness] I’m as ready as I can be. This is a scorched-earth policy. Poor old Julian will be like Napoleon marching on Russia. Ha. There’s nothing for him to get. I shall say, “I’m sorry. Reports of my success have been greatly exaggerated.” [On edge of sleep] Just a load of scorched – scorched earth, nothing, nothing left for him to get …
[Asleep; heavy breathing] The bastard.
Scene Five: in the gallery; traffic noises outside. Tim is hung over and trying to be brave while suffering
When Dougie called at ten about his cheque, I was shocked of course; but I have to admit that at some deep level I was not surprised, and I was even, perversely, relieved. It was as if all my life I’d been dutifully carrying a priceless Lalique vase around and then, suddenly, “Whoops!” it had fallen and smashed. “That cheque you gave me was a bad ’un, T.J.,” he said. And I said, “Ah.” And then I said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Dougie?” And he said, “Well, I doubt it, because I’m thinking about a rather fine meringue I’ve just eaten. Whereas you, I suspect, are thinking, ‘Ah, I don’t know where Gideon is, and he’s got the entire stock of my business, plus access to all my cash.’”
Of course, I called the bank, and when they said I had no access to the accounts any more, so they couldn’t tell me why the cheque had bounced, I have to say, I laughed. Ha. Nervous laughter, I suppose. [Laugh] “Really?” I said. “Ha!” They said I’d signed over the company bank accounts to Gideon on Monday, by special arrangement, and I said, “I did do that, didn’t I?” And they said, “Surely you have records, sir?” And I said, [bluffing, worried] “Yes! Yes, surely I do” – as I remembered proudly shredding the original forms on Gideon’s brisk insistence, to prevent the rapacious Julian from discovering what I’d done. I said, “Er, oh, someone’s just entered the gallery, may I phone you back later?” And they said I could do what I liked, I wasn’t even a customer as far as they were officially aware.
[Pause] It was the wrong time of day to call Australia, but I did it anyway. I knew the number, even though I haven’t called it for five years at least. It rang just twice and then – [impersonates Julian; impatient] “Do you know what bloody time it is?” It was Julian. At home in Sydney. In bed, asleep. Not on a plane. No macademia nuts in his flight bag. No weird sheepskin artefacts. Just asleep, thousands, and thousands, and thousands of miles away. With his little brother a million miles from his thoughts. “It’s Timmy,” I said. [Julian is pleased to hear from his brother] “Timmy!” he said. “You in trouble? What’s up? Oh no, [laugh] who do you want me to beat up for you this time?” It was a bit hard not to weep at that moment, I’ll confess. It was a bit hard not to break down. “Julian,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Um, you didn’t write to me about a – er, an impending visit?” He said no, not at all. And sorry he hadn’t e-mailed recently; business was fan-bloody-tastic. Come to think of it, he had called while I was in New York, he said, to ask about iPod and Region 1 DVD prices in London, and a posh bloke called Gideon had been quite friendly. “He seemed to be amused by the idea of me calling you Timmy,” he said. “I got the feeling he was making a note. I hope you’re not in love with that little tick.” [Pause] Typical of Julian. Five years since I last spoke to him, and he hits the bull’s eye first time. [Faltering] “Why on earth do you say that?” I said. “Sounded like a taker to me, Tim. Chaps like him can spot sad loveless quasi-homosexual losers like you