Chapters (49)
- Cover
- Table of Contents
- Also by Graham Hurley
- LIMELIGHT
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- AFTERWARDS
Arpeggio is a not-so-recent film of mine, a brooding exploration of guilt and the capricious workings of fate, made with French money and under the direction of a young German director I happen to admire greatly. Sir William, it turns out, had him round to the embassy a number of times in Berlin.
‘You’ll be glad to know he thought the world of you,’ he says. ‘Which doesn’t surprise me in the least.’
It’s a graceful compliment, and I thank him for it. I can sense that Christianne wants me to perform a little, to brighten Sir William’s day with tales from various film sets, and I talk at some length about the madness of putting character and story on the big screen.
‘Madness?’ From Sir William, the word carries an air of slight reproof.
‘Madness,’ I confirm. ‘Insanity. The best directors, the best actors, are often a little crazy. You often shoot out of sequence. The key bits are always in close-up. You have to remember so much, hold the big picture, concentrate on the tiniest details. The camera is unforgiving. If you make the slightest bloop, drop the tiniest stitch, it will always find you out.’
‘Golly.’ Sir William is carefully removing a thin crescent of fat from his roast beef, ‘To be honest, I never quite thought of it that way. My admiration is unbounded. Does that make me naïve? Or simply grateful?’
It’s at this point that the door opens and the missing diner appears. For a split second, I’m looking at an older version of Malo: the same tangle of black curls, the same snake hips inside the tightness of his jeans, the same predatory hints in his smile.
‘Sorry, Pa …’ He settles at the table and reaches for the bottle of Chablis. ‘New York time tells me I need a drink. Do you mind?’ He has a faint American accent which I’m guessing he can turn on and off at will. When his father tells him it’s seven o’clock in the morning on the eastern seaboard, he simply shrugs. ‘Whatever.’ His eyes find mine, and he nods at my glass. ‘A little more?’
Christianne and I stay at the table for most of the afternoon, chatting to Sir William. Sylvester, after answering a series of emails on his phone, has pushed his plate to one side and left without a word of apology. This kind of abruptness is so Malo that I can barely believe it, and when I get the chance to stop talking about showbusiness, I ask Sir William about this son of his. Does he live in New York? Work in New York? If so, doing what?