Simon Brett - So Much Blood

‘Yes.’ Charles hesitated. He had decided to investigate Willy’s death, but dinner with Anna was not intended to be part of that investigation; her attraction for him was not primarily as a source of information. On the other hand, here was someone who knew all the people involved, and the conversation had come round to the subject. The detective instinct overcame his baser ones. ‘Did you know Willy well?’

‘No, I wouldn’t say well. I knew him.’

‘I was amazed to discover that he wasn’t at the University. How on earth did he get involved with your lot?’

‘Oh, he… You know he used to play with a band?’

‘Yes. Puce.’

‘That’s right. They came and did a gig at our Student’s Union. I think Willy stayed around a bit. It was just round the period the band broke up. He must have met the drama lot then.’

‘And somebody asked him to do this show?’

‘I suppose so, yes. Because he lived in Edinburgh and was kind of at a loose end. He wrote all the music, you see. I think he wanted to do something different, after the band.’

‘Mary, Queen of Sots sounds pretty different. You don’t know if he made any particular friends at Derby?’

‘No.’ She seemed to remember something. ‘Oh, yes. Sam. Sam Wasserman. He’s the guy who wrote Mary. I think Willy was friendly with him. Probably it was Sam who asked him to do the music.’

‘I don’t think I’ve met Sam.’

‘No. He’s not up here. On holiday in Europe somewhere. He’s American so it has to be Europe rather than any specific country. They seem to think Europe is just one country.’

‘So Sam’s not likely to be up here at all?’

‘I think he’s coming up for the opening of Mary.’

‘When’s that?’

‘Third week. Opens on the 2nd September.’

‘Ah.’ A week after Charles’ engagement finished. No chance of picking Sam Wasserman’s brains. The investigation did not seem to be proceeding very fast. He decided that he would forget it for the rest of the evening. ‘How’s your show going?’

‘Mary’s still all over the place. We spend so much time improvising and so on, we hardly ever get near the actual script.’

‘And the revue?’

‘Still bits. Bits are O.K. One or two of the songs are quite exciting, but… I don’t know. See what the audience thinks on the first night.’

‘Monday. I’ll be there. Hmm. I wonder what I should call my opening. A first lunch?’

‘Why not? I’ll come and see it, rehearsals permitting.’

‘Good.’ Charles refilled her glass from the cold bottle of Vouvray. ‘Do you want to make the theatre your career?’

‘Yes.’ No hesitation. ‘Always have. Totally stage-struck.’

‘Hmm.’

‘There was a world of cynicism in that grunt. You, I take it, are not stage-struck?’

‘More stage-battered at my age.’

‘Don’t you still find it exciting?’

‘Not very often, no. I can’t really imagine doing anything else, but as a profession it leaves a lot to be desired. Like money, security…’

‘I know.’

‘There’s a lot more to it than talent. You need lots of help. You have to be tough and calculating.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m sorry. I sound awfully middle-aged. I think the prime reason for that is that I am awfully middle-aged. No, it’s just that I’d hate to think of anyone going into the business who didn’t know what it was about.’

‘I do know.’

‘Yes. So you’re prepared for all that unemployment they talk about, sitting by the telephone, sleeping with fat old directors.’

‘I only sleep with who I want to sleep with.’ She gave him the benefit of a stare from the navy blue eyes. It was difficult to interpret whether it was a come-on or a rebuff.

He laughed the conversation on to another tack and they cheerfully talked their way through coq au vin, lemon sorbet, a second bottle of Vouvray, coffee and brandy.

The Castle loomed darkly to their left as they climbed up Johnstone Terrace, but it seemed benign rather than menacing. Charles’ arm fitted naturally round the curve of Anna’s waist and he could feel the sheen of her skin through the cotton shirt. Edinburgh had regained its magic.

She stopped by a door at the side of a souvenir shop on the Lawnmarket. The city was empty, primly correct, braced for the late-night crowds that the Festival was soon to bring.

‘Good Lord, do you live here? A flat full of kilts and whisky shortbread and bagpipe salt-cellars?’

‘On the top floor.’

‘That’s a long way up.’

‘A friend’s flat. Student at the University here. Away for the summer.’

‘Ah. All yours.’

‘Yes. Do you want to come in?’

‘What for?’ Charles asked fatuously.

She was not at all disconcerted and turned the amused navy blue stare on him. ‘Coffee?’

‘Had coffee.’

‘Drink?’

‘Had brandy.’

‘Well, we’ll have to think of something else.’

They did.

Simon Brett

So Much Blood

He was alone in the bed when he awoke. There was a note on the pillow. GONE TO REHEARSAL. IF I DON’T SEE YOU DURING THE DAY, SEE YOU TONIGHT? He smiled and rolled out of bed to make some leisurely coffee.

He drank it at the window, looking down on shoppers and tourists, foreshortened by the distance, scurrying like crabs across the dark cobbles of the Lawnmarket. He thought of Anna’s brown body with its bikini streaks of white, and felt good. The cynicism which normally attended his sex life was not there. An exceptional girl. Willy Mariello’s death became less important.

Rehearsal for an opening in four days’ time, on the other hand, was important. He finished the coffee and set out for Coates Gardens.

Martin Warburton was sprawled over a camp-bed in the men’s dormitory, reading. Reading So Much Comic…, Charles noticed with annoyance. The boy looked up as he entered. His expression was calmer than usual and he was even polite. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be reading this. But it was on your bed. I started it and got interested.’

Given such a compliment, however unintentional, Charles could not really complain. ‘There’s more to Hood than many people think.’

‘I don’t know. Is there? I mean he’s clever, there’s a lot of apparent feeling, but when you get down to it, there’s not much there. No certainty. All those puns. It’s because he doesn’t want to define things exactly. Doesn’t want anything to define him. There’s nothing you can identify with.’

It was a surprisingly perceptive judgement. ‘You think that’s important, identifying?’

‘It must be. You can only respond to art if you identify with the artist. That’s how I worked. I’d read into everything someone had written, until I felt the person there at the centre. And then I’d identify. I’d become that person and know how to react to their work.’

‘You’re reading English, I assume.’

‘No, History.’

‘Ah.’

‘Just taken my degree.’

‘O.K.?’

‘Yes, got a First.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Not that it means anything.’ Martin’s mood suddenly gave way to gloom. ‘Nothing much does mean anything. I criticise Hood for not believing in things and there’s me…’ He looked up sharply. ‘Have you read my play?’

‘No, I’m sorry. I will get round to it, but-’

‘Wouldn’t bother. It’s rubbish. Nothing in the middle.’