Quintin Jardine - On Honeymoon With Death

‘Nothing much,’ I told him. ‘We’ve cleared the last corpse out of the swimming pool, so we’ve just been filling it up.’

‘Christ, coming from you I’d almost believe that was true.’ I hadn’t shared our secret with him. ‘Weather okay? It’s bloody awful here.’

‘Aye, fine, Dad. Just the usual, you know. Shirtsleeve order, if you’re in the sunshine and out of the wind.’

‘Lucky wee bastard!’ he snorted. ‘It had better stay that way. I’ve got the flight tickets booked. We leave the Saturday before Christmas, once the schools have broken up, flying to Barcelona from Edinburgh through Amsterdam. Is that all right with you?’

‘Damn silly question, if you’ve booked. But of course it is. Did you put them on my Visa like I told you?’

‘Yes, I did. You could have made a mistake, son, giving me that number. But I put the hire car on mine, don’t worry.’

‘You’re a daft old bugger then; we were going to pick that up too. Listen, I’ll fax you directions from the airport nearer the time.’

I paused. ‘So what else is new?’

‘I’ll tell you what is. I’ve had three different journalists on the blower trying to find you. They want to interview you before the premiere of your movie …’

‘Miles and Dawn’s movie, Dad.’

‘Whatever. They all wanted to talk to you in advance, anyway. Wanted to know where you were. I did as you said, and put them on to the distributor’s PR people in London.’

‘I gathered that; I had a message from them yesterday on my mobile. I’m either going to see them when we come back for the Glasgow premiere next month, or the film people will fly them out here to meet me.’

My dad laughed. ‘Do I sound incredulous?’ he asked. ‘Because I fucking well am. I cannot believe this is my son we’re talking about. The same guy who used to be an ambition-free zone. So what do you do after the premiere?’

‘I go to school.’

‘Eh?’

‘That’s right. Miles was happy enough with the way I handled the first movie, but that was because the part was built around me. Before we start shooting the next one, he wants me to have some coaching, so he’s hired a drama tutor to work with me one on one.’

‘Wise man. He faxed me a couple of reviews from movie critics in the States. You get a mention in both of them; they actually sort of hint that you’re no’ bad. . for a beginner.’

‘If I was bad, Dad, I wouldn’t have been there. Miles does no favours on his projects. He must have thought I was up to it.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I enjoy it; and yes, I do feel comfortable. You’re going to tell me I’ve been play-acting all my life, I suppose.’

‘That I am. Your mother would say the same if she was here, God bless her.’

‘Tell me about it. I can hear her saying just that, all the time. See you soon, Dad. . Oh yes, and remember to bring your golf clubs.’

‘Will do.’

I had almost hit the cancel button when he spoke again.

‘Nearly forgot,’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone else called looking for you: Susie Gantry. She said she wanted to send you a card, so I gave her your new address.’

‘How did she sound?’

‘Okay. The spark seemed to have gone out of the lassie, as you’d expect, losing her man in the way she did; but she’s a tough wee thing. . She will survive, as the song says. She hasn’t been in touch with you?’

‘No.’›

‘Ach well, I expect she will. Give my love to Prim.’

He really did ring off this time. I passed on his greetings to my wife as I walked up to the other end of the pool to rejoin her, with lunch in mind. We were almost indoors when we heard the gate creaking open. I thought it must be Shirley, looking to borrow a cup of sugar or some such, but I was wrong.

As I looked towards the direction of the sound, a small, slender, brown-skinned girl stepped into the driveway. She carried what was either a small suitcase or a large vanity case, and was dressed in a heavy old-fashioned coat, the sort I’d have expected to see on someone twenty years older, but not on her. It flapped half open as I moved towards her and, underneath, I caught a glimpse of a flimsy cotton dress.

‘Can I help you? I asked as I walked towards her, forgetting myself and speaking to her in English. She looked at me blankly, until I repeated the question in Spanish.

‘I was told to come here,’ she answered. The coat opened wider as she spoke, letting me see just how flimsy the dress was. It seemed to cling to her body, making it pretty clear that it was all she was wearing, other than a pair of shoes with platform soles and laces which wound their way up her legs to tie in front of her shins.

I sensed a wind-up in the offing; set up by Frank Barnett maybe, or by the pool man. ‘Pardon?’ I said.

‘I was told to come here,’ she repeated. I dragged my gaze back up to her face. She was very pretty, and certainly not Spanish, although I could only guess at her nationality.

‘Oh yes,’ I went on, still sceptical. ‘And who told you?’

She frowned, her eyelashes flickering nervously. ‘I was told. Sorry. There is a mistake.’

And then she was gone, as quickly as she had arrived, and as noisily, as the gate creaked closed behind her.

I walked back up the drive and into the house. Prim was in the kitchen, making coffee. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.

‘If I had to guess, I’d say it was a call-girl; only she called at the wrong address.’

She raised an eyebrow as she looked at me. ‘She’d better have,’ she murmured.

For the next couple of weeks, we concentrated on settling in to our new home, and on getting things ready for the family coming at Christmas. The painters turned the place from a dirty white colour into a sunny terra-cotta shade, the new aluminium security shutters were fitted, and a wrought-iron gate replaced the pile of rust at the foot of the driveway.

We were even able to rejoin the world, when we had a computer system installed in a small room on the ground floor, which we had turned into an office.

One of my first e-mail messages was from Miles Grayson, our movie director brother-in-law. He told me that in spite of my performance. . his very words. . Snatch was now officially a hit in the States, having taken over one hundred million dollars at the box office in its first month on release. Since I was on one per cent of the gross, that meant that I could no longer prevent Prim from going up to Figueras and buying the blue Mercedes SLK that she coveted. You know it; the one with yellow leather upholstery and the steel roof that retracts into the boot on sunny days.

Miles also sent me over the Internet a file titled ‘Project 38’. I knew what it was before I opened it; the script for the new movie which we would be shooting in February. I printed it out on the morning it arrived and settled down to read it in one of our poolside chairs. The further along I got, the more nervous I grew.

My part in Snatch had been limited, tailored to fit an unschooled beginner like me. Originally I had been hired simply as a narrator, because my voice sounded right and it wasn’t unknown to the public, thanks to my wrestling gigs and advertising voice-overs, but as the project had developed, and Miles had become used to me, a few on-camera scenes had been added. There was nothing complicated, nothing I couldn’t handle with proper direction from Miles, and although my eventual impact on the movie turned out to be quite significant, in my heart I hadn’t really felt like an actor, not even when I saw the rushes.

This was different; I knew from my first read-through of the script, a fifties drama set in the Chicago area, that this time Miles planned to stretch me. I reckoned that he was taking a big gamble, and I was grateful for the coaching sessions which he had booked for me in the New Year.