William Boyd - The New Confessions

I should have said that since his wedding in 1927, Thompson Todd had borne issue. Innes arrived in 1933, Emmeline in 1935. Our father’s and mother’s names, of course (no matter that one of my daughters was already called Emmeline …). Thompson and Heather had moved some years previously to a large new house made of dull-puce sandstone in Cramond, with a fine view of the Forth and Cramond Island. When I was ready I telephoned, then caught a motor bus out at Waverley Bridge. Thompson met me at Cramond Station and drove me to his house. My nephew and niece greeted me with polite enthusiasm. Heather was still fresh-faced and girlish looking but a little fuller of figure, which suited her. Again, I wondered what such a nice pretty girl could have seen in Thompson, fat and sleek, his hair now prematurely gray. He had always been in a hurry to age, had Thompson, and his body was obliging him. He felt more like my uncle than my elder brother. Heather, I could see, was excited by my arrival. She said she hoped I didn’t mind but she had invited some neighbors around for drinks that evening to meet me. She pressed me to stay as long as I wished. I realized that to her, if not Thompson, I was something of a celebrity. I was grateful to her. My self-esteem, as if it were an organ within me made of erectile tissue, swelled and grew. Heather’s wild adoration acted as a catalyst. Yes, I told myself, yes — you are John James Todd. You were the toast of Berlin. You are the creator of one of the greatest silent movies ever made. So your career has taken something of a slide, but never forget what you have achieved and what lies ahead of you.

I accepted Heather’s invitation and had my luggage sent on from the Scotia Hotel. That afternoon I put my proposition to Thompson and asked him to suggest to his board at the bank that they invest in Aleph-null Films, Ltd.

“I don’t need all the budget,” I said. “Twenty-five thousand pounds will be enough. With that I can go to Astra-King, Gainsborough, Gaumont, anybody for the rest.”

Thompson asked a few questions. He seemed quite impressed by my presentation.

“I’ll put it to the board, John,” he said. “It’s the least I can do. But I have to warn you, don’t get your hopes up.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Fair and square. I just want them to look at it as an investment, pure and simple. Just like any other.”

Heather looked round Thompson’s study door. Her thick short hair was freshly brushed; she had a touch of pink lipstick on and a blush of rouge. She really did look extraordinarily pretty from certain angles, I thought.

“Everyone’s here, Thompson,” she said. “They’re all dying to meet John.”

I stood up and buttoned my jacket.

“Coming, coming,” I said. I did her proud.

During the following week I lunched with key directors of Thompson’s bank. We ate bad food in hushed clubs and in empty, overheated, hotel dining rooms. I explained my film to solemn gray men who for some reason all reminded me of my father. Thompson remained strictly neutral, intervening only to clarify a point from time to time. Eventually I was told that a meeting was due two weeks hence when a decision would be made.

In spite of all the pragmatic cautious advice I gave myself during the subsequent days, I could not prevent a sense of mounting excitement from growing in me. I felt too a harder satisfaction, a cynical relish. I was glad Courtney Young had turned me down. Now I would have the pleasure of rubbing his nose in his own appalling judgment. I could not stop myself from indulging in longer-term fantasies either. I saw Aleph-null establishing itself as a successful film company, negotiating deals with larger studios — nothing too ambitious, mind you, just three or four films a year. Perhaps I would invite Eddie Simmonette in as a partner. For the first time in years I began to contemplate what I would do after The Confessions. After? After The Confessions . It sounded unreal. My whole adult life, it seemed, had been mortgaged to the idea of this film; everything else had been peripheral, accidental. What would I do after The Confessions? I had no idea.

I suppose it was this newfound self-confidence that made me behave in the way I did. As you know, I am a helpless victim of my own desires. I cannot resist temptation, especially when I generate it myself.

I liked Heather enormously. We became good friends in only a few days. She was an avid and intelligent filmgoer. She had seen Julie and The Divorce several times, and I am sure she found me a refreshing diversion from the stolid Thompson. While I waited for the bank’s decision we spent a lot of time in each other’s company. We talked endlessly. We went for walks with little Innes and Emmeline. I recounted anecdotes of my filming experiences, of the great directors and film stars I had known — A. E. Groth and Fritz Lang, Nazimova, Gast, Emil Jannings and Pola Negri and many others. She was entranced. I told her about myself, my dreams, about The Confessions , my marriage to Sonia, my long affair with Doon. Heather learned a lot about me very quickly. On many afternoons we would motor into Edinburgh and go to matinees of any films we could find and discuss them avidly in tearooms filled with well-dressed old ladies in hats. Heather not only liked me but she was, I think, a little in awe of me. It is a dangerous impression to give any man, let alone a chronic impulsive like me with only minimal control over his emotions.

One morning, a Wednesday or Thursday towards the end of April, I was standing in Thompson’s living room. There was a fire burning in the grate, the room was warm and I was alone in the house with Heather. Thompson was at work. The children were playing with friends nearby. There was an hour until lunch. A faint but delicious smell of roasting meat came from the kitchen, where Heather was busy supervising the cook. I poured myself a schooner of dry sherry and drank two large mouthfuls from it. That first drink of the day … I looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing an old tweed suit, sand-brown, a cream shirt with a soft collar and a bottle-green knitted silk tie. I thought, in that alcohol rush, that I looked astonishingly handsome. Dreamily, I pushed my dark hair around. With a finger I nudged a lock over my forehead. I tell you, I had a pleasant narcissistic erection two full minutes before Heather came into the room.

“Sherry?” she said, hurrying in from the kitchen. “Have another.”

“Thanks.” Sometimes you can get drunk on one mouthful. Normally I can hold my liquor, but that morning I was already delightfully bleary.

Heather refilled my glass. She wore a pale-blue dress with a pseudo-sailor’s collar. Its V neck stopped, I imagined, an inch above the crease between her breasts.

“Gosh, I’m dying for this,” she said. “That cook, really — it’s just mutton.”

She clinked her glass against mine.

“Here’s how,” she said.

“Cheerio.”

We toasted. We drank. I was already moving in for the kiss as she lowered her glass from her lips. I tasted sherry. Her lips were cool. Her breasts flattened against my chest. Timidly, our tongues touched. For a second I experienced that moment of unforgettable elation — a stillness, a deep calm at the center of everything.

Then she was pushing me away. Fiercely. She stepped back. She looked frightened, as if I was threatening her with something awful.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said in a sad resentful voice. “It wasn’t kind of you.”

“Heather …” I put my hand on her shoulder. She knocked it away.

“You’ve spoiled everything now.” She seemed calm, there were no tears. “Why didn’t you think, John? Why didn’t you think?”