Soft Limits

Frederic

“Now, Frederic. About that memoir.”

I accept the tumbler of whisky from Anton, but my heart sinks. That again. Martin promised he wouldn’t talk about the book deal he’s negotiating with the Canadian publisher with anyone. I know what he’ll say if I complain. Anton isn’t just anyone, he’s your British agent. I suspect he told Anton about the book so there’d be someone else to nag me to do it.

“What about it?” The casement windows are open and the scent of daphne is wafting in on the night air. I was just starting to relax but now I feel on edge again.

Anton sinks into the armchair next to mine. His youngest daughter—Lisbet, I think her name is—is watching Phantom on the television on the other side of the room. She’s cross-legged on the carpet, and I would find her rapt attention sweet if I couldn’t hear myself singing.

Anton gives me an arch look. “I sense you’re not keen on the idea.”

“I’m not,” I say heavily.

“It would sell.”

“That doesn’t make it a good idea.”

Anton grins. “Tell that to Martin. No, but seriously, why don’t you like the thought of a book?”

If I tell Anton the truth, he’ll ask a hundred more questions that I can’t answer. What can I say instead? “I don’t know. Who wants to read me banging on about my stage career for four hundred pages? I did this, I did that.” In a way that’s the truth, or at least a secondary truth. And I’m too young to publish an autobiography. I’m forty-one. I haven’t done everything that I want to do yet. “And it’s not like I can even write.”

“Then hire someone to write it for you.”

I grimace. “That would be worse. I’d have to read someone putting words in my mouth.”

Mona comes in and plops herself on the sofa behind her sister. Bored and hot, she seems to cast about for something to do. After a moment she scoops up a handful of Lisbet’s long hair and starts working it into a complicated braid.

Anton sips his whisky, thinking. “Do a biography then. Third-person. Someone interviews you and the people who know you best and writes it up. All the dirt along with all the bragging. I’m sure any biographer worth their salt could dig up a few dozen people who hate the very sight of you. It’s what’s called a balanced view, I hear.”

“People in the theater world who hate the sight of me? Oh, easily. The problem with a biography, though, is how do you end it? I’m not dead.”

Anton waves this away. “Oh, that’s the writer’s problem. They’ll figure something out, and it doesn’t need to be flashy. Marianne Faithfull’s book ends with a recipe for chicken.”

It’s not the writer’s problem. It’s mine. I have no idea what happens next.

Mona’s been half listening to our conversation, it seems, because suddenly she turns to us. “Honestly, get Evie to do it. She knows your career back to front and she’s read every character you’ve ever played. She could probably write half of the book off the top of her head.”

Anton gives me an appraising look.

More to put an end to the conversation than anything else, I say, “Have you got anything she’s written?”

Mona thinks for a moment. “Good question. All her ghostwritten books must be at college because I haven’t seen them here. She’s so private about that stuff. There’s probably something on her hard drive...” She makes an exasperated face, as if asking her sister about this is more trouble than it’s worth. Then she brightens. “I know! Give me your email address and I’ll send you a link.”

Anton digs his phone out of his pocket. “I’ve got his address, Mona. I’ll send it to you now.” Once he’s done this and laid his phone aside he looks back at me, thoughtful. “Why is Martin so keen for this to happen? Why now?”

I consider whether to tell him. I should tell him, as he’s going to find out sooner or later. But an irrational fear grips me. You have to get on the stage in this country in a few months' time. Do you really want to speak it aloud? I thought I was immune from silly theater superstitions, but it seems I’m not.

“Wants his cut, doesn’t he?” I say, forcing a smile. “Been talking about getting a holiday house for the last year. Then he comes up with this book idea.”

Anton grins. “That sounds like Martin.”

Once I’ve finished my whisky I head upstairs. It’s very still outside, not even the slightest breeze stirring the net curtains on this hot, sticky night. I check my email on my laptop and see that Mona has sent me a link. I click through and frown at the screen. I’m not sure what I’m looking at. There’s a list of pieces and their characters and word counts. A name catches my eye. That’s curious... I click through and start to read.

Two hours later I sit back, bewildered and amused. Evangeline Bell. Who would have thought?

Closing the laptop, I ponder things for a moment. The book’s a pain in the ass but it’s not going to go away. Maybe, with Evie, I’ve found a way to make it a worthwhile project after all.

Chapter Three