The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life Read online

  “I see.”

  “Although, sorry, I have to say this, Auckland sucks just as badly as London nowadays. Worse than London. It’s so humid. And the traffic is just as bad. And they’re all such wankers. They all think New Zealand ends at the Bombay Hills.”

  “So where are you from then?”

  “Oh, I’m from Levin.” She straightens up with pride. Levin is a small, one-car-dealership town in the middle of a cold, flat, windy, featureless plain. It’s about as exciting as Monday morning and has been voted New Zealand’s most boring town ten years running.

  “You must be really homesick.”

  She sighs. “Yeah, I really miss it, eh. Really miss home.”

  We share a trembly moment. “Why don’t you go home then?”

  She shakes her head. “Can’t go home.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugs. I think I know why. I think I understand.

  “So how long have you been here?”

  “Oh, not that long, eh.” She puts on her professional voice again, lowers it an intimate octave and leans in close. “So, are we doing anything tonight or not, honey?”

  “Sorry, I have an urgent appointment. I mean, it’s been very nice to meet you though.”

  She shrugs. She’s remarkably polite and professional and I can’t help thinking she’s been well brought up. “Well, if you change your mind, come on up and see me, any time.” She hands me her card. It’s a flimsy piece of green card, photocopied. MISS MELISSA, it says. There’s a picture of a woman half in and half out of a bikini. It doesn’t look anything like her. Below it is a headline and a phone number. FRESH OFF THE BOAT! BE FIRST IN TO PICK MY LUSCIOUS AUSSIE PEACHES!

  “There’s something I don’t understand. It says here you’re Australian.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know. People don’t really respond to New Zealand. Australia is more sexy.”

  “What’s so sexy about Australia?”

  “Sun, sand, surf. You know.”

  “But you’re a New Zealander.”

  Melissa shrugs.

  “Have you no pride?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Tell me, what do people think of when they think of New Zealand?”

  “Er . . .”

  “Right: sheep-fuckers. That is our international image. Like it or not, if you say, ‘New Zealand,’ most people will say, ‘Sheep-fuckers.’ So where does that get me? I’m not even a sheep.”

  “How about ‘Fresh New Zealand Lamb’? or ‘One hundred percent Virgin Shagpile’?”

  “Nice try but I don’t think so.”

  “But, Australia . . .”

  “Look, it’s just like anything, it’s like soap powder. People need something they can identify with. My clients are getting something they recognize, something they relate to—buns on the beach, bronzed surfy chicks. All that.”

  “But . . . Australia. What about the South Pacific? You could be a maiden of the South Pacific.”

  “Dusky maiden, fine, but I’m the wrong color, bud.”

  “I know, bungee jumping! ‘New Zealand’ says bungee jumping! How about ‘Plunge into the Land of Adventure’ or better still, ‘Taking Rubber to the Limits’?”

  She shakes her head. “We’re downplaying the risk aspect of the industry right now.” She grins, suddenly. “But keep coming with those ideas.”

  She waves a saucy little good-bye. The poor thing has no idea. Talking to me she might as well be a liquor wholesaler cultivating Saudi connections. Still, I am moved to stop and turn back and watch her go. And I feel sad. I feel such sadness. That a young woman like that, so full of promise, bright and perky, her whole life ahead of her, has sunk to such a terrible deluded, degraded existence. Pretending to be an Australian. It’s enough to make you weep.

  I sigh, and hitch my Swedish Army greatcoat closer around my shoulders. The air is raw and a heavy mist hangs in the air, muffling the pitter-pat of the light drizzle as it falls on cobbled streets. I stagger away into the London night.

  Chapter 5

  ON THE WAY UP TO MY ROOM I notice that someone has swept up the potato peelings and replaced them with fresh ones. They’ve arranged the shoes neatly too, in pairs, in order of size. Nice to see a bit of neighborhood pride.

  There’s something arranged on my doorstep too. It’s Mee. He’s huddled on the doormat, fast asleep in his greasy black coat, his clumpy black shoes sticking out of his slightly black trousers. This whole black clothing thing is a plague sweeping the New Zealand nation. It started in Wellington. Now it’s got as far as the newsreaders. I’ve seen it. Sometimes my mother sends me tapes. Everywhere, New Zealanders are in black. Black ties, black suits, black shirts. They must be in mourning for their standard of living. Mee stirs, and yips like a dreaming dog. A delicate scent of old rubber and peanuts rises and envelops the landing. I look at my watch. It’s one a.m. While I’ve been out pounding the streets of London he’s been here, waiting. And waiting. Clinging to me like a drowning man. Clinging to hope long after all grounds for hope are gone. I feel sorry, and sad. But not that sorry. With infinite care I step over his sleeping body, let myself into the room, ease the door shut and lock it.

  I’d like to trace it all back. I have that trace-it-all-back feeling coming on. Of course you can never trace it all back. Back to what? Back to when? I remember the day quite clearly. It would be about eighteen months ago now. I remember sitting in the kitchen in the flat we had then, which was quite nice but I didn’t want to keep it afterward. I didn’t want anywhere quite nice at all. I was sitting with my head cradled in my palms. I was thinking about Godzone. Sophie was in the sitting room. She was in her T-shirt and socks but it was a Saturday morning so that was okay. She laughed. I went through to the next room. She had a script propped on her thighs.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s this script Janine has sent me. She wants me to suck a guy’s dick.”

  “. . . She what?”

  She holds up the script. “It’s from Janine. It’s got a dick-sucking scene in it.”

  “Well, bin that one.”

  She looks annoyed. “It’s a good script.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re going to do what? Suck a guy’s dick on film? Because it’s a good script?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll just tell her to cut it. She’s just trying it on. You know Janine.”

  “I do know Janine. What sort of a script is this anyway?”

  “You can read it after me.”

  “Who’s up for it?”

  “Some good people.”

  “Whose dick?”

  “Forget the dick. I’ll just tell them to cut it.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  She went back to it, and I went to the bedroom. I lay down on the bed. A little later I heard Sophie on the phone. She was talking to Simon. “. . . I mean, don’t get me wrong, I happen to enjoy sucking dick, so no problem there . . . but . . . yeah . . . it would be more from that quarter, yeah . . . well I can talk to him . . .”

  I rolled over on the bed. I waited. Sophie appeared in the doorway. “I’ve been talking to Simon.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He says Janine’s pretty set on the dick-sucking scene.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning . . . whoever plays the part is going to have to be prepared to do the scene.”

  “I see.”

  “I said I’d talk to you about it.”

  I know the score already. It’s crystal clear. Sophie’s going to do it. She’s made up her mind and there’s nothing I can say or do to stop her.

  She takes a tentative step toward me. “It’s just a dick.”

  “My God. You’re actually going to do this, aren’t you?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “Whose dick is it anyway?”

  “Matt Chalmers.”

  “Matt Chalmers, perfect.”

  “He hasn’t gone firm on it yet.”

  “He’ll go firm all right. He’ll fi
rm up very smartly, I’m sure.”

  “Why don’t you just come right out and tell me how you feel about it?”

  “About you sucking Matt Chalmers’s dick?”

  “It wouldn’t mean anything.”

  “It would mean you would be sucking Matt Chalmers’s dick.”

  “Just for a job.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because if so . . .”

  “You’re responsible for your own feelings. I’m just trying to tell you how it is. How it would be.”

  “Is he married? Matt?”

  “I think so.”

  “What does his wife think about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We could start a support group.”

  She sighs. “Look. If you don’t want me to do it, just say so.”

  I clear my throat. I sit up. “I don’t want you to do it.”

  “You haven’t even read it.”

  “No, I haven’t read it.”

  “You could at least read it before you decide.”

  “I think I know enough already.”

  “It’s just one scene. One little scene. It’s not like I’m turning into a porn star or something.” She sighs. She pleads. “It’s a really good script. At least read it.”

  I always used to read Sophie’s scripts. She used to rely on me completely. But this time I didn’t. I couldn’t see that reading it was going to do me any good. Either way it would just make my position harder. Janine, who was based in LA nowadays, had this stupid idea that we could all talk about it, the five of us, and sort it out and there wouldn’t be any problem. She took us all out to dinner at the Ivy. I didn’t want to go but I couldn’t see how not going was going to advance my cause any.

  Matt was this big Californian guy, slow-talking, blue eyes, just the way he looks on screen. It’s the little things. The teeth. The eyelashes. How do they do it? How much does it cost? Should I do it too? He actually seemed like a perfectly nice guy even if there was something a little unpredictable about the eyes if you watched him watching someone else. But he was dripping with charisma. Loaded with it. Anne-Marie, his wife, was very blonde, very tanned, very open and very charming. A huge amount of eyeliner, tons of gold and only minimal cosmetic surgery. She had the most amazing eyes. They were deep, deep brown and the size of a horse’s. They were huge. She had this habit of opening them very wide when she listened to you talk, so you could see the whites all the way around. She was wearing a formfitting cotton/ Lycra jumpsuit with flares. She had biceps bigger than my thighs, and thighs bigger than my waist. All muscle. She had muscles in all those places you never even realize people can have muscles. Her neck, her jaw, the bridge of her nose. Arnold Schwarzenegger with breasts.

  She was about my age, as was Matt. As indeed was Janine, so Sophie was the odd one out there. I hadn’t seen Janine for a while. She was wired and she kept saying how excited she was. Which I’m sure she was. Janine, I don’t know. She has this way of looking at me. Sort of not exactly hungry, but like she was looking at me. Like she was never saying what she was thinking. Or thinking what she was saying. That was the way she used to look at me. Now, she seemed to have caught the same disease Simon at ICM was suffering from.

  Things started out the way you might expect. Sophie and Anne-Marie were so nice to each other it was frightening. Matt and I shook hands firmly and looked each other in the eye. Someone said something about the weather. Sophie and Matt ignored each other.

  We all sat down and ordered, and we all got to know one another. Matt and Anne-Marie had three children. They lived in California. They loved London, except for the weather. They had a flat in St. John’s Wood so they could come over whenever they wanted. They wanted to send their kids to study in England. They absolutely loved New Zealand, and they already knew that it wasn’t part of Australia. In fact we had an entire discussion about New Zealand without mentioning Australia once. They understood that it was a very green country with many sheep and the people were friendly and they planned to go skiing there sometime soon.

  They told us how they met. Anne-Marie used to be a wardrobe artist, but then she met Matt on set and they got married and she stopped working to devote herself to the kids. This was fifteen years ago now, when he was still doing soaps. They touched each other a lot. She’d stroke his arm, or he’d stroke her leg. I noticed that whenever Sophie and Anne-Marie were talking to each other, Matt was looking at Sophie. Whenever Sophie was talking to Matt, he was looking at Anne-Marie. Whenever Janine was talking to Sophie, she was looking at Anne-Marie, and Matt was looking at her. Whenever I was talking, everyone was looking at Janine. No one was ever looking at me.

  We talked about all sorts of stuff. We talked about kiwis, atomic bombs, the former Soviet Union, granola, globalization, clothes, golf, cheese, celery, interplanetary travel, sauerkraut, hyperthyroidism, inflation, taxes, ancient Babylon, caffeine, drug-resistant flu strains and Lake Como, and all the time all I could think about was something else. Matt Chalmers’s dick. It was there, lurking under the table. I spent the entire dinner fantasizing about it. I might as well have ordered Cumberland sausage. Size, shape, color, consistency, smell. Taste. Oh, God.

  After dessert, I stood up. “I’m going to the men’s,” I said. I was half cut.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll join ya.” Matt stood up too.

  The men’s room in the Ivy is actually quite cramped. It has two porcelain urinals, side by side. I froze. I locked up completely. I just couldn’t do it. I stood there trying desperately to pee while Matt chattered away about this and that, gushing like a fire hydrant. Don’t look down. I was saying to myself, don’t look down. He’ll see. He’ll see you looking down.

  I looked down.

  It was enormous. It was horse-sized. It was thick and hairy and covered with snaking purple veins. It was a pendulous, pachydermous, Brobdingnagian horror. We washed our hands, and just before we went through the door, Matt hitched his trousers, put a hand on my shoulder and said, “So listen, Fred, you’re cool about this, right? This scene. No big deal, right?”

  “Scene?” I said.

  “Yeah, you know, the scene. Sophie and I have that scene. That one scene where she . . . y’know, she goes down on me.”

  “There’s a scene where she goes down on you?”

  “Ah . . . yeah.”

  “Oh,” I said, “yeah, okay.”

  Matt shifts weight. “I mean, it’s just a scene, right?”

  “Oh, sure, just a scene. Hell.”

  He patted my shoulder. We went back to the table. Anne-Marie and Sophie were nodding and smiling at each other, very very vigorously, and Sophie’s eyes were shining in an insincere sort of way. She had one hand laid loosely on the table, palm half upward, half-reaching toward Anne-Marie. Janine was looking rapidly from one to the other with a fixed smile. All her teeth showing. “All righty,” she kept saying. Sophie turned to us. She was showing a little color high on the cheeks. She looked straight at Matt. Straight down the barrel. “I was just saying to Anne-Marie, if she has any questions or anything at all about this scene, she only has to ask.”

  Anne-Marie smiled. Janine nodded furiously, her teeth flashing like piano keys in a dim lit room. Matt looked very, very serious. “Yeah. I think, you know, like, Fred and I were just saying in the john, we should all just feel free to say whatever it is we’re feeling, and, you know, communicate about it. And just stay open.”

  Now, everyone looked at me. All of them. It was all on. The blood drained from every part of my body simultaneously. Where it actually went, I don’t think I will ever know. “Right,” I said. “Good.” I could see it. I could see as plainly as if I were there and it was happening. I could see Matt Chalmers’s enormous throbbing dick plunging in and out of Sophie’s rosebud mouth. I could see nothing else. I felt for the chair, blindly. I felt ill. I sat down.

  “I mean, hey, after all,” said Matt, “it’s just a scene, right? We’re all friends here, and that’s all th
at it is, it’s just a scene in a motion picture. And it’s gonna be one hell of a motion picture.” Janine ordered port and when it arrived Matt proposed a toast. “To Shag City,” he said.

  “To Shag City.” We all drank. Deeply. As I put down my glass I looked across and caught Anne-Marie’s eye. We’d hardly said a word to each other all evening. I tried to read her expression, but with all that mascara it was hard. She was doing the wide-open thing with her eyes. I think she thought it gave her an open, caring, listening aspect. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I’d caught a little glimpse of distress.

  “Say,” said Matt, “you know what I feel like? I feel like a big fat cigar. Who’s for a cigar? Frederick?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “I’ll have one,” said Sophie.

  On the way out, Anne-Marie took my arm. “Listen, Frederick, if you ever want to talk, give me a call, okay? I’m going to be in London right through the whole shoot. The kids are gonna be on vacation.” She gave me her card, and she gave my arm a little squeeze. “You just give me a call, huh?”

  Sophie and I went straight home and had a big fight. It was our best and biggest. Normally we didn’t have fights at all, we’d just go silent, but this time we did. We really went to town. We did everything, we shouted, we stormed around the room, and then I picked up a plate and with incredible ease I frisbeed it across the table. It sailed through the air, wobbling slightly, and there was that magical motionless silent interval that always occurs when you’ve gone too far and you know it, when it seemed as if it would never arrive and time had stopped entirely. Then it exploded against the wall in a million pieces.

  A golden silence fell as we stood and admired our handiwork. “Look,” I said, “you know what? You just go ahead and do whatever you like. I don’t think I actually care anymore.” Then I went to bed.

  Tea’s made. I pour the tea and I take a sip. I’ll just sit it out. Only take a minute. Then I’ll wash those mugs. I think that’s actually what pulled me through the whole thing. The drinking and shouting and throwing things, while exhilarating, was completely useless. Instead I did dishes. Always respond to a bad thing with a good thing. Doesn’t matter how small. Just do some small, useful, good thing. Like, the morning that Sophie did actually leave, I went to the kitchen. All the way down the hall I was thinking about one thing, I was thinking about the vodka in the fridge. If I can just make it to the vodka. Seemed reasonable. It was traditional. But when I actually got to the kitchen the first thing I saw was the chef’s knife with the green handle. Eight-inch blade. I had had many thoughts over the last two days. It’s fair to say that a number of those thoughts did in fact center on the green-handled Zwilling chef’s knife with the eight-inch blade. That very morning, just before, just after Sophie had gone to phone Rebecca, I’d actually said to her, “I’m afraid.”