An Almost Perfect Moon

Jamie Holland

AN ALMOST PERFECT MOON

For Pip

Epigraph

The indefatigable pursuit of an unattainable Perfection, even though it consist in nothing more than in the pounding of an old piano, is what alone gives meaning to our life on this unavailing star.

Logan Pearsall Smith, Afterthoughts

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

part one – spring

1. Sunday and raining

2. Harry faces a conundrum

3. Flin receives a shock

part two – summer

4. the first whole day of Thomas Armstrong

5. Gloucester sojourn

6. paternity leave

7. Flin’s quest to become a modern day Pop Larkin takes a step in the right direction

8. fate throws a cat among the Pigeons

9. Ben begins to feel frustrated (in more ways than one)

10. rural realities

11. harry sees Jenny again but feels tantalised

12. client dinner

13. cold comfort

14. a breath of French air

part three – autumn

15. Ben confused

16. town and country

17. Harry in Arcadia

part four – winter

18. Ben

19. Flin

20. Harry

epilogue christening

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE Sunday and raining

Outside, the rain continued, putting paid to the planned walk on Wandsworth Common. Lucie had delivered the kind of high-class lunch her husband and close friends had come to expect. All the same, at seven-and-a-half months pregnant, she had warned all of them this was going to be the last she would be cooking at her and Ben’s house for quite some time. In the short-term future, if anyone was expecting to be fed on a Sunday, Ben would have to be the cook. Her husband had shrugged and the others had agreed that in that case, they should definitely make the most of the spread before them.

Now, having eaten and drunk too much, the small party slumped in front of the television, the fire gently flickering in its even, gas-infused way. They were watching Rebecca.

‘Oh my God, it’s burning,’ Tiffany exclaimed as Maxim de Winter hurtled down the drive towards Manderley. Flin was half reading the paper, and Harry seemed mildly distracted, but the other three were content to watch the final events of the film unfolding on the screen.

Ben was the first to pass judgement, as the final image – a single ‘R’ surrounded by flames – melted from the screen.

‘I’m sorry, darling, but that was bollocks.’ He stretched his arms above him and yawned.

‘It’s a great film,’ sighed Lucie. ‘Don’t be such a bloody heathen. Didn’t have enough guns for you, I suppose.’ She slapped him lightly on his shoulder and dug one of her legs into him. Since cooking the lunch, she’d refused to lift another finger; it was her prerogative to sit down and gently soothe her swollen, semi-spherical belly.

‘Well, I thought it was great. Really romantic,’ put in Tiffany.

‘Although I have to admit,’ added Lucie, ‘their’s was a totally unconvincing relationship. Never would have worked. There’s too much stacked against them. He’s dominating and dismissive and she’s wet. Not to mention the manslaughter bit. Because that’s what it was, even if she was dying and he was driven to it. It’s so sordid.’

Ben leant over and kissed her very delicately on the cheek. ‘Then we’re obviously doomed, darling: you’re dominating and I’m meek.’

‘Oh, be quiet,’ retorted Lucie, prodding him in the ribs.

‘See? I rest my case,’ he grinned.

But Tiffany, who hadn’t yet married Flin, picked up on something else. ‘So what do you think makes a good marriage then? You guys always seem so great together. What’s the secret?’

‘An adoring husband,’ said Ben.

Ignoring him, and deciding to take the question seriously, Lucie replied, ‘I don’t know really – I suppose you’ve got to be best of pals. Shared interests. You’ve got to like each other’s friends. That’s important.’ She looked thoughtfully in the direction of the bookcase. ‘Fancy each other, of course.’

‘No problem there,’ said Ben, ‘I’ve always fancied the pants off Luce.’

Finally giving her husband a hint of a smirk, Lucie added, ‘You’ve just got to know you’re right together. Deep down. But you guys might as well be married. You live together just like we do. What’s the secret for you? Much the same I expect.’

‘I don’t know, honey, what’s the secret?’ asked Tiffany, craning round to look at Flin.

‘What you have to realize,’ said Flin, half-heartedly covering Tiffany’s ears, ‘is that as well as being a gorgeous Aussie babe, Tiff is one of the most laid-back, easy-going people I know.’

‘And I like pubs a lot,’ added Tiffany, ‘which is important to you, isn’t it, honey?’

‘And you like pubs.’

‘And beer,’ said Lucie, ‘which considering you’re so tiny, I’ve always found extraordinary.’

Tiffany shrugged, then laughed. Flin looked at her, blonde hair dishevelled, and outsized woollen jumper stretched over knees tucked under her chin. He probably loved her more now than ever. He was a lucky man.

Ben decided to provoke Lucie. ‘Still,’ he began, grinning conspiratorially at Flin, ‘I think you might be wrong about Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine. I reckon they’d have worked out. After all she’s marrying pots of cash and he’s got a young wife to have great sex with. Anyway, I want to know what the film expert thinks,’ said Ben. ‘Come on, Flin.’

‘Oh, I’m with you all the way,’ agreed Flin. ‘Great sex and loads of money can overcome all sorts of other problems, I’m sure.’

‘I know what you’re doing, you two, and it isn’t going to work.’ Lucie folded her arms adamantly.

Tiffany laughed, ‘If only you were rich, Flin.’

‘If only I were,’ said Flin, stretching, ‘but I’m not sure I really see the point of getting married. And if Tiff ever does insist on it, I think we should go and do it on a beach in Barbados or something. I’ve seen so many people get hitched and everyone, without exception, seems to become totally over-stressed and argumentative over it. Seems a lot more hassle than it’s worth.’

‘That’s why it’s good for any long-lasting relationship,’ said Lucie. ‘It’s a test. If you still want to be married after an engagement full of wedding organization and arguments with future in-laws, you know you’re definitely made for each other.’

‘Fair comment,’ admitted Flin.

‘I quite like the sound of Barbados,’ said Tiffany, turning round to see Flin’s reaction.

‘OK, let’s go next week,’ he grinned. ‘Can everyone here make it?’

‘Great. I’m up for it,’ said Ben, holding up his hand, classroom-style. But Luice hadn’t finished on the important matter of the de Winters’ future.

‘I still think Laurence and Joan wouldn’t work. It would develop into a miserable loveless marriage. Really, they’re two completely different people – different ages, different classes, which was important then, and for most of the film he treats her more like a daughter. He was certainly old enough to be her dad. And he never once called her by her name. By the end of the film you still don’t know what her bloody name is! I mean, what kind of a marriage is that?’

‘What about “opposites attract”?’ suggested Ben. ‘And “darling”, he did call her “darling”.’

‘Yes, but in a patronizing way. He was always patronizing her. I’d have slugged him one, personally, but she was so bloody feeble and infatuated she put up with it.’

There was slight pause after Lucie finished her speech, and she interpreted this as confirmation of an argument won.

‘Well, if that’s how you feel,’ said Ben, yawning again, ‘at least there’s no chance of anyone accusing you of being wet, hey baby?’

‘Lucie, were you always this strident, or is it a side-effect of being pregnant?’ asked Flin, not looking up from his paper.

Lucie threw a cushion at him, grinned sheepishly, and then said, ‘Well, what do you think, Harry? I’m right, aren’t I?’

Harry, miles away, had only been half listening. Sitting on the wingbacked armchair, (his favourite spot whenever he came over), a leg dangling over one of the arms, he was staring up at the bookcases, filled with Lucie’s creased-arched paperbacks.

‘I’m afraid I’m with Luce on this one,’ he said at length, ‘they didn’t seem to have a lot in common.’

‘Thank you, Harry,’ said Lucie triumphantly.

‘Yes, but come on, Harry, look at Julia. She’s absolutely gorgeous. You can’t say that doesn’t help.’

‘Sure it does, but is it enough?’

‘Looking at those breasts and amazing legs of hers, I’d have thought so, yes.’

‘Ben!’ Lucie glared at him.

‘Darling, that’s nothing against you: I think you’re perfect, but from Harry’s point of view, Julia is a very attractive proposition.’

‘And she’s pretty well-off, isn’t she, Harry?’ added Flin.

Harry nodded wistfully.

‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Ben.

‘There isn’t one, I suppose. I don’t know. It’s just … well, I mean, you lot – you’re all so happy with each other. Ben and Lucie, you’re married; Flin and Tiffany, you might as well be. But I can’t see myself ever marrying Julia somehow.’

‘Why not?’ asked Ben. ‘You get on really well. She makes you laugh – you said so; she’s stunning; for some reason she seems to adore you. Sounds to me like you’ve got it made. Anyway, I thought it was all going well and that you were really keen. Has something happened?’

‘No, no, nothing. Nothing at all. Forget it.’

‘Harry, I do think you’re jumping the gun a bit,’ put in Lucie. ‘I mean, you’ve only been going out a couple of months. Stop comparing yourself with other people and see how it goes.’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He force-smiled at them: Ben and Lucie, looking so comfortable on the sofa, despite Lucie’s pregnant awkwardness; and Flin and Tiffany, Flin’s hand loosely draped over Tiffany’s shoulder while he read the paper, she sipping more red wine, the very picture of contented togetherness. It had been a mistake to mention his doubts about Julia. It was obvious what they would all say.

Ben, eyeing his friend, decided on this occasion to let it go. He’d call him up, arrange to go for a drink after football on Tuesday, and get to the bottom of it then.

Flin meanwhile had gone back to his paper and was leafing through the previous day’s property section, when something caught his eye.

‘Tiff, look at this,’ he said, slapping the paper down in front of her.

‘What?’ asked Ben.

‘A house,’ Flin told him. ‘A bloody big house – four bedrooms, a couple of old outbuildings and seven acres of land. Jesus, I must be mad.’

‘And?’

‘And look at the price. It’s worth less than our flat.’

Tiffany passed the advert to Ben.

‘I mean, when I see that,’ Flin continued, ‘I’m just so glad I live in a tiny two-bedroom flat on a seedy street in the arse-end of Hammersmith. Jesus. Makes me feel really quite ill. What the hell are we all doing here, for God’s sake?’

‘Yeah, but, Flin, who the hell wants to live in Northumberland?’ said Ben, passing the paper round to Lucie and then Harry. ‘I mean, it’s so bleak. And nothing to do unless you’ve a bit of a thing for sheep.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Tiffany. ‘I think it looks nice.’

‘You like sheep, do you?’ asked Harry, handing the folded paper back to Flin. ‘It’s cheap for a reason.’

Flin looked at it again. It seemed to be nestled in a small valley, although behind it, to emphasize the land that came with it, could be seen the empty Northumbrian uplands. Beautiful, but Ben was right – not exactly practical.

‘You’re right,’ he said at last, ‘but to think I could own that when I live in a glorified shoe-box still makes me feel a bit depressed. I mean, just look at all that space. The fresh air, no traffic jams, no graffiti, and yes, just the melodic sound of contented sheep bleating from the upper pastures. Maybe that’s the way forward. Get out of the madness of London and wind down for a while. Lead the simple life. De-stress. It’d be great, wouldn’t it? I’d get out of bed and be greeted by a vista of uninterrupted fields, instead of a mirror image of my own flat on the other side of the road. No Underground to scrabble through. No feeling grimy and soiled as soon as I got to work. Just clean, wholesome living.’

‘Wholesome but piss-boring,’ added Ben.

Flin looked at the picture once more. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said. ‘It was just a thought.’

As Harry left Ben and Lucie’s that afternoon, he was pleasantly surprised to note how the March days were slowly lengthening. He looked up to see a suggestion of clear blue lingering over the Common. The ground was wet underfoot, but the air felt dry and bracing after an afternoon spent surfeiting on food, drink and warmth. Feeling bloated, Harry decided to walk home. Anyway, he could never be bothered to wait for buses. Much better to be on the go.

The walk back to Brixton took half an hour. Across the quiet, wide-open stretch of Clapham Common, then an amble down the genteel calmness of Abbeville Road. The boundary between Clapham and Brixton was unmistakable. As he turned onto Acre Lane, he was greeted with immediate bustle and noise. Not far away, sirens cut across the evening air; then a shiny four-by-four with blacked-out windows thudded past him, vibrating music pulsing tremors along the road.

As Harry arrived outside his flat, he made his normal inspection of his beloved old Citröen, but, as usual, it was fine, not a blemish to be seen. His fellow Brixtonians seemed to respect rather than resent it. He sighed, feeling uncharacteristically low. On the cusp of thirty and a life that felt suddenly empty.

He stomped up the stairs. In his kitchen, a faint odour of cleansing fluid still lingered around the sink and surfaces. His answerphone, neatly attached to the wall by the door, was flashing the message light. Underneath, lying equally neatly on top of each other, were two bills, two more final warnings. Harry cursed himself. He’d intended to pay those first thing on Saturday morning but had forgotten. That meant he’d have to phone the following morning and explain that he would pay them that day, as he was bound to have already exceeded his seven days’ grace. This was the trouble with being a self-employed artist: irregular pay which it encouraged irregular payment of bills. Still, nothing he could do about on a Sunday night. He pressed the answer machine.

‘Oh, Harry, it’s your father here. Need to come down to town this week and was hoping to bunk up at your place. How about tomorrow? Bye.’ His father often did that, always ‘bunking up’ or ‘bunking down’ armed with his old leather overnight bag and battered briefcase. Harry smiled; he loved the fact his father felt he could. The second was from Julia, her smooth Galaxy bar tones filtering their way through the distortions of the machine.

‘Hi, Harry. It’s Julia. Just wondering when I’m going to see you next. I loved last night – it was wonderful. Call me.’

He would, but later. In his bathroom he undressed and ran a bath. Looking at himself in the mirror, he realized how tired he looked. It wasn’t surprising. There were just a few grey hairs amongst the otherwise light, soft mop that shaggily covered his head, and the beginning of a wrinkle at one side of his mouth; curiously the other remained unblemished. Nearly thirty and yet his life still felt utterly directionless. His other friends seemed to be leaving him behind. Nearly all of them were now married or living with their partners. Ben and Lucie were about to have a child. His parents had been twenty-nine when he’d been born, but there still seemed an enormous gulf between his present situation and settling down. He wished he could; he felt ready to in his heart, but he just didn’t seem able to find the right person to do it with.

What was the matter with him? Was he so obsessed with finding his one true love that, like Mrs Danvers, he would slowly go mad, eventually setting fire to his flat and himself? He plodded out of the bathroom, his towel wrapped around him, put on some cheering music, and sighed once more, this time a little more heavily. At least he had his flat. That was something. Just his and no one else’s. He could be as selfish as he wanted without it affecting anyone. Slumping down on the sofa, he looked about him. His taste, his choice; the television positioned in the corner, or the painting by his mother next to the door, simply because he wanted them there. There was no one to compromise with over what video to watch or when to have a bath. No one to stop him farting if he felt like farting. He could eat what he wanted to eat, and not be chided for putting too much butter on his toast like Lucie did with Ben. And no matter how envious he might feel of his friend’s advanced situation in life, once the baby was born, Ben’s life would not be the same. Being an artist also meant he was his own man, with no one telling him what to do. Unlike Julia, or his other friends, he wasn’t a slave to some higher being. Really, he had a lot to be thankful for.

The rain had finally given way to a half-clear sky as the blanket of cloud slowly disappeared. But, leaving Ben and Lucie’s, Flin barely noticed the upturn in the weather; his mind was preoccupied with a different matter entirely.

‘You know what, Tiff, perhaps we should leave London,’ he suggested to her in what he hoped was an offhand, easy-come, easy-go kind of manner.

‘OK,’ said Tiffany, as the bus pulled up on St John’s Road.

‘Well, perhaps we should,’ said Flin again, his excitement level rising.

‘When?’ said Tiffany casually as she stepped up to the driver. ‘Two to Hammersmith, please.’

She took the tickets and they squeezed themselves into one of the seats, which was far too small for Flin’s six-foot-something frame. His knees were wedged against the carpet-backed seat in front, and even Tiffany, who was tiny, looked cramped.

‘Are you serious?’ said Flin.

‘I don’t know. Are you?’

‘I’m not sure. Am I?’

Tiffany laughed. ‘You’re so funny. Flin, baby, I don’t know. I mean, what would we do?’

‘I’m sure we could find work. There must be PR companies worth working for outside London.’

‘Well, if we can both find something to do, then we could think about it. I wouldn’t mind moving out to the country. Don’t forget, hon, I’m a country girl. I’d never been anywhere a quarter of the size of London before I came here.’

‘It would be good though, wouldn’t it?’ continued Flin. ‘We could get a dog, have long walks, it’d be really quiet. We’d probably become regulars in some flagstoned local boozer. And just think – no more of this: taking hours to get anywhere. If we wanted to go to the beach, we could just go; we wouldn’t have to fight our way through one traffic jam after another, and walk past endless amounts of litter and graffiti.’

She looked up at him and grinned. ‘Darling, I’ll go anywhere with you. You know that.’

‘Be serious,’ said Flin, prodding her.

‘I am! Ouch! Get off me!’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Honestly, honey, I think it’s great that you see a house for sale in the newspaper and then decide we should throw in our jobs and move out.’ Flin saw she was trying to keep a straight face. ‘I mean, I think we should put our flat on the market straight away. Nothing like acting on a whim. Probably best just to be spontaneous. In fact, first thing tomorrow, let’s put an offer in on that house in Northumberland.’

‘That’s not funny,’ said Flin.

‘I think it’s hilarious.’

Both began giggling.

‘Tiff,’ he said, gasping, ‘share my vision.’

At which she started laughing again so hard, she could no longer speak. Eventually, she recovered. ‘Look, stop making me laugh. Everyone’s staring at us.’

‘I still think we should think about it though,’ said Flin.

Tiffany rested her head against his shoulder. ‘But seriously, Flin, you’re always having these plans. Don’t you remember last year you were dead set on us moving to France?’

‘It was a great idea at the time.’

‘Except that neither of us speaks French and we wouldn’t be able to get any work. And then you wanted to buy a houseboat.’

‘But that would have been great too.’

‘Yes, but you couldn’t talk about anything else for two weeks, then you realized it was actually going to cost a fortune and that was the last I heard of it. Then there was the time when we were going to take out loans and learn to fly. And then that was shelved and the money was going to fund us for a year of travelling the world. I love your enthusiasm for things, darling, but I can’t take this latest “vision” seriously because it’ll probably be dead in the water by next Thursday.’

‘But it’s only ever been lack of money that’s prevented us doing this stuff. If we can get jobs and so on, it might really be possible. And you have to admit, it would be good to have a little bit of land, wouldn’t it?’

Tiffany said nothing.

Flin continued. ‘That house we saw had a couple of fields, didn’t it? Just think, we could have a few sheep, get some geese and chickens and grow things. We could eat lots of really fresh, wholesome food. It’d be brilliant, wouldn’t it?’ Flin kissed the top of her head.

‘Brilliant,’ she said, and closed her eyes.

But Tiffany was probably right. Did he mean it? He simply wasn’t sure. In theory, the idea of moving out and pursuing the pastoral dream definitely fired him. But in practice … well, it was a big, big step.

‘You know what?’ Flin said to Tiffany a while later. The telly was on and she was snuggled up against him on the sofa.

‘What?’ said Tiffany, absent-mindedly tickling his arm.

‘I think I’ve just eradicated all the arguments I used to use for staying in London.’

‘Still on this one then. And what are those?’

‘Well,’ said Flin, counting them off on his fingers, ‘firstly I always used to say all my friends were here. But they’re not really. Not any more. Jessica’s in New York, Geordie’s in Wiltshire, Josh is in Sydney. That’s three really good mates who’ve left me behind. Secondly, I know film PR is fun and glamorous, but I have always said it was a young person’s job, and not for life.’ He paused, ‘Perhaps I should leave now. Sort of quit while I’m ahead.’

‘You do love your job, darling, you know you do.’

‘Well, yes and no, actually. I mean, having to deal with all those egos gets a bit wearing. And after all, it’s just promoting a product really. I’m sure there’re other equally interesting products to promote outside London.’

Tiffany put her arms around him and gave him a quick squeeze.

‘And,’ he continued, ‘I’m thirty now. If I’m ever going to take a risk in life, now’s the time to do it. No more of this complacency. It’s time we showed a bit of carpe diem, or whatever.’ He knew he was a past master when it came to convincing himself into doing something, but felt on this occasion his arguments were both valid and reasonable.