Familiar Rooms in Darkness (2 page)

‘Well, that's just it, you see. Which of us is prepared to tell the entire truth about ourselves? I should think the average autobiography is as likely to be an exercise in concealment, or at any rate careful dissimulation, as a full and frank revelation. A biographer, with adequate access to the people and materials relevant to a person's life, is far more likely to come up with a truthful and rounded picture of that life, wouldn't you say?' Harry reached out for the wine and extended the bottle towards Adam, who shook his head. Harry replenished his own glass.

‘But it still finishes up being merely a point of view,' said Adam. ‘No matter how many papers and letters and diaries a biographer has access to, no matter how many interviews he or she conducts, the end product is merely a distillation, surely. The essence of that individual, the true essence, their own voice, is always going to be lacking.'

Harry smiled. ‘It's a subject that interests you, I can see. Would I suit you, as a subject? Would you care to write my life?'

Adam was a little taken aback. ‘I didn't mean to be presumptuous –'

‘You haven't presumed anything. I ask the question because, naturally, it's something that has preoccupied me of late. I'm dying, you see – pancreatic cancer, very difficult to treat–' He waved a thin hand in nonchalant acknowledgement. ‘And naturally that predisposes me to concentrate on the business of living, for the moment. Setting false modesty aside, I'm aware that I'm a ripe subject for a biography. The vultures will start circling as soon as I drop.' He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I don't care for the idea of my life being raked over, becoming the subject of speculation and lies. I think that's rather terrifying.'

‘Why should it be? Why should any biography not be quite candid and fair?'

‘Fair? Now that's an interesting word… fair.
Honest
might be more appropriate, wouldn't you think? Surely a good biographer wouldn't scruple to tell the truth about his subject, whatever he might discover?'

‘Well… yes, naturally. But I think you have to have respect for your subject. Anyone who undertakes to write the life of another person must surely already have a certain admiration for them, or their work, to want to do it in the first place. I'm not talking about hagiography, necessarily, but when a person achieves success or distinction because of certain talents and abilities, or work they've accomplished, then it can't serve much purpose
in chronicling the development of that person's life to expose all kinds of irrelevancies, merely because they happen to be salacious and good for publicity.'

Harry nodded thoughtfully. ‘It's an interesting question, certainly, the nature of truth and its usefulness.

Briony approached them. ‘I'm sorry to disturb you both, but it's time for Harry's medication. I think you should come indoors for a little while, darling.'

Adam, taking his cue, stood up.

‘I have enjoyed talking to you, Adam,' said Harry, as he, too, got slowly to his feet. ‘We've touched upon a fascinating topic. You must leave your phone number with Briony. I'd like to discuss it with you some more.'

A fortnight later, Harry invited Adam Downing to lunch. The late-August air was still balmy, and they ate outside on the terrace, just the two of them. Harry told Adam that Briony was in London.

‘A busy girl, my wife. She'd stay down here all the time, if I let her, but I insist she doesn't let her work drop. She's in great demand at the moment.' Adam murmured something that sounded like mild agreement. Harry paused and surveyed Adam's features with lazy pleasure. ‘So, Adam, tell me all about yourself. Tell me about your family, where you went to school, that kind of thing.'

‘My family? Well, not a great deal to tell there. My mother died when I was quite young. Eight. My father was a good deal older than she was, and he didn't quite know how to cope with me. So I was sent to boarding school – which I didn't much mind.' Adam ran his long fingers repeatedly over the edge of the wrought-iron table
as he talked, his glance not touching Harry's. ‘My father's business meant he spent a good deal of time in the States, so more often than not I went to my aunt and uncle in the holidays. My mother's sister. Very kind people.' He smiled. ‘I think of them as my real family.'

‘And your father?'

‘My father…' Although Adam smiled in his customary gentle and deprecating manner, Harry could read the darkness in his eyes. ‘I think my father tried to return to the life he'd led before he married my mother. It was what he knew best. I didn't really fit in – a small boy, somewhat lost, in need of something he wasn't sure how to give. I don't think he was very good with children. That is… I think he was waiting for me to turn into someone he could make sense of – an adult, I suppose. But by the time I did, it was too late. He died when I was in my first year at university. He was in the States at the time. Very sudden.' Adam frowned, fingers moving back and forth, back and forth on the table's edge. ‘That was when I found out he'd remarried, about two or three years before. He hadn't told me. He simply hadn't told me – or my aunt and uncle. I don't know why.'

‘So you suddenly found you had a stepmother?'

Adam looked mildly surprised. ‘I never thought of her as that. I suppose she was. She just took the money and ran. I don't think about her. I don't think about him much, as a matter of fact.'

The silence stretched over long seconds.

Harry gazed reflectively at Adam, remembering his own choices in life as a young man, wondering what had
set Adam on the path which had brought him here today. ‘What made you become a journalist?' he asked.

‘Something to do with English being my best subject at school, I imagine. I was always passionately fond of literature. I mean, I was happy enough as a boy, but I suppose I was – well, somewhat solitary. Reading has always been a passion. I thought I wanted to teach, had ideas of becoming a fellow, staying at Oxford, but I'd already begun to write the odd review, articles here and there… I sort of slipped into journalism, and I've stayed there.'

‘Being a freelance is quite a lonely occupation. Don't you mind that?'

‘No. No, I enjoy solitude. I like my own thoughts, my own company. I've been on the staff of a couple of big dailies, had quite enough of working for large organizations. The way I work now suits me very well. I've always wanted to be a writer, and I suppose I thought going freelance would give me more time to work on something of my own. But it hasn't quite happened that way. I'm too busy. That's the trouble with journalism. No end to writing.' Adam laughed. ‘Not that I should complain.'

‘No, indeed. I see your name everywhere.' Brenda, the middle-aged woman who acted as Harry's nurse and housekeeper, appeared bearing a large tray, which she set down on the table.

They talked on over lunch. Afterwards, as the afternoon grew cooler, they moved indoors to the morning room to have coffee. It was a room of battered grandeur, reminiscent of a London club, comfortably furnished in a masculine style. It was here that Harry did his writing,
working at a large desk which stood in one corner, surrounded by ceiling-high bookcases. They sat in large armchairs, Harry with a tartan rug over his thin legs, feet resting on a leather footstool.

‘I wonder,' said Harry, stirring his coffee, ‘whether I couldn't be instrumental in helping you to achieve your ambition of becoming a writer.' He looked up at Adam and smiled.

Adam returned the smile hesitantly. ‘I don't quite understand.'

‘I was serious when I said I wanted someone to write my biography, to begin it while I am still alive. Someone of my own choosing. I should like some control over my reputation's destiny. Is that conceited, do you think?'

Adam paused before replying. ‘I don't think so – no more so than putting the rest of one's affairs in order before the end of one's life.' He felt a tingle of apprehension.

‘How very well you put it.'

‘Given the way that unauthorized biographers tend to plunder the lives of famous people after their deaths, I should think it would be regarded as quite a prudent action.'

‘Prudent, yes. I feel that.' Harry glanced at Adam. ‘What d'you say? Think you're up to the task?'

‘You want me to write it?' Adam felt a thrill of excitement, then laughed. ‘It's very flattering, but you don't really know me very well, to entrust me with something like that.'

‘Think of it as professional rather than personal, Adam. We have talked. I know you well enough to think we
could work together for such time as I have left. And thereafter –' Harry lifted his hand, then let it fall. ‘I feel pretty sure you would finish the job admirably. I've read a good deal of your work over the past week or so. I like your style. I think you're acute, intelligent, reflective. And you seem to have an understanding of my work that is almost scholarly, if you don't mind my saying so.'

‘Well, look, if you're serious –'

‘Never more so. I think you would make an excellent biographer.'

‘I've never written a full-length book before.'

Harry spread his hands. ‘You're a journalist. My life just happens to be a longer story than most that you write. I would give you full access to my papers, my diaries, such as they are, my correspondence. And, of course, you would have the fullest cooperation of my friends and family. Without that, I don't think any biographer would get very far. If you accept the commission, it would be understood among my circle that there should be no contact or cooperation, after my death, with anyone else attempting to write about me. Only you.'

Ring-fencing, thought Adam. He wants to protect his territory. Why me?

‘You look doubtful,' said Harry.

‘No,' said Adam with a start. ‘Not at all. I was thinking. I'm just… astonished. And –' Grateful? Yes, bloody grateful. The biography of Harry Day would have to be worth a six-figure advance from a publisher. Apart from that, it would add a new dimension to his career. Being a freelance was fine, but it could be a shaky existence. The money this would bring in would be invaluable, to say
nothing of establishing his reputation for future similar projects. If he could bring this off… Yes, he believed he could. A rush of excitement shook him. A life like Harry's was a gift. The man had done so much, known so many people. It was bound to sell well. ‘–and grateful,' finished Adam. ‘That you should ask me.'

‘It'll write itself,' said Harry. ‘All I have to do is tell you what happened.'

Adam nodded. What could be simpler? It wasn't as though he was going to have to trawl around, picking up a cold trail, researching. Harry was still alive and kicking, and what greater help could a biographer have than that of his subject? Yet he had to ask the question. ‘Why me? Why not one of your old friends, someone like Francis Cleverley, for instance?'

‘Because… because I don't want this book to be written for all the old bores who knew me, knew those times. I want it to come from someone with a different perspective, someone who might find it all genuinely intriguing.'

‘When do we start?'

‘As soon as possible. I don't have a great deal of time left. Better make the most of me while you've got me.'

At that moment the door opened and a girl came in. Even dressed in combat trousers, boots and a sweatshirt, she was ethereally pretty. Adam recognized her instantly as Harry's daughter, Bella Day, a twenty-something actress who had made a name for herself in a recent British gangster film, which had enjoyed unexpected success in the UK and the States. Adam, schooled from an early
age in old-fashioned courtesies, rose from his chair. Bella gave him an amused glance, and crossed the room to her father.

‘I'm off now, Daddy. I've got a hectic weekend ahead.'

Harry stroked her hand and gestured in Adam's direction. ‘Bella, I'd like you to meet Adam Downing. He's a journalist, and he's going to be working on my biography. Adam, this is my daughter Bella.'

‘Really?' She shook Adam's hand and surveyed him with mild curiosity. Adam couldn't tell from her expression whether she approved of the notion or not.

‘So in due course he'll want to spend some time talking to you and Charlie about your blighted existence with me.'

Bella smiled at her father. ‘Blighted's the word.' Her attention had switched entirely away from Adam. ‘Are you going to be all right till Briony gets back?'

‘Of course. Brenda sees to everything. Briony will be back the day after tomorrow.'

‘Right.' Bella slipped on her denim jacket, pulling her curling blonde hair free from the collar. ‘I'll be off. I'll ring you next week.' She bent and kissed the top of his head.

She didn't glance at Adam or say goodbye.

When she had gone, Adam sat down. ‘She is quite amazingly beautiful,' he said, unable to help himself.

Harry smiled, evidently pleased. ‘Isn't she? I feel she's going to be a tremendous success as an actress. I hope so, at any rate. I should like to be around to see it, but there…' He rearranged the rug across his spindly knees. ‘Now, what were we discussing?'

And they began once more to talk about Harry and his life.

That evening Adam put a bottle of champagne in the fridge with which to celebrate when he told Megan the news. Then he began to prepare supper. Fridays had turned into a kind of ritual now. Either they went out with friends to a wine bar and then a restaurant, or else Adam cooked, he and Megan ate, then they talked or watched television for a while, went to bed, made love. The rest of the weekend they spent together, mostly – seeing friends, going out, idling in bed with the papers… He had slipped into this couple business without really noticing at first. So much of the relationship had happened that way. It was restful, easy, like Megan herself. They had been living together for four months now, having met two years ago at a media event which Adam had been covering, sponsored by a car magazine. Megan worked for the PR company which had set up the event. He had seen her across the room and liked her instantly. She reminded him of some kind of woodland creature – a squirrel, or chipmunk, one of those anthropomorphic female Disney animals. She had soft, dark hair falling to her shoulders, big, bright eyes, and a small, sensual body. She drove a snappy VW, she was trendy, vivacious, and possessed the kind of up-to-date, superficial understanding of books, plays, people, films and events which passed for intelligence. At thirty-one, she was older than she looked, something which she worried about more than she would ever have admitted to Adam.