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Authors: James Hamilton-Paterson
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death of that sweet little French champion François Bidet at Monaco. In that instance artful old Gerry, casting a jaundiced eye over his own prose, adroitly removed the single appearance of the word ‘knickers’ from the chapter and Snoilsson passed it.
‘I wish not to have anything more to do with Millie Cleat,’ I say firmly.
‘Mm.’
A long pause, in which we both silently acknowledge that itreally doesn’t matter a row of beans what I want, provided I want to get paid for this book. That I do; and so does Frankie. Best get it over with as quickly as possible so the book will be ready in plenty of time for the Christmas market and I can embark on something worthy of my talents. Grit the teeth, Samper. ‘But I’m not having that woman in this house.’
‘And why should you?’ said Frankie emolliently. ‘You just need to agree between yourselves on where you’re going to meet. It may only take an hour to listen to her objections and –’
‘Objections? You said changes.’
‘Of course, that’s what I meant, Gerry. Absolutely not complaints as such. Just probably silly quibbles about matters of emphasis.’
Vintage Frankie: just probably silly quibbles. Has anyone ever been reassured by reassurance? ‘I’ll talk to Weetabix. So where’s Millie at the moment? Brisbane?’
‘No, here in London,’ says Frankie. ‘Apparently Lew’s over on Vvizz Corp. biz.’
I have a pretty good idea what that involves – not that I am about to strike moralistic attitudes. Indeed, when the hugely wealthy CEO of a multinational corporation squires a married global celebrity around town these days the whole starry scene transcends morality entirely. It even lends morality a faint aura of pathos as being about as relevant in the twenty-first century as a medieval chivalric code governing the correct wearing and throwing down of gauntlets. In fact, I thought how pleased Millie’s husband Clifford would be. Far from being a poor cuckold stuck in Pinner while his wife underwent transfiguration by limelight and headline, he would be mightily relieved. Clifford was the only member of the Cleat clan I liked. In the early days of researching the book he and I would slip off to a half-timbered Twenties pub that sixty-five years ago was probably spoken of as ‘that roadhouse on the way to Hendon aerodrome’. A great barn of a place now drowning in suburbia, with waves of balti houses, Chinese takeaways, shish-kebab joints and betting shops breaking against itsmock-Tudor brick walls, I expected it to be full of rorty wide boys driving stolen BMWs. Instead, the saloon bar was rather quiet, bizarrely lined with glass-fronted cabinets of stuffed weasels, some of which held miniature cricket bats and wore MCC ties, and a lot of signed black and white stills from The Wizard of Oz . Oh whoops, I thought. Could it be we have fallen among the friends of Dorothy? The place was quite well patronized by people I assumed were regulars since they greeted Clifford as one of them. Presumably the hubbub surrounding his wife’s recent around-the-world record had abated by then, for I noticed nobody made any reference to her. Quite evidently Clifford was not thought of just as Mr Millie but as someone with an entirely separate identity.
In all, I spent several evenings in his company and far preferred it to that of his wife. I flatter myself that this was true for him, too. Not that there was much self-flattery involved, since if the marriage Clifford described to me had been made in heaven it bespoke a heaven with quite a malign sense of humour. Millie had been three or four years older than Clifford when at twenty-three he abandoned a career in the Navy to marry her in 1979. ‘Stupidest thing I ever did,’ he said disarmingly . ‘Not that I’m not fond of the kids, don’t get me wrong. They’re great. But Millie and me, well, I suppose we weren’t cut out to be shipmates. I was having certain, um,
‘I wish not to have anything more to do with Millie Cleat,’ I say firmly.
‘Mm.’
A long pause, in which we both silently acknowledge that itreally doesn’t matter a row of beans what I want, provided I want to get paid for this book. That I do; and so does Frankie. Best get it over with as quickly as possible so the book will be ready in plenty of time for the Christmas market and I can embark on something worthy of my talents. Grit the teeth, Samper. ‘But I’m not having that woman in this house.’
‘And why should you?’ said Frankie emolliently. ‘You just need to agree between yourselves on where you’re going to meet. It may only take an hour to listen to her objections and –’
‘Objections? You said changes.’
‘Of course, that’s what I meant, Gerry. Absolutely not complaints as such. Just probably silly quibbles about matters of emphasis.’
Vintage Frankie: just probably silly quibbles. Has anyone ever been reassured by reassurance? ‘I’ll talk to Weetabix. So where’s Millie at the moment? Brisbane?’
‘No, here in London,’ says Frankie. ‘Apparently Lew’s over on Vvizz Corp. biz.’
I have a pretty good idea what that involves – not that I am about to strike moralistic attitudes. Indeed, when the hugely wealthy CEO of a multinational corporation squires a married global celebrity around town these days the whole starry scene transcends morality entirely. It even lends morality a faint aura of pathos as being about as relevant in the twenty-first century as a medieval chivalric code governing the correct wearing and throwing down of gauntlets. In fact, I thought how pleased Millie’s husband Clifford would be. Far from being a poor cuckold stuck in Pinner while his wife underwent transfiguration by limelight and headline, he would be mightily relieved. Clifford was the only member of the Cleat clan I liked. In the early days of researching the book he and I would slip off to a half-timbered Twenties pub that sixty-five years ago was probably spoken of as ‘that roadhouse on the way to Hendon aerodrome’. A great barn of a place now drowning in suburbia, with waves of balti houses, Chinese takeaways, shish-kebab joints and betting shops breaking against itsmock-Tudor brick walls, I expected it to be full of rorty wide boys driving stolen BMWs. Instead, the saloon bar was rather quiet, bizarrely lined with glass-fronted cabinets of stuffed weasels, some of which held miniature cricket bats and wore MCC ties, and a lot of signed black and white stills from The Wizard of Oz . Oh whoops, I thought. Could it be we have fallen among the friends of Dorothy? The place was quite well patronized by people I assumed were regulars since they greeted Clifford as one of them. Presumably the hubbub surrounding his wife’s recent around-the-world record had abated by then, for I noticed nobody made any reference to her. Quite evidently Clifford was not thought of just as Mr Millie but as someone with an entirely separate identity.
In all, I spent several evenings in his company and far preferred it to that of his wife. I flatter myself that this was true for him, too. Not that there was much self-flattery involved, since if the marriage Clifford described to me had been made in heaven it bespoke a heaven with quite a malign sense of humour. Millie had been three or four years older than Clifford when at twenty-three he abandoned a career in the Navy to marry her in 1979. ‘Stupidest thing I ever did,’ he said disarmingly . ‘Not that I’m not fond of the kids, don’t get me wrong. They’re great. But Millie and me, well, I suppose we weren’t cut out to be shipmates. I was having certain, um,
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