his eyes fixed on her, he strode out of the bushes and across the tarmac apron in front of the café, weaving in and out of the tables where dogs, children on bicycles and adults with trays were crowded together, irritable waitresses tripping through. Natasha glanced up and started on the work of taking him in. She even rose, and stood on tiptoe. If he was looking to see how she had aged, she was doing the same to him.
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’ve cut your hair.’
‘I’ve gone grey, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘Or was I grey before?’
Before he could draw back, her fingers were in his hair.
‘Behind the ear, there used to be a few white hairs‚’ she said. ‘Now – there’s a black one. Why don’t you dye it?’
He noticed her hair was still what they called ‘rock ‘n’ roll black’.
He said, ‘Why would I bother?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you’re no longer vain. Look at you in your shiny dark blue raincoat. How much did those shoes cost?’
‘I have a son now, Natty.’
‘I know that, Daddio‚’ she said. She tapped her big silver ring on the table, given to her as a teenager by a Hell’s Angel boyfriend.
‘You like fatherhood?’
He looked away at the tables piled with the Sunday papers, plates and cups, and children’s toys. He heard the names of expensive schools, like a saint’s roll-call. He remembered, as a child, his parents urging him to be polite, and wished for the time when good manners protected you from the excesses of intimacy, when honesty was not romanticised.
He said, ‘My boy’s a fleshy thing. There’s plenty of him to kiss. I don’t think we’ve ever seen his neck. But he has a bubbly mouth and a beard of saliva. I bring him here in his white hat – when he cries he goes red and looks like an outraged chef.’
‘Is that why you made me come all this way? I couldn’t find this bloody place.’
He said, ‘I thought it would amuse you to know … In May 1966 the Beatles made promotional films here, for “Rain” and “Paperback Writer”.’
‘I see‚’ she said. ‘That’s it?’
‘Well, yes.’
He and Natasha had liked pop of the sixties and seventies; in her flat they had lain on oriental cushions drinking mint tea, among other exotic interests, playing and discussing records.
Before he met her, he had been a pop journalist for several years, writing about fashion, music and the laboured politics that accompanied them. Then he became almost respectable, as the arts correspondent for an old-fashioned daily broadsheet. On this paper it amused the journalists to think of him as young, contradictory and promiscuous. He was hired to be contrary and outrageous.
In fact, at night, he was working to show them how tangled he was. Not telling anyone, he wrote, with urgent persistence, an uninhibited memoir of his father. The book spoke of his own childhood terrors, as well as his father’s vanity and tenderness. The last chapter was concerned with what men, and fathers, could become, having been released, as women were two decades earlier, from some of their conventional expectations. Before publication, he was afraid of being mocked; it was an honest book, an earnest one, even.
The memoir was acclaimed and won awards. It was said that men hadn’t exposed themselves in such a way before. He gave up journalism to write a novel about young men working on a pop magazine, which was made into a popular film. He lived in San Francisco and New York, taught ‘creative writing’, and rewrote unmade movies. He had got out. He was envied; he even envied himself. People spoke about him,as he had talked of pop stars, once. He met Natasha and things went awry.
She said, ‘You still listen to all that?’
‘How many times can you hear “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and “She Loves You”? And the new stuff means nothing to me.’
She said, ‘All those symphonies and concertos sound the same.’
‘At least they can play‚’ he
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’ve cut your hair.’
‘I’ve gone grey, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘Or was I grey before?’
Before he could draw back, her fingers were in his hair.
‘Behind the ear, there used to be a few white hairs‚’ she said. ‘Now – there’s a black one. Why don’t you dye it?’
He noticed her hair was still what they called ‘rock ‘n’ roll black’.
He said, ‘Why would I bother?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you’re no longer vain. Look at you in your shiny dark blue raincoat. How much did those shoes cost?’
‘I have a son now, Natty.’
‘I know that, Daddio‚’ she said. She tapped her big silver ring on the table, given to her as a teenager by a Hell’s Angel boyfriend.
‘You like fatherhood?’
He looked away at the tables piled with the Sunday papers, plates and cups, and children’s toys. He heard the names of expensive schools, like a saint’s roll-call. He remembered, as a child, his parents urging him to be polite, and wished for the time when good manners protected you from the excesses of intimacy, when honesty was not romanticised.
He said, ‘My boy’s a fleshy thing. There’s plenty of him to kiss. I don’t think we’ve ever seen his neck. But he has a bubbly mouth and a beard of saliva. I bring him here in his white hat – when he cries he goes red and looks like an outraged chef.’
‘Is that why you made me come all this way? I couldn’t find this bloody place.’
He said, ‘I thought it would amuse you to know … In May 1966 the Beatles made promotional films here, for “Rain” and “Paperback Writer”.’
‘I see‚’ she said. ‘That’s it?’
‘Well, yes.’
He and Natasha had liked pop of the sixties and seventies; in her flat they had lain on oriental cushions drinking mint tea, among other exotic interests, playing and discussing records.
Before he met her, he had been a pop journalist for several years, writing about fashion, music and the laboured politics that accompanied them. Then he became almost respectable, as the arts correspondent for an old-fashioned daily broadsheet. On this paper it amused the journalists to think of him as young, contradictory and promiscuous. He was hired to be contrary and outrageous.
In fact, at night, he was working to show them how tangled he was. Not telling anyone, he wrote, with urgent persistence, an uninhibited memoir of his father. The book spoke of his own childhood terrors, as well as his father’s vanity and tenderness. The last chapter was concerned with what men, and fathers, could become, having been released, as women were two decades earlier, from some of their conventional expectations. Before publication, he was afraid of being mocked; it was an honest book, an earnest one, even.
The memoir was acclaimed and won awards. It was said that men hadn’t exposed themselves in such a way before. He gave up journalism to write a novel about young men working on a pop magazine, which was made into a popular film. He lived in San Francisco and New York, taught ‘creative writing’, and rewrote unmade movies. He had got out. He was envied; he even envied himself. People spoke about him,as he had talked of pop stars, once. He met Natasha and things went awry.
She said, ‘You still listen to all that?’
‘How many times can you hear “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and “She Loves You”? And the new stuff means nothing to me.’
She said, ‘All those symphonies and concertos sound the same.’
‘At least they can play‚’ he
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