11 Albert Bosch was surprised to find himself alone in bed when he woke up from a deep sleep in his London hotel room. Gina must be in the bathroom, he thought. But after several minutes he had heard no sound coming from there. Since he needed to go, he got up and knocked on the bathroom door, and on hearing no reply he opened it. The bathroom was empty. Coming back into the bedroom, he looked at the clock. It was an hour earlier than his accustomed waking time. Of course – they were in England! But where could Gina be? As he had discovered on their first morning together, when she was not working she liked to sleep even later than he did. He went back to bed. Maybe she had gone out to get the newspapers! She must be eager to read the reviews, probably the first ones she has ever had in the regular press! He remembered the first time that a film of his was reviewed by an established critic; he was so excited! But then he was a mere beginner then, while Gina was already an established star who was making a career change. It must be different for her. He had sensed from the audience’s mood, and from the comments he heard after the showing, that the reviews would not be favorable, and he was not looking forward to reading them. At that moment the door opened quietly and Gina came in, sneakily at first, until she noticed that Albert was awake. She was empty-handed, except for the room key which she put in her raincoat pocket. “Hi,” she said to him and flashed her famous smile. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I just went out for a walk,” she said, taking off her raincoat – which was wet, for she had indeed stepped outside the hotel for veracity’s sake – and placing it on a chair. “But I’m here!” she exclaimed cheerily as she began to remove her dress. She wore nothing underneath. Albert Bosch no longer cared where she might have been. She kicked off her sandals and slipped into bed. In his robe and slippers, sipping his coffee, Nigel skimmed the pages of the Sunday Telegraph. He was practicing his habitual delayed gratification, which in his case meant postponing the Sunday crossword, to which he was addicted, to the very end. In the Sport section, he glanced at the football scores and standings, but he read only the story about Manchester City’s match. As a Mancunian and a Labour voter, he had City Till I Die bred into his bones, and he felt delighted with the previous day’s win in the derby with United. The last section to look over would be Obituaries, where for the past two years he had made it his habit to glance at the names in boldface to see if he recognized any. Just as he was beginning to shift his mind to the crossword, his attention was suddenly riveted by the name Victoria Blackwood-Somerville, “survived… by her grieving husband, Dr Peter Somerville, a London cardiologist, and her daughter, Margaret Blackwood, a noted painter, living in France.” He put down his coffee cup but not the paper. He reached for the London telephone directory that lay on top of his desk, opened it to S, and quickly found the home number of Dr Peter Somerville. Peter was a reader of the Sunday Times, and he read it in his study, fully dressed and drinking tea, section by section, page after bloody page. The photo of his late wife that was on his desk was now draped in black. A portrait of her, painted by Margaret and showing the same formal pose as in the photo, but in wild colors, hung on a wall beside the desk. The telephone rang. “Hello!” he said, surprised that anyone would be calling on a Sunday morning. “Uh, Dr Somerville?” “Yes!” Wouldn’t be a patient, would it? he thought. “I’m calling to see if Margaret Blackwood might be there.” “Yes, she’s here but she’s asleep.” … “Would you tell her that Nigel called? Here’s my number…” “Yes, I shall tell her… hold on..” Peter took a pen out of his jacket pocket and scribbled on a pad that he had taken from the desk. “Just Nigel?” he asked. “Yes, doctor. I shall be much obliged.” “Not at all, cheerio.” Peter hung up and went back to reading paper. He was in the Shows section when, some fifteen minutes later, Margaret walked in. “Good morning!” she said, stifling a yawn. “Oh, hello, Margaret. Oh, by the way, listen to this: ‘Die-hard fans of hard-core queen Gina George, who may have worried that playing Lady G in Paradise under the direction of art-cinema maestro Albert Bosch would turn her into a legitimate actress, need have no such worries. Fans of Albert Bosch, on the other hand…’” “Please stop, Peter,” Margaret interrupted, “I’m not interested.” “Oh, sorry, I thought you might be, but never mind. Oh, by the way, there’s a message for you, from a certain…” he looked at the pad to refresh his memory. “… Nigel.” “Nigel?” Peter could not tell if Margaret did not know the name or if hearing it had surprised her. “Yes, seemed rather intense, or perhaps intent. Who is it?” “Someone I met last night, but I didn’t give him my… I mean your phone number, or your name.” “You must be careful with who you meet these days, you know. Did you go to bed with him?” “Oh, for God’s sake, Peter.” She made no attempt to hide her annoyance, but felt no need to dwell on the subject. “Any tea left?” “Yes, on the kitchen table, but I’m not sure I put the cozy on.” “That’s all right, I’ll just put it… oh, that’s right, you haven’t got a microwave.” “No, I can’t have one. Got patients with pacemakers coming and going, you know.” “I know.” She walked into the kitchen. Of course she would call Nigel, but bloody well not in Peter’s presence. Nigel felt finally ready to tackle the crossword, and found the first few clues, as usual, rather easy, but after that his progress was slower than usual. He knew quite well that his mind was distracted by the thought that the lovely Margaret – so unlike the one in Whitehall, he couldn’t help thinking – might soon be phoning him, and then again she might not. Their farewell had been indecisive. Indecisive! he thought. That’s it! “Sharp about something of French, but cannot make up one’s mind.” Ten letters. Sharp – incisive. Something of French – de. “Incisive” about “de.” Indecisive! Now he had another letter, the third, for that vertical fourteen-letter word, but he felt no closer to decoding the clue. Would thinking about Margaret help? Albert Bosch, Gina George and Mario Farga did not linger in London any longer than necessary. Albert had communicated to Gina his foreboding that the British art-cinema critics would not care for Lady G in Paradise, and a look through the Sunday Mail that greeted them at the breakfast table confirmed it. Gina had countered that they didn’t count and that, after some word of mouth, her many fans would begin to queue up for the film once the art-house crowd had abandoned it. She was surprised to discover over breakfast that her optimism was shared by Albert’s distributor, Julian, who had experienced similar turnarounds with other continental imports of a piquant nature, even without the erotic cachet of a Gina George. Her own distributor, Geoff, was more wary, especially after Fleshpots of the West had flopped in London just as it had in the States (though they had loved it in Houston, of all places, and videocassette sales were picking up, according to Russ). Mario told an old joke in Catalan at the expense of the English – the point was somehow lost in the attempted translation – and said that what really mattered was the real premiere in Barcelona. This event was to take place the following evening, to be followed by a weekend opening in Paris. There would be a general European release in December, and in January they would travel to Utah, where what had previously been a local film festival had been taken over by Robert Redford and was beginning to turn into an international event. Redford’s representative had assured Albert Bosch that they would be honored to present the North American premiere of a film of his. And Albert would have a chance to do some skiing in the Rocky Mountains. Their bags were packed, and immediately after breakfast a Rolls-Royce limousine took them to Heathrow. Nigel had regained his concentration and was struggling mightily with the cryptic crossword clue when the telephone rang. He was tempted to answer with “Margaret!” but instead just said “Hello!” “Nigel? This is Margaret Blackwood.” “I know.” “How did you find my stepfather’s phone number?” “Oh, didn’t I tell you that I’m a spy? No, I have this morbid habit of reading the obituaries, ever since a colleague of mine died a couple of years ago and I came into the office cheerfully asking ‘I say, how’s old Ben?’ And I found your mother’s.” “And you put two and two together.” “I did tell you that I’m an accountant, didn’t I?” “You did indeed.” A brief silence ensued. “So, you’re leaving tomorrow, are you?” he asked tentatively. “Actually, I postponed it to Tuesday.” He did not stop to think whether she had done it for him, but, with no preliminaries, asked, “Dinner tomorrow, then?” “Yes,” she answered simply. “Pick you up at seven… at number seven?” This time she laughed. “All right,” she said. “Till tomorrow, then.” “Ciao,” she said and hung up. He held the receiver with both hands for a little while before hanging up, as thoughts of Margaret were gradually replaced by that blasted crossword clue. And then he got it. The rest of the puzzle fell into place in short order. Mario Farga, Albert Bosch and Gina George were met at the Barcelona airport by a small army of officials, journalists and fans with autograph pads. Gina and Mario flashed their best movie-star smiles in the face of the flashbulbs. Albert, however, was caught on film looking concerned. “Here they think I am the big star,” said Mario to Gina in the midst of the hubbub. “They don’t know about your other work.” “Good,” said Gina. She had not yet told either of them about her idea. She wondered whom to tell first. But when she felt the back of Mario’s hand discreetly touching hers as they were walking to the VIP parking area where an official car was waiting for them, she lost any doubt she might have had about his agreeing to it. No, she thought, the one to sell was Albert. And telling Albert could wait till Paris. They were shortly joined by Sofia Marés, who had been somewhat delayed in getting to the airport. She was accompanied by her husband, or at least the man that she was living with and considered her husband, though, Spain not having legalized divorce yet, she was still legally married to the one she regarded as her ex. The man she was with, named Víctor, was a bilingual writer who wrote novels in Spanish and plays – in which Sofia of course had starred – in Catalan. Gina and Albert had not met him before this occasion. His English was halting but his French was fluent, and, after attempting a couple of compliments addressed to Gina, he was soon engaged in a conversation with Albert. This conversation was, however, interrupted by the demands of photographers that Albert pose with the three co-stars. “Vous comprenez, mon ami…” Albert said to Victor. “Je vous comprends parfaitement,” was the reply. And Gina, to her own surprise, understood the exchange perfectly. Geoff Scrivener was indeed the bringer of news about Gina George and her project with Albert Bosch. He especially dwelled on the impact that a sexy young actor named Mario Farga had on everyone in the audience except the straight men, who, it so happened, were the only segment represented among the London critics. When it came to Frank Bond, however, it turned out that not only did Geoff know about him, but he knew something that Barry had not known: that Frank Bond was bisexual.