BRIGHT WALKS ALONG THE hallway with his eyes half-closed, trying not to see too much. The artfully sponged apricot walls and the billowing pastel curtains make him queasy, as does the smell: lavender air freshener, rosemary chicken, and underlying everything the faint but unmistakable whiff of the Reverend’s controlling hand.
‘Are you sure you want to spend the night in a place like this?’ he’d asked Lewis as they pulled up outside.
‘Your father made reservations for us. He’s stayed here before.’ But even Lewis had looked doubtful at the sight of the pension sign fashioned out of an artist’s palette, and the blue satin bows tied around the ornamental trees.
At the top of the stairs, Bright pauses. He lays his hand on the gleaming banister, then yanks it back as if burnt; at that moment he knows that his father has, at least once, stood in this very position and put his hand on the very same spot. ‘Our Father who art in Florida,’ he says loudly, ‘hallowed be thy name.’ He tilts his head back to see through his slit-vision eyes. His reptilian gaze sees down the stairs, through the closed door, over the car park, all the way across France. ‘You’ve got me this far, thy will be done, you remote-controlling —’
Suddenly his heel slips on the carpet, and he’s careening down fifteen plush salmon-pink stairs. Bumping off walls, denting elbows, swearing at the top of his voice, and then sliding into the breakfast room as if he’s on a toboggan. ‘Morning!’ he says, slamming into a sideboard laden with food.
‘Please tell me you didn’t ride the banister.’ Lewis puts down his cup in alarm. But sitting there in a sea of empty tables and carefully artful posies, he looks pleased to see Bright, regardless of his wild entrance.
‘I slipped. They must have been up at dawn polishing the carpet.’ Bright is wrist-deep in a giant bowl of cereal. ‘Rice Krispies?’ he offers, shaking them out of his sleeve.
Lewis emits a strange rumbling sound.
‘Is that a suppressed laugh?’ asks Bright. ‘I suppose my father put “No laughing” in the job description, along with “Willingness to spend nights at tasteless pensions”.’
Lewis makes the sound again. ‘He didn’t tell me you were funny.’
‘I’m practically a mute when I’m with him. He brings out the worst in me.’
‘Fathers have a way of doing that.’ This is probably as close as Lewis can come to indiscretion.
Bright sways in front of the cereals. ‘Look, French Weetabix! Talk about globalisation.’
But Lewis appears to be a sandwich man through and through. He’s busy cutting a baguette into squares: no easy task, considering the bluntness of his knife and the extreme crustiness of the French bread. ‘Should have brought my Swiss army knife,’ he says, frowning with concentration.
‘Have you noticed there are two identical Monet prints on the wall behind you? An ironic gesture, do you think?’ Stepping back to appreciate the effect of matching haystacks, Bright catches his foot in a chair leg and falls backwards. His breakfast bowl soars, handfuls of green grapes and melon balls fly, and he lands with a loud clatter amongst the fire irons. ‘Shit. Bloody, buggery hell.’ Wild-eyed, he lies on his back surrounded by fruit salad. Already, he’s fearing how the day will end.
‘You all right?’ Lewis pulls him out of the fireplace and dusts him down.
‘I didn’t sleep much. I’m always clumsy when I haven’t slept.’ He picks an apple cube off his boot and drop-kicks it into a tureen of potpourri. ‘You know what?’ He sinks down at Lewis’s crumb-strewn table. ‘The rooms are too big.’
‘Too big?’ Lewis stares at the low ceiling, his trained politeness battling with his innate honesty. ‘To be honest,’ he admits, ‘I think it’s pretty cramped in here.’
‘It’s relative, like most things.’ Bright sighs, making baguette flakes flutter over the cloth. ‘I prefer being able to stretch out my arms and touch a wall on both sides. That’s what makes me feel at home. Then I can sleep.’
Lewis nods, almost as though he understands. ‘Look, we’ve got a long drive ahead. Maybe you should have some coffee?’ And with this word, as if it’s an Open Sesame, the wall beside their table springs apart and a face appears.
Bright shrieks and leaps in his chair. ‘How — how’d you do that?’
‘You want coffeeee?’ Framed by the serving hatch, her young rosy face is picture-perfect: dazzling smile, glossy hair. ‘I’ll be there secondarily.’
‘Now I see why my father regularly returns.’ Bright bites into a discarded crust.
‘Well, how about you?’ Lewis does a tactful swerve. ‘Anyone special in your life?’
Bright thinks back. How many girls had there been hovering around the ledge that night? Was there anyone capable of steadying his heart and raising his hopes? Someone who might have made him edge back instead of forwards? ‘No one in particular.’ His teeth squeak loudly on the bread. ‘I guess I avoid it. It’s hard to write when you’re in love.’
Once again, as if cued by a key word, the waitress appears beside them. This time she’s full-length: short navy dress, tiny white apron, long slender legs, everyone’s idea of a perfect French maid. ‘Excuse me, sir. Your cup?’
‘Oh, sorry!’ Bright holds out his cup and knocks over the pepper grinder, which tumbles against the sugar bowl. ‘Shit, sorry. Again.’ Scooping up sugar cubes, he glances apprehensively across the table — but no, his father isn’t there ready with a reprimand, rolling his eyes first at the maid and then at the ceiling as if to say, ‘God, what have You landed me with?’
The waitress giggles, pours coffee and straightens the tablecloth, brushing her hand lightly over Bright’s knee before she leaves.
‘Sure you’re all right?’ Lewis cuts a slab of butter and places it carefully on a slice of tomato. ‘You seem a bit jumpy.’
‘I’m not used to being around so many people.’ Bright drinks his coffee in one gulp, feels it enter his veins and colour them black like ink. He notices Lewis’ confusion at the word many. ‘That is, I’m not used to being around more than one person at a time. And by one person I mean myself.’
‘It must be a lonely job writing books.’ Lewis chews in loud contemplation. ‘All those hours by yourself. A bit like driving, in fact. Are you even old enough to write a book?’
‘A seven-year-old child can write a book,’ says Bright, quoting his agent, Teddy McPhee, The Vulture, famed for swooping on slush piles and pulling out international hits. ‘Half a dozen monkeys with typewriters could write a library of books. Though —’ (quoting Borges now, a distinct step up from Teddy McPhee) — ‘one immortal monkey would suffice.’
Lewis looks blank. ‘I just thought it’d help to be a bit older, so you’ve lived enough to have something to write about. Though considering what you’ve been through… that is, I guess you’ve seen too much —’ He stops and busies himself with the butter knife.
‘Some people can live to be a hundred and never notice a thing,’ says Bright. ‘But by and large you’re right. Authors are better middle-aged to ancient. Like Stilton. The more mature the better.’
‘Speaking of which,’ says Lewis thickly, ‘this cheese tastes a bit off. I thought the French were supposed to be good at cheese?’
‘Lewis, that’s butter.’
‘Butter!’ Lewis’ throat bulges. ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’
‘I thought you knew.’ Bright stares at him, fascinated.
Lewis swallows gamely. ‘Damn! We’re a good pair this morning, aren’t we.’
The word we. It falls so seductively amongst the crumbs, the smeared sugary spoons and the serviettes, all the debris of a shared breakfast. We, us, a pair of together-klutzes who trip over chairs and eat a quarter of a pound of butter. It could have been his father using such a word — but his father is far away in Florida, in another time zone, and has hired a kindly keeper to take his place. A kindly, stolid yet not unnoticing man who is being paid to deliver Bright to another country — and leave him there.