Murder Your Darlings Read online

  ‘Isn’t this glorious?’ she said, as he slid into a chair opposite her.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Aren’t we lucky? There are so many people in the world who don’t have this.’

  ‘This is true,’ Francis agreed, forking in his first mouthful of ham.

  ‘The world’s in such a shocking state these days. All those poor refugees, being driven from pillar to post with nothing but their bare possessions. Not that there’s anything much I can do about it, at my age. But I do care.’ Diana slathered the tip of her croissant with jam from her plate, gave it rather a savage bite, then washed it down with the dregs of her coffee. ‘This fig jam is so good. No, there are some days I can hardly bear to switch on the television. Those desolate, desperate faces. Still, we’re on holiday now. Time to put our bigger worries on the back burner.’

  ‘Yes.’ He wondered if he should mention the scream. But if Diana had heard it, surely she would bring it up?

  She fixed him with her most inclusive smile. ‘I thought for a moment there my traditional position as the first down to breakfast was going to be usurped.’

  ‘By me?’

  ‘No. By that Roz person. She was here before me yesterday – and in this very seat.’

  ‘Breaking all the rules,’ teased Francis.

  ‘There are no rules, don’t be silly. That’s one of the things I like about this holiday. You can do as you please. If you want to lie in the middle of the courtyard and do sit-ups no one’s going to stop you.’

  ‘Like Sasha and her cartwheels.’

  ‘Quite.’ Very carefully, between thumb and forefinger, Diana picked two croissant flakes off her pursed lips. For one reason or another – he hoped it wasn’t just straightforward racism – Diana disapproved of Sasha.

  Tony joined them, dressed up in a smart blue linen jacket and silk tie. He was terribly sorry, he said to Francis, but he had something he had to do today in Perugia, so he was going to miss the morning’s exercises, much to his chagrin.

  Francis shrugged. ‘It’s all entirely optional.’

  ‘That’s the lovely thing about this place,’ said Diana. ‘We were just saying. One does as one pleases.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Tony. ‘Did anybody hear a strange scream earlier?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Francis, with a bolt of relief that he hadn’t imagined it.

  ‘A scream,’ said Diana. ‘What kind of scream?’

  ‘It was, like,’ Francis said hesitantly, ‘a woman.’

  ‘It wasn’t like a woman,’ said Tony crisply. ‘It was a woman. What I heard, anyway.’

  ‘I was outside,’ Francis said, ‘by the tennis court. But I came running back. To find total silence.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought was odd. It woke me, and I was going to get up and see what was going on. Then – nothing. So I’m afraid I fell straight back to sleep again.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Diana said. ‘Perhaps you were both imagining it. But then again, I always sleep very soundly. Until my alarm goes off at seven thirty. And then I’m wide awake. I’m very lucky like that, because a lot of people my age have problems sleeping.’

  A little later they were joined by Zoe, who had also heard the scream. ‘I was wondering if I should get up and have a look, but then it went quiet, so I thought it was probably just someone having a nightmare.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t hear it,’ Diana repeated crossly, almost as if the three of them had made it up.

  They were joined at that moment by Mel and Belle, who were giggling like schoolgirls.

  ‘What is she like?’ said Mel, ‘with her nightmares. She woke me up at God knows what time this morning, yelling her head off.’

  ‘Who did?’ asked Diana, unnecessarily.

  ‘Belle. She has these nightmares, don’t you, pet?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tony. ‘So there’s our explanation. We were starting to worry.’

  They were all relieved that the scream had a reason. Belle did this from time to time apparently. ‘And the strange thing is,’ she said, ‘I never remember the dream at all.’

  ‘She never even wakes up,’ said Mel. ‘What a weirdo.’

  ‘Morning, team! Enjoying the glorious Italian sunshine?’ It was Poppy, rather flushed. ‘I’ve had such a lovely swim and sauna. Now I’m ready for my yummy brekky.’

  ‘Is it open so early?’ Diana asked. ‘The pool? It never used to be uncovered before breakfast.’

  Poppy tapped her nose. ‘I had a discreet word with that nice handyman chap.’

  ‘Fabio.’

  ‘That’s the feller. So sweet, under those murderous Italiano looks. He agreed to unroll the cover for me. And fire up the sauna. Which I do love, first thing. A bit of heat to the old bones.’ Diana said nothing, but this didn’t stop Poppy answering her unspoken question. ‘It’s how you speak to people, I suppose.’

  She tripped off smugly into the dining room and Diana scowled; though, only for a moment, before the all-forgiving smile reappeared. ‘He’s such a kind man, Fabio,’ she said. ‘He’d do anything for anyone. “Murderous looks”, honestly. He’s just a typical countryman. He’s Romanian, in any case, not Italian. Not that’ – she dropped her voice to a whisper – ‘she would ever listen for long enough to find that out. I do think asking for the pool to be opened specially just for one person before breakfast is a bit much.’

  ‘No Roz today?’ Poppy observed, cheerfully, at nine thirty, when the writing group took their places under the vine.

  ‘She wasn’t at breakfast,’ Diana noted.

  ‘I’m sure she’s allowed a lie-in,’ Liam said.

  ‘Shall we wake her?’ said Poppy.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Zoe. ‘She’s a grown woman.’

  Francis was sorry that she wasn’t there for that morning’s first exercise, which he called ‘My Life In …’ The idea was to describe your past in terms of one repeated object: the cars you’d driven at different times of your life; the houses you’d lived in; the shoes you’d worn. Poppy surprised them by doing ‘knickers’.

  ‘Not such a boring old stick as you thought,’ she said when she’d finished detailing five different sets of underwear, including the taffeta petticoat with which she’d wooed her first husband.

  ‘None of us think you’re boring, Poppy,’ said Sasha.

  ‘Thank you, Sasha. I’m glad to have one friend.’

  Francis was unable to get out of his head the image of Poppy’s first pair of knickers, electric pink, which she’d worn in the early Sixties as a Beatle-loving teenager – or so she said. Later, in her ‘naughty phase’, when she’d been Up North for a while – she pronounced it Oop North – and ‘very much a free spirit’, she’d gone in for basques and then, when the underwear came on the market in the 1990s, Agent Provocateur.

  ‘I thought your piece was brilliant,’ said Sasha. ‘No offence, but it’s sometimes hard for someone of my age to see you lot—’

  ‘Us lot,’ echoed Diana, scornfully.

  ‘Sorry, you older people.’

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ said Zoe, with a cackle.

  ‘As like, young. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m so much in awe of your experience. It’s like you all have so many stories to tell and I feel like this inexperienced child.’

  ‘You are, dear, a little,’ said Diana.

  ‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Zoe.

  ‘Have you seen Roz?’ Francis said to Stephanie, as they stood in the sunshine at the mid-morning coffee break. ‘I was just a bit concerned, because she told me she was looking forward to my session on dialogue. And I’m just about to start it.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ said Stephanie. ‘The fact is the guests do often seem terribly enthusiastic about something and then don’t follow it up. She’s probably just having a lie-in. Or gone for a walk. I’ll get Gerry to pop up to her room in a bit and see that all is well.’

  But Roz’s room was locked, and she wasn’t at lunch, where her abs
ence was further remarked on.

  ‘Perhaps she’s having a secret liaison with handsome Tony,’ said Mel.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Zoe. ‘We saw him drive off on his own.’

  ‘Maybe she was waiting at the bottom of the hill, by the cypress trees.’

  ‘Mel’s a fantasist,’ Belle explained. ‘Her favourite reading is Mills and Boon.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with Mills and Boon?’ said Mel. ‘They outsell all the posher books by miles. At least you know what you’re getting.’

  ‘Is that the point of fiction?’ said Zoe. ‘Knowing what you’re getting. Personally, I like to be challenged.’

  Afterwards, as others sorted themselves out with deckchairs and espressos, Francis, Stephanie and Gerry went up and knocked loudly on Roz’s door. There was no reply.

  ‘Time for the master key, I think,’ said Gerry. He didn’t seem particularly alarmed, though Francis’s imagination was running wild. Surely he wasn’t going to be treated to a repeat of the chilling drama at the Mold-on-Wold literary festival, four years before, when the celebrated critic Bryce Peabody had been found dead in his bed in a room just down the corridor in the very same hotel where Francis was staying?

  But when they unlocked the door and pushed it open the room was empty. Roz’s bed was made and in the wardrobe her clothes were all hanging or neatly folded.

  ‘All present and correct.’

  ‘She’ll have gone for a walk,’ said Stephanie. ‘Or a cycle ride. I’ll check the bikes.’

  ‘It’s just odd that we didn’t see her at breakfast,’ said Francis. ‘And we were in the courtyard all morning.’

  ‘She might have slipped out the back,’ Stephanie said. ‘If you go down past the sauna and the tennis court, no one need see you.’

  ‘Interesting choice of reading,’ said Gerry, pointing at the book by her bedside. It was Suicide Club, by Rachel Heng.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Gerry,’ Stephanie said. She turned to Francis. ‘In eighteen years, we’ve only ever had one incident on this course. Zoe having an asthma attack last year and having to be rushed to hospital in Perugia.’

  ‘We were worried she might stage another,’ Gerry added. ‘She loved the Italian consultant so much.’

  ‘Gerry, that’s naughty. Asthma is a horrid illness. You don’t “stage” an attack.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ he replied. ‘Unless you’re Zoe.’

  ‘Gerry!’

  At four thirty that afternoon, as per the week’s photocopied schedule, there was a ‘Teatime Symposium’, chaired by Stephanie, on the subject of Time. Francis had planned to skip it and read Zoe’s memoir by the pool, but at four o’clock a great bank of grey cloud marched up from the distant mountains to cover the sun. The temperature dropped, and a few spots of rain plopped down on to the dry brown grass. With the weather having removed the temptation to be idle, curiosity overcame him. He went back into the villa and found quite a large group in the library, spreading themselves round the armchairs and sofas, dark silhouettes against the bright day beyond the window frames. With the exception of Liam and himself, they were all ladies. There was still no sign of Roz.

  ‘If she’s not here at aperitivo time,’ Stephanie said, ‘we’ll send out search parties.’ Part of Francis was quietly approving of her relaxed attitude to her guests’ welfare, but only part of him. But it wasn’t for him to overreact, was it? His hostess had been running these courses for twenty-five years.

  ‘So … Time,’ Stephanie went on, removing her gold-framed specs to smile warmly and inclusively round at the attendees. ‘How do we mark it? And why is it that Time can go so slowly at one moment – and then so fast at another? I always find this out here, on these lovely creative weeks. For ages, everything seems to be dawdling along – there’s plenty of time to do everything we want to do and then, suddenly, it’s the last night and you’re all packing. Does anyone else feel this?’

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Mel. ‘It’s like time crawls until Tuesday, and you think, I’ve got ages here, time to do loads of painting, and then suddenly, you’re right, it’s like, now we’ve only got till Friday, no time at all.’

  ‘I remember my father used to say—’ Poppy began.

  ‘The general,’ Liam cut in. Francis was surprised to see him at this rather genteel discussion; he wouldn’t have imagined it was his cup of tea at all. Perhaps it was the presence of the ever-curious Sasha that had encouraged him to join.

  ‘The general, exactly.’ Poppy stalled him with one of her brightest smiles. ‘You may laugh at my father, Liam, but he was a very interesting man. And a brave one. Anyway, in the war – that’s the Second World War, Sasha—’

  ‘Not the First,’ said Liam.

  ‘As a young soldier,’ Poppy continued, ‘he spent some time in Burma and used to repeat to us girls something the Chinese said about time travelling at two speeds. Maybe it was Confucius or someone, I can’t remember the exact quote, it was like a short poem, or haiku perhaps—’

  ‘Haiku’s Japanese,’ said Liam.

  ‘I do know that, Liam. But there is a Chinese equivalent. The two cultures are very close.’

  ‘That’s why they hate each other, like the English and the Irish.’

  ‘I don’t hate the Irish, Liam. Not most of them, anyway. Well, that was the gist of it. What Mel and Stephanie just said. Put, obviously, in a rather more elegant and finished way. But the same sentiment: sometimes time takes so long, and sometimes it just races past.’

  ‘You can’t remember the quote,’ said Liam.

  ‘No, I can’t,’ said Poppy.

  ‘This is so true,’ said Belle, cutting in tactfully. ‘About time travelling at two speeds. And perhaps another point about it is that when we’re young we tend to rather take time for granted.’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Diana. ‘Young people do.’

  ‘Do they?’ Sasha cut in. ‘I mean, no offence, but I think about every day that passes. What was it the man said, “Live every day as if it’s your last.” I think that’s a great attitude to have.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Zoe, loudly. ‘You have such a lot to learn.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means, my dear, that you have so many, many, many days before you until you face your last one. I wish we could all say the same.’

  ‘Until Michael – my husband – passed, late last year,’ Belle said, ‘I never really thought about my life ending. Now I think about it every day. What it will be like, when and how it will happen.’

  ‘Every third thought,’ said Liam.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Mel.

  ‘It’s a quote, from Shakespeare’s Tempest: “Every third thought shall be my grave.” Meaning, once you get to Prospero’s age … you remember who Prospero was, Mel?’

  ‘Er, no,’ she said, looking down. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Funnily enough,’ Poppy cut in, ‘I saw the great Sir John Gielgud in the role in the 1970s. A legendary performance.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Liam. ‘Was he a personal friend?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ If looks could kill, Francis thought, Liam would be a goner.

  ‘No, Mel,’ the Irishman went on, ‘Prospero was an old king in a Shakespeare play …

  ‘Aren’t they all?’

  Poppy’s tight-lipped moue was matched by Liam’s bark of laughter. ‘The quote,’ he went on, ‘means that once you get to a certain age, every third thought you have is about death.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Mel. ‘I hardly think about it at all.’

  ‘Of course we all have these thoughts,’ Diana cut in. ‘But in my view it’s best not to give in to them. Unlike Belle, my husband is still alive, but unfortunately – for me – he’s with another woman. So when he left me, thirty years ago now, it was like a little death in a way. One life was over. Our life, the life we’d had together. And I was very sad a
bout that for a while, and thought about it a lot, maybe not every third thought, but every fifth. And then one day, I remember it well, it was a lovely April day, one of those days when you wake up and the sun is shining and everything’s green and the flowers are out, and you just think: I simply can’t be depressed about this one minute longer. So I hauled myself out of bed and got dressed and went down to the beach, at Aldeburgh, where I live, and treated myself to lunch at a café there, with a nice glass of wine and all that sort of thing, and I made a resolution. That I was going to enjoy every day to the full. Not that every day was going to be wonderful, necessarily. But you must make each day as good as it can be.’

  ‘Bravo!’ said Poppy. ‘I think we can all second that. Duncan and I certainly try and make sure we do something special each day. Don’t we, darling? Although we live in such a beautiful place that every day is rather special anyway.’

  Francis looked round the gathered faces for a reaction; amazingly, there wasn’t so much as a single eye-roll. The level of politeness was stoic.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Liam cut in, ‘there can be something quite refreshing about a day where you do sweet FA.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked elegant, straight-backed Angela, who had been blinking attentively as the discussion proceeded.

  ‘Sweet FA,’ said Zoe. ‘It’s a colloquial expression, meaning, er, nothing.’

  ‘Meaning nothing?’ Angela persisted, still puzzled. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I said,’ Liam repeated loudly, ‘that it’s nice to have some days when you do sweet fuck all.’

  ‘Oh, sweet fuck all,’ said Angela, with a seraphic smile. ‘So sorry. I didn’t catch you, Liam. Yes, I agree. I love days like that.’

  Apart from Diana, who remained stony-faced, they all laughed.

  It was Stephanie’s turn to speak. It was rather nice, she said, to be in one of those situations where you’re given time. ‘When you have a meeting booked, for example, and it’s cancelled. Then you have that rather wonderful feeling of half a free day to yourself.’