Although I had agreed to refer to her by her given name for the interview, for me it is important to retain memorial distance with strangers, particularly those whose intentions are or were unclear. Therefore, Ms Clements displayed the nervy energy of a person who lives in a different plane of reference. During the formal part of the proceedings, she sat upright, leaned forward to ask questions, as if the slight distance between us would quicken the time it took for the sound waves to reach her ears with my answers; answers which she jotted down on her pad, shorthand. The sun rose higher, I lazily remembered that it had done the same thing the day before and was likely to repeat the phenomenon tomorrow. But first, our feast. We ate; Sofia was a good cook, and we both had an appetite to do justice to the setting and our metabolisms. Ms Clements regaled me with the story of her career (such as it was), her journey to Corfu (her luggage had been mislaid for over an hour at Corfu Airport hence her late arrival at my house); and how cold it had recently been in London (I smiled inwardly at the benign weather in Corfu in September, with the promise of temperatures well above twenty-five degrees Celsius). We shared two bottles of chilled Italian wine, their necks bobbing in a pool of melting ice cubes; the refrigerator and freezer (also Italian) had been installed in the kitchen at my insistence, as the sanctuary of the three luxuries I could not do without and yet be called a civilised person: champagne (the drier the better), caviar (acquired from a Russian sailor via Turkey on a ship which called at Corfu harbour), and smoked salmon (which a friend in London sent out intermittently in a chilled bag). I admit that my tastes had stayed somewhat ahead of my means, but my philosophy has always been to place the needs of the body ahead of the needs of the banking system.
When we had finished lunch, the table resembled a culinary battlefield: the wine bottles were now upended in the cooler (we had in addition finished the meal with a large glass of mastiha, and my head throbbed sullenly in alcoholic reproval); the bread and figs baskets lay ravaged; the side plates and bowls heaped with salad, now looked forlorn, and our plates, adorned with Grecian mythological scenes in cobalt blue on white, were scraped bare. Perhaps it was the effect of the sun and the Italian wine, but I had relaxed and looked at Ms Clements more favourably, initial suspicions allayed; I held my wine glass casually, its slender contents flashing in the sunlight. She put down her own glass, pushing aside the empty basket of bread in the process. “I hope that you don’t mind,” she said gushingly, whether from the effect of the booze she had consumed I know not, “but can we make a start on the interview? You’re such an interesting writer, there’s so much I wanted to cover.” I warmed to the flattery but baulked at the prospect of a grilling akin to a police interview in a sauna. “I understand perfectly, Rachel. And you’ve had no time to unpack or rest. Fire away, I’m looking forward to our discussion,” I lied again, hoping that the sound of grating teeth was not too obvious, “but it’s approaching the hottest part of the day, let’s take up more agreeable seating.” We left the table and walked (myself a little unsteadily as the wine and mastiha coursed through my veins) to an area of the terrace where a stone pine (reputed to be older than the house itself) threw its gracious branches out to provide shade, and two old wicker armchairs, adorned with heavy cushions, announced the view of the shimmering sea.
“Louise told me about your interest, it’s good to hear that my work is as warmly regarded now in London as when I made the decision to live on Corfu permanently,” I said once I had settled into an armchair. She looked up, as a doctor might who has to tell a patient that they have days not years left to live, a wondering look in her eyes, her mouth tight. Of my six published novels, two remained in print, the four others having lapsed following weak sales. The withdrawal of the titles I considered a deep insult, particularly as my last novel, On a Frosty Morn, a story of redemption during the Christmas holidays, had been launched at the end of November, and pulled from shelves in the first week of the following January. However, she took me somewhat aback by her first question, ignoring the absence of my work from the bestseller lists, or my current work.
“As Louise may have told you, my magazine is running a series of features on writers who have chosen to live abroad, like yourself. I understand,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching, just hinting at the effort to control the facial muscles, “I understand, that once London held considerable attraction for you. Why did you decide to leave?” She looked up now, her eyes betraying what she thought she knew. When I remark that there had been no great scandal that propelled me from London that is true. No great scandal: just a sequence (regrettable, I accept) of unpaid bills, late rent payments, friends who took on the role of banker but did know it at the time. And then there had been Marg. Mad Marg. Infuriating Marg. The love of my life Marg, at least while my life was a rented flat in Camden Town. To give her a full name, Margret Baumgarner. We had enjoyed a wild, alcoholic, and chaotic relationship; she had moved into the flat, complete with shopping bags full of clothes and a goldfish bowl, the occupants of which had to be transferred to a heated tank which I had bought at Camden Market for five pounds. The fish used to float mournfully and look through walls of their glass prison out at the living room. One day, I caught one of them with its mouth pressed against the wall of the tank, peering at the packet of fish food which adorned the neighbouring table. I gave the fish the name Greedy Git and confided to it in moments of crisis or self-doubt.
I decided that my relationship with Marg was none of Ms Clements business, unless mentioning it could help sales, which I doubted. The relationship was known only to a few friends, with whom we drank (to excess) in pub crawls a cross North London. The most dangerous episode had been when someone invited us all back to their place for a night cap, their place being a narrow boat tethered against the towpath of the Grand Union canal. Six drunks teetered at midnight along a grassy verge, one toppled over and fell in. Marg, responding heroically, jumped in, recovered the victim, tugging him still spluttering through the foul water and held tightly to her under one arm.
Our relationship had been like one of the rockets fired on Guy Fawkes Night over the rooftops of Primrose Hill, gleaming brilliantly for a moment, then tumbling unseen into a narrow garden, to be revealed broken and sodden in the grey light of dawn. She departed after a furious drunken row, which she conducted mainly in coarse German. I decluttered the flat of all her clothes (it’s surprising what a charity shop will and will not accept), her CDs, perfume bottles, the lot. The goldfish went to a new home, including Greedy Git, which left me momentarily sad. I surveyed my life; Marg had been a drinking companion, not a muse. I needed to get out of my goldfish bowl, get out of London; I saw an advertisement for a late holiday on Corfu, I packed my bag and left.
Copyright © David Alexander 2023