Chapter Thirteen
Character is like pregnancy.
It cannot be hidden forever.
(African proverb)
When he enters the small but charming bedroom that he has somewhat optimistically reserved for the occasion, Arnie is happy to discover that Noreen Millburn has been sufficiently naive to act upon his invitation, which is always a plus.
He is less delirious that she has managed to find her way onto a TV channel showing an XXX erotic movie. Arnie can only assume that there was a glitch with the previous check-out, as he can hardly believe a fancy hotel like this clicks onto such a channel as a matter of course.
And ask yourself, who else in this story could be responsible?
When he suddenly realises that the movie is in fact one of his own – not exactly a classic, but, in its humble way, a representative example of his oeuvre (with its signature ‘positions’ instantly identifiable to the connoisseur) – Arnie Garth’s surprise turns to alarm.
If she catches the opening or closing titles, his name and that of his company are all over it.
He may even – he can’t quite remember – have a cameo.
Heaven forbid.
“Arnie – look at this!” says Noreen, pointing to the screen.
A strappingly handsome archaeologist has completed the unwrapping of a perfectly preserved and well-formed female mummy, one who is apparently more than happy to continue what she was doing two millennia earlier, with some Rameses or another.
“I know!” says Arnie, in a shock which, in its own way, is absolutely genuine.
“And, Noreen, I am just ashamed to be a member of the same species as the vile degenerates who spew out this… garbage! Look at it. Corrupting! Degrading! Never mind the excellent lighting and state-of-the-art camerawork! So different from the highly educational, spiritually uplifting movies I make. Who would even watch Yummy Mummy? Or whatever it’s called. ”
“It’s not disgusting, Arnie,” says Noreen, which causes him to do a double take of which any comedian would be proud.
“It’s not?” he says, suddenly hopeful.
“No. It’s sad.”
“Of course it is. You are so right. More than sad. Tragic. Tsk. Why, exactly?”
“Do you really need to ask, Arnie?”
He nods. He really does need.
“These young men and women, so beautiful and healthy-looking, they should be learning about feelings. About emotions. And – and yes, about kindness. What’s more, they ought to be trying to convey these qualities to others. And not just indulge in – in meaningless sex.”
“Noreen, you’re a mind reader! We speak the same language, kiddo. And you wanna know something? I feel for you. I do. In a sort of emotionally kind and meaningful way. You wanna use the bathroom first? Maybe spray all those clothes and yourself with something flowery.”
The woman stares at him, as if pennies are just beginning to drop and she isn’t warming to the sound nor to the thought of picking them up.
“Arnie! You said in the restaurant not fifteen minutes ago that you didn’t want to be alone. You said you wanted someone to talk to. A conversation.”
“I do, sweetheart. I really do.” He looks offended. “Hey, I ain’t one of those guys that goes straight to sleep afterwards.”
Actually, he is, but he supposes he could just about stay awake for a bit, if his life depended on it.
Noreen throws the man a look she wouldn’t even give a departing fox who had just ripped the stuffing out of one of her baby lambs.
Rising up with some dignity and effort from the bed, she grabs her favourite bobbly hat from the side table, leaving the archaeologist and the mummy to continue making their own pyramid.
Arnie’s expression plunges in a scary nanosecond from misguided hopefulness to a desperation that appears inconsolable.
Even he, with the sensitivity of a narcissistic stoat, is beginning to realise that he is more than a little out of his depth here and that this particular seduction, unlike those countless others in his predatory past, could be more challenging than he would ever have imagined (dealing, as he is, with someone who most probably doesn’t have her entire heart set on a career in erotic cinema).
In an attempt to make his entreaties register above a soundtrack of Ancient Egyptian climaxing, he pleads with the stocky, departing form.
“Noreen! Sweetheart. Wait! Don’t go!” Arnie summons up all his energies to choke out those three simple words, the ones he has never allowed himself, nor indeed felt even the slightest need, to utter in his entire life. “I – I love you!”
The woman stops at the door and turns back to look at him.
“What?”
“Er… I love you, kid? Genuinely. With meaning. There, I’ve said it. See, Noreen. Now you gotta stay.”
Softening, Noreen comes back until she is standing almost directly in front of this bewildering person, the strange new intruder into her ordered life.
Then, unexpectedly, she swings her re-bobbled head away from him and towards the TV.
The figures on the screen appear to be performing just for her.
“Alright, Arnie Garth. If you love me, which admittedly is pretty quick work, considering we only just met yesterday and you didn’t even eat my carrot – and, by the way, no one has ever loved me in their entire lives, save perhaps my late mum and dad and possibly Geoffrey – but if you love me, what colour are my eyes? ”
“Eh?” says Arnie Garth, phased now and stalling for time.
What is this, for Pete’s sake, Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
“Well… hey, y’know somethin’ – they change in the light.
That’s what I love about you, Noreen! It’s like a filter on a lens.
The one I use when I’m… when I’m filming saints…
doin’ miracles and shit. They’re a kind of greenish, bluish, greyish, yellowish…
So, I’m a wealthy, successful film producer. How about that?”
He swiftly puts his best arm around her. The one with the gold Rolex and a man’s solid platinum bracelet. But this sudden outpouring of affection and jewellery would appear not to diminish her anger. In fact, quite the reverse.
“You don’t love me, Arnie. You’re a creepy little man and,” she motions to the busy TV screen, “for some reason, which I can’t for the life of me fathom, you just want to do… that with me.”
Arnie looks professionally at the screen. “I seriously doubt either of us could do that. The lady’s a contortionist. And a devoted mother of three.”
“Thank you, Arnie,” says Noreen.
“For what, exactly?” he asks, in surprise. “You barely touched your sheep on a stick.”
“I have absolutely no idea why you have come all the way to Rough Fell from wherever it is in the world that you live. Or why you are behaving so very strangely. Unless it is for a wager of some sort, which would be unspeakably cruel. But thank you for helping me to see that living on my own, in my little, run-down cottage, with my sheep and my dogs—”
“And your vermin.”
“And my… friends, is the best decision I could have made!”
Suddenly Arnie smiles. And nods his head. Almost in time with the head-nodding that is now busily going on behind him on the screen.
“I know what you’re doing, Noreen Millburn,” he laughs, “this is you playing hard to get, right? You tease.”
He is surprised by the velocity of the slap, perhaps less so by its thrust. It sends him tumbling over the unlaid bed with a yelp and onto the richly carpeted floor.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Mr Garth,” gasps a horrified Noreen, staring at his prone and gasping form. She bends over him and slaps him again, just to snap him out of his shock.
He yelps in pain once more.
“Oh! Even more sorry. I don’t know what got into me.
Although, of course, you did deserve it, you revolting little man.
” She gives him back his handkerchief, puzzling just for an instant over the design.
“But truly, you’re more to be pitied than censured.
You’re still one of God’s creatures – I imagine.
Now, there’s bound to be bruising in the morning.
Try some arnica cream. In fact, I’ve got some in my bag. Here. Spread it liberally.”
On this useful little household hint, she exits, slamming the door behind her. Arnie rushes to open it once more and yells after her.
“I’ll give you one thousand dollars if you fall in love with me tonight! Pounds! Two thousand pounds! Three thousand pounds! And a blender!”
A room service waiter is wheeling a champagne trolley towards them.
“What about our souls?” cries Arnie.
“What is it with you and arseholes?” comes the final retort, as she turns the corner towards the lift.
Arnie shakes his head at the waiter, who simply moves on, pretending he didn’t hear this.
Alone and disconsolate, Arnie Garth slouches back into the room.
Standing on the expensive carpet, he stares glumly at the TV.
And that’s where he sees me, beside a sarcophagus, under a pile of heaving, trembling limbs.
Still dressed in my best suit, but louchely horizontal, I’m staring right out of the screen and giving one of my best and wisest shakes of the head.
Sensing that I probably wasn’t there in the original edit, my current favourite unfavourite person smacks the off button on the remote control. With a long sigh, he flops mournfully onto the clean, cost-an-arm-and-a-leg, yet sadly under-occupied, king-size bed.