Provender Gleed (6 page)

To say Arthur was smug would be an understatement. Being kind to him, one might aver that his smugness was warranted in so far as he had successfully blackmailed and bluffed his way into the Family's acceptance and then had shot to the top of the thespian tree despite his negligible acting ability. One might even admire him for his sheer nerve and gall.

Then again, one might, if one was Provender, dislike him intensely for that very reason. One might, indeed, make a point of trying to annoy him every time one encountered him, just to demonstrate one's feelings towards him.

'So, Art,' Provender said, 'how's tricks?'

Arthur did not care for 'Art', but let Provender get away with it this time. 'Not so bad.'

'Haven't seen you on telly lately. Got any work? Or are you resting right now?'

Beneath the curlicued moustache, Arthur's lips went rigid. '"Resting", Prov?' he said.

Gotcha
, thought Provender.

During the time he had lived in England, Arthur had successfully managed to eradicate all traces of Scots brogue from his accent. He spoke Received Pronunciation with greater precision than many of those who were born to it.

'"Resting",' he said, in his archest, RP-est tones, 'is a word used only people who aren't in showbusiness - people who like to think they're in with the jargon and know what's going on and what acting's all about. You will never, ever hear anyone in showbiz say "resting". No actor worth his salt would dream of letting the word pass his lips. And do you know why?'

Provender did, as a matter of fact. He had heard Arthur deliver this diatribe on at least two previous occasions, using almost the exact same words, with the exact same degree of pompous indignation. 'Resting' was a red rag to this particular bull; or, if you prefer, it was the cue that invariably prompted Arthur to launch into a lengthy and probably self-penned soliloquy.

'Because,' Arthur continued, 'it isn't resting. It's anything but. When you're between jobs, you don't spend the time sitting at home making toast and waiting for your agent to ring. You're out there putting yourself about, going to audition after audition, callback after callback. You're phoning people, you're having meetings with producers, it's one long constant slog, and it's exhausting, let me tell you, it's not
resting
, it's the complete bloody opposite.'

'OK, right,' said Provender. 'Yes. Silly me. Thanks for setting me straight on that one.'

'No problem. You're welcome. But honestly, it does get on my tits when I hear someone say "resting". They clearly have no idea what they're talking about.'

'Clearly.' Provender paused, then added: 'But - forgive me, Art - but has there ever been a time when you've actually been between jobs? You seem to know all about it but, as far as I'm aware, you've never had a problem getting work and you're always saying how your diary's booked solid for the next three years.'

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and his teeth came together with an audible
clack
, and his neck straightened, and Provender congratulated himself on a hit, a palpable hit.

'I am speaking, not for myself, but for all actors,' Arthur said stiffly. 'All my brethren and sistren in the craft. All us jobbing thesps. I've been fortunate, yes, I won't deny it, luckier than most, but it's a precarious living, acting. Who knows, three years from now I might be looking at a diary full of blank pages. I doubt it but there's always the chance. Besides,' he said, recovering some of his previous vim and vituperativeness, 'at least I
have
a job. At least I do something to earn a living. There are those of us who can't say the same, aren't there, Prov? Quite a few names spring to mind.'

Provender tried not to flinch; not to let Arthur know that the barb had struck home. 'You don't need to work, Arthur.'

'And yet I do,' Arthur replied. 'I choose to. It would be perfectly possible for me to swan around all day long, the living epitome of the idle rich, all "la la la, look at me, I've never put in a day's graft in my life" - but I don't. I get out there. I roll up my sleeves, muck in,
achieve
. And I have to say, doing that makes it a damn sight easier to look at myself in the mirror every morning.'

Provender bit back the obvious retort. Too easy; and more to the point, he was suddenly finding himself on the losing end of the exchange, and a cheap crack about Arthur's looks would only incite his cousin to attack with even greater viciousness.

As it was, Arthur did not seem willing to relent just yet. 'Yep,' he said, 'having a job sets you free, definitely. It sends you to bed with a clean conscience. It gives your life structure and focus. It prevents you from getting obsessed with yourself, bogged down in your own thoughts. Generally a good thing, Prov, work. Take it from one who knows. Oh, and in answer to your original question, yes I'm working right now. Well, not right this moment, but you know what I mean. I've no idea how it's passed you by, when
everyone's
talking about it. I'm doing
Hamlet
in the West End.'

He left a pause, waiting for Provender to be impressed. When Provender just gave a noncommittal nod, he went on, 'Yes, I've never tackled Shakespeare before, but it's only right and proper that I should. We're about to open at the Shortborn Theatre on New Aldwych. Previews tomorrow and Monday, first night Tuesday. It's a challenge, and frankly I'm nervous as hell about it, but then something would be wrong if I wasn't. You don't brave the Bard lightly.'

'And you're playing...?'

'Who do you think I'm playing!'

'Well, I just thought I should check. You know, me not being part of the acting profession like you are, not a brethren or sistren thesp, somebody could say to me, "I'm doing Shakespeare in the West End," and for all I know they mean they're Third Servant or the stage manager or an usherette or something.'

Arthur looked askance at his cousin, unable to decide if he was really as naïve as he sounded. 'But I'm not somebody, Prov.'

'No, that's true.'

'And there can't be many actors better suited than me to portraying the Prince of Denmark. I do have a unique insight into that sort of world. Families in castles. Strange relatives and relationships.'

'Yes?'

'Yes. In fact, you really ought to come and see it. I can arrange comp tickets for you. In the Family Box.' Arthur struck Provender as surprisingly in earnest. 'You'd enjoy yourself. It's quite a production. You could even attend the first night. You're not doing anything on Tuesday, are you?'

'Don't think so.'

'No plans? Not likely to be otherwise detained?'

'Otherwise detained? Not as far as I know.'

'There you go, then. It's settled. I'll sort out tickets for all of you. You could make it a Family night out, the five of you.'

'Well, we'll see.'

'No, no, you have to come. Leave it with me. Now, I think there's someone over there I need to see. Nice chatting with you, Prov.'

Arthur sauntered off, and belatedly it occurred to Provender that even if he didn't have anything planned for Tuesday night, he should have said he did. It was, after all, his birthday.

Well, Arthur could arrange tickets if he wanted to, and Provender's parents and sisters could go see Arthur's
Hamlet
if they wanted to. Provender was pretty sure he would be staying put that night. He had no pressing urge to travel to London and watch his cousin massacre one of the great Shakespearian roles. Arthur's performance as the Dane would, he was sure, be tragic in all the wrong ways.

Provender scanned the piazza, looking both for someone with a drinks salver and for someone he might possibly want to talk to. Neither was immediately apparent. He swung his head this way and that, picturing the mask's nose as the barrel of a piece of field artillery, sighting along it and taking imaginary potshots at guests. He stopped when Great became his next 'target'. It didn't do to lob hypothetical artillery shells at your great-grandfather. Or was it great-great-grandfather? Or even great-great-great? Great being so old, so fantastically antiquated, there was some confusion about his genealogical status. The line of descent had become blurred, and nobody was quite sure any more where, exactly, he fitted in. It was possible he was not a direct ancestor at all, not several steps up the primogeniture bloodline from Provender but rather a distant uncle, a remote cousin several times removed. He was, though, undeniably the ultra-patriarch, the senior-most Gleed. For all his useless body, his threadbare scalp, his inability to communicate, his helplessness, he remained the root and figurehead of Britain's foremost Family.

Provender debated whether to go over and speak to him. What decided him against was the presence of Carver at Great's side. Carver stood sentinel, hands behind back, coldly viewing the party guests. Great's own expression seemed not much less cold. Nearby, Provender spotted a waitress bearing beverages. He made for her instead.

7

The Columbine did not, at first, recognise who the dark figure swooping towards her in fact was. The hooknose mask, flat hat and swirling black cape made him a startling apparition, and, already in a state of heightened anxiety, the Columbine experienced something akin to mortal dread as he closed in on her with purposeful stride. For a few appalling seconds she thought this was, not some party guest, but rather punishment, nemesis, doom, all rolled into one, coming to claim her. Had the figure been carrying a scythe instead of a stick, it would not, to her, have seemed at all out of place.

In her consternation, she nearly dropped her salver. But the figure reached her just in time to seize her wrist and steady it, levelling the salver before the drinks slid off, and his grip was warm and firm and plainly that of an ordinary human being, and his voice was plainly that of an ordinary human being too as he said, 'Whoops, careful there. Be a shame to waste all that booze before I've had a chance to sample some.'

The Columbine blushed. She could scarcely believe her own foolishness. Thinking this was some supernatural entity. Honestly! How ridiculous was that? Get a grip on yourself, girl.

'Drink, sir?' she said, faltering only slightly over the words.

'Absolutely,' said the partygoer, 'now that they're not spilled all over the floor.' He let go of her arm and she lowered the salver so that he could peruse the selection on it.

'I do apologise about that, sir.'

'Oh God, don't worry. Accidents happen. Or don't, as the case may be.' The partygoer's hand hovered to and fro over the various glasses like that of a chess player trying to decide which piece to move next. 'Ah, bugger it, I can barely see what I'm doing.' He grabbed his mask by the nose and yanked it down beneath his chin. 'That's better. Now then...'

It was Provender Gleed, and the Columbine had realised that it was Provender Gleed an instant before he exposed his face. She ought to have known who he was as soon as she set eyes on him, and would have, had she been thinking straight. She had, after all, been told what costume Provender would be wearing tonight. It had been described to her in detail, right down to the fake spectacles on the nose. She had been supposed to be looking out for somebody dressed just like this.

Again, she told herself to get a grip. She needed to stay calm and focused. She needed to have all her wits about her. If she didn't pull herself together, she wasn't going to be able to do what the Harlequin wanted her to do, the plan would fail, everything would be in vain...

She remembered the Harlequin telling her earlier how he had faith in her. Even though they were no longer lovers, he had a way of making her feel capable of anything, everything. Not only that, his approval was still important to her, his happiness still mattered to her.

Thinking of which instilled her with strength. She could pull this off. She
would
. She peered across at Provender Gleed, who appeared unable to make up his mind.

'So, what'll it be?' she asked, and she accompanied the query with a small giggle. At the same time, she widened her eyes slightly, tilted her head to one side, and arched her back, thrusting her chest forward. Old tricks. Obvious tricks. But they seldom failed.

Provender noticed. He glanced up from the salver. His eyes flicked to her face. Searched there for a moment. Then he smiled.

It was, the Columbine noted, a nice smile. He was, indeed, a good-looking boy, better so in the flesh than in photographs. In some of the pictures of him she had seen, his nose looked enormous, as though transplanted from somebody else's face, someone twice his size. But up close, it fit. Big yet dignified. Characterful. A perfectly-in-proportion nose would have left him looking bland, she felt. Ordinarily handsome. A run-of-the-mill pretty-boy. The largeness of it gave him stature. And of course, such a nose was a physical trademark of his Family - without it, he would be far less of a Gleed. The shaven head worked for him as well. On someone else it might have looked thuggish. On him, it emphasised the sensitivity of his features, making him seem vulnerable and open. She vaguely recalled reading somewhere that that was the reason he had lopped off his long locks, as an outward expression of honesty. That, and to distance himself from the current vogue among young Family males for collar-length hair.

It crossed her mind that she oughtn't to be so taken with his looks. It seemed a betrayal of her principles. He was Family, and she hated the Families. She consoled herself with the thought that if she found Provender fanciable, there was no harm in that. It made what she had to do easier. She could play her role more credibly.

'There's champagne,' she said. 'White wine. Red. Rosé. That's a
kir Famille
there. That's a margarita, of course. And there's a G and T, and that one's a vodka-tonic, I think. If you'd like something else, just say. Anything. Anything at all. If you don't like what you see...'

It was a perfect lead-in, but for some reason Provender didn't take advantage of it. Instead he said, 'Did you know that every drop of alcohol on that tray comes from a Gleed Family vineyard or plantation?'