“Hello, sweetheart. Nice to hear from you. Locke, is it? Not a Roberts yet then? When’s the big day?” He asks it cheerily, off the cuff.
I can hear a smile in his voice. It would be a nice thing to ask someone under any other circumstances and I almost smile back into the phone, but something makes me stop. Because there is no way Eddie could possibly know about my approaching wedding, or name change, or Mark, unless he’s been looking into me. And he’s in prison, which means he must have had me looked into. And looking into me is a more involved process than a quick online search. I’m not on social media. I don’t do Facebook. All good documentarians know what you can do with a healthy dose of social media information, so we keep off it. So, in one simple sentence, Eddie Bishop has just told me he’s been having me professionally looked into. He’s had me vetted. He is in charge and he knows all about me. And Mark. And our life.
I take a moment before answering. He’s testing me. I don’t want to make a misstep so early in the game.
“I gather we’ve both done our research, Mr. Bishop. Did you find out anything interesting?”
There’s nothing too controversial in my past, no dancing skeletons in my closet. I know this, of course, but still I feel exposed, under threat. This is his show of power, a verbal line in the sand. Eddie may have been behind bars for seven years, but he wants me to know he’s still got his hands on all the ropes. If he wasn’t being so up front about it, right now I’d be terrified.
“Very reassuring, I’d say. Put my mind to rest, sweetheart. You can never be too careful,” he says. Eddie’s decided I’m safe, but he wants me to know he’s watching.
I move on, stand and try to unravel the phone cord, slipping into work spiel. “Thank you for agreeing to take part in this. I really appreciate you agreeing and I want you to know I’m going to handle the interviews in as unbiased and straightforward a way as I can. I’m not in the business of creating straw dogs; I’m just going to tell your story. Or rather, I’m going to let you tell your story. The way you want.” I hope he knows that I mean that. I’m sure he’s had plenty of people try to sell him snake oil in the past.
“I know, sweetheart. Why do you think I said yes to you? You’re a rarity. Just don’t let me down, aye?” He lets that sink in for a second before shaking off the intensity, lightening the tone. “Anyway, when’s all this kick off then?” His tone is bright, industrious.
“Well, our face-to-face interview is scheduled for September 24, which is about two and a half months away. And then your release is sometime in early December. So we can arrange nearer the time when we’ll do your post-release filming. Would you be happy with us shadowing you on release day itself?” I ask. I’m in my element now; this is where all my planning is coming into its own. If we can film Eddie’s actual release fly-on-the-wall style, that would really be something.
His voice comes back, warm but clear. “I’ll be honest, love, it’s not ideal for me. I’ll have a bit on that day, if you know what I mean. Maybe give me a day or two, aye? That work for you?” We’re negotiating. He wants to give me something—that’s definitely a good sign.
“Of course. We’ll iron it out as we go along. You have my number, so we’ll just keep in touch on those dates. Not a problem.” I watch the cat outside creep back along the fence, its back hunched, its head low.
Eddie clears his throat.
“Is there anything else about the interviews or schedule you’d like to ask about at this stage, Mr. Bishop?” I ask.
He laughs. “No, I think we’re done for today, sweetheart, apart from you calling me Eddie. Nice to talk to you finally though, Erin, after hearing so much about you.”
“You too, Eddie. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Oh and give my regards to Mark, won’t you, darling? Seems like a nice fella.” It’s a throwaway remark but my breath catches in my chest. He’s been looking into Mark too. My Mark. I don’t know what to say. The little pause I’ve left grows into a silence on the line. He fills it.
“So how did you two meet then?” He leaves the question hanging in the air. Shit. This isn’t and shouldn’t be about me.
“That’s none of your business, Eddie, now is it?” I say it with a forced smile in my voice. The words come out smooth and confident and, weirdly, with a hint of sexuality. Entirely inappropriate but somehow perfectly appropriate.
“Ha! No. Quite right, sweetheart. None of my business at all.” Eddie roars with laughter. I hear it echo along the prison hallway at the other end of the line. “Very good, love, very good.”
And there we go. We’re back on track. It seems to be going well. We seem to be getting on. Me and Eddie Bishop.
I smile down the phone, a genuine grin this time. I smile in my empty living room, by myself, bathed in sunlight.
I met Mark in Annabel’s, a private club in Mayfair. Let’s be clear: Annabel’s is not the sort of place either of us frequents. It was the first and last time I’ve ever been there. Not for any terrible reason; I’d had fun there—God, I met the love of my life there—but it was just pure chance that either of us was there in the first place. If you’ve never heard of Annabel’s before, it’s a strange one. Nestled under a nondescript staircase in Berkeley Square and open for the past five decades, it has seen everyone from Nixon to Lady Gaga tip-tap down its staircase. Opened by Mark Birley at the suggestion of his close friend Lord Aspinall in the 1960s as a casino, more along the lines of a Connery Bond location and less of a one-armed-bandit arrangement. Birley was tied up with royalty, politics, and crime, so, as you can imagine, he pulled in a pretty sexy crowd. He created a quiet little supper club/pickup spot, run by the establishment for the establishment. That night, I wasn’t a member, but I was with one.
I met Caro on my first job out of the National Film and Television School. It was a TV documentary on the White Cube galleries. I’d been so excited to get it. My professor had put in a word with the producer and passed along my first short, which she’d loved. I was camera assistant to Fred Davey, one of my absolute heroes. The man who would eventually help me get my first feature documentary into production. Thankfully, we got on well—I tend to be quite good with tricky people. I’d turn up early and set up—bring coffee and smile. Trying to be invisible yet indispensable, walking that tricky line between flirty and reliable.
Caro had done some talking-heads stuff on the documentary. She was the smartest person I’d ever met, or at least the most thoroughly educated person I’d ever met. She’d been the most recent recipient of a starred first in History from Cambridge, following in the footsteps of Simon Schama and Alain de Botton. Not short on job offers after graduation, she’d unexpectedly taken a job running a new gallery bankrolled by her best friend from prep school. Five years later that gallery had reputedly discovered the next generation of great British artists. She’d invited me out for drinks after we’d wrapped on the first day of filming, and we’d been fast friends ever since.
Caro was fun. She had a habit of elliptically referring to her heritage; I’d catch glimpses of blue-stockinged, cigarette-rolling badasses through the folds of her allusions. She was exciting and glamorous, and a couple of weeks after we met she took me to Annabel’s.
* * *