I took her arm. “Honey, does he beat you?”
Mrs Edison looked quite stunned. “No! Christ, what a thing to ask.”
“Then what is it? You always look like you want to lay down and become one with the floor.”
I didn’t expect an answer. I felt certain she would walk away, head high, and never speak to me again. But instead she shrugged and whispered, “He doesn’t let me work.”
People think Percy’s a vicious bear, too, but he’s not so bad. Husbands come a lot worse than mine. I often thought Percy had his head on the right way round, anyhow. It’s only what you print to film that sticks, in the end. That’s what people will see forever, not your silly, flawed memories and inelegant bumbling after happiness. The power of the final cut is what you want—and if you can make it all a little better, a little brighter, a little more symmetrical, and a touch more mysterious, well, why not do it, after all? So what if I had to do a couple of Christmas mornings over again so the light on my face looked nicer, or Sevvy could summon up a little more joy over those woolly socks? I’ve seen the film: those Christmases were glorious. Nowadays, I can only really remember them the way they looked when Percy played them back to us. It’s not the worst thing in the world, to only remember the best version of yourself.
But it is unsettling to see a child do three or four takes of Yuletide ecstasy without batting an eye, I must say.
Still, I did love him. He never minded if I wore my pyjamas for a week and didn’t brush my hair. That’s a good quality in a man. Maybe the best a girl can hope for, considering. And, by Jove, he loves that child. Did you know you can fall in love with the way a man loves someone else? It sounds all zigzagged, but it’s true. Love takes so much effort. You have to get up ever so early in the morning to really love someone properly.
I don’t suppose I shall have a daughter of my own now. I’m not fussed over it. It was on the to-do list, but you know to-do lists. They get longer and longer until you might as well just carve the last items on your tombstone.
Do the dishes.
Pick up gown from the cleaners.
Sign contract.
Perish.
Oh bollocks, I forgot: Have children.
Cue that sad trombone. Besides, I’m rather off marriage at the moment. First Percy, then poor Nigel Lapine—what a disaster! Remind me, my darling, loyal diary, to never again marry a man who makes love with his socks on. I don’t care how his slapstick flickies make me laugh! Diary, you must stand firm! Nigel told me I ought to quit the pictures and make babies, so I told him he ought to quit my house and make a movie with more depth than getting kicked in the balls, and I’m not the teensiest bit sorry. Comedians have no sense of humour.
Thaddeus asked me to marry him, of course. The same day that he told me Miranda had been greenlit. He does it every time he offers me a new Madame Mortimer picture, comes sailing into my parlour with a part in one hand and a ring in the other. I always take the part, but leave the ring. Saints and ministers of grace! It would seem only directors can love a girl like me. I told the scoundrel not to be absurd. He doesn’t mean it. He’s never so much as kissed me, and he never will. Thad is the Moon’s uncle, every starlet’s confessor—but never their lover. Perhaps I shall just say yes one day. That would shock the red out of his hair! But then I might have to go through with it, and I’d rather have a half-barrel of spinach than a husband at the moment.
For that matter, I’m rather off men these days, full stop. I suppose that would make me perfect for Thaddeus. Perhaps that’s why he’s forever asking me. He knows I won’t spill his plate of beans and he won’t spill mine. We are each quite safe in the company of the other. After all, everyone needs a secret to stick in their lapel.
Perhaps I shall invite Sevvy on our little cruise. It would do her good, poor lamb. Being a teenager is always trying, for them and for everyone else, but she cannot seem to get into the rhythm of the thing. I’ve tried to tell her she doesn’t have to go into the industry. There’s every other thing out there, and a lot of it doesn’t require our sort of genteel schizophrenia. She’s just burning up with ambition, but the poor bunny’s got nowhere to put it. I don’t think the Patented Pellam System for Prevailing Over the Perils of Pubescence would be of much help.
Stop speaking to your parents
Run away from your planet
Take off your clothes as often as possible, but only while reciting Shakespeare (and being paid scale)
Buy a cat
Drink your milk
Mug your destiny in an alley and punch it until it gives you what you want
See? What use is that rot to my girl? I don’t think I will invite her. It’s hard enough to grow up without having to watch adults act like fools and monsters all the time. And it’s hard enough being a fool and a monster without a knock-kneed kid spitting responsibility into your drink.
Aha! Speak of the devil and she arrives, desperate for a proper hug.
16 January, 1930, Two in the Morning…Or Is It Three?
The Butterfly Room, Aboard the Achelois, Sea of Tranquillity
Come on, Mary, sober up! If you don’t write it down, you won’t remember it, and if you don’t remember it, somebody’s going to get away with murder and you’ll never even know who. It’s only a spot of gin, girl. Give yourself a couple of good slaps and steady your damned course.
Thaddeus Irigaray is dead!
God forgive me, I think Percy killed him.
How Many Miles to Babylon?:
Episode 1
Airdate: 24 March, 1914
Announcer: Henry R. Choudhary
Vespertine Hyperia: Violet El-Hashem
Tybault Gayan: Alain Mbengue
The Invisible Hussar: Zachariah von Leipold
Doctor Grueclass="underline" Benedict Sol
Guest Star: Wadsworth Shevchenko as the Maroon Marauder
ANNOUNCER: Good Evening, Listeners, if it is indeed Evening where you are. BBC Radio is proud to present to you a Sunday night drama you won’t soon forget. We’ll see you here every week at seven in the evening for rollicking stories of derring-do and breathless excitement. Journey back to the early days of planetary settlement. Join the brave men and women of the Pioneer Age as they explore a Venus untouched by man! Gather in, pour yourself a cup of something nice, and sit back for the first thrilling instalment of the solar system’s newest tale of adventure, romance, and intrigue on How Many Miles to Babylon?
Babylon is a joint production of the United/Universal All-Worlds Wireless Broadcom Network (New York, Shanghai, Tithonus) and BBC Radio, recorded at Atlas Studios, London.
This evening’s programme is brought to you by Idun’s Apples Cosmetics, makers of fine soaps, hair oils, cold creams, lip rouges, and foundations, prepared lovingly from a secret blend of soothing botanicals, exotic scents, and ambergris from the finest Venusian sources. Additional promotional consideration provided by Prithvi Deep Sea Holdings Cooperative, a Family Company; Branston Pickle; Kerykeion Premium Coffees, Roasted on Mercury, Served at Your Table; the East Indian Trading Company; and Edison Teleradio Corp.