My Sweet Guillotine by Jayne Tuttle

Author:Jayne Tuttle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hardie Grant Books
Published: 2022-07-30T00:00:00+00:00

The suites of Jonathan Hogarth are on the avenue Foch, near the métro George V. Geor-jeuh sank. On my way I pass a building I did an audition in once for a science-fiction film by a famous French philosopher/filmmaker about aliens and humans as animals. I was a cat waking up in an imaginary glass box, and the cat gets confused, then frightened, then angry, and the director kept yelling, ‘Hungrier! Hungrier!’ at me and I couldn’t figure out if he meant angrier or hungrier. Then I had to improvise and chat up a hot French actress, as though we were in a bar. I was so nervous and my French was so bad that my words came out from a strange place in my psyche: my mouth was speaking but my brain was somewhere else:

Do you, come, here?

Isn’t this chair inside here, can you?

What is your sensation, of something?

Hogarth’s lift is fancy, wide and fully enclosed. Sixth floor. It seems dramatic to take the stairs so I step inside. There’s a safe feeling of opulence, spaciousness; the sheer weight of the construction. The metal gate jolts me when it clunks open outside the lawyer’s door. I step gratefully out.

A velvet lounge in a long white marble corridor.

RECEPTIONIST:

Il n’en a pas pour longtemps.

I should run. Should I run? Squeeze the scarf.

JACQUES LECOQ:

An actor should see the sea in the métro.

MUM:

Get in there, you wimp!

The summer Mum got the rash, the water in the holiday town was cold as melted ice. She always jumped straight in. You never regret a swim! Only having not swum.

My name is called. My heart pounds. Just pretend it’s a role, I tell myself.

INT: HOGARTH’S OFFICE – DAY

An opulent office the size of room 207 five times over. Heavy parquetry floors, ornate windows, sumptuous carpets, mouldings, lamps. A huge mahogany desk floats in the middle of the room, where a man sits hunched over a pile of papers. This is JONATHAN HOGARTH. He speaks with a booming British voice.

HOGARTH:

Pleased to meet you.

He stands to pump my hand. His wealth is reassuring. The long, ironed cuffs with silver links in the shape of bells, the wide silver wedding band, the heavy silver watch, the long fingers with the remnants of a tan. I bet he lives in Saint-Cloud, with a pool.

JAYNE:

(quietly)

Thanks for meeting with me.

He gestures for me to sit, then goes to the high windows that look out over the tree-lined avenue and starts pacing.

HOGARTH:

You know, I’ve seen a lot of stupid Australians. Tourists, mainly. They come here, step off the bus, look the wrong way, get hit by cars. Happens all the time. But this accident of yours, I’ve never heard anything like it.

JAYNE:

(swallowing)

Right.

HOGARTH:

As I said to your husband, boyfriend, whatever he is, on the phone, there is no money in it. I’d take your case, which means nothing but a small fee up-front, but still. They don’t cover suffering here – it’s not America, Australia, every single euro must be accounted for and justified. A painful process.

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