The Lost Art of Gratitude

“I was in Oil,” said Bruno. “That was the last one. You know it?” This last question was addressed more to Jamie than to Isabel, since Bruno had obviously decided she knew nothing about films.

“Oil?”

“Yes. It was set on an offshore oil rig up near Shetland—or most of it was. Joe Beazley directed. You know him?”

Isabel looked thoughtful, as if trying to remember Joe Beazley amongst the many film directors of her acquaintance. “Joe Beazley? No, I can’t say that I know him.”

“What were you in Oil?” Jamie asked.

“Stunts,” said Bruno. “That’s what I do. I’m a stunt man.”

“I thought that you were a tightrope walker,” said Jamie.

Bruno laughed. It was a rather unpleasant sound, Isabel thought; more of a snigger really. “I do that as well,” he said. “It goes with doing stunt work. Know what I mean?”

“Sort of,” said Jamie.

They were still standing in the hall, and Isabel now gestured for them to move into the sitting room, where Charlie was enjoying his last few minutes before bedtime. Bruno bent down to tickle Charlie under the chin, calling him “mate” as he did so. “You fed up, mate? I don’t blame you. Tell you what: I’ll teach you to escape from that thing.”

Charlie looked at Bruno with distaste. He had not enjoyed having his chin tickled and his brow knitted into a frown. Isabel wanted to laugh: Cat had done it again. Bruno was worse, far worse, than she had imagined.

“Are you an escapologist as well?” she asked.

Bruno looked up at her. “Escape-how-much?” he asked.

“An escapologist. I wondered whether you were both a funambulist and an escapologist.”

Now Cat decided to intervene. Throwing a sideways glance at Isabel, she said, “Isabel can talk English. It’s just that sometimes she forgets.”

“Forgets what?” asked Bruno.

Jamie cleared his throat. “What stunts did you do in Oil?” he asked.

Bruno seemed pleased with the question. “I was covered in oil in one scene,” he said. “They used molasses, actually. It looks just like crude, but it’s easier to get off.”

“You must get yourself into some sticky situations,” interjected Isabel.

Cat threw Isabel a warning glance.

“And then, in another scene,” Bruno continued, “I had to do a fire job. Asbestos clothing, flames, the works. They had me toppling over and ending up in the drink. I almost hit the rescue boat when I went in, but it didn’t show up in the shot so the director didn’t make me do it again.”

Cat smiled appreciatively. “Bruno says that filming is very dull work. He says that they do the same thing over and over again, just to get it right.”

Bruno nodded in agreement. “It’s a tough business, even if you aren’t a stunt man. You work for the dough, you really do. Except for the body doubles. That’s easy money.”

Jamie was intrigued. “Body doubles?”

Bruno grinned. “They’re the people who stand in for actors’ body parts—an arm, maybe, or a foot—depending.” He hesitated, looking at Cat as if for a signal. She smiled encouragingly, and he was emboldened. “And nude scenes. You know, bedroom stuff. When they want to show a bit of flesh. You don’t have to show the face, and so they use the body double rather than the actor.” He turned to Isabel and winked. “Know what I mean?”

It occurred to Isabel that she should wink back, and she did. Jamie saw this, and his mouth opened as if he was about to say something. Then Bruno winked at Isabel again.

THEY BOTH HAD DIFFICULTY getting to sleep. Isabel knew that Jamie was still awake by the sound of his breathing; once he was asleep he breathed so quietly that it was as if nobody was there.

“Oh well,” she muttered.

Jamie turned. He put an arm gently about her shoulder, pushing the sheet and blanket aside. “You behaved,” he said. “In fact, I thought you behaved very nicely.”

She was relieved. She had made a supreme effort—for the sake of her relationship with Cat—and it was a relief to know that at least Jamie had been impressed. “That wink,” she said.

He chuckled. “Yes. I saw it. What did it mean?”

“A wink is usually a sign of complicity,” said Isabel. “It says, ‘We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’ ”

Jamie sighed. “It’s not going to work, is it? And do you know what? I feel rather sorry for him. He may be pretty keen on her.”

Isabel feared that he was right. “He’s rougher trade than her usual boyfriends,” she said. “I hope that when it comes unstuck he won’t be difficult.”

Jamie confessed that this had been worrying him too. “There’s something about him,” he said. “Something rather odd. You know how it is with some people, there’s a sense of their being on the edge. Wound up like a spring.”

Isabel knew what he meant. She had sensed it too, and it had worried her. “Do you think we should warn her?” She felt the weight of his forearm on her shoulder; it was a reassuring feeling

Jamie was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “No. We mustn’t. She won’t take well to any interference. She’ll have to discover it by herself.”