Trio Read online

  Also by William Boyd

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  Any Human Heart

  Restless

  Ordinary Thunderstorms

  Waiting for Sunrise

  Solo

  Sweet Caress: The Many Lives of Amory Clay

  Love Is Blind

  Short Story Collections

  On the Yankee Station

  The Destiny of Nathalie “X”

  Fascination

  The Dream Lover

  The Dreams of Bethany Mellmoth

  Plays

  School Ties

  Six Parties

  Longing

  The Argument

  Non-fiction

  Bamboo

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2021 by William Boyd

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Viking, a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., London, in 2020.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Boyd, William, [date]- author.

  Title: Trio / William Boyd.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, [2021]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020038400 | ISBN 9780593318232 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593318249 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Black humor (Literature) | Humorous fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PR6052.O9192 T75 2021 | DDC 823/.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020038400

  Ebook ISBN 9780593318249

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover image: (movie camera) CSA Archive / Getty Image

  Cover design by Megan Wilson

  ep_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by William Boyd

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Duplicity

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Surrender

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Escape

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Gratitude and Acknowledgements

  A Note About the Author

  For Susan

  Most people live their real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy.

  —Anton Chekhov

  There is only one serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Deciding whether or not life is worth living is to answer the fundamental question in philosophy. All other questions follow from that.

  —Albert Camus

  DUPLICITY

  Brighton, England

  1968

  1

  Elfrida Wing stirred, grunted and shifted sleepily in her bed as the summer’s angled morning sun brightened the room, printing a skewed rectangle of lemony-gold light onto the olive-green-flecked wallpaper close by her pillow. Elfrida, wakened by the glare inching towards her, opened her eyes and considered the wallpaper, bringing it into focus with some difficulty, trying to force her comatose brain to work, to think. As usual, on waking she felt absolutely terrible. In front of her eyes, small sharp leaves seemed to be depicted there, in a stylised manner, she decided—or were they birds? Bird shapes? Or perhaps they were simply daubs and splatters of olive green that brought leaves and birds to mind.

  No matter. Leaves, birds or random flecks—who really cared in the great scheme of things? She eased herself out of bed and slowly pulled on her dressing gown over her pyjamas. She slipped down the stairs as quietly as possible, wincing at each creak, hand securely gripping the banister, trying to ignore the awful hill-cracking headache that, now she was upright, had begun thumping behind her eyes, making them bulge rhythmically in sympathy, or so she felt. Then she remembered Reggie was long gone, up at first light, off to his film. She could relax.

  She paused, coughed, then farted noisily and finished her descent of the staircase with careless din, striding into the kitchen and flinging open the fridge door looking for her orange juice. She scissored off the top of a carton and poured herself half a tumblerful before turning to the condiment cupboard and removing the bottle of Sarson’s White Vinegar that she kept there behind the pack of sugar. She added a sizeable slug to her orange juice. Sometimes she wished vodka had more flavour, like gin, but she recognised at the same time that its very neutrality was her greatest ally. Vodka and tap water in a tumbler was her daily tipple when Reggie was around. He never questioned her near-constant thirst, luckily, and never wondered why there was always a considerable stock of Sarson’s White Vinegar in the cupboard. Elfrida sat down at the kitchen table and sipped at her vodka and orange juice, finishing it quickly, and then poured herself another, feeling the buzz, the reassuring hit. Her headache was disappearing already.

  The title of a novel came mysteriously, unbidden, into her head—The Zigzag Man. She could almost see the cove
r in her mind’s eye. A clever use of the two zeds; perhaps different colours for the “zig” and the “zag”…She poured herself more orange juice and went back to the cupboard for the Sarson’s, emptying the last half-inch into the glass. Better buy another bottle of voddy, she told herself. Or two. She found her notebook and wrote the title down. The Zigzag Man by Elfrida Wing. She had noted dozens of titles for potential novels, she saw, flicking back through the pages. There they were: The Summer of the Wasps, Freezy, The Acrobat, Drop Dead Gorgeous, A Week in Madrid, The Golden Rule, Dark Eulogy, Jazz, Spring Equinox, The Lightning Process, Cool Sun, Mystery in a Small Town, Estranged, Artists’ Entrance, Berlin to Hamburg, The Windrow, The Riviera Gap, A Safe Onward Journey, Falling Away—title after title of unwritten novels. And now The Zigzag Man could be added to their number. Titles were the easy bit—writing the novel was the awful challenge. She sipped her juice, feeling sad, all of a sudden. It was now over ten years since her last novel had been published, she remembered ruefully: The Big Show, published in the spring of 1958. Ten long years and not a word of fiction written—just list after list of titles. She finished her juice feeling a numbness overwhelm her, tears stinging her eyes. Stop thinking about bloody novels, she told herself, angrily. Have another drink.

  2

  Talbot Kydd woke abruptly from his dream. In his dream he had been standing on a wide beach and a young man, naked, was walking out of the modest surf, waving at him. He sat up, still half asleep, still in a dream-daze, taking in his surroundings. Yes, he was in a hotel, of course, not at home. Another hotel—sometimes he thought he had spent half his life in hotels. Anyway, he didn’t really care: the room was generously large and the bathroom functioned perfectly. It was all he needed for his stay. London was close, that was the main thing.

  Now he swung his legs out of the bed and stood up, slowly, blinking, and rubbed his face, hearing his alarm go off. Six o’clock. What an absurd time to start your day, he thought, as he always did when his impossible job made these demands. He stood, stretched carefully, raising his arms above his head for a few seconds as if trying to touch the ceiling, hearing joints crack satisfyingly, and then pottered through to the bathroom.

  As he lay in his bath, steam rising, he thought again of the dream he’d been having. Was it a dream or was it a memory? Pleasingly erotic, anyway, and about a young man, pale and limber…Or was it Kit, his brother? Or was it someone he’d actually photographed, perhaps, one of his models? He could remember the body but not the face. He tried to recover more details but the dream-memories wouldn’t coalesce and the young man remained immovably generic—alluring, slim, unidentifiable.

  He shaved, he dressed—classic charcoal-grey suit, white shirt, his East Sussex Light Infantry regimental tie—and ran his two brushes through the near-white wings of hair above his ears. The bathroom ceiling lights gleamed brightly on his freckled baldness. Bald at twenty-five, his father had once observed: I do hope you’re my child. It had been an unkind remark to make to a young man self-conscious about his early hair loss, Talbot thought, recalling his father, who had dense straw-coloured hair, driven back from his forehead in tight waves, like a man facing into a gale. But then kindness was not a virtue you’d ever associate with Peverell Kydd so perhaps the slur was evidence of genuine suspicion…

  He took the stairs down to the dining room and breakfast, expunging thoughts of the old bastard from his mind. Peverell Kydd, dead two decades now. Good. Fuck him and his shade.

  He was almost alone in the dining room of the Grand as it was so early. A middle-aged couple in tweeds; a plump man with hair down to his shoulders, smoking, were his three companions. Talbot ordered and consumed his habitual kipper, drank four cups of tea, ate two slices of white toast and raspberry jam, all the while idly watching a rhomboid of sunlight on the maroon carpet slowly turn itself into an isosceles triangle. A sunny day—perfect for Beachy Head.

  He had nearly finished his fifth cup of tea when his line producer, Joe Swire, appeared and ordered a pot of coffee from the pretty young waitress with the port-wine birthmark on her neck. Why did he notice such smirches, Talbot wondered, and not celebrate the young waitress’s guileless beauty instead? And here was Joe, opposite him, a handsome young man whose good looks were marred by poor teeth, soft and snaggled.

  “Break it to me gently, Joe,” Talbot said as Joe consulted his clipboard with the day’s schedule and business.

  “The Applebys have postponed,” Joe began.

  “Excellent.”

  “But they’ve asked for another copy of Troy’s contract.”

  “Why? They have it. They countersigned it.”

  “I don’t know, boss. And Tony’s off sick.”

  “Which Tony?”

  “The DoP.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Touch of flu.”

  “Again? What’ll we do?”

  “Frank will cover.”

  “Frank?”

  “The camera operator.”

  “That Frank—right. Is RT happy?”

  “Seems to be.”

  They chatted on for a while, going over the schedule and anticipating potential problems. Talbot realised that he over-relied on Joe’s expertise to ensure the film ran smoothly. He didn’t enjoy the pettifogging nuts-and-bolts business of making a film, it wasn’t his forte. Which is why he hired someone like Joe, of course, to manfully shoulder what really should have been his burden. Talbot knew he should try harder and show more interest, such as remembering people’s names. It was one of Peverell Kydd’s salient pieces of advice. If you remember their names and what they do they’ll think you’re a god—or a demi-god, at least. As with most of his father’s proffered wise counsel Talbot was reluctant to take it. Whatever you choose to do in your life, my boy, don’t, repeat, don’t have anything to do with the film business, you’re absolutely not the right type of person, so his father had declared. And yet here he was—a film producer with more than a dozen films to his name. Just like his father—although not a legend, definitely not, and certainly not as rich.

  Talbot sat back and exhaled. Why did he feel sour and cantankerous today? he wondered. The sun was shining, they were in week five, close to halfway through the filming schedule; there had been crises, of course, but nothing calamitous. He was wealthy enough, contentedly married, in good health, his children grown up and thriving, after their fashion…So what was chafing at him?

  “You all right, boss?” Joe asked, as if he could sense Talbot’s darkening mood.

  “Yes, yes. All’s well with the world. Shall we go to work?”

  3

  Anny Viklund woke up and, as she did every morning as consciousness slowly returned, she wondered if this day was going to be the day that she died. Why did that morbid question come so quickly to her mind every single morning? Why was her first thought that this day, just begun, might be her last day on earth? Stupid. Don’t think these thoughts, stupid. She lay there for a few moments, concentrating, then slowly became aware of the young man sleeping soundly next to her. Troy. Yes, of course, Troy had stayed the night…She rubbed her eyes. He had been so sweet, she remembered, and the sex had been good and energetic—exactly what she had wanted—what she’d needed.

  She slipped out of bed and walked, naked, into the bathroom. She peered at her face in the mirror, always a bit shocked to see her newly cropped ink-black hair with its short fringe. So stark and transforming. Maybe she’d leave it like that and never be a blonde again. She urinated and cleaned her teeth and wandered back into the bedroom.

  Troy was sitting on her side of the bed, rummaging at his thick brown hair with stiff fingers. He smiled, seeing her come back in.

  “That was a bit of all right last night, wasn’t it?” he said, obviously pleased with himself.

  “You think so?” She climbed back onto the bed, hugging her knees to her.

&nb
sp; Troy pointed at his morning erection.

  “He’s ready for more, I’d say.” He leant over and kissed her left kneecap.

  “We’re due on set in an hour,” she said. “They won’t know where you are.”

  “Shit. Yeah. Good point.” Troy frowned. He looked at her. “How come your pubic hair is a different colour from the hair on your head? Eh?”

  Anny smiled. This, she now realised, was the sort of question Troy asked.

  “My hair is dyed. The hair on my head.”

  “Natural blonde, then? Like it.”

  “My family is from Sweden.”

  “Yeah. But you’re an American.”

  “It doesn’t affect my ancestry.”

  Troy stood and wandered around the suite looking for his clothes.

  “Better get back to my room,” he said, vaguely.

  Anny watched him dress. He was twenty-four, she knew, making him almost four years younger than she was. Maybe that was why she had slept with him. I’ve slept with too many old men, she thought—first Mavrocordato, then Cornell, then Jacques—I’ve forgotten what it was like with a young man. He was cute, Troy, almost innocent, she decided—yes, he still thought life was full of fun. She bowed her head, resting her brow on her knees. The act reminded her at once of Jacques. It was one of his sayings: the world is composed of people who bow their heads and people who don’t…Where was Jacques, anyway? Paris? No, he had said something about going to Africa to meet a deposed president in exile. What was his name? Nkrumah. Yes. Very Jacques. A trip to Africa to meet a president—she kept forgetting how famous Jacques was in France. She unbowed her head. Troy was standing there, dressed in his jeans and his suede jacket, staring at her.