Original subtitles

Firefighters may strike

if plans go ahead to halve the number of fire engines

in five stations in the capital today.

Joseph Conrad says that inside every heart

burns the desire to set down once and for all

a true record of what has happened.

Come this way.

Of course, maybe for Conrad that kind of thing was easy,

because maybe Conrad was the kind of person

who could always work out exactly what had happened.

If so, he was a lucky man.

Luckier than me anyway.

In my own life, nothing that has happened,

nothing that can happen,

compares with the strangeness of a single summer.

Sir.

The summer when I first met Victor Quinn.

"Many are the stories with interesting beginnings,

but harder to find are the stories which end well."

I'm sorry?

Surely you can't have forgotten.

Oh, right. I see.

Your own words.

Though maybe you write so many you lose track.

Victor Quinn.

- Paul Peplow. - Of course.

"End well" in which sense?

Meaning a story ends well, meaning happily for its subject,

or well, meaning in a way which satisfies the reader?

Or did you intend both?

Both, I think. It was just a book review.

- Drink? - No, thank you.

Of course. Wrong of me to ask.

Well, as you know,

I don't often agree to be interviewed.

- It's kind of you. - Not at all.

Why are you normally so reclusive?

Ah, the notebook's coming out.

How can you call me a recluse? I live in the center of London.

- But you don't give interviews. - I'm not an exhibitionist, no.

I'm a simple man.

I took the liberty of ordering for you. I hope you don't mind.

And how did you know I'd refuse a drink?

Well, I believe you belong to

what cooks on television call the vulnerable groups.

"Remember: don't put brandy in this pudding,

- you endanger the vulnerable groups." - No.

"Hello my name is Paul. I'm an alcoholic."

You see? I've studied the course myself.

It's not really a course.

No, a course implies an end.

And in this case there is no end.

I'm interested in the meetings.

Are you? Why is that?

Paul, we can talk about anything you like.

But first of all you're going to have to concede

the accuracy of my intelligence.

I go to meetings, yes.

I've no idea how you know.

Well, England is a series of clubs;

No club more celebrated,

no club more socially advantageous than yours.

Obviously you didn't go very often.

But you say what you think these meetings are.

A means.

One means of people helping one another.

I suppose we should start by discussing Flotilla,

its recent move to the stock market.

A transparent success. What's your question?

I was wondering what your motives where.

What do I answer? I did it for the money?

People will say I'm greedy. I didn't do it for the money?

They'll say I'm unworldly, I'm lying.

Paul, you of all people must understand

the modern interview is a form as rigid

and contrived as the 18th-century gavotte.

Shall I just put "He refused to answer"?

What, meaning he's a prick?

He agreed to the interview then he refused to answer the questions.

Why of all people?

Why did you say me of all people?

- A poet. - Ah.

I read poetry.

I read yours.

"Love was the search, the wheel, the line,

The open road, the steep incline;

Things speeding by, the final turn in view,

Next: Something disastrous,

Overwhelming, new."

I hardly believe you'd be paddling in journalism

if it weren't purely for the money.

No.

I like the idea, I promise you.

- Of this interview? - No, the meetings.

I thought the meetings amusing.

Amusing?

Obviously you're not an alcoholic.

No, I'm not.

Meetings are a discipline.

They wouldn't be addictive if they weren't.

Ah, right, I see. Here we go.

All cults make similar demands.

I think it's really stupid calling AA a cult.

Actually, I think it's quite dangerous.

Surely it's a classic cult.

You know, the chairs, the coffee, the soul searching.

Believe me, I'm not denying its usefulness.

You couldn't. It saved my life.

I was found on the M4 dodging traffic naked

- in the middle of the night. - Huh.

I don't need to question the value of AA.

What brought you to the motorway

so late at night?

None of my business, you're right.

But presumably you believe

one drink will lead you on the road to hell.

- I do believe that, yes. - That's what they teach.

It's also what I believe.

One drink, one drunk.

But it's not true, is it?

I mean, if you'd cured your own addiction

in the privacy of your own home,

you could perfectly well drink socially again.

I can't take that risk.

You won't take that risk, you mean.

I think I'm missing something here.

I'm here to do an interview.

It's what I'm here to do. No doubt you think you're being clever.

You think you're being provocative, wind up the monkeys.

It's dinner party stuff.

"My God, you don't go to that ridiculous AA, do you?"

- Only tell you one thing I've noticed. - What thing?

Most of the people who attack AA

are usually 10 times more fucked up than the people they're attacking.

Yes,

but you must have views. You must have theories.

I have no theories. I have one aim in life.

Just the one?

My aim is to get to bed sober tonight. That's my aim.

And I've found pragmatically that the only means

of achieving it's through AA.

It's the only method which works.

And you have no fucking right to talk about it.

Thank you.

Have you thought...

have you considered what it would mean to be cured?

Of course. I think of little else.

That's my point. If you can't drink at all,

ever, then by definition you're not cured.

What's your idea of cured?

"Thank you.

I'll just have the one. Just the one for me. Thank you."

Think about it, Paul. Consider.

It's only groups which demand total abstinence.

Why? Because their intention is not to stop you drinking.

Their principle aim

is to retain you as a member of the group.

It's a familiar argument.

It's also nonsense.

I'm interested. Tell me why.

Of course I went into AA kicking and screaming.

- Ha. - Everyone does.

Believe me, I had 1000 reservations.

- Presumably you'd bottomed. - Yes.

That's the phrase they use. The M4.

Not just the M4. Not just that one night, believe me.

Other nights?

You wake up in the morning

and you've fallen down three flights of stairs.

Even so, even then I was still reluctant.

I'm sure. The poet.

I hated the idea, sitting around late into the night.

I clung to the thought "I'm not the sort of person

who sits in a circle stripping himself bare."

Somehow I see you alone with a girl come midnight.

Whatever.

Anyway, you go to meetings because you have to.

Because it's your last chance. It's your only chance.

Everyone has the right to destroy their own life.

But to destroy the lives of others?

Ah, yes.

Others.

You're right. I was frightened of AA.

Guess why?

- In my heart I knew it would work. - Because it works?

I no sooner walked into the room than I intuited,

my God, this is going to work.

"I'm not the sort of person who does this," you say.

But what sort of person are you by that stage?

- A worthless drunk. - Yes.

It's that word worthless I have trouble with.

I'll be honest.

I'm broke.

I'm completely broke.

I don't have a fucking penny.

I can't get a bank account.

The editor pays me in cash.

- Where do you live? - Camberwell.

Stretching the charity of a last remaining friend.

- You? - Regents Park.

Good.

Well, that's something solid for the article.

Why don't you come back to the office with me?

I'm sorry?

Well, I'd like you to see where I work.

- I was a communist. - Yeah?

What are you saying? Is this the beginning of the interview?

Well, apparently newspapers have taken to calling me a one-time Marxist.

I wasn't a Marxist, I was a communist.

- I use the full shocker. - All or nothing, eh?

And you mean it was a cult? There were rules?

Conditions of membership, yes.

All clubs have membership rules, otherwise they wouldn't be clubs.

Not, of course, for the pleasure of allowing people in.

Oh no. The far headier delight of keeping people out.

British communists, we were a select little band.

A snotty little group, we were.

It's a familiar progress, isn't it,

from student politics? Communist to entrepreneur?

Well, you could say it was just a matter of luck.

I stumbled across an idea, analyzed the market,

make informed predictions

based upon available financial data.

And pretty soon there was scarcely an investor

who wasn't using Flotilla software.

Capitalists make me laugh because they understand nothing.

They talk about strategy and markets

as if they were in control.

They use soothing devices like big houses

and hotels and servants.

They use luxury as a sort of massage to persuade themselves

they've acted brilliantly, that their actions have been brilliant.

- Whereas in fact? - They've work hard, that's all.

They've worked hard and they had a bit of luck.

Communism is night class. It's where you learn.

Who is doing what to whom?

If you don't believe the rich spend their time

fucking over the poor, then I don't see how you make sense

of what goes on in the world at all.

Look, forgive me, nobody can mistake your wealth.

- No? - And you make assumptions.

You use techniques which I associate with the rich.

Or at least with the powerful.

And what I mean is, you'd read my poetry.

Is it a manner?

Is it a game?

You'd read my poetry before the meeting.

"I know who you are. I've read 'This Too Shall Pass."'

And you think that's specifically a technique of the rich, do you?

And what's more, learning a whole verse.

"Love was the search, the wheel, the line..."

- A line maybe, but a whole verse? - Too much?

Good afternoon, Mr. Quinn. This is what you asked for.

Good afternoon.

Hi.

Why don't you go inside?

- Well? - Can I ask you something else?

What's your interest in the meetings?

- I had a friend who quit. - Quit alcohol?

No, quit AA. Much harder.

- My friend came home one evening... - Came home?

- To your home, you mean? - She came back from a meeting.

My friend was convinced that the purpose of the cult

was to reinforce her feelings of worthlessness,

not to try and assuage them. She never went back.

Surely she knew she'd have to confront her illness.

Confront it by all means, but then move on.

Do you think an addict can ever move on?

Yes, well, this is at the heart of the issue.

It is. It is at the heart.

You see, my friend had come to see

an addiction to AA as far more sinister,

far more threatening than her dependence on alcohol.

She felt they were... how can I put it?

- sustaining her in a state

of suspended anxiety.

That they were instilling a permanent fear

of the great crash around the corner.

And in order to preserve that fear and magnify it,

they were denying her self-respect.

In that case I don't believe she was alcoholic.

- No? - An alcoholic has no self-respect.

I gave her a gin and tonic.

She drank it. We played Scrabble all evening.

I don't believe she was addictive in the first place.

- Believe what you like. - I don't believe it.

You know, Paul, it seems to me

you have a problem with self-esteem.

In what way, specifically?

Well, you accuse me of mugging up on your poetry

in order to flatter you.

Does it not occur to you, I mean does it really not occur to you,

that you insult yourself with this suggestion

more than you insult me?

Your poetry is the reason

I have long wanted to meet you.

Oh, I see.

- What did you like to drink? - Sorry?

- What was your favorite drink? - Mine?

- Yeah. - Fatal weakness for Manhattans.

I would never have guessed.

Fiddling with cherries, you think that's time well spent?

- And you? - Oh, I like a Martini.

As well spent as fiddling about with olives.

And if I offered you one now?

That's it, isn't it?

If you were cured, you'd be cured of the desire.

And who wants to be cured of desire?

How's your friend doing now?

My friend? She's doing fine.

Mr. Quinn, your car is here.

Well, it's been a great pleasure meeting you.

Now I don't read newspapers, but my impression is

that the modern practice is for the journalist

to write the story before the encounter.

So what I'm saying is write what you like.

Invent my character.

I shall stand by whatever opinions you ascribe to me.

I shall be your invention.

I very much hope we can meet again.

Yes, I'd like that too.

- I'll show you out. - Thank you.

It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peplow.

Call down to Tom. Tell him Victor's out of here in 10 minutes.

As job interviews go, it was one of the more peculiar.

No piece ever appeared.

I told the editor my subject had been a no-show.

He said it was typical of the man's arrogance

not even to turn up.

In fact, someone was needed to write copy for Victor's website,

turning the prose of the internet

into something like poetry.

I started working for Victor the following week.

This is where you go.

You write your stuff on the computer.

That's it.

- This is where I am? - This is it.

Okay.

- You can manage that? - Yeah.

Good. Good luck.

The rhythm of the office was pretty unusual.

When Victor was around they all worked like slaves.

When he wasn't, then things took a more casual turn.

No thank you. I'm trying to stay off it.

What have you come up with so far?

I was beginning to think that I was going to be happy

doodling around under no pressure,

manufacturing sentences that would give the business

a little kick and allure.

I'd taken to staying on in the evening

longer than anyone else

because I felt more secure than at home.

Looking back,

I think that may have been a mistake.

I'm waiting for my husband.

Yes?

You must be Paul Peplow.

I am. Yes, I am.

He told me about you.

He said you were working here.

You haven't seen him, have you?

Are you gonna hang on and wait?

No, I'm interested, really.

So what was she like?

Oh, you'd have to meet her for yourself to decide.

Why?

Because from me you'll get a partial account.

- Why? - Why?

- Because why do you think? - She really got to you.

And also she wanted to be an actress, which wasn't easy.

Because I had to watch television and...

That's not such a hardship.

- I don't know, look at her in helmets and things.

- Viking helmets? - No, police helmets, obviously.

- Oh. - It's what actors have to do,

all the ones she knew. They played police all the time, or doctors.

They play very few Vikings.

She was a doctor in one of those series

where they go to the laundry cupboard to make love.

Young doctors, you know, working 35-hour shifts

and fucking each other in the middle of the night.

Oh.

So you had to watch your girlfriend with other people?

Simulating, yeah.

- How was that? - Fine, actually. I didn't mind it.

I minded it more when she did it in real life.

Hmm.

Is that why it ended? It's over?

Yeah. Yeah, it's over.

She was this face on television

so everyone thought they knew her.

- But only I knew her. - Only you?

Well, me and a dozen others.

The Dirty Dozen, as I came to think of them.

What about you? Any such figure in your life?

- Uh... - Why are we talking about this?

Because...

it's often more interesting, don't you think?

In what way?

Talking to people you don't know.

Maybe.

I don't live that kind of life anymore.

What? What life?

- Oh, you know, girls, bars. - Mmm.

Girls go with bars, and in my mind bars are long since forbidden.

Bars frighten you?

No, everything frightens me.

Look, what happens is...

do you know about this?

Do I?

You're focused on one thing, aren't you?

You tell me.

Your recovery.

You want to recover. That's all you want.

And the other person's got tired of clearing up.

They're tired of tidying up after you.

Go on.

You're sick. You're reeling. Whatever. You're in agony.

The guilt.

- Exactly. - You're drinking again.

And the other person says, "I don't want to play nurse.

I refuse to play nurse. I won't do it."

Especially when she plays nurse on the television already.

Exactly.

So then maybe after a while you start to think,

okay, this is getting much better.

I'm beginning to clean up, I'm sober.

Hey this is starting to work.

- One day at a time. - Precisely.

And you think, at last, I deserve a fucking break.

I've been to 50,000 fucking meetings and I deserve a break.

And then one day Clem turns to you.

Your girlfriend informs you that she's an honest person,

so she must inform you that she's been meeting other people.

Other people who are, as it were, not you.

The reason being, Clem says,

is that you were a drunk and so what was she supposed to do?

Do you believe her?

Believe her how? Believe she slept with them?

No, believe her reasons.

She slept with a dozen other men.

A dozen. And then...

you're warming up a dinner from Marks & Spencer.

Turn on the television. You're pouring the Coca-Cola.

She says, "You know something, Paul?

Since you've cleaned up you've become kind of boring.

You were so much more interesting when you were drunk."

And were you?

Early on she said no commitments.

Later I said, "I agreed, no commitments.

But somehow when you said no commitments, forgive me,

I did not foresee the number 12."

Well, mind you, I mean, let's be clear.

AA is my sole hope.

It's my sole source of hope.

- Is it? - I should be there now.

Should?

No wonder if occasionally I say "I can't get to a meeting.

I couldn't get to the meeting. I was held up at Flotilla.

I ran into the boss's wife."

I'm glad you did. I'm really glad.

People don't want to know me.

They want to know my husband.

Or rather they want to know me

because that way they get to meet my husband.

- Does that upset you? - No no. Not at all.

No. It amuses me.

I've a life of my own.

And let's face it...

he's a fascinating man.

When he met me, I was a drunk.

What time is it?

- 8:00. - Wow. I must get going.

Yeah.

It's silly. We must be the last people here.

What about you?

What?

Victor said you used to go to meetings.

I did.

You stopped?

I did.

- You don't... - What?

I'm asking if you're clean.

Let's just say,

whatever feelings of guilt you suffer, I suffered much worse.

Why do you imagine Victor employed you?

You say. You tell me. Why do you think Victor employed me?

I imagine in some way

you remind him of me.

Tell me what we're doing.

Tell me what's going on.

What are we doing?

We're talking.

That's all. We're talking.

Are you going to hold on?

I've nothing else to do.

My flat's empty as usual.

There's nothing in the larder.

You should stock up. What do you live on?

Pulses, they're called.

And cheap nourishing stews.

They tell you at the meetings, don't they, never to go hungry.

Hunger's the enemy, they say.

Or angry.

Hungry, angry, lonely, tired.

No, you mustn't be any of those.

The point is, it's not just Clem.

- No? - It's not just Clem I have to avoid.

Ridiculous.

All women I have to avoid.

I'm much happier with blokes. Or in groups.

Talking's fine. This is fine.

But any... any contact,

any real closeness I have to avoid.

I'm a recovering alcoholic.

And I can't write.

I'm blocked.

I'm sorry?

Then what's good is that I've had to answer the question

what makes me, um... what makes me drink?

And what was the answer?

Finally? Anger.

Anger makes me drink. Therefore I have to avoid anger.

Another way of putting it... I have to avoid emotion.

So what do you do about that? Avoid emotion?

- Avoid life? - No.

You really think it's that simple?

It's quite convenient, actually.

Anyone you don't like you can just tell them to fuck off.

"Sorry. You're endangering my recovery."

I mean, that's the advantage of it being a disease.

- Is it a disease? - Yeah, of course it is.

- There's no medical proof. - It is. It's an illness.

Is that what Clem thought?

- Clem? - She blamed the drink.

- Yeah, of course. - That's what I hate.

Clem sleeps with 12 men yet she blames the drink.

- She doesn't blame herself. - Now look...

I'm telling you, Paul, you have to break out.

You have to look at yourself objectively,

see yourself from the outside.

You're young, you're talented,

you're good-looking.

Paul, please tell me,

just what exactly is your problem meant to be?

You know nothing.

You know nothing of what went on in my life.

Fuck you.

You lost a girl. That's all.

I lost the girl, as you call her, because of a habit I had.

Which was that I couldn't walk past a glass of whiskey

at 50 yards without wanting to drink it.

No. Correction: without drinking it,

and then the rest of the bottle.

Drink humiliates you and then it kills you.

Paul, not everything that happens is always your fault.

I didn't say it was.

No, you didn't.

But I look at you and I know you.

I was you, remember?

I was 25, an idiot,

coked out of my head.

Why do you think Clem slept around?

No, you say. Why do you think she did?

- Do you really want to know? - Yes.

It'll come as bad news.

Break the news. I can take it.

I promise I can take it.

Clem slept with other men because it was her choice.

- No. - It's her life!

She chooses to sleep with 12 men.

That's her magnificent choice.

Paul, you're not addicted to alcohol.

You're addicted to blame.

I know what I did.

I lied.

I lied consistently for the 18 months we were together.

I barely let out a single word that was true.

Yes, but why?

Why do you think? Like all drinkers,

to hide my drinking, of course.

Was that all?

If I'm honest, also to hide my contempt.

- Hide your contempt for what? - If you must know,

- I hid my contempt for her acting. - Why?

- Because it was fucking awful. - Bad, was it?

It was embarrassing. It was the pits.

So you were in a long-term relationship

with what is known technically as a bad actress.

Very funny.

Seems to be clear what drove you to drink.

- I can't do this. - Do what?

Argue. Relate.

I got out of this. I put it all behind me.

I've been dry for over a year.

I have one thread of hope.

I go to meetings. I can't...

You can't what, Paul? You can't what?

I can't. I can't...

You can't what?

Elsa.

Elsa.

I'm here.

Victor, I'm here.

Well, we had a massive fight,

screaming at each other.

He was screaming at me, "You're a bitch.

You're a fucking bitch."

And I picked up a chair...

I mean, I'm not a big woman.

All I could think was

I'm going to kill this fucking bastard.

And my daughter was screaming at me to stop.

I mean, all I can remember was the look

of absolute terror

and horror on her face.

I think about the fifth step,

admitting the wrongs.

At least I've admitted them to myself.

I haven't had a drink since that night.

And I'd have to thank her I suppose,

as much as everybody here

who's helped me so much.

On the whole, all things considered,

I think I can say now with some certainty

that Elsa was not what I needed.

I was a recovering alcoholic.

I needed stability.

An awful lot of fascinating things

happen when you get involved with Elsa Quinn.

But I don't number stability among them.

I didn't see Victor on a daily basis.

I began to think he'd hired me and forgotten me.

And I never saw Elsa.

But one evening, quite casually,

for no reason it seemed,

Victor asked me back to their place.

Perhaps I should have said no, but I didn't know how.

And besides, I'd never met anyone

who actually lived in Regents Park.

Paul. I'm making margaritas.

But there's no way I'm going to offer you one.

There's no way I'm going to drink one.

- Quite right. - Thank you.

Summer at last. Beautiful isn't it?

You're very lucky.

- Do you remember how to make them? - Not clearly.

You put the glass in the fridge,

salt around the glass.

Put the tequila in the freezer.

- Cointreau in the shaker. - That's right.

Now what you're after is something lip-puckeringly cold.

It should have the kick of a donkey.

Cold as hell in the mouth, hot as hell on the way down.

- What could be better? - It depends.

Now glasses.

So what do you think?

About what?

About the place?

It's wonderful.

It is, isn't it?

Yes, we've only been here six months.

I don't know if Elsa told you.

What?

I don't know what Elsa's told you in general.

In general?

I don't know, just this and that really.

I've only met her once, I think.

About what?

About?

Yes. What has Elsa told you about?

- About the house. - Oh, I see.

Setting her heart on it and how convenient it is.

I don't want to bore you with what you already know.

- Please. - What, bore you?

- Elsa what? - Hmm?

Elsa what?

She told you it was great for her

because it was so near work?

So she could walk to work? What?

Something like that.

And how is work? How are you getting along?

- Oh... - To be frank, I'm surprised.

- Why? - I had you down as a Luddite.

- I can't think why. - The stereotype of a poet, I'm afraid.

Poets always have this longing to go back, don't they?

You know, childhood, lost love.

What would poets do without them?

But why did you appoint me

- unless you thought I could handle it? - Some people can't.

And if I'd failed, would you have sacked me?

Paul, with relish.

Paul. Goodness.

How are you?

Elsa.

Sorry. I invited Paul back for a drink.

He was at a loose end. I thought it would be nice.

It is. It is nice.

Have you said hello to the children?

I'd rather drink margaritas.

- You got Paul a Coke? - I'm fine.

- I'm just enjoying the evening. - Oh, perfection.

Victor was saying what pleasure he'd take in sacking me.

I've no doubt. "You have to be ruthless."

Victor always says,

"Oh, you have to be so ruthless in life."

It's true. You do.

He manages to imply that somehow it's a terrific effort.

You don't like to say, "Victor, for you

it seems to come quite easily."

I couldn't look someone in the eye and sack them.

Couldn't you? Why not? What would stop you?

- Scruples. - Scruples?

Scruples about what?

Losing their good opinion?

Is that what matters to you?

That the world thinks you're a nice person?

- No. - What then?

That I should be a nice person.

- Ah, very good. - Yes.

But can one be nice in this world?

Is there such a thing as nice?

There's such a thing as good.

Good, as a noun, yes. Elsa does good.

She administers a charity. So by definition my wife does good.

The homeless get homes,

the roofless roofs. But is she good?

I don't claim to be good.

This drink's very strong.

- Is it? - Yes, it's very strong.

- It's almost pure alcohol. - Hmm.

Of course, there was one time with something called good.

When I was young there was something called the common good.

That phrase has a wonderful period ring to it.

It's rather gone out of fashion now, don't you think?

If I'd been cleverer I'd have spotted that sooner.

I wouldn't have wasted all those years outside the factory gates.

- Were they wasted? - I'd have entered business earlier.

Hence, I'd be richer. I'd be freer.

I'd have an even bigger house.

You don't think you're sounding

just a little bit imperial, my darling?

Just a little.

Something in the mood of the evening perhaps.

Did Elsa tell you how we met?

No.

I met her in a bar. It's true.

In Copenhagen. She was smashed.

Had you been married before?

Never.

Victor doesn't believe the young should marry.

It's so.

It's one of his favorite theories.

Try me.

Well, I'd have thought it was obvious.

It's a problem of evolution. Ask a Darwinist.

Fidelity is effectively impossible when you're young.

In my experience, you leave the young alone five minutes,

at once they fuck each other. Well, you'd know about this.

- Would I? - I'm speculating.

I look at the young men in my office.

I miss nothing.

I love office romance. I adore it.

I look at them all with their stiff little cocks

and the women wet, wet with longing.

Longing for adventure.

And I think, no chance.

So you think to get married you have to be older?

Well, plainly, it's a plus.

Say Victor's age.

But Elsa was young.

Yes. She was also exceptional.

And she had two children.

I didn't realize. I thought they were yours.

No, not mine.

I arrived with the children.

So what? You just walked into a bar and saw her?

She was irresistible.

Tell Paul what you said.

I told her she was fruit

that had fallen to the ground.

Yes, a long time ago.

Not for me.

Soft fruit.

Victor hates philanderers.

It's true, I do.

Yes, he hates them.

You say to a girl you love her.

"You're my whole world," you say.

A couple of weeks later you're saying the same thing,

only this time it's to someone else. What's your excuse?

Things are true or they aren't.

Wait. I'll get that Coke.

- I'm not going to survive. - It's Victor.

- I can't survive this. - He's just being Victor, that's all.

Jesus, they tell you at meetings

it's the golden rule: At all costs, avoid stress.

Do you want a margarita?

- No, thank you. - It might get you through.

- No thank you. - It's getting me through.

What is it? Was it just chance he asked me back here?

Of course. Chance.

That's Victor. It's whim.

Stiff little cocks? What's going on?

"The young men with their stiff little cocks."

Paul, there's no conspiracy.

It's a summer evening.

We're having a drink, enjoying the evening.

Elsa, you're married, for Christ's sake.

You've got two children.

So?

What did we do?

I've been thinking about it ever since.

What the hell were we doing?

- We kissed. - Yes.

We kissed in the office.

Yeah, it was great.

But we're not going to do it again.

How was it? How did you say it was?

Great, did you say? Did you say it was great?

I know what you're going to say and I don't want to hear it.

Great because you were touched?

Great because I reached you? Something reached you?

Something made you feel

- you were alive? - Yes.

Great because you're not alone in a room in Camberwell?

Great because for 90 minutes in my company

you weren't actually scared?

I'm scared now.

Elsa, I can't love you without alcohol.

I can love you and drink

Or I can not love you and not drink.

That's the choice.

- Nothing in between? - No.

Nothing for the rest of your life?

That's the choice for the rest of your life?

Diet Coke, so it is.

Well, that's been worth waiting for.

- Good. - I could murder a Coke. Thank you.

The sun went down and the three of us

stood watching the lovers.

We watched the young people kissing.

How real their happiness seemed and how simple.

- Why don't you have dinner with us? - Yes.

Thank you. I don't think I can.

You know, there's a restaurant round the corner.

I was there the other evening.

Their menu is delightfully Greek.

It offers steak cooked on your desire.

Goodness.

I told them I'd love my steak to be cooked on my desire.

In fact, when it comes to it,

I'd like a whole Mongolian barbecue cooked on my desire.

Everyone could feast. Know what I mean?

Victor, are you drunk?

The whole world could feast on my desire.

Victor talked.

He talked, it seemed, to fill the air.

I didn't know what was happening.

I couldn't tell what he knew, whether he knew anything at all.

With Victor I was never sure.

But I knew the best thing was just to keep quiet.

Just to let him talk.

Did I ever tell you I was a tour guide for a while?

On top of a double-decker?

I never told you, did I? After I left the party.

I used to specialized in

misleading information.

I used to love pointing out the place

where General Eisenhower,

in order to thank the British people for their heroic war effort,

erected a life-size statue of Mickey Mouse.

I always said life-size.

I loved saying life-size.

Always, "We are now passing the spot

where Lord Nelson first made love to Lady Hamilton."

I usually chose the Elephant and Castle.

- What are you saying? - Hmm?

They saw it, you see? They saw the statue.

People are that gullible?

No no. They're romantic.

They see the statue when it isn't there.

Hmm?

Oh God, life-size Mickey Mouse.

Nothing had passed between us save a kiss.

One kiss grabbed one evening in an empty office.

Why had she given it? What had it meant?

Victor says we shall know nothing

until we are laid out on our zinc beds.

Goodness. What a macabre thought.

Not really, no. I'm just hoping that afterwards

they're planning to tell me what it all meant,

because I don't think there's much chance of finding out at the time.

You know, she refuses to give me children...

on the grounds that she has children already.

- It's a point of difference between us. - I see.

I had my children accidentally

when I was young and stupid.

I've just never felt ready to have any more.

There it is.

The boys, by the way, they're wonderful.

How old are they?

14 and 11.

By different fathers.

Oh yes, I made a real mess.

No.

Thinking in that awful young way

that I could do anything,

cope with anything.

Well, you have.

I'd like a drink.

I wonder, could I have a drink?

I'll have just the one.

Are you sure?

Oh, yeah. Right.

There.

Thank you.

I'll just go and look in on the boys, shall I?

Then we should eat.

Yeah.

Eat with us, Paul.

I'm glad you're here.

I am too.

There are always a thousand reasons to drink,

but not many reasons not to.

I told myself it was because I was being dicked around,

it wasn't my fault.

People were behaving in bewildering ways,

and what was I meant to do?

That's one of the things about being an alcoholic.

It's always easy to play the victim.

But looking back on the summer, you might well ask...

...which one of us was the victim

and which one was doing the dicking around?

Oh, God!

I know. I know.

Can I come in?

You're drunk.

I wouldn't say I was drunk.

I'd say I've been drinking.

Do I find you just a little bit ratty?

No. More a little bit guilty.

Why?

Because we thought you could handle it.

Victor and I, we thought you could handle it.

Of course I can't handle it!

I'm in AA for Christ's sake.

I've got a physio-fucking-what'sit

chemical relationship with alcohol.

I'm an alky.

What on earth made you think I could handle it?

Coffee?

Me, I'm going to have a drink

and you're not allowed.

And another thing. I'm writing again.

It's true. Poetry pouring out of me.

So is that what this was about?

You really can't write when you're dry?

Is that what you're frightened of?

Poets are stubborn fuckers. You have to be.

I mean, there's no danger of dying of encouragement.

I wrote a poem about you.

It's here somewhere. Oh, fuck.

I mean, they don't tell you, do they?

That night with the margaritas, I took one sip

and I thought, "Yes.

I remember. Drink makes you happy."

Briefly.

Oh, what, and we look down on briefly, do we?

No. We distrust briefly.

Having another one?

Why, are you counting?

Did someone give you flowers?

No. They're for you.

Poetry. Flowers.

I'd kiss you but I suspect I smell like a pet shop.

- I was expecting you. - Really?

Yes, as soon as Victor left the country.

I thought you'd come dogtrotting across the park.

- Where are the boys? - With friends.

It was clever of you to find flowers with only 24 hours to live.

I can throw them out before Victor gets back

and I won't have to answer his questions.

Why? Has he been asking questions?

- What does he want? - What does he want?

It's a marriage, however wonderful.

Finally, it's a marriage like any other.

Don't you write about these things?

- Do I? - Aren't you a writer?

Or does Peter Pan not get mixed up in this kind of stuff?

Don't you think we have to discuss this?

We've reached deadlock, that's all.

How?

Isn't it obvious?

He's restless. You can see Victor is restless.

We've reached a point where neither of us knows what happens next.

Paul, I go to work every day, for God's sake,

I go to the Foundation.

I spend the day in practical ways.

A hard day's practical work raising money... being practical.

What do you call it? Putting something back. That's what I do.

I put something back.

Then I come home, I walk back through the park.

I've done it for six years.

I keep my eyes down.

I work every day. I'm calm.

I come home, I talk to my boys.

So what are you saying?

What I'm saying is,

it's only because of Victor that the Foundation exists.

But it's only because of Victor that I exist.

I see.

I feel real because of Victor.

- What were you? - What was I?

Yeah, someone says you were an air hostess.

Yes, I was an air hostess,

I was a model, I was a shop assistant.

But what was I really?

I was a...

I was an international junkie...

- Okay. ...of epic proportions.

And if you'd said to me, "Look, one day

you'll marry your father

or someone just like your father,

only 50 times kinder, 50 times nicer"

then I would not have believed you.

How was your father?

A pig.

A drunk.

Yours?

Piggish.

Paul, I made myself a promise.

- When? - Some weeks ago.

You threw me. You threw me off course.

- I did? - Yes.

When? That night? When we kissed?

Then.

And I made a decision never to discuss Victor with you.

I'm not asking you to diss him.

I know what you're asking.

- And? - I'm not going to tell you.

What?

- Anything. - Okay. I was just asking.

Least of all whether we're happy or not.

Are you?

- What? - Happy?

Do you think you need the glass?

Don't you think the glass is a bit...

- What? - Intermediate?

Why not just jam the fucking bottle to your lips?

Tell me, I'd be interested,

come on, just why are you here?

- Why am I here? - Yes.

I'm hopelessly in love. That's why I'm here.

Well, you don't make it sound very pleasant.

Well, why don't you give him children, for fuck's sake?

- What? - Well that's what he's saying!

I know what he's saying! I know what he's saying!

- Well? - Have you understood nothing?

You don't think I want to give this man children?

You don't think I would if I could?

- I was human trash. - I know.

I was on the floor of a bar,

my knickers ripped in half, my breath stinking of vomit.

I know. Do you think I don't know?

I was waiting to be thrown out with the empties.

"Take my hand," he said.

"Take my hand."

And from that day he has been steadfast.

Not one day has gone by in which he has not been loyal.

I'm sure.

He gives me confidence when I have no confidence myself.

He is strong. We're not.

We're alike, you and I.

That's why I don't give him children.

I don't have the confidence.

I don't have the belief.

Elsa.

Why do you think I sat on that counter with you?

What am I? Absurd?

No.

Why do you think I laughed with you?

Kissed you?

The reason I'm drawn to you?

What? What?

When I see us, I see us...

How?

We go down together.

- No. - We go off to bars.

We go down together. We go spiraling together.

No. No.

What are you looking for?

That's my fucking notebook, for God's sake.

It's not your notebook I'm after.

See? We're the same.

- Give it to me. - No.

- Give it to me. - I won't.

I won't drink it. I swear. I'll throw it away.

Where do we find life? Is it in a bottle?

- He said you were cured. - Did he?

Yeah. One drink, he said.

He said you had one gin and tonic.

You played Scrabble, he said.

Do I look cured?

Do I feel cured?

What did I think?

What did I think that night?

That I could be solid in the way Victor was solid?

I knew I could never replace him.

But I felt the power of her warmth.

The alcohol drained out of me and her warmth filled me.

All I know is there was something there.

There was something real.

There you go.

For a couple of days, at least,

I was as happy as I'd ever been in my life.

Pretty soon after the rumors began.

Victor came back from America.

The word was he was in trouble.

We didn't see much of him in the office.

But after what had happened, I wasn't seeking him out.

Then one evening...

Paul, there you are. You're still here.

I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.

I must have drawn the wrong conclusion.

I think you did.

Everyone dies after their last meal.

That doesn't mean to say they were poisoned.

Quite.

And you've heard of our problems?

I think everyone has.

I'm afraid they're pretty common knowledge.

Capitalism at its most infuriating and obtuse.

Refinancing. Private equity.

Private equity insisting on a change of management,

making it a condition.

What are we? Ping-pong balls?

I spent the whole day in the city trying a rival bid.

A bid for what? To take over my own business?

Everybody says it's normal.

It's accepted as normal.

There was a time when economy used to make something.

Now? A world in which 10 people

do something and the other 90 speculate.

- Normal? - No.

It's a game, that's all.

And because we lack any wisdom ourselves,

we pretend the market is wise.

It's a form of camp.

Is there something you wanted?

No. Just to talk to you.

Why? Should there be?

No.

Oh.

I mean, of course it gets to me.

Why would it not?

The humiliation of being judged

by people who know nothing.

Not for myself, of course.

- I'm not upset for myself. - No?

No no.

If the business gets taken away from me, I'm still a rich man.

You know, I have my creature comforts... my house, my wife.

As you know, as you well know.

Oh, I'm sorry if we led you astray the other evening.

- Not at all. - Hmm.

Have you drunk since?

Since that night have you had another drink?

No, not a drop.

Tell me, Paul, this is purely academic,

you know, there's not a hint of reproach,

but do you lie about your drinking?

- Compulsively. - I see.

Like all drinkers.

All the time or just occasionally?

Oh, that doesn't really matter, does it?

I mean, that's the beauty of lying.

You only have to do it once to spread infinite distrust.

So tell me, Paul, how do you explain

this current passion for addiction?

- People say lack of faith, don't they? - Certainly do.

I mean, people say to me, "Oh, you're so lucky, you had faith."

But Stalin had faith. Hitler had faith.

Would it be wonderful to believe in the virgin birth?

I don't think so.

Or that trees speak to you?

Wouldn't that just mean you were mad?

Faith's not valuable. Not in itself.

It's what you have faith in that matters.

I had faith.

But it was stolen from me.

What bloody right do these people have to value us?

- None. - None!

I took a shine to you, Paul.

I took you on because I liked you.

But you think I must live with it, is that what you think?

The poet, the philosopher

bringing the message the poet always brings.

Victor, you're here.

Yes.

I was worried. You haven't been home.

I've been trying to call you.

- Have you? - I've been trying to find you.

And you were concerned? Why were you concerned, my darling?

As you can see, we had a row last night.

Yes.

We never row.

I stormed into the night. I did a runner.

Victor, we're meant to be going to a concert.

- Are we? When? - Now.

Would Mozart match your mood right now?

I don't think he'd match mine.

All that life-affirming can seem awfully jangly

when it hits you at the wrong angle.

What are you saying? You don't want to go?

Go with Paul.

Take Paul. Affirm life with Paul.

I can't. I have to go to a meeting.

Summer's end. Always a moment of calm.

The slight change in the air.

It's still August. The sun beats down,

but touched with the knowledge of what is to come.

This is all to do with work.

- You think so? - Of course.

You may lose your business. Of course you are depressed.

- Victor... - I'm going to have a drink.

- Will you join me? - I've made a new vow.

Have you? And will this one last?

Aren't we patterned? Aren't we programmed?

Don't we always promise "Tomorrow I'll stop.

Tomorrow I'll be good"?

It's the disease of more,

isn't that what they say?

What are you doing?

I'm leaving my job. I'm going.

No. Why?

It's not hard to see, is it?

Look at him. Look at his mood for God's sake.

What do you think it's about?

No no. I know what it's about.

Last night you quarreled. Do you think its coincidence?

You think it's just chance?

It's not love.

- Isn't it? - No.

I thought it was love.

No, it's addiction.

We're addicted to trouble.

We both love trouble and he knows it.

Paul, I was happy with you.

I know.

For those hours, I was happy.

Elsa, I'm happy drinking. So?

- No. - Yeah.

I'm happy with a drink in my hand.

So tell me, what's the difference?

You think I live that kind of life?

No.

What do you think? You think I want affairs?

- No. - Is that how you see me?

You haven't thought. You haven't thought what you're doing.

This is who you are, Paul. This is you.

You're the person who runs.

You think it's to do with alcohol. It's not.

You barely know me, Elsa.

You've barely had time to know me.

You're scared. You're just scared.

You'd never leave him.

What makes you so sure?

When anyone needs you, you run.

When anyone loves you,

you go.

I love you.

It's true.

So explain.

How does it help if I stay?

Not even dusk, no one to be seen.

It's a business for obsessives they say.

But where are they?

On their August beaches or in their back gardens.

Fled. All fled.

Not a soul remains. Whiskey?

Paul has something to tell you.

Tell me?

It isn't good news.

In fact I'm feeling a bit of an idiot.

He wants to leave.

- I see. - Paul's insisting he leaves.

Victor, can we be honest?

The fact is I'm actually hopeless at the job.

- Really? - "The unsinkable Flotilla."

- Huh. - "Float into the future with Flotilla."

"Hey there, killer, try Flotilla."

I can't do it. I can't write to order.

Too much the poet? Too much your own man?

You've been kind. You've been good to me, Victor.

But I just wasn't ready.

Never easy, is it?

Never easy when you try to help.

I tell you, I was sleeping last night in Regents Park?

I'm sorry?

I slept last night in Regents Park beneath the stars.

Is that legal?

It's not illegal.

I had no idea where you were.

I lay beneath the stars,

the stars bright above me.

Felt the earth moving below me,

the planet hurtling through space.

I lay listening to the noises of the night,

thinking of Elsa

in her bed 200 yards away.

I thought of the many nights we'd passed,

she shaking from the agony of addiction,

the passage from high to low,

from frenzy and finally to calm.

Why did we quarrel?

We quarreled about love.

I'd had an idea.

For years I'd had an idea.

An idea of what love might accomplish.

It was foolish.

No good.

He accused me of being weak and I defended myself.

She did.

She defended herself well.

Yes. That's why we fought.

That was why the fight began.

Absolutely.

- Are we ever cured? - That was the question.

I can sometimes go without drinking.

Months go by.

And, yes, at another time,

I taste just one drink...

"Just the one," I say to myself.

"Just the one."

But finally, no.

I know in my heart this disease is for life.

I asked Victor to accept that.

I need him to accept it.

I can't be who he wants me to be.

I've tried and I can't.

I can't.

I was lucky to meet a good man.

But met him nonetheless,

loved him nonetheless,

or rather,

have tried to love him.

I still do.

I still will.

My love.

Sorry. I'm sorry.

I apologize. Private... private stuff.

- Of course. - Forgive us.

So you're determined to leave?

- I am. - You submit your resignation?

- I do. - It's done.

It's accepted. Why not?

Collect your cards.

Elsa, I think we're moving on.

Fair enough.

It's a freelance culture, after all, so they tell me.

- That's what I've heard. - Yeah.

The idea of long-term employment is a thing of the past.

A job is no longer for life.

Well, I've only been here for three months.

Excellent. You've grasped the principle exactly.

It's been a summer, eh?

- It's what a summer should be. - You think?

In the cold months we work, get on with living.

So let's use the warm months for stopping to think.

Paul.

Is perfect friendship always brief?

"Moderation in all things," said my mom.

She died at age 40.

I miss her.

I still miss her.

Don't fear for me.

I shan't.

History threw me up. It may now cast me down.

- I hope not. - It worries me not.

I have written my epitaph.

"He may have buckled but he did not break."

So it's time to say goodbye.

Not the last time we shall see you, I hope?

No.

And you must say goodbye to Elsa too.

I insist.

Elsa, if we hurry, we'll catch the second half of the concert.

You won't forget me?

- No. - Promise you won't forget me.

It's rare, isn't it?

It's rare to find love.

Joseph Conrad says that inside every heart

burns the desire to set down once and for all

a true record of what has happened.

As everyone knows, Victor Quinn died

soon after in a car crash.

His blood was three times over the permitted alcohol level.

Elsa went to identify the body.

At last, she said,

Victor lay on his zinc bed.

For myself. I continued to drink for a while.

The result was a book of poetry

which, to my amazement, did even better than the first.

- Yes. - Wonderful.

I really enjoy your work. It's wonderful.

Oh, thank you very much.

For a brief period I became somewhat well-known.

I did see Elsa. Of course I did.

I saw her a number of times.

But there comes a moment, doesn't there?

You tell me.

Doesn't there come a moment

when you have to decide between what you can handle and what you can't?

- Hello. - Good to see you.

I didn't see my friends anymore.

I rarely went out, apart to go to the off-license.

So I thought I'd come along...

I'd come along to the group, but just sat alone in the house.

I stopped drinking.

I began to dry out.

It was difficult and it took a long time.

It's better. Of course it is.

But sometimes I remember Victor Quinn.

"If you were cured,

you'd be cured of desire.

And who wants to be cured of desire?"

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