Mostly they were routine: PRs confirming interviews that Ellie had requested, lunch dates from theatrical agents bent on getting prestigious coverage for celebrated actors, promoting their latest film. Polly offering her an exclusive under the old pals act, a couple of invitations needing urgent replies and a request to help judge a young writers’ competition.
‘Er… anyone from Stirling Industries?’ Ellie asked casually taking an unwarranted close look at her shoes.
‘No. ‘Fraid not,’ said Lucy, consulting the list again. When she’d gone, Ellie sat gazing out of the window with a frown. Her fury with Theo Stirling had long since been overtaken by anger with herself for letting the situation get so out of control. So gut wrenchingly embarrassing. And the worst part was that it had been of her own making. She dropped her head into her hands and was, at that moment, perfectly prepared to agree with Theo Stirling, that insane was far too polite a description.
*
Later that evening over dinner, Roland told his wife that Eleanor Carter sometimes treated him with less than the rightful amount of awe that was his due.
‘Nonsense, darling,’ said Thelma, who suspected that Ellie Carter held no-one in awe, especially her husband.
At first she had been wary of Eleanor Carter. With such a striking face and that slender body, she had fully expected her husband to try to have more than a working relationship with her, which would not have been unusual. Thelma was no fool. But he was given no encouragement to do so by Ellie, who considered him old enough to be her father.
In the end Roland’s fragile ego had been restored by a series of excellent profiles which did as much for his reputation as for Ellie’s. Thelma had let out her breath and became quite fond of her husband’s star reporter. Now she knew he must be exaggerating because Ellie was unfailingly courteous.
‘Ellie thinks you’re a bottomless well of talent, and you know it,’ she said passing him the vegetables.
‘Well, how do you explain what she did tonight?’ he demanded, spooning a generous second helping on to his plate. ‘We were having a quick drink before she left the office, telling me about the Theo Stirling interview-’
‘Oooh, has she got it?’ Thelma broke in excitedly.
‘No, but she will. Anyway,’ he continued. ‘She was reeling off a list of people who won’t talk about him when Dixie came through and said there was an urgent call for Ellie. So she picked up the phone on my desk and just kept saying "Yes" or "I see" and honestly when she put the phone down she looked as though she’d seen a ghost.
‘She just gazed at the ceiling with clenched fists and I swear she said "Thank you God", totally ignored all my requests to know what was going on and fled out of the door, leaving me with an opened bottle of champagne to drink.’
‘Which of course you didn’t,’ said Thelma coolly.
‘Er... which of course I didn’t,’ he agreed hastily.
Thelma smothered a laugh. ‘So what was the matter with her?’
‘How do I know,’ he said peevishly. ‘Why ask me? I’m just the bloody editor. No-one tells me anything. But I’ll tell you this, Thelma,’ he declared, pushing his plate away and refilling his glass. ‘There’s something not right about her and Stirling. I have a feeling she knows more about him than she’s letting on. I mean she comes from that village he’s interested in. I think I’ll do a bit of digging. After I’ve seen Marcus tomorrow.’
At the mention of Marcus Margolis, the chairman of Belvedere, Thelma looked up quickly.
‘And on that front…?’
‘Doesn’t look good,’ Roland sighed. ‘Can’t see any other way really. Neither can Marcus. It’s got to happen soon. The company is bleeding to death.’
*
Across town, hastily scrambling out of her work clothes to be ready in time to meet Brook, Ellie was still recovering from the shock of the phone call. She had to admit that much as she disliked anonymous callers, it was a breakthrough. The husky tones of a woman had said without preamble:
‘I’m not going to tell you my name. Please don’t ask. And don’t mention this call to anyone. I know you’re trying to gather information about Theo Stirling.’
Ellie had glanced quickly at Roland. She had turned slightly away from him.
‘Yes,’ she said briefly. ‘Yes I am.’
‘I believe I have the facts you want. But be careful. He uses women, charms them into submission and then spits them out. Believe me, I know. I will call you another time. Goodbye.’
Ellie had replaced the receiver, her face betraying nothing. It had to be... it couldn’t be anyone else. Only one woman Ellie knew for sure would have a reason to want revenge on Theo Stirling: the woman who had shared his life for two years, the woman he had thrown out of it. The gap in Theo Stirling’s defence had been breached. Lady Caroline Granger wanted to talk.
Chapter Seven
Ellie followed the maitre d’ to the table where Brook Wetherby was waiting. She had dressed carefully, bearing in mind Judith’s warnings about his inability to concentrate on his food, regarding an attractive companion as preferable to a dessert.
However, the discreet and exclusive surroundings of the members-only Belmain Club tucked away behind Grosvenor Square, where Brook had suggested they meet, called for something that looked like a real effort had been made. Thanks to Rosie, one of Ellie’s favourite designers had agreed to a considerable discount on his evening wear, and she had managed to acquire two or three outfits that might otherwise have never found space in her wardrobe. Inspecting herself in front of the mirror before she had set out, the sleeveless blue silk shift dress that skimmed her knees had seemed glamorous enough to compliment the setting but discreet enough to be a total turnoff. But seeing the gleam in her interviewee’s eye as he gallantly kissed her hand in greeting made her fleetingly regret not wearing chain mail with a key. Clearly Brook Wetherby was not a man easily daunted.
‘My dear,’ he said. ‘We will not even think about work until we have had a glass or several of champagne.’
After which I doubt he’ll be capable of thinking, let alone working, thought Ellie.
The next hour turned into a contest between Brook, determined to keep the conversation at a dangerously intimate level, and Ellie’s equal determination to keep his hand off her thigh. By the time they reached the coffee stage, Ellie had all but abandoned any hope of getting more than four sensible quotes from this over-amorous household name and was more concerned with removing his hand from hers without offending him.
‘Brook,’ she said smilingly. ‘Tell me how I’m supposed to pour you more coffee and take notes if I only have one hand free?’
As he leaned forward suggestively she felt someone looking at her and, glancing over Brook’s shoulder, found herself staring straight at Theo Stirling who had quite clearly witnessed the whole scene.
Shock kept her features immobile but panic sent waves of chaos through her head. How long had he been there? What the hell was he doing here?
To add to her panic, Brook, wondering what had claimed her attention, turned and spotted him at the same time, delightedly greeted him and urged him to join them for a drink.
Surely Theo would refuse, she thought wildly, but to her horror he said lazily, ‘Why not,’ and rose from his seat to let his companion go first. It was only then that Ellie recognized the blazing burnished locks of Debra Carlysle who, if anything, looked even less pleased than Ellie at being interrupted and, excusing herself to make a phone call, disappeared towards the lobby.
At this point Ellie decided that Theo Stirling was obviously mentally disturbed. Reaching their table, he shook Brook’s hand and then leaned over to kiss Ellie on the cheek.
Incapable of speech, Ellie could only smile icily back at him while he quite blatantly lied to Brook about their relationship.
‘Of course I know Eleanor,’ he said smoothly. ‘We are very good friends. Charming girl. Always gets her man,’ he added. ‘As I’ve no doubt you’ve already re
alised.’
She marvelled that she found a voice at all.
‘Indeed I’m sure he has,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘But sadly, we are just leaving. Aren’t we Brook? You mentioned a nightcap.’
If it crossed Brook’s mind that she had suddenly switched from being puritanical to the point of boredom to making it clear she would not find a proposition unwelcome, he didn’t let it trouble him.
‘Absolutely,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll just phone for my driver to pick us up now. Excuse me, Theo. Won’t keep you long.’ He leered suggestively at Ellie and rushed eagerly into the foyer.
Left alone, Ellie gazed silently at Theo.
‘That was a cheap unnecessary crack,’ she said finally in a shaky voice, but delivered with such dignity that she at least had the satisfaction of seeing he looked startled. ‘You don’t know me at all. Someone like your friend Miss Carlysle might find such a remark amusing, even flattering. But I don’t. I find it indefensible.’
Gathering her bag and notebook together, she rose to leave as Brook, pausing only to exchange a few words with an acquaintance, reappeared to collect her. Theo watched her carefully.
‘You must have seen he’s only got one thought in his head,’ he said mildly, politely rising with her. ‘You were hardly discouraging him.’
Ellie looked at him impatiently. ‘Of course not. I’m not sixteen. I’m interviewing him. Much easier to be pleasant. You said so yourself. He could hardly pounce on me in such a public place. However, until your ill-mannered intervention, I would have managed to deflect him quite easily.’
‘So why did you invite him back to your flat?’ Theo asked bluntly.
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ she said, not even attempting to disguise her fury. She began to gather up her things. ‘I’m just trying to be what you have already decided I am. A journalist on the make. Goodnight,’ she said pleasantly.
‘Goodnight Debra,’ she added, as Debra arrived back at their table. The overdone lipstick and the cloud of perfume that trailed in her wake bore all the signs of a woman who had decided she was going to have her work cut out to keep attention focused on herself and had used her time in the ladies’ to blazing effect.
Knowing that she was being watched by Theo, Ellie smiled encouragingly at Brook, linked her arm in his and swept out of Belmain’s and planning the most excruciating headache in history before Brook could even set foot across her threshold.
*
Debra Carlysle watched Theo watching Ellie exit from Belmain’s and wondered what the agenda was that lay unspoken between them.
There was nothing new in that. Most of the time with Theo she never felt anything else. In the powder room she had gazed back at those perfect features, the faintest pout of the lips as she surveyed her handiwork. Reaching into her Chanel handbag she withdrew a small flacon of Jean Patou’s 1000. Without removing her gaze from the mirror, she took off the cap and sprayed the perfume slightly to her left. Then she walked through the gently descending exquisite and exclusively fragrant cloud, snapping the flacon shut, knowing that she would now leave an indelible trace of her very expensive presence as she threaded her way back to the table.
Thank God, that ghastly little queen of a gossip columnist hadn’t divulged to the world that Theo had left her high and dry at that screamingly boring party when he’d disappeared with of all people, a journalist.
Theo’s acceptance to join Brook and Eleanor Carter was as surprising as it was alarming. If anything bore all the hallmarks of a repeat performance of the other night, this was it; and while she had no intention of handing Theo over on a plate to a common little journalist, the greater need just then was not to appear to be unable to prevent another fiasco. What irked Debra more than anything was that she knew Eleanor Carter wasn’t common.
The powder room and a discreet phone call to Gavin to stand by in case she needed rescuing restored much of her command of the situation. Theo was quite another matter. At first she had seen in him exactly what she had confidently believed he saw in her: sexually alluring, untroubled by financial restraints, fiercely ambitious and therefore not dependent on anyone to live life to the full but, most attractive of all, available.
Well, he was now that Camilla Castleton had been consigned to the past. Theo had never discussed with Debra his brief, disastrous marriage to the East Coast socialite who was now remarried to a Kentucky horse breeder, but it was obvious to Debra that the beautiful but clinging Camilla had made a number of fatal mistakes bringing their brief union to such a messy end. So too had Caro Granger, or so she’d heard. None of which she was going to make.
The fan magazines and the gossip columns therefore found themselves the unwitting messengers of how Debra wanted Theo to view her. ‘I need a man in my life, not in my house,’ or ‘I need a man who does not feel threatened by my success,’ became a familiar refrain in all her interviews. They also repeated the one fact that Debra carefully never refuted but knew was a lie.
‘I have so many areas left to explore. I haven’t tackled Rosalind or Desdemona,’ she would confide (carefully omitting Ophelia, knowing she had missed the boat on that one) to each show biz journalist allotted their fifteen minutes on the occasions when Debra was required to promote another film.
In truth Debra could not have given a sod about the Bard. What Debra wanted was out. Out of this increasingly tortuous business where the almost daily war of fighting the biggest battle to keep ahead of the game was exhausting her. Debra was clever and famous for her wit and charm. She was in no doubt that Theo was amused by her, enjoyed her company and she never let him down. No-one left her company feeling anything less than smart and interesting, yet here she was at thirty six, wanting only to give up this shallow business, to be herself, to find someone to save her from the torment that she went through every time an audition came round, or to still the twisting lurching in her stomach, when she knew time was no longer on her side, to leave her in peace. A discreet visit to a plastic surgeon had dealt with the first signs of tiny pouches under the eyes, and her even more discreet visits to a doctor on Park Avenue back home in New York dealt with details like extinguishing her appetite for days on end when costume fittings loomed.
Debra wanted out all right but out with the protection of a man with all the big Cs: Clout, Charisma and Cash. No-one, absolutely no-one, actively involved in the film industry had any real money. She knew that, she had looked. At least not the kind that Theo Stirling had.
Unfortunately Debra for once in her life had made an error. Two marriages, which had propelled her career upwards but were discarded when their usefulness had expired, had left her with an interesting set of press cuttings but a very uncomfortable view of the future. Thirty six was not old, in fact for most women it was when they were getting into their stride, but not if your face had launched a dozen or so films and was bearing all the hallmarks of a stressful life. The peak had been reached.
Theo Stirling, on the other hand, had unfortunately become an obsession. As she approached the table every inch the actress, a smile hovering on her lips, not for the first time did she regret having agreed with him that theirs was a relationship founded on fun, and uncluttered by plans for the future.
*
Persuading Brook that she had an unaccountably dreadful headache proved more difficult than Ellie had imagined. Unable to prevent him seeing her to the door, she had no option if a very unpleasant scene was to be avoided but to invite him in, but not before a brilliant plan had occurred to her.
‘Er, would you excuse me for a moment,’ she said. ‘I’ll just find some aspirin,’ with which she fled into her bedroom, frantically dialled Paul’s number and got his answer machine.
Keeping her voice as low as she could, she whispered an urgent message.
‘Paul, it’s ten thirty. If you want to save me from Brook Wetherby’s clutches, grab a cab and come over soonest.’
Confident that he couldn’t be too far away because Lucy had told him
she would be home around this time, Ellie returned to the sitting room, where Brook was beginning to make himself at home.
Nearly an hour later, having exhausted every avenue of escape, she was faced with Brook, the worse now for a couple of whiskies on top of the champagne he had drunk all evening, looking for results. If she had been a more exploitative journalist, Ellie could have made her fortune out of his indiscreet revelations about his private life.
His first wife had divorced him over the woman who became the second Mrs Wetherby and she in turn had been supplanted by the current but estranged Mrs Wetherby who, he confided to Ellie, was nothing but a money-mad airhead who had sold the most intimate details of their relationship to that foul rag, the Clarion, in an act of unparalleled spite for a five figure sum.
Ellie doubted the price but had no trouble in believing the motive. Kiss and tell was commonplace and not restricted to page three girls on the make. The more upmarket victims simply wrapped the whole nasty, vengeful business in a more acceptable phrase. Putting the record straight was the usual one. Kathryn Renshaw was no better. However, now was not the time to tell Brook he was in good company, not when she was desperately trying to rid herself of his.
The rest of the whisky was demolished and Brook embarked afresh on his ambition to get Ellie’s dress off and much more besides. Come on, Paul, where are you, she thought desperately as she laughingly told Brook she would be happy to drive him home.
‘Home, my sweet,’ he said, sliding an arm around her bare shoulders while the other imprisoned her waist, ‘is where the heart is. And my heart is with you.’
And to think he was paid an annual six figure sum to come out with such crap. Ellie grimly determined to mention something of the sort when she finally described their encounter in Focus.
‘Brook, you are impossible,’ she laughed unconvincingly. ‘You know you are out of my league. I’m just a simple, old-fashioned girl...’
Another Way Page 9