Acquired Tastes

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Acquired Tastes Page 26

by Simone Mondesir


  Sid apologetically held up one of the several cameras he had draped around his neck.

  Spittle was through the door before Gabriella had recovered enough to invite him in.

  'Very nice, very nice,' he said approvingly his small eyes sliding over everything. 'This hotel's got real class. You don't find too many pop stars staying here. It costs a few spandoolies too so you can't be doing all that badly.' He raised an interrogative eyebrow.

  'Just because one is not appearing on British television does not mean one is no longer a star, Mr Spittle,' Gabriella said frostily.

  'Oh I know, I know,' said Spittle, and without waiting for an invitation, he settled down in an armchair and opened his notebook. Gabriella posed beside the marble fireplace, her head held imperiously high.

  'You've been voted top female television personality in Norway, Belgium and Luxembourg according to my research.'

  'And my show regularly tops the ratings in Italy, where I have been voted sexiest woman on television twice in the last five years and been runner-up in the other three,' Gabriella added, her voice now registering a sub-zero temperature.

  'That's your show with Cicci, the performing penguin, and the boob of the week spot, where men send in photographs of their wives' and girlfriends' boobs and the audience gets to vote on size and shape, isn't it?' said Spittle, consulting his notebook again. 'Not quite the kind of programme for a woman of your great talent, is it Miss Wolfe, or may I call you Gabriella?'

  Spittle's eyes were fixed on her face, greedy for every reaction.

  Two bright spots showed on Gabriella's carefully made-up cheeks. Spittle nodded imperceptibly - his carefully aimed barb had hit its target. His voice changed.

  'Some of us think our television screens have been a much duller place without you. TV presenters today don’t understand what it means to be a star. I'm speaking for myself here of course, but you filled our lives with colour and glamour which has been much missed. We sorely need what you have to offer Gabriella.'

  Gabriella looked mollified. With a gracious sweep of her stole, she artfully arranged herself on the sofa opposite Spittle so that the light was behind her.

  Spittle watched, noting where and how she sat and the high neck and long sleeves of her dress. He was sure she wouldn't see fifty again, whatever the newspaper cuttings said. He made a mental note to get his researcher to dig harder for her real date and place of birth.

  He always began his interviews by playing the hard man. It invariably provoked his interviewees to anger, because they were used to people fawning over them. Then, when he made the sudden switch into the 'only wanting to set the record straight' mode, they seemed to trust him as not being like all the other show-biz hacks and in doing so, were usually indiscreet. For some reason he had never been able to understand, most celebrities clung to the childlike belief that inside each of them was a fairy-tale character called 'the real me' who was misunderstood by everyone. However, if they thought the public was interested in paying to read how they really led quite ordinary lives, they were mistaken. The public wanted to be entertained, and it was his job to make sure they were.

  Gabriella crossed her black-stockinged legs. 'And what exactly do you think I have to offer to British television, Mr Spittle?'

  'Eddie, please. In three words I would say: class, glamour and sex. I'm not saying that the girls on our screens these days aren't pretty, but they aren't in your league.'

  Gabriella graciously inclined her head.

  'The angle I want to take in this article is that the glamour has gone out of television in the same way it has gone out of Hollywood. A good analogy don't you think?' Spittle asked.

  Gabriella leaned forward and picked up a gold cigarette box from the onyx coffee table. The movement allowed Spittle a full view of her deep cleavage. He ran his tongue over his lips. She might be pushing fifty, but at least that part of her anatomy was in good shape. Not too many wrinkles either, but he'd hold judgement on whether Mother Nature had been benevolent until he had seen a copy of her medical records. Plastic surgeons were getting too clever by half. They went in for injections these days, rather than the knife, and the results were so much harder to detect.

  Gabriella placed a cigarette in her cigarette holder and waited.

  Spittle snapped his fingers at Sid, who fumbled for some matches before lumbering shyly forward with a proffered light.

  They were a great team, Spittle thought. Sid's painfully shy exterior hid a killer instinct to get the right shot. He would wait any length of time, climb over or under any obstacle, subject himself to excruciatingly uncomfortable positions - anything to get a picture of his subject off-guard and defenceless. And in situations like this when they were invited in by their quarry, Sid's seemingly harmless presence helped to make the subject feel more secure.

  'Why don't we talk, while Sid here does his bit?' Spittle said, as Gabriella exhaled a long stream of smoke. 'I always find we get more relaxed shots that way.'

  Gabriella's hand involuntarily went to her hair. 'I want to know when he's going to take a shot. I don't like being caught off-guard.'

  'Leave it to Sid, he's an artist. He's never caught a wrong side yet, have you Sid?'

  Sid gave Gabriella a shy smile and then concentrated on assembling his battery of cameras.

  Spittle placed a small tape recorder on the onyx table. 'Now tell me about Gabriella the woman,' he began. 'Rumour has it that you've had some of the world's most eligible men at your feet, and yet you've not married. Why not?'

  Gabriella blew a languorous smoke ring. 'I like to think of myself in the same mould as that doyenne of Hollywood glamour, Mae West, who said: “It's not the men in my life but the life in my men I care about”,' Gabriella replied in a Mae West drawl.

  Spittle dutifully smiled.

  'So you see,' Gabriella continued, 'when I was a young girl, I liked older men who could teach me about life. Now I'm a mature woman, I like to teach young men about life. It has a perfect symmetry. Marriage would only have got in the way.'

  'So you mean you're into toy boys?' asked Spittle, eagerly leaning forward.

  Gabriella exhaled another long stream of smoke before replying, 'Toys need winding up. I like my men to be self-starters.'

  Spittle smiled. He could see the headlines already.

  Twenty-Six

  'Yes?' enquired a sleepy female voice.

  Vanessa stiffened. 'I'm sorry, but I understood this was Dr Archibald's number.'

  'It is,' the voice replied.

  'Is he there?' Vanessa demanded.

  There was a muffled exchange and then Fergus came on the line. His voice sounded sleepy too.

  'Archibald,' he yawned.

  'What the hell are you up to?' Vanessa’s voice rose threateningly.

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

  'Don't you dare hang up on me,' she fulminated. 'Where in hell's name have you been these last two days, and who is that woman? Answer me, damn you.'

  'Are you trying to wake the dead, woman? There's no need to shout,' Fergus remonstrated mildly.

  'Shout! I'm not shouting,' yelled Vanessa, 'If you're not back here by first thing tomorrow, the whole deal is off. And just in case you've forgotten, I have your signature on the bottom of a contract.'

  'Without me that contract is worth nothing, so if you want me back, my price has just doubled,' retorted Fergus.

  'You have the nerve to ask for more money after your performance the other day?' Vanessa's voice was incandescent with rage. 'You nearly killed that stylist. To stop him suing us and reporting you to the police for assault and battery, we've had to agree to pay for some extremely expensive reconstructive surgery on his nose, as well as a large amount in damages. A criminal record would just about destroy what little you have left of an academic career, wouldn't it?'

  'It wouldn't do your company much good either, would it?' Fergus replied with merciless logic. 'If you want me to look like some ponce as we
ll as emasculate my research because your boss is lily-livered about some committee of virgin vigilantes, then you're going to have to pay more for it.'

  'I just love the way you left-wing academics rediscover your principles when you want more money,' sneered Vanessa.

  'At least we have some left to rediscover,' snarled Fergus. 'Call me tomorrow with a better offer or say goodbye to your meal ticket.'

  He slammed the telephone down and rolled over on to his back, where he lay gazing up at the ceiling. On the other side of the rumpled bed lay the naked, sleeping body of one of his research students, or rather, ex-students. She had been one of the few people to greet his arrival back at Heartlands with any enthusiasm. There weren't many university people about, as it was the summer vacation, but the few members of staff who had seen him had avoided meeting his eyes and walked hurriedly past. Mrs Peploe, his landlady, had been equally frosty. She had presented him with a bill for his rent arrears together with a letter of dismissal from the university for gross immoral conduct. It had taken all his charm to talk her into letting him stay for a couple of days.

  Fergus fully intended to go back to London. He really had no choice. Academic posts were hard to find, and after what had happened at St Ethelreds, he doubted any academic institution in the country would hire him. But he wanted to give Vanessa a bit of a scare, and judging by her voice on the telephone, he'd succeeded. He stretched out a questing hand. It met pliant warm flesh. He grinned and rolled over. He still had until tomorrow.

  Vanessa stared at the receiver. Everything in her rebelled against getting Fergus to come back to London, but she had no choice - nor could she wait until tomorrow. It was already two days since Fergus had punched Damien, time was fast running out and they soon had to go into the studio and record a pilot for the series.

  In the confusion that followed his punch, she had not at first noticed that Fergus was missing. Hugo had been almost as hysterical as Damien, and insisted on rushing Damien to the emergency department of the nearest hospital, where he recovered his senses in time to refuse treatment from an NHS doctor. He insisted on yet another taxi dash to a private clinic where the plastic surgeon, who had only recently given him the profile denied him by Mother Nature, had pronounced a year's worth of expensive surgery ruined.

  Despite Vanessa's protestations, Hugo had promptly agreed to Right Pryce Productions paying all Damien's medical bills, plus compensation for pain and distress. When an ashen-faced Philip learned of this, he swallowed nearly a whole box of his indigestion pills. In the ensuing argument, Philip yelled at Hugo and then they both turned on Vanessa, but when she turned to vent her spleen on the cause of the problem, she discovered that Fergus had gone.

  Reasoning that he would turn up on her doorstep sooner or later, she had waited, carefully honing the words she intended to shout at him. But, after thirty-six hours, her confidence had begun to wane, and by that morning it had disappeared altogether.

  Not knowing where else to begin, she called the university.

  Given the manner of his departure, not many people would have dared to return, but Fergus was not most people, and he obviously still had at least one admirer there. The problem was, now she had found him, how was she going to get him to come back to London? There was no way that Philip would agree to paying him more money after the incident with Damien.

  Just at that moment, Philip put his head round the door. 'Is everything under control again with Fergus?' he enquired, coming into the room and sitting down. 'I've just had lunch with Gabriella, and like the true professional she is, she immediately agreed with me that having Fergus as our resident expert was an excellent idea.'

  'Everything is just fine, Philip darling,' Vanessa lied. 'Fergus has gone up to Heartlands to collect some of his background material from the university. He'll be back tomorrow or the day after.'

  'So we're back on course after all that unpleasantness with Hugo's friend?' asked Philip.

  'Absolutely. Between you and me, I think Hugo got a little hysterical. I would have demanded a second opinion. It was only a playful blow. I'm sure Fergus didn't mean to cause any damage.'

  'Be that as it may, Vanessa, I want no more problems. I like to think I run a tight ship,' Philip said sternly.

  'Philip sweetie, you can depend on me. Now if only Hugo and Vijay would get their skates on, we will be ready to go into studio on Sunday week.'

  Philip got up but instead of leaving, he hovered uncertainly beside Vanessa's desk, fingering the papers piled in her in tray.

  'Was there anything else, PP darling? I really am pushed for time.'

  Philip shook his head. 'No. But you will make sure that there are no more loose cannons, won't you? Sir Norman and the Committee don't need much of an excuse to prevent us ever getting on air.'

  Vanessa blew him a kiss and with a last anxious nod, he left the room.

  Vanessa slotted one of the pile of home videos sent in response to her advertisement, into her VHS recorder, and began to spin through it on fast forward. She hadn't had much time to do anything else but chase Fergus for the last few days, however she still had a programme to produce.

  With one eye on the screen, she pushed the button on her intercom.

  'In here. Now,' she barked.

  A couple of moments later there was a hesitant knock on her door and Vijay sidled in. He stood with his back to the wall.

  'I thought I told you to have a list of all the possible programme participants on my desk first thing this morning,' snapped Vanessa. 'I seem to be the only person working round here.' She ostentatiously lifted up the remote control and turned the video off.

  Vijay held some papers in front of him as though they would shield him from the evil eye.

  'It's all here. I've put the original letters together with my notes and suggestions.' He hurriedly dropped them on Vanessa's desk before retreating out of reach.

  Vanessa eyed them distastefully. 'All I asked for was a couple of brief sentences on each participant, not a dissertation. I don't have time to read all this. How was the woman who wanted to be a defrocked nun? I liked that one.'

  Vijay reddened. 'Not much good. She was a bit too … too old.'

  'I thought you wanted to fill our screens with the old and the lame and the underprivileged, Vijay. What's happened to all your good intentions?' mocked Vanessa.

  Vijay reddened even more. 'She just wouldn't have worked, that's all,' he insisted stubbornly.

  'Well find some more who will,' Vanessa yelled, sweeping his notes off her desk.

  Vijay was out of the door before they hit the floor.

  Heather looked up from the magazine she was reading. 'Is the old cow on the warpath again? Fancy a free drink? A group of us are planning to gatecrash the opening of that new bar in Frith Street, it should be a gas.'

  Vijay ruefully shook his head. 'I'd better make a few more phone-calls, just to show willing.'

  Heather nodded at a winking light on her small switchboard. 'You're not the only one hitting the phone. If that cow isn't out to lunch, she's on the phone. Does she ever do any work?'

  'Not if she can help it, why should she? She's the boss and I'm the worker,' Vijay said bitterly, heading for his office.

  The term 'office' was misleading. Vijay worked from a store room which he shared with some large filing cupboards, several thousand tapes and reels of film, and an old editing machine.

  He sat down at his small desk and consulted his list of possible interviewees. Wedging the receiver between his chin and shoulder, and without looking, he pressed a button for an outside line. Instead of a dialling tone he heard a voice. They had an antiquated telephone system and he had pressed the line Vanessa was using by mistake.

  Vanessa sounded unusually conciliatory.

  'Fergus, can I put my cards on the table with you?'

  There was a grunt on the other end of the line.

  'I really can't ask Philip to put more money up front at the moment. Right Pryce Productions is not a
large company and we will sink or swim depending on the success of Forbidden Fruit. But you and I know we have a mega success on our hands. Think of it: the newspapers will be queuing up to serialise your research, and publishers will be throwing money at you, and we mustn't forget the American market. Your kind of stuff tops the bestseller lists over there.'

  There was silence on the other end of the line as Fergus appeared to be digesting this.

  Vijay started to put the receiver down; it was morally wrong to eavesdrop on other people's conversations. He hesitated. Nobody ever told him anything around the office. He put the receiver back to his ear and listened, holding his breath.

  'You might even be offered a post at an American university,' Vanessa continued, her voice now sounding positively honeyed. 'Imagine UCLA with all those long-legged, Californian blondes, or Harvard and those bright-eyed, bushy-tailed preppies? You could put two fingers up to Heartlands and all those repressed old biddies.'

  Fergus cleared his throat. 'Just out of curiosity, what kind of money are we talking about for newspaper serialisation?'

  Vanessa knew she had him hooked. All she had to do was play out the line a little more before giving it a final tug and reeling him in. 'I couldn't say for sure, but I think you could safely think in terms of a five-figure sum,' she said, and then tugged the line. 'Of course, I do have quite a few contacts in Wapping and some of them owe me big time. If you were really interested, I could float the idea with them.'

  There was another silence as Fergus considered this. It was true, popular psychology was a growth area in publishing. All the book needed was either love or sex somewhere in the title.

  Switching the phone on to loudspeaker, Vanessa walked round her desk and put another home video into the machine. They were really quite amusing, if a bit amateurish. She perched on the edge of her desk and watched. Unfortunately the best ones were too explicit to broadcast, although they looked like fun to make.

  'And what do I have to do to have all these riches thrust at me?' asked Fergus noncommittally.

 

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