by Anna Maxted
She looked at him. He met her gaze directly, and she tried to smile. It was harder than she imagined, this lavish exhibition of lust and adoration. ‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Well. Here it is. We want an exclusive with Meg Ryan. What we have on our side is a huge circulation, and the right demographic: three million layabouts who like to eat crap and watch rubbish.’
She allowed herself a tiny smile. His voice grew a shade warmer.
‘However, two years ago, we did a cuts job on her, which they didn’t like. You know, assembling an “interview” from previous interviews, stuff like, “Ryan says, ‘Dennis and I have an amazing bond, we’ll be together for eternity.’” which she may have said a while back to the Sunday Times or the Daily Mail, but she sure as hell didn’t say it to us. But she said it, so, in theory, it’s still the truth.’
He grinned at her, expecting her to grin back. She remained po-faced. He was maintaining, to her face, that a jumble of quotes taken out of context and jammed together was the truth. This man didn’t know the difference between the truth and a lie!
With the words of the letter still writhing around inside her head, this didn’t instil her with confidence.
Martin shrugged. ‘Anyway, if we want some face time, we have to jump through hoops. Her PR firm represents one or two newbs who they—’
‘Two what?’
‘New bloods: young actors nobody’s heard of who they need us to promote. If we want half an hour with Meg, we have to run interviews with three newbs. A double page spread each.’ He sighed. ‘We’re talking about a girl, Mollie Tomkinson, starring in some Mike Leigh miseryfest. She’s the spit of a tomato frog and it’s Mike Leigh – I think they’re trying to close the paper. So, we’ll leave that for last, and there’s always the chance we’ll get Meg if we make a big fuss of the first two. So here’s the first tape. At least it’s Hollywood, it’s called Vengeance. The guy you’re looking at is Ethan Summers. No, I’ve never heard of him either. He’s got the F-factor, which is the only reason he’ll make it. At least in five years when more than six people have heard of him, we’ll be able to say “We got him first.” Ring Der Führer, I mean, the PR, get her to bike over his biog – they should have already done it. Watch the film tonight and set up the interview for next week. The guy lives in LA but he’s in London promoting.’
‘Fine. All right. Thanks.’
Martin raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. Your first interview with a big star.’
Claudia glared at him. ‘Make up your mind. You’ve spent the last ten minutes telling me he’s a nobody. Why don’t you decide on a version of the truth and stick to it?’
He stared at her. ‘In this office,’ he said quietly, ‘please remember that I am your boss, and you are being paid to work here. So I suggest you try and behave accordingly.’ She watched as he snatched the video off her desk. ‘Carry on with your typing. There are plenty of other people here who’d appreciate the chance of a byline.’ He stalked off.
She turned back to her screen, cold-faced. She loved him, but she was not a sap. She wanted him to love her, but she couldn’t smile and make nice when she was bloody furious.
She would have loved to have done the interview with Ethan Summers. Now the fat secretary would get to do it.
Claudia was stupid, letting her emotions get in the way of her career. Soon enough, her career could be all she had. But that was not going to happen. She wasn’t letting Martin go that easy. Look, if he did have some dark secret, she could find out. She’d spy on him: think of it as investigative journalism. He wouldn’t notice, he wasn’t observant with people, only with cars. He could spot a nice car.
She’d have to convince him that she was out of town, so that he’d feel safe to engage in his deceit … dressing in women’s clothes? She’d tail him in a cab. She’d wear a head-scarf and dark glasses – it would be very Jackie O. She’d bring a camera – black-and-white film? And then she’d confront him with the evidence at a French café. She’d throw down the stills on the table – she might have to practise that bit – and he’d be mortified, but there would be a simple explanation! He was in a play! And they would laugh and—
‘Claudia, I need you to nip downstairs, get me a coffee. And you can pick up my dry cleaning. Fuck knows where the ticket is. Cheers.’
She jumped, and blushed. ‘Yes, Jim.’
Her Harlequin romances were giving her slightly unrealistic expectations; she’d have to cut down. She sighed, and smiled at Jim. He returned her gaze, unsmiling. She looked down. She didn’t think he’d sent the letter: her instinct told her it wasn’t him. If he had, he wouldn’t have been able to resist a knowing smirk. God, he made her uncomfortable.
She did Jim’s errands, and was rewarded with a pat on the lower back. Martin was out, otherwise he wouldn’t have dared. She lurched away as he sniggered, and scurried back to her desk. She tried to work but she couldn’t. She needed to know about Martin now, but realistically, she was going to have to wait. He was going to be away over the holiday, visiting his sister in Canada. Oh my goodness, was that a lie? Now she was seriously depressed, too depressed even to be cheered by the image of herself as Jackie O. It wasn’t a game. If Martin was deceiving her, it would break her heart.
Her phone rang, and she picked it up.
‘Claudia Kent?’
‘No, Ms Green, it’s Claudia Mayer, if you don’t mind.’ She gritted her teeth. Only her father’s secretary persisted in calling her by his name.
‘I have your father on the phone. He needs to speak to you immediately.’
Claudia suddenly felt like a small plastic doll being toyed with by an endless succession of men – Martin, Jim, Jack – and she’d had enough. ‘If my father wants to speak to me, he can pick up the phone and call me himself,’ she snapped.
‘I believe it concerns your engagement to Martin Freshwater.’
A great fireball of rage ballooned in Claudia’s stomach. ‘Tell him to mind his own bloody busi—’
‘Claudia! Be quiet and listen!’
She jumped with nerves – her father sounded even more on edge than usual. ‘No,’ she whispered, her voice weak with fear. She couldn’t bear confrontation, it terrified her, she hated a fight. ‘I will not listen. I’m not ten years old! Stop talking to me like I’m a child. I’m marrying him! We’ve set a date!’
‘Claudia, I forbid it. I—’
‘What are you talking about? You can’t forbid it – I’m not asking permission, I’m telling you!’
‘Claudia, wait. Please. I have my reasons. I’d p-p-prefer not to tell you over the phone. I suggest we—’
He was astonishing. He genuinely expected her to break off her engagement for no other reason than because he said so. Even he knew this was some nerve – she’d never heard him stutter in her life.
‘The phone is fine,’ she said. ‘So tell me,’ she added, trembling. ‘What exactly do you have against him?’
Could it be that her father knew that Martin was married? No. It was a business thing, she bet it was. Jack hesitated and she knew she was right.
‘I don’t have anything against the man himself,’ said her father, and Claudia’s lip curled with disgust.
‘Then leave me to my joy,’ she said coldly, and put the phone down.
PARIS, WINTER 1997
Jack
The bloody Valium bottle – open, for God’s sake! You’d think they’d realize that in times of real desperation you got the shakes, you just … Finally, at last. Jack tipped the bottle upside down in his mouth and gulped down a few pills with a vodka chaser. He lit a cigarette and lay under the bedcovers with a black shirt wrapped around his head to dull the light and noise. Every sense was throbbing; it was as if his skin had been flayed off and his nerves were exposed to the cold winter air.
And he was freezing. He could see from the thermostat that in fact it was twenty-two degrees in the room, but he was so cold that his teeth chattered. He was desperat
e to see Maria – he felt as if his body was flying apart and only her arms around him could keep him together – but he was also desperate not to see her, because he knew that she’d burst into the room, breathless with excitement, and the first thing she’d say would be …
‘Did you tell her?’
Painfully, he unwrapped the black shirt from his head, and the piercing light from the lamps and the buzz from the plasma TV and DVD player – that torturous drone – threatened to split his skull in half. He could see her peering at him in alarm. She scurried over to the bed and felt his forehead. It occurred to him that no woman had felt his forehead in twenty years.
‘Darling, oh my God, what’s wrong! Did she take it … badly?’
He could hear the wobble in her voice, and he didn’t think he could stand it if she cried. He had no emotional reserves, nothing to give, he was barely holding himself together. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I told her everything. It’s fine.’
‘Well, thank God. I can’t believe it took you a week, Jack, I know it was a shock but … Never mind, no harm done. Wait a minute. She’s fine?’
‘Well,’ he corrected himself hastily. His brain was muddled and he was having difficulty finding the right words. ‘Obviously not fine, but she’s all right. Considering.’
‘So she’s ended it?’
‘Yeah.’ Just leave me alone now, please.
‘And had they … had they … I mean, she wasn’t … ?’
‘No.’
‘Sweet Jesus.’ She put her hand on her heart and flopped backwards on to the bed. Her voice was like a loudspeaker booming in his ear. She wiped away tears and sat up again. ‘So how was she in herself?’
Ah, Christ. It was done – well, no, it wasn’t done, but she thought it was done, so why wasn’t that enough? Why was your success never enough, why did women have to know every tiny detail that led to your success? If you brought down the moon for a woman, she’d hold it in her hand, and get a thoughtful look on her face, and start quizzing you: ‘So, did you bring down this moon – how exactly? Or did you get a man to do it? Were you thinking of me when you did it? Was it easy to bring down the moon, easier than it sounds, because if it was easy then maybe I need you to bring down a slightly heavier planet …’
He took a slow breath. You had to fight the bad thoughts with good thoughts. It was that simple. ‘Darling,’ he said in a surprisingly reassuring voice, ‘she will survive.’
Maria’s hands trembled at her throat. ‘And … do you think … Will you tell her about me? I know she’s had a hideous shock but I so want to meet her. I’ve waited so long … physically it’s so hard not to be able to … make contact. It might take her mind off what she’s been through …’
Her weakness gave him strength. ‘Maria,’ he was able to say, in a plausible manner, ‘it’s not a good idea. Not right now. It’s too much, too soon. Give her time to get over this, and I will introduce you when the time is right. I’ve been thinking of throwing a party to mark the opening of the hotel. You can meet then.’
She nodded stiffly, her lips pressed tight together, unable to mask her wretched disappointment. A double tear rolled down her cheek.
‘Hey, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Don’t be sad. I have a surprise for you. You and I are going on a trip.’
‘What, business?’ she said.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Pleasure – purely.’
SURREY, EARLY SUMMER 1998
Emily
Emily looked at the wire coat hanger with dislike. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’ She blamed Tim. He had screwed her, totally. She should have stuck to blow jobs. But no. She had given it up for free – and now look. It was a nightmare to have a problem which couldn’t be delegated.
The shit was going to hit the fan, and she’d been delaying the moment of impact. She’d gone back to school and Tim had gone back to work, and he’d written to her, ‘Excellent to see you.’ Perhaps that was some kind of jovial shorthand for ‘Excellent to see you bouncing on top of me.’
Or was he pretending that it had never happened?
The trouble: it was easy to pretend. You had a hot shower, you wore school uniform, you no longer reeked of the musk of passion, you tied your hair in a prim ponytail, you had early, girly nights with your room-mate – a teenager who slept with a pink bunny and was in love with all of Take That, you felt sick all the time and lost weight, you deleted the memory of that night.
Under those circumstances, surely pregnancy was impossible?
She hadn’t had a period since, but apart from that, there was no sign, so she’d done nothing.
She’d always imagined that she’d have an abortion in a snap. And she’d told herself, all through those long months, that she would have an abortion: there was still time. But she couldn’t bring herself to ring Nanny or Quintin and say, ‘Darling, book me an abortion!’ The truth was, she didn’t want a baby, but she didn’t want an abortion. Ideally, the baby would go away by itself. But it hadn’t. In fact, she was strangely amazed by the baby – she was touched that it wanted to stay. It wanted to be born. It was her baby … oh God. She stroked her stomach. You are clever, Emily. You are stupid, but you are clever, Emily.
Emily chucked the murderous coat hanger to the back of the wardrobe and walked to the bay window. It was a beautiful view: feathery yew trees bordered the vast lawn that led down to the lake. The swans on the lake had two cygnets – ugly little grey things, but the swan parents were amusingly proud. They fussed around their offspring and hissed and flapped at any other bird if it came too close.
How hard could it be if a swan could do it?
Anyway, she was sixteen, like, just.
She would see the headmistress Mrs Priddy tomorrow and calmly confess. Mrs Priddy would be wowed out by her maturity, and grant her permission to stay on at school to take her exams. Mrs Priddy was a maternal woman, with young children of her own, and she was kind of cool.
Mrs Priddy would pass on the news to Mummy and Daddy. Mrs Priddy would sanction the baby. And if a top private school took a stand, Mummy and Daddy would unite behind her, and the Earl and Countess would be under great pressure to give their blessing. It would be a boy, and they’d submit to the lure of an heir’s heir. And if it wasn’t, what woman or man could turn against a cute baby granddaughter in a pink dress and frilly pants? Tim might not wish to marry immediately, but he was a stand-up guy. He would want his kid to be legit.
Yeah. She was quietly optimistic.
Nanny was bored of being a glorified secretary and yearned for dirty nappies and sleepless nights. She would look after it with pleasure, while Emily continued her education. A baby wouldn’t make that much difference – it was only tiny. It would be fun. Like a really expensive cuddly toy.
Having a kid early was only a problem if you craved freedom and couldn’t afford staff. She had money, and her final destination had always been Tim. Emily breathed a sigh of relief. It would work out after all.
THE SOUTH COAST OF ENGLAND, THREE DAYS LATER
UK SUNDAY – YOUR BEST READ, YOUR BEST FRIEND, EVERY SUNDAY!
CELEBUTANTE EMILY PREGNANT AT SIXTEEN – WHO’S THE DADDY?
Expecting baby
Emily Kent, 16, younger daughter of the disgraced hotel tycoon, was last night expelled from her exclusive £8,000-a-term private school, after admitting that she is expecting a baby.
£53,000,000 fortune
The father is Viscount Chateston, 18, Emily claims, eldest son of the Earl and Countess of Fortelyne, and heir to the title and an estimated fortune of £53,000,000 in land, property, art and bonds.
‘Deeply in love’
A source close to Emily told UK Sunday, ‘Emily and Tim are deeply in love and he is over the moon at becoming a father. They are young but they both love kids and cannot wait to have their own.’
‘Gold cot’
‘Yes, the child will be rich and privileged but that makes no difference to them – they are very excited at starting their own fam
ily. Emily has already picked out a gold cot from Harrods!’
Earl denies allegations
But Viscount Chateston’s father was furious last night and denied the allegations. ‘Emily is well known for her love of partying,’ said His Lordship, the Earl of Fortelyne, 54, speaking exclusively to UK Sunday from his £20-million castle residence in Scotland.
‘Highly popular’
‘She is a highly popular young lady with an impressive circle of male friends. She may have arrived at what she considers the most favourable conclusion regarding her child’s paternity. Perhaps, in the cold light of the lawyer’s letter, she may wish to reconsider.’
Refused to answer
Viscount Chateston, 18 – who is working on Wall Street for a year before attending Cambridge University – refused to speak to reporters at his $500,000 Upper West Side apartment last night.
£200,000 supercar
Ms Kent, who is thought to be four months pregnant, was driven away at 93 m.p.h. from the school at 8 p.m. last night in a £200,000 canary-yellow Lamborghini Murciélago by her mother, the Hon. Innocence Ashford.
‘Dodgy’ deal worth billions
The self-styled Miss Ashford – who was born Sharon Marshall and grew up on a council estate – is worth billions, after her husband signed over his hotel empire to her in what many financial experts term a ‘dodgy’ deal, shortly before the Lloyd’s crash, which would have ruined him.
Family newspaper
Her response to questions from reporters last night is not fit to print in a family newspaper.
Close friend
Her father, seen here pictured with a close friend, was not available for comment.
Claudia had ordered the paper out of spite – she hoped that the secretary had botched the interview with Ethan Summers and that it was reduced to a tag line. The hostess brought it in with breakfast – ‘Thank you, how lovely’ (she was still awkward about being served – ) and she’d put it to one side without even looking at it. She forced herself to eat the porridge and drink the orange juice, which was freshly squeezed. She smiled despite herself. It was her father’s bugbear: hotels that served metallic orange juice. Well, he’d approve of this one, even though it was a tiny b. & b. in remote Cornwall.