Friends & Rivals

by Tilly Bagshawe

  The cab rounded the corner of Sloane Square, still busy with Saturday-night revellers. It was only ten o’clock, although to Ivan it felt much later. Wearily, he paid the driver and opened the front door of the flat.

  ‘Kendall?’

  ‘In here!’ Her voice barely reached him over the noise of the hairdryer. Walking into the bedroom he found her stark naked, bent over at the waist, drying her long hair upside down. Ivan felt his dick harden instantly. Walking over, he slipped a hand between her legs.

  ‘Did you miss me?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Kendall turned off the hairdryer and turned around to face him. Her face was flushed from the heat and from hanging upside down and her half-dry hair fell tousled to her shoulders. Ivan didn’t think he’d ever seen a vision so desirable.

  ‘I said, did you miss me?’ he growled, grabbing her bare bottom with one hand and fondling her left breast with the other.

  ‘Not really.’ Kendall’s eyes flashed with a potent combination of mischief and lust. The truth was that, beneath the bravado, she was far more insecure in Ivan’s affections than he would ever have imagined. But she’d learned long ago that the only way to hold a powerful man’s interest was to keep him on his toes. Unlike Jack Messenger, Ivan Charles was naturally jealous. He was also turned on by drama; in this respect at least, he was with the right woman. ‘How did it go?’

  Irritated, Ivan released her. ‘You know how it went. You saw it. It was a bloody disaster.’

  ‘Actually, I didn’t see it,’ said Kendall, switching the hairdryer back on.

  ‘What do you mean you didn’t see it?’ said Ivan, unplugging the dryer at the wall.

  Now it was Kendall’s turn to be irritated.

  ‘I mean, I didn’t see it. What part of that are you failing to understand, exactly?’

  ‘It was the pilot show, for fuck’s sake,’ Ivan exploded. ‘It was a big deal for me. And you couldn’t even be bothered to switch on the TV?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Kendall rolled her eyes. ‘My girlfriend Lisa called from LA, OK? So I was on the phone with her for, like, an hour. And then I had to wash my hair.’

  ‘Wash your hair?’

  ‘Yeah. It was dirty. Seriously, I don’t see what the big deal is.’

  She reached down to turn the hairdryer on again, but Ivan grabbed her wrist. He knew she was doing it deliberately, taunting him, feigning a lack of interest just to elicit a reaction. But he couldn’t help himself. Tonight had been one of the worst nights in his life. The least he expected from his mistress was a little support.

  ‘How would you feel if I didn’t show up to one of your concerts? Or I didn’t watch your performances on the talk shows? After Graham Norton, I sat and listened to you for hours while you analysed every fucking question he asked you. Remember that?’

  ‘That was different,’ said Kendall. ‘You’re my manager. It’s your job to care about my career. Last time I checked, I don’t take fifteen per cent off your top line.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with money,’ said Ivan as she wrenched her hand free. ‘It has to do with you being a spoiled, self-centred little madam.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Kendall shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m tired of listening to your midlife crisis, did you ever think of that? What do you want me to tell you, anyway, Ivan? If you think you did a bad job tonight, chances are you did. Maybe you’re not cut out for television. Jack may have been an arrogant ass at times, but at least he always put his clients’ careers before his own. Maybe you should try doing the same.’

  ‘You bitch,’ said Ivan. Kendall’s hypocrisy was breathtaking.

  ‘Call me what you like,’ she shot back. ‘But if you’re looking for an ego-masseuse, I suggest you try your wife.’ Pushing past him she began pulling clothes out of the closet. Some she flung into a Burberry overnight bag, others she pulled on over her still-damp limbs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Ivan, whose head was starting to ache. Fighting with Kendall was fine as long as it resulted in make-up sex at the end.

  ‘What does it look like? I’m leaving.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ said Ivan, reaching for the bag, but Kendall was too quick for him, sweeping it up off the bed and heading for the door.

  ‘I’ll be at The Dorchester when you’re ready to apologize.’

  ‘Me apologize?’

  ‘And I’m charging the room to your Centurion Card,’ Kendall added over her shoulder, slamming the front door of the flat behind her with an almighty, violent bang.

  Ivan clutched his temples. To his immense annoyance, he still had the remnants of a hard-on. What the hell was he doing, risking his marriage and draining his energy on an affair with this infuriating, intoxicating, hell-cat of a girl? Joyce Wu had never given him this sort of trouble. No one had ever given him this sort of trouble.

  Wearily, he poured himself a double Laphroaig, downed it, then poured himself another. Tomorrow morning he would drive down to the country. At least he could be sure of a little tea and sympathy from Catriona, and it would be good to spend some time with the children. A trip to the toy shop in Carterton would smooth things over with Hector, and dear little Rosie, God bless her, adored her daddy whatever he did.

  Maybe I will break things off with Kendall, he brooded darkly. Although he knew the moment he ended it she would hook up with someone else, a thought so unbearable it had him reaching for the bottle again. At least he would let her stew in her own juices at The Dorchester for a day or two. If she thinks I’m rushing over there to grovel at her feet, she’s got another think coming.

  Ivan was woken the next morning by the telephone. At least, he thought it was a telephone. It may have been an air-raid siren, or a fire alarm, or an electric drill boring its way merrily through his cranium. Whatever it was, it was deeply unpleasant, considerably increasing both the throbbing in his head and the wave of nausea that overtook him as soon as he sat up.

  ‘Hello?’

  No answer. Ivan looked perplexed, then realized he was holding an electric alarm clock to his ear. Dropping it with a curse, he got out of bed and scrambled under a pile of clothes on the floor until he unearthed the house phone.

  ‘Yes?’ he barked. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Ivan, it’s me, Mike. Have you seen the papers?’

  Mike Marston-Gilley was Ivan’s agent. Ever since he’d begun thinking about branching into reality TV, Ivan had discussed the idea with Mike M-G, an old school friend with a reputation as something of a star-maker on the British small screen. It was Mike who’d landed him the Talent Quest gig. No doubt he was calling to begin the grim business of post-morteming last night’s disastrous first show. Which was his job, of course, and had to be done. But not before Ivan had got up, thrown up and downed a vat of coffee and a plateful of bacon sandwiches.

  ‘I haven’t seen anything,’ groaned Ivan. ‘I just woke up.’

  ‘Riiight.’ Mike hesitated. He was a kind, polite man, but Ivan could tell at once from his tone that the news wasn’t good.

  ‘The reviews are awful, I take it,’ he said, sitting down as the hammering in his head intensified. ‘Who was the worst, the Mail? Bloody Melanie Phillips has always had it in for me. Or was it The Times? That smug twat Adrian Gill’s been trying to get his own TV show for years. God preserve us from jealous critics, eh?’

  There was a long silence on the end of the phone. Finally Mike Marston-Gilley said, ‘Ivan, this isn’t about Talent Quest.’

  ‘It isn’t? Then what’s it about?’

  Mike let out the sort of sigh that no one ever wants to hear from their agent.

  ‘You’d better sit down.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ned Williams arrived at the Burford Newsagent’s just as it was opening. It was bitterly cold outside and still dark, but Ned’s face glowed hot and red after his early morning run. At his feet a snow-bedraggled Badger panted forlornly. Rosie Charles was quite wrong about Badger pining to death when Ned left for Mustique. Had the poor mutt known
he was in line for three weeks of lie-ins by the Aga, he would have thrown his hairy head back and howled for joy. Much as he loved his owner, Ned’s latest fitness-jag was definitely beginning to pall.

  ‘Ran all the way here, did you?’ Mrs Chapman, the newsagent, winked conspiratorially, a grin lighting up her fat, gossip’s face. ‘After this, I suppose?’

  She handed Ned a copy of the Mail on Sunday. He was about to say no, that he frankly wouldn’t wipe his arse on the Mail and was rather hoping for the Sunday Times as usual, when he saw the front-page headline. And picture. Reaching into his pocket he pulled a wodge of notes out of his pocket.

  ‘It’s only a pound,’ said Mrs Chapman.

  ‘I know,’ said Ned, pressing the notes into her clammy hand. ‘I’ll take every copy you’ve got.’

  ‘Every copy?’ The old woman laughed. ‘How’re you going to carry them, my lovely? That dog going to drag them home on a sledge, is he?’

  ‘Just get them off the shelves, all right?’ said Ned. ‘I’ll run home for the car. Is it all right if I leave Badger with you? I think he could do with a bowl of water.’

  Half an hour later, Ned was driving his battered old MG along the back road to Swinbrook. Badger lay sleeping on the back seat, surrounded by a vast pile of newspapers. It was an impulse decision, buying out Burford News, and probably a stupid one. The locals would get hold of the story soon enough. Ivan Charles was one of their own, after all. Ned had probably bought Catriona no more than an hour or so of respite from the inevitable public humiliation. But an hour was better than nothing.

  In the kitchen at The Rookery, Catriona was frying bacon and tomatoes for her and Rosie’s breakfast. It was only half past seven, but Rosie had been up since six, mucking out her beloved Sparky, and Catriona had barely slept worrying about Ivan. He’d been so upset last night, he hadn’t even felt up to talking on the phone, which was really unlike him. She felt particularly bad that he’d had to go back to the Eaton Gate flat and make small talk with Kendall Bryce. She was a nice enough girl, but really, after months in England, Catriona didn’t see why she couldn’t have found her own place to live. Poor Ivan couldn’t be expected to play host for ever.

  Desperate to call him, Catriona restrained herself, distracting herself instead by cooking breakfast while Rosie waxed lyrical about her pony and how he really needed a new set of fleece blankets now that the snow had settled in. Cat was reaching up behind the Aga for pepper when a knock on the kitchen window nearly made her jump out of her skin.

  ‘Ned! Good gracious, you frightened the life out of me.’

  ‘Ned? He’s here?’ Rosie gasped. ‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God.’

  Catriona tried to open the window, but a thick shelf of snow had sealed it closed like glue. Ned made a gesture to indicate that he would go to the back door, giving Rosie time to tear back upstairs like a banshee and beautify herself before he saw her.

  ‘Just don’t let him leave, Mummy, OK? Make sure he’s still here when I come down.’

  A few moments later, a flushed, visibly anxious Ned appeared in the kitchen doorway. He had a newspaper under his arm and a semi-comatose Badger at his heels.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Catriona asked him. Even by Ned’s erratic standards, this was early for an unannounced house call. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No, thanks. Well, yes, but … I’ll make it. You’d better sit down. Are the children still asleep?’

  ‘Hector is. Rosie’s probably emptying half of my make-up bag onto her face and drowning herself in Miss Dior. All for your benefit, I hope you realize. You can’t go before she comes downstairs again, by the way.’ She started to laugh, but something in Ned’s eyes made her stop. ‘What’s all this about?’

  Grimly, he handed her the newspaper. ‘It’s Ivan.’

  Catriona stared at the front page for a long time but said nothing. Slowly she sank down into a chair.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ned. ‘But I thought it would be better coming from me than … Well, someone else. Has he called?’

  Still mute, Catriona shook her head.

  ‘What about the media?’

  At that very instant, the phone rang. Ned leaped on it instantly. ‘Hello? No, she’s not here. At her sister’s, I think, I’m not sure. I’m a friend. No, I don’t know when she’s going to be back. Look, just bugger off all right?’ He hung up, then disconnected the phone at the wall. Later he’d have to pull out all the others. Bloody Ivan. The bastard ought to be shot.

  The front page of the paper was a grainy but nonetheless clearly recognizable picture of Ivan Charles kissing Kendall Bryce in a London restaurant. ‘TV Judge Beds Bryce!’ ran the headline, with a subheading promising readers ‘more intimate pics’ on pages four, five, six and seven. Like a zombie, Catriona turned the pages. For the first time, pain broke through the shock on her face. A series of shots, all taken with a zoom lens through an open window, showed Ivan and Kendall partially dressed and locked in a series of passionate clinches. They were standing up, but the body language (not to mention the fact that Kendall was topless in two of the pictures) made it clear the embraces were a prelude to sex. What hurt most was that the shots had clearly been taken at Eaton Gate.

  That’s our flat, thought Catriona. That’s our bedroom. Her hands began to shake.

  ‘Did you have any idea?’ asked Ned.

  Catriona shook her head. ‘I knew she was staying there. But she’s only a baby. I never thought … She’s been here, you know. To The Rookery. Twice.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ned, who remembered walking in on Kendall and Ivan in the stable block last summer. ‘I met her, remember?’

  ‘She seemed like such a sweet girl. The children adored her. Especially Hector. Oh God.’ Catriona looked up, stricken. ‘What am I going to tell the children?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Ned. ‘They don’t need to know. Unless you’re going to leave him, of course. Are you?’

  ‘No,’ said Catriona automatically. ‘We’ve been together for twenty years. You don’t just throw that away over one mistake.’

  Ned felt like pointing out that this affair with Kendall wasn’t ‘one mistake’, but the latest in a long line of calculating, selfish decisions by a remorseless adulterer with a major Peter Pan complex. But he bit his tongue. He was here to listen, not preach.

  ‘But the children will still find out,’ Catriona went on. ‘If they were toddlers we might have been able to get away with it, but at this age they’re bound to hear malicious gossip at school. Especially with Ivan all over the telly every bloody Saturday night. How could he?’

  ‘Hi, Ned.’ Rosie reappeared, sashaying into the kitchen in a pair of tight Top Shop jeans and her mother’s brand-new, horrendously expensive Brora sweater. Her cheeks glowed with blusher like a painted doll’s, and she appeared to have applied her mascara with a trowel. When she hugged Ned, he practically choked on a waft of perfume and hairspray. ‘You’re here early. Have you changed your mind about Mustique?’ she asked hopefully

  ‘Er, no,’ said Ned. ‘I’m off on Wednesday. I just popped in to see your mum.’

  Catriona hastily closed the paper and folded the front page picture out of sight. An awkward silence descended, and for an awful moment Catriona thought that Rosie might sense something was wrong and force the truth out of them. Instead she disengaged herself from Ned, pouted disapprovingly and began making herself some toast.

  ‘What about poor Badger?’ she grumbled, getting the honey jar out of the larder and attacking it with a spoon on her way to the table. ‘Dogs can actually pine to death when their owners abandon them, you know.’

  ‘Ned’s not abandoning Badger, darling,’ said Catriona automatically. ‘He’s going on holiday.’ It felt strange to be having a normal conversation with her daughter about Ned Williams when a hand grenade had just exploded so spectacularly into her life. Why hadn’t Ivan called her? Where was he now? In the flat, with her, with Kendall? Suddenly she felt sick.

  Ned
turned to Rosie. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was going to ask you if you’d consider taking care of him for me while I’m gone.’ Sensing Catriona’s shift in mood, he wanted to get rid of Rosie and give them a chance to talk. ‘I’d feel much better if I knew Badger was really happy, and he would be with you.’

  ‘Me?’ Rosie flushed with pleasure. ‘You’d really trust me with him?’

  ‘Of course. He adores you. He’s out in the hall now, having a drink. Why don’t you go and break the good news to him, show him where he’ll be sleeping, that sort of thing. Dogs like to have a good sniff around before they move in.’

  Rosie skipped off delightedly, forgetting her toast and slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Thanks,’ Catriona said weakly. ‘Do you think I should call Ivan?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Ned. ‘This is his mess. Let him call you.’

  ‘I can’t just sit here and do nothing.’

  Gently, Ned took the paper from her and threw it in the bin. ‘Go and have a shower. Get dressed. I’ll make you some breakfast and hang around until Ivan gets back.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Catriona’s eyes welled with tears. Ned’s kindness was more than she could bear.

  ‘Oh, and Catriona?’ he said as she got up from the table ‘Don’t forget to unplug all the phones.’

  Kendall woke up late in her suite at The Dorchester, but she didn’t feel rested. She’d had terrible dreams. In the last one she was walking through a beautiful forest when a fire swept through the trees out of nowhere, engulfing her in flames. She ran, tearing her legs on thorns, choking on smoke, but when she finally emerged from the forest to safety, she found she was standing on the edge of a cliff. For a moment her heart soared when she saw Jack standing on the other side, arms wide. Jump and I’ll catch you, he seemed to say. But then she did jump, and he turned away, and she fell deeper and deeper into the abyss, with Ivan’s voice echoing in her ears all the while ‘Bitch … Bitch … Bitch.’