by Isabel Wolff
‘Have some of these canapés,’ I heard him say. ‘We won’t be eating until a bit later.’ So it was a dinner party. ‘Phoebe,’ he exclaimed warmly as he saw me. He planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘Come and meet everyone.’ Dan quickly introduced me to his friends, one of whom was Matt, and Matt’s wife Sylvia; there was Ellie, a reporter from the paper, with her boyfriend, Mike; there were a few of Dan’s neighbours and, to my surprise, the rather grumpy woman from the Oxfam shop whose name, I now learned, was Joan.
Joan and I chatted for a bit, and I told her that I’d be getting some handbags from the States that I’d probably be bringing in to her. Then I asked her if she ever got any vintage zips – metal ones – as I was running low on them.
‘I did see a batch the other day,’ she said. ‘And a jar of old buttons, now I think about it.’
‘Would you keep them for me then?’
‘’Course I will.’ She sipped her champagne. ‘Did you enjoy Anna Karenina, by the way?’
‘It was wonderful.’ I replied then wondered how she knew that I’d gone.
Joan took a canapé from a passing tray. ‘Dan took me to see Dr Zhivago. Beautiful, it was.’
‘Oh.’ I glanced at Dan: he was full of surprises – rather nice ones, I reflected. ‘Well … it’s a fabulous film.’
‘Fabulous,’ Joan echoed. She closed her eyes then opened them again. ‘It was the first time I’d been to the pictures for five years – and he bought me dinner afterwards.’
‘Really? How lovely.’ I found myself fighting back tears. ‘Did you go to Café Rouge?’
‘Oh no.’ Joan looked shocked. ‘He took me to The Rivington.’
‘Ah.’
I looked at Dan. Now he was chinking the side of his glass and saying that as everyone was here it was time to get down to the main business of the evening, so would we all kindly go outside.
The back garden was a good size – sixty feet or so – and filling the end of it was a large… shed. That’s all it was – a shed; except that there was a red carpet leading to it and across the door a red rope suspended between two metal posts. On the wall was some sort of plaque, awaiting its official unveiling, judging by the pair of little gold curtains that covered it.
‘I don’t know what’s in that shed,’ said Ellie as we walked down the carpet towards it, ‘but I don’t think it’s a lawn mower.’
‘You’re right – it isn’t,’ said Dan. He clapped his hands. ‘Well, thanks to every one for coming here tonight,’ he said as we stood outside it. ‘I’m now going to ask Joan to do the honours…’
Joan stepped forward and took hold of the curtain cord. As Dan gave her the nod, she turned to us. ‘It is my great pleasure to open Dan’s shed, which I am delighted to re-name …’ She pulled on the cord.
The Robinson Rio.
‘The Robinson Rio,’ said Joan, peering at the plaque. She was clearly as mystified as the rest of us.
Dan opened the door then pressed a light switch. ‘Come on in.’
‘Amazing,’ Sylvia murmured as she stepped inside.
‘Blimey,’ I heard someone say.
A glittering chandelier hung from the ceiling, above twelve red velvet seats arranged in four rows of three on a swirly patterned red-and-gold carpet. A curtained screen filled the end wall; positioned in front of the near wall was a large, old-fashioned projector. On the right-hand wall was a royal blue board with white plastic letters, announcing THIS WEEK’S PROGRAMME: Camille and COMING ATTRACTIONS: A Matter of Life and Death. On the left-hand wall was a framed vintage cinema poster for The Third Man.
‘Sit wherever you like,’ Dan said as he fiddled with the projector. ‘There’s underfloor heating, so it’s not cold. Camille’s only seventy minutes long, but if you’d rather not see it, then just go back to the house and have another drink. We’ll be having dinner when the film finishes just after nine.’
We took our seats – I sat with Joan and Ellie. Dan closed the door and dimmed the lights, then we heard the projector whirr into life, then came the hypnotic clicking of the film as it passed over the sprockets. Now the motorised curtains swished aside to reveal the MGM lion, roaring away, then music, and opening credits, and suddenly we were in nineteenth-century Paris.
‘That was wonderful,’ said Joan as the lights went up again. ‘It was like being in the proper cinema – I used to love that smell of the projector lamp.’
‘It was just like old times,’ Matt said from behind us.
Joan turned in her seat and looked at him. ‘You’re much too young to be saying that.’
‘I mean that at school Dan ran the film society,’ Matt explained. ‘Every Tuesday lunchtime he used to show Laurel and Hardy, Harold Lloyd and Tom and Jerry. I’m glad to say his focusing’s improved since then.’
‘That was on my old Universal,’ Dan said. ‘This projector’s a Bell and Howell, but I’ve rigged up some modern amplification – and put in air conditioning. And I had the shed sound-proofed so that the neighbours don’t complain.’
‘We’re not complaining,’ said one of his neighbours. ‘We’re here!’
‘But what are you planning to do with the cinema?’ I asked Dan as we all walked back to the house.
‘I want to run it as a classic film club,’ he replied as we stepped up into the big square kitchen-diner where a long pine table had been laid for twelve. ‘I’ll do a screening every week and people can turn up on a first-come first-served basis, with a discussion afterwards over a drink for anyone who’s interested.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ said Mike. ‘And where are the films?’
‘Stored upstairs in a humidity-controlled room. I’ve collected a couple of hundred over the years from libraries that were closing down and at auction. I’d always wanted to have my own cinema. In fact, the big shed was one of the main attractions of this house when I bought it two years ago.’
‘Where did you get the seats?’ Joan asked him as Dan pulled out her chair for her.
‘I got them five years ago from an Odeon in Essex that was being pulled down. I’ve been keeping them in storage. Now … Ellie, why don’t you sit there? Phoebe, you come here, next to Matt and Sylvia.’
As I sat down Matt poured me a glass of wine. ‘I recognised you, of course,’ he said, ‘from the feature we did about you.’
‘That was a very helpful piece,’ I said as the caterer set a plate of delicious-looking risotto in front of me. ‘Dan did a wonderful job.’
‘He seems a bit chaotic but he’s a … good man. You’re a good man, Dan,’ Matt declared with a chuckle.
‘Thanks, mate!’
‘He is a good man,’ Sylvia echoed. ‘And do you know who you look like, Dan?’ she added. ‘I’ve suddenly realised – Michelangelo’s David.’
As Dan blew Sylvia a grateful kiss I saw that it was true. That was the ‘famous person’ I’d been struggling to think of.
‘You’re a dead ringer for him,’ Sylvia went on. She cocked her head to one side. ‘A cuddly version anyway,’ she added with a laugh.
Dan slapped his rugger-player’s chest. ‘I’d better get myself down to the gym then. Now, who needs a drink?’
I unfurled my napkin then turned back to Matt. ‘The Black & Green’s doing … extremely well.’
‘Beyond our wildest dreams,’ Matt replied. ‘Thanks to one particular story, obviously.’
I picked up my fork. ‘Can you talk about that?’
‘As it’s all been in the public domain, yes: but the interest from the national press has boosted our circulation to sixteen thousand – which means we’re starting to make money – with advertising up by thirty per cent. We would have to have spent a hundred grand on PR to achieve the awareness of the paper that this one story’s given us.’
‘And how did you get the story?’ I asked.
Matt sipped his wine. ‘Kelly Marks approached us direct. I knew about Brown from my time at the Guardian,’ he went on. ‘There’d been rumours about him for years. A
nyway, there he was, just about to float his company, getting his face in the business press as much as possible, when out of the blue this woman phones me, anonymously, saying that she’s got a “good story” about Keith Brown and would I be interested?’
‘So you are interested,’ Sylvia continued. She passed me the bowl of salad then nodded at Matt. ‘Tell Phoebe what happened.’
He put down his glass. ‘So – this was on a Monday, three weeks ago – I invited the woman to come in.’ Matt flicked out his napkin. ‘She arrived at lunchtime the next day – I realised that she was his girlfriend, because I’d seen photos of her with Brown. When she told me the story I knew that I wanted to run it – but I told her that there was no way I’d be able to do so unless she was prepared to sign a detailed statement saying that it was true. So she said that she would …’ Matt picked up his fork. ‘And at that point I thought I’d better consult Dan.’
I nodded. Then I wondered why he’d had to consult Dan when it wasn’t as though Dan was the assistant editor, or even an experienced journalist, come to that. I glanced at Dan. He was chatting to Joan.
‘You could hardly not consult Dan,’ I heard Sylvia say. ‘As he co-owns the paper!’
I looked at Sylvia. ‘I thought that Dan worked for Matt. I thought it was Matt’s paper and that he’d hired Dan to do the marketing.’
‘Dan does do the marketing,’ she replied. ‘But Matt didn’t hire him.’ She seemed to find the idea amusing. ‘He approached Dan for financial backing. They each put up fifty per cent of the start-up money, which was half a million.’
‘I … see.’
‘So of course Matt had to have Dan’s agreement about the story,’ Sylvia added. That was why Dan was in on the discussions with the lawyer, I now realised.
‘Dan was as excited about it as I was,’ Matt continued as he passed Sylvia the parmesan. ‘So then it was a question of getting Kelly’s signed statement. I told her we don’t pay for stories, but she insisted that she didn’t want money. She seemed to be on some sort of moral crusade against Brown even though it turned out that she’d known about the fire for more than a year.’
‘So something must have happened to make her angry with him,’ Sylvia said.
Matt lowered his fork. ‘That’s what I assumed. Anyway, she came in and we took her statement. But then, when it came to signing it, she suddenly lowered the pen, looked at me, and said she’d changed her mind – she did want money.’
‘Oh.’
Matt shook his head. ‘My heart sank. I thought that she was about to ask us for twenty grand and that this had been her plan all along. And it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that we were going to have to forget the whole thing when she said, “The price is £275.” I was amazed. Then she said it again. “I want £275. That’s the price.” So I looked at Dan, and he shrugged then nodded. So I opened the petty cash, got out £275, put it in an envelope and handed it to her. She looked as happy as if I had given her twenty grand. Then she signed the statement.’
‘The envelope was pink,’ I said. ‘Disney Princess.’
Matt looked at me in surprise. ‘It was. Our accountant’s little girl had come into the office with him the day before. She’d brought her writing set with her and as that was the first envelope I saw, I used it because I was in a hurry to close the deal. But how do you know?’
I explained that Kelly Marks had come into the shop and bought the lime green prom dress that Brown had refused to buy her a fortnight before. Dan had now joined the conversation. ‘I told you about that, didn’t I, Dan?’ I said. ‘About Kelly refusing the discount?’
‘You did. I couldn’t discuss it with you,’ he added, ‘but I was sitting there, trying to work it out. I thought, okay, the dress cost £275 and she had asked Matt and me for £275, so there’s got to be some connection… but I didn’t know what.’
‘I think I know,’ Sylvia said. ‘She wanted to end the relationship with Brown but found it hard to do, given that he was also her boss.’ Sylvia turned to me. ‘You said Brown refused to buy her the dress. Did she seem upset?’
‘Extremely,’ I replied. ‘She was in tears.’
‘Well, that was probably the last straw.’ Sylvia shrugged. ‘So she decided to blow the relationship apart by doing something from which there could be no going back. The denial of the dress triggered the act of revenge.’
I loved it. And he knew that …
I looked at Sylvia. ‘To me that makes sense. I think the £275 was symbolic. It represented the prom dress – and her freedom – that’s why she didn’t want to pay less for it …’
Matt was staring at me. ‘Are you saying that we got this story because of one of your frocks?’
Once I’d tried it on… the dress claimed me.
I realised that Annie had been right. ‘I think I am saying that, yes.’
Matt lifted his glass. ‘Then here’s to your vintage clothes, Phoebe.’ He shook his head, then laughed. ‘My God, that dress must have got to her though.’
I nodded. ‘Those ones tend to do that,’ I said.
On my way to see Mrs Bell the following afternoon in glorious autumn sunshine I thought about Dan. He’d had several opportunities to tell me that he co-owned the Black & Green, but hadn’t done so. Perhaps he’d thought it might have seemed boastful. Perhaps he gave little thought to it himself. But now I remembered how he’d said that Matt had needed his ‘help’ in setting up the paper – financial help, evidently. Yet Dan hadn’t given the impression of affluence – the opposite almost, with his Oxfam-shop clothes and his slightly shambling appearance. Perhaps he’d borrowed the money, I reflected, or remortgaged. In which case it was sur prising that, having invested so much in the paper, he didn’t want to work for it long term. As I turned into The Paragon I wondered what he did want to do long term.
I’d stayed at the party until midnight and as I’d picked up my bag I’d seen that I’d had two missed phone calls from Miles. When I’d got home there’d been another two from him on my answerphone. His tone of voice was casual, but it was clear that he hadn’t liked not being able to speak to me.
I went up the steps of number 8 and pressed Mrs Bell’s buzzer. There was a longer wait than usual, then I heard the intercom crackle.
‘Hello, Phoebe.’ I pushed on the door and climbed the staircase.
It had been almost two weeks since I’d seen Mrs Bell. The change in her was so marked that I instinctively put my arms round her. She had said that she would feel reasonably well for the first month and then not so well … She was clearly now ‘not so well’. She was painfully thin, her pale blue eyes seeming bigger now in her shrunken face, her hands fragile looking with their fan of white bones.
‘What lovely flowers,’ she said as I handed her the anemones I’d brought her. ‘I adore their jewel colours – like stained glass.’
‘Shall I put them in a vase?’
‘Please. And would you make the tea today?’
‘Of course.’
We went into the kitchen and I filled the kettle and got down the cups and saucers and set the tray. ‘I hope you haven’t been on your own all day,’ I said as I found a crystal vase and arranged the flowers in it.
‘No – the district nurse came this morning. She comes every day now.’
I put three spoons of Assam into the pot. ‘And did you enjoy your stay in Dorset?’
‘Very much. It was lovely to spend time with James and his wife. They have a view of the sea from their house, so I spent quite a bit of time just sitting by the window, gazing out at it. Would you mind putting the flowers on the hall table for me?’ she added. ‘I don’t trust myself not to drop them.’
I did so, then carried the tray into the sitting room, Mrs Bell walking in front of me, painfully, as though her back ached. When she sat down in her usual place on the brocade chair she didn’t cross her legs, as she usually did, with her hands clasped on her knee. She crossed them at the ankles, leaning back, in a posture of fa
tigue.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ she said, nodding at the pile of papers on the table. ‘I have been throwing away old letters and bills – the debris of my life,’ she added as I put the cup of tea into her hands. ‘There is so much.’ She nodded at the brimming wastepaper basket next to her chair. ‘But it will make things easier for James. By the way, when he collected me last week he drove past Montpelier Vale.’
‘So you saw the shop?’
‘I did – and two of my outfits were in the window! You have put a fur collar on the gabardine suit. It looks very smart.’
‘My assistant Annie thought it would be a nice touch for the autumn. I hope it didn’t make you sad to see your things there, on show to the world.’
‘On the contrary – it made me feel glad. I found myself trying to picture the women who will own them next.’
I smiled. Then Mrs Bell asked me about Miles and I told her about my visit to his house.
‘So he spoils his little princess.’
‘He does – to an insane degree,’ I confided. ‘Roxy is so indulged.’
‘Well … it’s better than if he were neglectful.’ That was true. ‘And he seems to be very keen on you, Phoebe.’
‘I’m taking it slowly, Mrs Bell – I’ve only known him six weeks – and he’s nearly fifteen years older than me.’
‘I see. Well … that puts you at an advantage.’
‘I suppose so, though I’m not sure I want to be at an advantage with anyone.’
‘But his age is not important – all that matters is whether you like him, and whether he treats you well.’