‘Here she is!’ said Sam. ‘You missed it. Marvellous, darling. Rave reviews already spewing out of typewriters. Come and have a drink, and say hallo to a few people.’
‘God spare me,’ said Zec. ‘Stay there, sweetie, I’m going to get us a bottle before it all disapears.’
Chloe turned round to take another look at Tabitha and put her hand up to push her hair out of her eyes: a voice said, ‘Christ!’ under its breath and she realized she had knocked its owner’s arm and made him spill his wine.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, blushing helplessly, ‘oh, I’m so terribly sorry, let me –’
‘No. No, it’s perfectly all right,’ said the voice, carefully under control now. ‘Don’t worry, always a crush these things. It was only white, fortunately, no harm done.’
Chloe forced herself to look up and meet her victim’s eyes: he was a tall man, very slim, very stylish-looking; he had thick golden brown hair, beautifully cut, and a face that could only be described as chiselled, with high cheekbones and a mouth that was almost girlish. His eyes were large and a very distinctive grey, and when he smiled at her, he revealed teeth of almost alarming whiteness. He was wearing a light grey suit, the entire left side of which was splashed with the wine, and a silk shirt of palest turquoise, and he was smoking through a long cigarette-holder. Chloe thought she had never in her life seen anyone quite so perfect; it was as if he had been made up.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again, ‘so terribly sorry. Let me get you some more.’
‘No, really, I’ve had far too much already. We had a bottle hidden under the seat.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Donald Zec, who had returned with a three-quarter-full bottle of wine. ‘Piers Windsor. To what do we owe this honour, good sir?’
‘I’m here to pick up Tabitha,’ said Piers.
‘Oh really? How interesting. I shall tell the gossip column people the minute I get back to the office. Have you two met? Chloe Hunterton, Piers Windsor.’
‘I’m afraid we have,’ said Chloe humbly. ‘I made him spill his wine.’
‘Oh, do him good. Humble him a bit. This man has more suits, Chloe, than most of us have pocket handkerchiefs. He discards them when they’re used like Kleenex. What’s the next project, Piers? Or will this run never end?’
‘I hope so,’ said Piers Windsor. ‘Romeo and Juliet is a very exhausting play. I have a little scheme, Donald. I’ll let you know when it’s solidified a bit.’
‘Do, do,’ said Zec. ‘Now Chloe, my dear, there is your escort looking for you, and I have to get back to the office. Lovely to have met you. And you, Piers. Joe, she’s all yours. You’re a lucky man.’
Then he was gone, and Piers Windsor turned back to his friends with another brief flashing smile at Chloe, and Joe took her arm and said, ‘Let’s go and get a Chinese.’ They sat in a Chinese restaurant in Gerrard Street in silence while Joe wrote his article about Tabitha Levine on a series of paper napkins, and Chloe toyed with some rather unappetizing spring rolls.
‘How on earth did you get to be talking to Piers Windsor?’ said Joe, finally putting the napkins into his pocket.
‘I made him spill his wine,’ said Chloe. ‘I’m so sorry, Joe. Letting you down in front of your famous friends.’
‘No need to be sorry,’ said Joe. ‘I’m delighted. Man needs wine spilt over him.’
‘Well, he seemed quite nice to me,’ said Chloe, ‘and terribly good-looking. What does he do?’
‘You really are an innocent, aren’t you?’ said Joe. ‘He’s an actor, honeybunch. A very famous actor.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Chloe. ‘I remember now. I read something about him the other day. He’s doing Hamlet or something, isn’t he, at the moment?’
‘Romeo actually,’ said Joe. ‘With the RSC. Rather too old for the part, but brilliant apparently.’
‘Oh, well, I knew it was Shakespeare at least. I don’t have a very good memory for names,’ she added apologetically.
‘Or faces it seems. Didn’t you see his most famous film, Town Cousins? Made him.’
‘No,’ said Chloe humbly. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, don’t worry about it,’ said Joe, ‘and anyway, it was before your time of course. He’s only done stage things recently, and rather serious ones at that. He takes himself too seriously altogether, for my liking. But he is clever. And extremely talented. And he knows it. Anyway, poppet, let’s go back to the flat now, I have things to do.’
The last thing Chloe thought of as she fell asleep that night was Piers Windsor’s chiselled beauty, and the awful sight of the spreading stain on his immaculate grey suit, for which she had been entirely responsible. She hoped fervently she would never see him again.
Joe had forgotten all about Piers Windsor and the strange, almost non-thought he had had at the Old Vic that night: he didn’t even remember when he was talking to him at the preview. It was only afterwards, chatting absent-mindedly to Chloe in the Chinese restaurant, talking about Town Cousins, that it came back to him. And even then he couldn’t quite remember the form of it: only a half-reported conversation that Fleur had had with Naomi MacNeice. Something about an Englishman, and a film called Cousins. Well, he thought, as he tried to get comfortable on his rather lumpy bed – Caroline threatened to burn it every time she came to the flat – it probably didn’t, almost certainly didn’t, mean a thing. Tiny slivers of coincidence: no more. Naomi was crazed, Fleur had been upset and incoherent and there must have been a thousand English actors in Hollywood at the time whom Naomi would have known. Only not all of them in a film called Town Cousins. No, not even Town Cousins, Something Cousins, Fleur had said. He wondered what Naomi had said. Maybe he should ask Fleur. Then he thought of where that particular course of action might lead and shuddered. Fleur would be over here on the next jet, loaded gun in her handbag.
No, any idea there might have been any connection with Brendan was a nonsense, and he should just put it out of his mind. Of course the man was ghastly enough to have done anything. Slimy bastard: Joe really hadn’t liked him at all.
He looked at his watch: shit, four o’clock. He’d never sleep at this rate. He got up, poured himself a large Scotch, and settled down to read his prized early proof copy of In Cold Blood, Truman Capote’s latest, the shock true story of two psychopaths who murdered a family in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere just for the hell of it. He finally fell asleep and dreamed Fleur was in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere and Piers Windsor was advancing on her with a broken wine glass. He woke up, sweating, to hear the phone ringing.
‘Joe Payton? Harry Oliver. Evening News.’
‘Oh – Harry. Morning.’
‘You OK, Joe? You sound a bit rough.’
‘I’m OK,’ said Joe, shaking his head, rubbing his eyes. ‘Bit of a heavy night.’
‘Lucky sod. You available for a quick job?’
‘Yeah. Probably. What is it?’
‘I want a profile of this Windsor guy. He suddenly seems to be news.’
‘Piers Windsor?’ said Joe, his brain suddenly and magically clear.
‘That one. I’d want it fairly quickly. Say in about three days.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Joe, knowing he was going to do it, feeling a sharp stab of intrigue. ‘It depends how in-depth.’
‘Very in-depth. I want him at home; he’s got a big place somewhere in Berkshire, where he’s got some horses. And a boyfriend I wouldn’t wonder.’
Interest grew sharply in Joe’s head, to join the other drifting tracery. ‘A boyfriend? Is he that way?’
‘Don’t know. Probably. They mostly are. And he looks it, doesn’t he? He’s never married again, since the early days. Lots of starlets on arms at premières. Devoted to his old mother. What would you think?’
‘I’d think you had a filthy mind,
’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘Any gossip about it?’
‘No, nothing tangible. I’m just rambling really. But he’s an interesting guy, and very much in the news at the moment. This thing he’s doing, this musical, have you heard about it?’
‘Er – no,’ said Joe.
‘Well, it’s going to be big. Original. Some poem by someone. Can’t remember who.’
‘Oh,’ said Joe, ‘The Lady of Shalott. Yeah, sure, I do remember.’ He felt a stab of something more than just interest. Maybe it was having sat almost next to Windsor at the theatre, maybe it was because it looked like an interesting story, a high-profile one – absolutely not anything to do with that tiny drifting thought – but he wanted to do it. To find out more about Piers Windsor. ‘Yeah, OK,’ he said, ‘but it’ll depend on when I can see him. He’s quite a difficult guy.’
‘Do it when you can. As long as it doesn’t take more than three days. A hundred quid, OK?’
‘One twenty-five,’ said Joe.
‘OK. If you can turn it in in two days.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ said Joe cheerfully. He put the phone down and started making notes.
Piers Windsor’s agent was very unhelpful. Mr Windsor was exhausted with doing Romeo, and extremely busy with work on The Lady of Shalott. He had done several interviews, and indeed he was surprised the News hadn’t wanted to do it earlier. If Mr Payton cared to put his request in writing, he would see what he could do . . .
Joe rang the RSC. The stage door manager said he really didn’t know when Mr Windsor would be getting to the theatre that evening, but he would certainly leave Mr Payton’s name and a note that he had called. He thought it was very unlikely that Mr Windsor would be able to see him.
Who’s Who gave Piers Windsor’s address: Stebbings, Drewford, Nr Coleshill, Berkshire, and another in Sloane Street, but no phone number. Joe tried Directory Enquiries without success (ex-directory both), wrote and mailed two postcards to the private addresses requesting interviews and then returned to Who’s Who. Clubs, the Garrick (that was worth a try; he left a message there) and the RAC.
Then on an impulse he called the RSC again: did they have any seats for that evening? They did: a return, second row stalls. Hideously expensive: well, the News would pay. Joe reserved it and then set off for Fleet Street and the Evening News.
‘File on Piers Windsor, please,’ he said to the librarian.
‘Which one? We have three.’
‘Oh – early life. Up to – let’s see, 1960.’
‘Childhood?’
‘Might as well.’
He sat down with the files. The early ones were always the most interesting. There was very little on Windsor’s childhood. Born 1921. A few charming photographs of a small boy with golden curls. Father banker, devoted mother, prep school at eight, poor little sod, St Luke’s, Worcester, at thirteen, where he’d won the drama prize for playing Juliet; now there was something to blight a young life. Into the air force in 1939, based on ground staff at Plymouth through the war, working in the radar unit – Lucky that, thought Joe cynically; if ever a man had seemed cut out for a safe war it was Piers Windsor – then RADA where he’d met his first wife Guinevere Davies. And then rep and marriage to Guinevere Davies, divorced in 1954, followed by a very long stint doing more rep until 1958 when he did Mercutio at the Old Vic, and then the film Town Cousins, which had made him famous. Which took him up to 1960. And no mention of Hollywood, until then, which was much too late for him to have crossed Brendan’s path, not even a short stay, no connection with Naomi MacNeice or any of the other names.
Joe felt a sharp stab of disappointment: and then common sense intervened. What an absurd idea: what a flock of wild geese to be chasing. As if it was even imaginable that Piers Windsor would have had any connection with Brendan FitzPatrick and his sordid, sorry end. How had he even begun to entertain the idea? He must be cracking up. Mid-life crisis, he thought, and felt depressed; he took the file back to the desk.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’d better have the later ones now.’
Piers Windsor (Joe read in several reports) was engaged in a unique project, to stage Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott as a musical (providing he could get the backing), destined to hit the West End stage some time the following year. He had bought the rights, had spent months working on the concept and was currently engaged in discussions with writers, lyricists, composers and casting agencies – and backers.
‘It will be something unique and very wonderful,’ he was quoted as saying to a reporter from the Express. ‘I am more excited about it than anything I can ever remember.’
‘Well, bully for you,’ said Joe aloud to the radiantly smiling photograph of Piers, and then realized it was seven and he’d be late for the real thing.
There was no doubt, Windsor was a bloody fine actor. He took hold of the imagination and did what he would with it. Romeo’s tender, passionate, half-fearful love was a tangible thing; he acted everyone, including Melanie Welsh, who was playing Juliet, off the stage. The criticism, accurate and some of it heavily bitchy, that he was far too old for the part, seemed suddenly irrelevant; his physical beauty, his slight build, and something he had done with his voice – made it lighter, more sensitive – made him entirely credible. The tremble of pain in his voice at ‘Night’s candles are burnt out’ made the house catch its breath, and as he bent over Juliet, said, ‘Thus with a kiss I die,’ strong men found themselves swallowing hard, their womenfolk fumbling for their handkerchiefs. Joe watched it through a blur of tears, felt genuine pain.
He said as much in a note that he handed in at the stage door; it worked. Five minutes later, Piers sent a message to come to his dressing room. He was sitting removing his make-up, smiling, charming, gracious; Joe half wished he had not come, so effectively did it wreck his pleasure in Romeo and Juliet. But he smiled and went forwards, holding out his hand.
‘Mr Windsor, that was wonderful. Wonderful. I had tears in my eyes.’ Shit, he was as bad as Windsor himself.
‘How nice of you. Coming from you, Mr Payton, it means a great deal. To what do I owe the honour of this visit? Drink?’ Joe nodded. ‘Viv, open us a bottle of the Sancerre, would you?’
Viv, a plump middle-aged and patently homosexual man (a clue? wondered Joe. No, most of them were) who was pressing clothes in a corner of the dressing room, produced a bottle of wine from an ice bucket, opened it and poured out two glasses.
‘Very nice,’ said Joe. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not quite cold enough, I’m afraid,’ said Piers Windsor, sipping it. ‘I always bring one in ice-cold from the fridge and we keep it on ice, don’t we, Viv, but it does warm up a bit. Viv, do have a glass yourself.’
‘Thank you, Mr Windsor, but I won’t.’
‘I keep trying to tempt him,’ said Piers, laughing, ‘but he signed the pledge ten years ago and it’s hopeless. Now, you were going to tell me why you were here?’
‘You’ll find out in the morning. Or if you go to the Garrick tonight,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve written you several cards, left lots of messages, requesting an interview.’
‘How nice. Who for?’
‘The Evening News.’
‘Well – I don’t know.’ Piers was peeling off false eyelashes now, looking at Joe warily in the mirror. ‘I’ve done so many lately. Everyone is so interested in the Lady. And I’m not mad about the Evening News. You’re not staff are you?’
‘No,’ said Joe hastily. ‘Freelance.’
‘I mean, if it was the Sunday Times magazine . . .’
Joe thought fast. He was very well in at the Sunday Times. They would probably like a piece. He would get more out of Windsor. And for some reason, he still felt intrigued, unsatisfied. He gambled wildly (and unethically). ‘If it was for the Sunday Times, would you do it?’
‘Absolutely, my dear chap.’
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br /> ‘Could we do some shots at your house? At Stebbings?’
‘Well – I don’t know. I do value my privacy enormously. Wouldn’t the flat do, in Sloane Street? It doesn’t feel so much like home. More of a hotel. That would be all right.’
‘Well, look,’ said Joe, ‘I’m pretty sure I could do this piece for the mag. I’ll call them in the morning. But I know they’ll want the country place. We could do a deal.’ He drained his glass, watching Piers Windsor carefully in the mirror. The other eyelashes were being tugged off now; they pulled the whole eye out of shape, which looked faintly obscene. Windsor looked at him and Joe could read the absolute complicity in the look.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘You get me the Sunday Times and I’ll think about letting you come to Stebbings.’
In the morning Joe called the Sunday Times and offered them Piers Windsor at home in Berkshire; they said (as he had known they would) they’d be delighted. Then he called the News and (hating himself just a little) told them Piers Windsor wouldn’t see him. Then he called Piers Windsor. It was arranged he should go down on Sunday morning with a photographer.
Stebbings was a very nice house: Queen Anne, redbrick, with fine rooms, beautiful grounds, and a wonderful view from the back over the Berkshire Downs. Joe and the photographer were shown into the drawing room, were served coffee and waited three quarters of an hour until Windsor arrived, looking carefully casual in jeans and a cream polo-necked sweater.
‘So sorry,’ he said smiling, holding out his hand, ‘endless call to my bankers about the Lady. I think, fingers crossed, we’re quite a little further on. So it’s celebration time. Now then, where shall we start?’
‘In here, I think,’ said the photographer, ‘and then some in your study, Mr Windsor. I presume you have a study, and maybe a few at the stables.’
‘Fine. Providing I can have a few prints. I have a beautiful new mare, bought just last week. I’d like to have a couple of good photographs of her.’
AN Outrageous Affair Page 30