‘Well, you’ll be very welcome. Of course. Do you want to make it a breakfast meeting?’
‘Thank you, no. I’d like it to be as brief as possible.’
‘Fine. My house, ten o’clock?’
‘Ten o’clock.’
Now why was the bastard sounding so confident? Magnus poured himself the third whisky of the evening and settled down to the evening papers. His attention was caught by an article in the Evening News entitled ‘Star and Stripes Billing’; it was a highly reasoned piece, on the distinct, if distant, possibility of the instalment at the White House of Mr Ronald Reagan, star of Bedtime with Bonzo amongst other distinguished movies, and now appearing with arguably greater success in his latest role as Governor of California and President Nixon’s stand-in on foreign tours, most recently the Far East in the company of his glamorous co-star, Mrs Nancy Reagan.
‘It’ll never happen,’ said Magnus, shaking his head over it, and thinking that none the less if you were going to typecast the movie, Reagan would probably get the part.
Piers arrived promptly at ten o’clock. He was, Magnus thought, looking very thin, but he was, as always, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit and a herringbone tweed overcoat with a velvet collar; he could have been ready for a day in the City were it not for his hat which was large and black, with a very wide brim. The guy was obsessed with clothes, thought Magnus; he must try to talk to his tailor. If it was one of the old guys, they might not talk, but the promise of a plug and, failing that, a few fivers might produce a good quote or two from one of the new, high-profile tailors all the rock stars had made famous.
‘Piers,’ he said, ‘do come in.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Let me take your coat. Coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
He sat down and looked at Magnus in silence for a long time. Magnus was interested to discover he felt mildly uncomfortable, and wondered for the second time if Piers knew something he didn’t.
‘Right,’ said Piers, finally, his eyes very brilliant and hard, ‘let me come to the point. I have been advised by my solicitors to endeavour to divert you from writing or publishing this book.’
‘Indeed?’ said Magnus.
‘Yes. Or at least to ascertain exactly what you intend to write in it.’
‘Yes?’
‘I fancy both courses are ones you are unlikely to follow.’
‘You fancy correctly.’
‘I thought so. It seemed worth making the approach.’
‘Sorry, Piers. Can’t do it. Too late not to publish, and I really have no intention of telling you what I’m going to write.’
‘As I thought. Would I be right, however, in thinking that your material and your research have been quite painstaking?’
‘You would indeed. I have – oh, God knows how many hours of taped interviews, all painstakingly checked. I take great pride in my powers of detection.’
‘How admirable. Your publishers are very fortunate.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Magnus lightly, ‘that is what they pay me for.’
‘I suppose so.’
There was another silence. Then Piers said, ‘Well now, Magnus, I have just come to give you a warning.’
‘Indeed? How interesting.’ Magnus smiled at him, easily, casually. But he was still not quite as calm as he would like.
‘Are you familiar with The Merchant of Venice, Magnus?’
Magnus looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Not as familiar as you are, I suspect.’
‘I suspect so too. I would like to remind you therefore of Portia’s speech. To Shylock. After she has conceded that he is indeed entitled to his pound of flesh. But –’ Piers turned, walked over to the window, looked out for perhaps half a minute, in a long, potent silence, then turned back, his grey eyes thoughtful, very distant. ‘But Magnus
if thou cutt’st more
Or less than a just pound, be it but so much
As makes it light or heavy in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple – nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair,
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.’
His voice faded; a voice that had become, eerily, magically not that of a middle-aged actor, but of a beautiful and brilliant young woman, totally in command of the situation and the others in her presence. He looked very intensely at Magnus. ‘I hope you see what I am trying to say. This book, Magnus, this book is your pound of flesh. You are entitled to it, to write it, to publish it. But if the truth within it, which I do know to be cruelly complex, and much of it buried in quite a distant past, if that truth turns the scales towards untruth, but in the estimation of a hair, then, Magnus, please know that, indeed, all thy goods are confiscate. And now I must go. I have work to do. Good morning, Magnus.’
Half an hour later Magnus was still sitting at his desk, his mind shocked into impotence, totally and terrifyingly unable to work.
1971–2
Rose Sharon had had many gifts bestowed upon her by the fairies at her christening: beauty, brains, talent, charm, but above all, an extension of her charm perhaps, an ability to create a feeling of self-worth in the people she was with. A conversation with Rose was not simply an exchange of views, of ideas, or even a confirmation of arrangements: it was (for the other person) a sense of pleasure, a feeling that he (or she) was perhaps, definitely indeed, more interesting, more amusing, more desirable, even than they had considered themselves to be. And she did not simply work her magic on the important people in her circle, directors, producers, fellow actors, Hollywood hostesses, or even the arguably and equally important outer ring of it, head waiters, dress designers, her housekeeper; but on everyone she came into contact with, car park attendants, bank clerks, messenger boys. Such was the power of this quality of hers that even her critics, or someone who had slipped her net in some way, someone who felt hostile to her, could be won round, persuaded in no time at all that any slight coolness they might feel towards her for whatever reason was a fault on their part, not hers, and to be pleased, delighted even, that she was caring about them now.
Fleur FitzPatrick had been feeling a certain coolness about Rose in the last few weeks: well, not coolness, but certainly disappointment with her. It did not seem to her to be asking so very much that Rose should talk to Magnus Phillips about her early days in Hollywood and her memories of her father. Of course, she didn’t like the press, she was very wary of journalists, but even so, this wasn’t some probing article about her present private life and her failure to make a lasting relationship with anyone, as so many of them were. Fleur tried to tell herself that she was being silly, that it was perfectly understandable, and that probably half the trouble with her was Christmas and that the other half was finally agreeing that she and Reuben should work for Morton’s full time. The offer had been in the end irresistible, but she knew they should have resisted, it felt wrong without knowing why. She was going to Poppy and Gill for Christmas to their new, smart apartment not far from her own, with its red walls and black furniture and already-impressive collection of modern paintings. Reuben would be there of course, and Reuben’s and Poppy’s gorgeous mother, and they would eat themselves into a stupor, exchange all sorts of expensive and stylish things, play endless stupid games and it would all be great fun, and Mrs Blake would ask about every five minutes when she and Reuben were going to get married. For God’s sake, thought Fleur miserably, why didn’t they know, why hadn’t she agreed to anything yet? – and then her phone rang.
‘Fleur? Darling, this is Rose.’
And there it was, the charm, Rose’s charm, and instead of continuing to feel cool about her, she felt as if she had been given a present, or a glass of absolutely perfectly chilled champagne, and instead of sounding
cool, she flushed, and said with considerable warmth, ‘Oh, Rose, how lovely to hear from you.’
‘How are you? What have you been doing?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Fleur with perfect truth.
‘Lots of Christmas parties, no doubt. How’s the high-powered job?’
‘It’s – OK,’ said Fleur. It wasn’t; it was part of her dissatisfaction with everything, with her unspoken, unacknowledged unease about Reuben, with the disappearance of Magnus Phillips and the book from her orbit – God knows how many weeks it had been since she had heard from that bastard – that her work had become so tedious. And second-rate.
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘I’m not.’
‘It sounds as if you need a change of scene.’
‘Maybe I do.’
‘Why don’t you come to Los Angeles for a few days?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said come to LA. And bring your friend Mr Phillips with you. I’ve decided I should see him after all.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Fleur again, too stupefied to believe what she was hearing.
‘Darling, you seem to be only half awake this morning. I’m inviting you over here. Don’t you like the idea?’
‘Like it? I love it,’ said Fleur, her heart suddenly beginning to fly. ‘But – what made you change your mind, Rose? I don’t understand.’
‘Well, let’s say I’ve been doing some remembering. And some thinking. About your dad, mostly. I loved him so much, Fleur, he meant so much to me. If someone can put the record straight, finally, I’d be so happy. It seems very foolish and wrong to try and block that.’
‘Well I – well, I’m just so pleased,’ said Fleur. Her voice sounded suddenly exultant even to her; she felt she could fly.
‘Good. Well, speak with your friend, and then get back to me. I’m here all over Christmas and New Year and right through January. After that, I go away for a while. All right?’
‘All right,’ said Fleur, ‘and thank you. Thank you so much, Rose.’
‘That’s all right, darling. Bye now. Oh and Fleur –’
‘Yes?’
‘New Year’d be good. Then we could see it in, start the new one together.’
‘I’d like that too,’ said Fleur.
Magnus was enragingly unimpressed.
‘It seems like pretty short notice to me. And what’s made her change her mind?’
‘She said she’d thought about it and she wanted to help,’ said Fleur irritably. ‘You don’t seem to understand, Magnus, she is just hugely famous. She doesn’t have to do this. She hates the press. She’s doing it for – well, for me. And my dad. She loved him.’
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do,’ said Magnus. ‘It’ll certainly have to be after Christmas,’
‘Magnus, what is the matter with you? I thought you really wanted to see Rose.’
‘I do. But it’s Christmas. I’m busy. Things to do, places to go –’
‘If you don’t fucking well make some kind of an effort to do things here, it’ll be too late,’ said Fleur. She found, enraged, that she was close to tears. ‘Magnus, please! It’s so important –’
‘All right, all right,’ he said, sounding more impatient than amused. ‘I’ll move some things around if I can. I’ll call you back.’
‘Sweet of you,’ said Fleur and put the phone down.
He had sounded odd. Less sure of himself, less obsessively keen. She hoped he wasn’t cooling on this thing altogether. She just about couldn’t stand it if he did. She’d call Bernard Stobbs in the morning, ask him if he’d heard any more about the book. There’d certainly been nothing in the spring catalogues about it. The stupid bastard was going to miss the boat altogether if he didn’t get his act together. Arrogant, ignorant creature. He just didn’t deserve the kind of input he was getting from her. If it mattered even the slightest bit less she’d just dump him.
By the time she’d calmed down, she was feeling much better about not being in love.
After lunch Reuben called.
‘Walk? In the park?’
‘Oh – no, Reuben, I don’t think so. I don’t feel like walking. I have a headache.’
‘Cure it.’
‘No, honestly.’
‘Movies then?’
‘Oh, Reuben, I don’t know. What’s on?’
‘Love Story.’
‘Ugh. No thanks.’
‘OK. Sunday, Bloody Sunday.’
‘All right,’ said Fleur and laughed.
She hated the film. It was so terribly English, and it reminded her of Magnus Phillips.
‘Supper?’ said Reuben.
‘No, thank you, Reuben. I’m not hungry. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Reuben, and sighed. It was a very light, very faint sigh; but she heard it and was moved to a strong sense of remorse. She did not deserve this man, this lovely, unselfish, undemanding man; she really didn’t. She slipped her hand into his.
‘Let’s just go back to my apartment.’
‘Fine,’ said Reuben.
She was riding on a rich wave of pleasure when Magnus Phillips called, her back arched beneath Reuben, her arms flung wide, her cries loud and wild, and as rhythmic as the great ripples taking her to her climax.
The sound of the phone pierced her pleasure; she reached blindly for it, picked it up, slammed it down again, only it missed the receiver and went on to the bed just as a huge groan escaped Reuben and she cried out, ‘Shit! Yes, yes, yes, Reuben, shit, yes . . .’ and then as the world steadied, she surfaced into it again, her body easing, relaxing, falling into release; she looked at the phone and realized it was silent, not giving out the dialling tone, and that someone was clearly listening on the other end.
‘Hallo?’ she said cautiously, trying to breathe more evenly.
‘Hallo,’ said Magnus Phillips’s voice, amused, laughter surfacing into it. ‘Fleur? I would judge from your bad language that you must be experiencing some excitement. Do you want to call me back?’
‘No,’ said Fleur, fiercely angry at herself, at him, at everyone suddenly, even perversely Reuben, ‘no, of course not.’
‘I admire your control. Now then. Miss Sharon.’
‘Who? Oh, oh yes, of course.’
‘I could come over there the second week of January. Any good?’
‘I’ll have to check with her,’ said Fleur, ‘and get back to you. It should be fine.’
‘Good. Well I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘That’s perfectly all right,’ said Fleur and put the phone back carefully this time, wondering why she felt so bleak and upset.
Chloe felt so terribly frightened all the time, she didn’t know what to do with herself. She couldn’t quite believe she had been so stupid. Leaving the Albany like that, in the middle of the rush hour, when everyone knew Ludovic lived there, when half London could have seen her; and then who did exactly that, who had to witness her flight, of all the people in the world, but Magnus Phillips. The man who was out to destroy not only her, but her entire family. It was like some terrible nightmare.
‘Why didn’t we go to some hotel?’ she wailed to Ludovic from a phone box next day, after a long fearsome night lying awake, fretting, tearing at her nails.
‘Because my flat is so much nicer,’ he said soothingly, ‘and we were just as likely to bump into someone in the corridors of the Ritz or the Savoy as in the middle of Piccadilly and it would have been twice as compromising. Did it not occur to you that it might seem just remotely possible to anyone who saw you that at six in the evening you might not have been committing adultery, but doing something innocent like shopping or having tea with your mother?’
His voice was relaxed and amused; it was all right for him
, Chloe thought, he had nothing to lose. Well, almost nothing.
‘Of course I couldn’t, the shops were all shut and my mother is in Suffolk.’
‘And of course all London knows that,’ said Ludovic. ‘Darling, don’t fret. Please. You’re being hysterical. Anyway, you have to tell Piers some time. Maybe this will be the catalyst you need.’
‘I can’t,’ said Chloe, ‘not now, you know I can’t, with this bloody book hanging over him and the disappointment over the honours list again, and –’
‘All right, sweetheart, all right,’ said Ludovic soothingly. ‘Look, don’t panic. Just keep calm. You don’t know if the wretched man actually saw you, he was probably looking the other way; it’s your guilty conscience –’
‘It is not!’ said Chloe. ‘He was looking at me, in that awful amused way, you know. He knew, he knew exactly what I’d been doing and –’
‘Exactly?’ said Ludovic. ‘I do hope not. Not exactly. It was particularly imaginative, as I recall, what you were doing.’
‘Oh Ludo, please!’ said Chloe in an agony. ‘Please don’t tease me. And anyway –’
‘Anyway what?’
‘Oh – oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘Now please, please, don’t ring me for a few days. All right?’
‘All right. Now calm down, darling. And remember I love you.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I’ll try,’ and put the phone down, feeling suddenly desperately sick.
She knew why she was feeling sick and it wasn’t just terror.
And she hadn’t slept with Piers for weeks.
‘Mrs Windsor, this is the Charing Cross Hospital. I wonder if you could come over straight away. We have your husband here, in Casualty.’
Oh God, thought Chloe, oh God, he’s done it again, and this time she knew why: he had found out, Magnus Phillips had told him, had told him she was having an affair with Ludovic. This time it was really her fault, and what was she to do? It could not be cured this time by long periods in therapy and analysis, this time there was no blame attached to him, it was not that he was accusing her of not helping him by forbidding him to use their daughter in his film, nor that she was accusing him of conducting a flirtation with her brother, this time it was her fault for betraying him, hurting him when he could least stand it, having an affair with one of his friends. Publicly, dreadfully, the blame lay not only squarely but absolutely fairly at her bedroom door. And what could she do about it? How could she possibly endure the guilt, the terrible, awful disgrace, what could she do even to begin to put things right again? Nothing, it was beyond remedy, beyond hope –
AN Outrageous Affair Page 69