‘Oh really?’ said Fleur. ‘Why do you say that, Adam?’
‘It has just about everything. Scandal, sex – of all kinds – theatre gossip, Hollywood gossip. And of course Magnus Phillips is a very good writer. In his own rather tabloid genre. It’s not for me, naturally, but, boy, will it sell.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ said Fleur. ‘Have you read it?’
‘Well, not all of it, of course. Quite a considerable amount though. All fascinating stuff.’
‘Really?’ said Fleur, who knew perfectly well he couldn’t have read any of it. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Oh’ – Coleman tapped the side of his nose – ‘can’t give secrets away.’
‘Of course not. When’s it coming out?’
‘October. On both sides of the Atlantic.’
‘And what did you mean by sex of all kinds?’
‘Now really, Fleur. You’re a big girl. You can imagine perfectly well what kinds.’
‘But I thought it was about the fearsomely respectable and conventional Piers Windsor. Mr Hamlet himself.’
‘Well, we’re in for some surprises about Mr Windsor, I gather. And a great many others. From all corners east and west of Hollywood. Not to mention society scandals, love children –’
‘Love children?’ said Fleur sharply. It was the first time she had come up against the hard fact that she would be within the pages of this book: knowing it was one thing, savouring it, even the embarrassment it would cause Caroline and Chloe, but confronting it was quite another, realizing that people like Sol, Mick diMaggio and Nigel Silk, the Steinbergs, Baz Browne, even dear Bernard Stobbs would all be reading about her. Her and her father. She suddenly felt slightly queasy. And Reuben. Dear God, why had she not thought of that before? Well, she had, of course: but not the effect it might have on him, the way he might regard her and her involvement in the whole project. She must sit him down, have a long talk with him about it very soon.
‘Yes. Some long-buried scandals apparently. And then lots of wonderful stuff about Hollywood queens. Whoring their way around the studios. Brilliantly sordid, I believe.’
‘I see,’ said Fleur. ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Adam. I must go and see Bernard, I’ve hardly spoken to him this evening.’
‘Of course. Mary! How lovely to see you. I loved your book. Did you see my review in the New Yorker? I thought I’d touched on a couple of points the others had all missed . . .’
Fleur went out to the Ladies and sat on a toilet seat, leaning her aching head against the wall. She felt suddenly very frightened.
She couldn’t sleep; at two in the morning, she put a call in to Magnus. It would be seven in England: he would be up. She got the answering machine. Where was the bastard? She knew he was there.
‘Magnus, this is Fleur,’ she said. ‘I have to speak to you urgently. Please call me just as soon as you can.’
He rang back within five minutes. He sounded impatient.
‘Yes, Fleur, what is it?’
‘Magnus, I just went to a party.’
‘Well, that was nice for you. Have you dragged me from my bath to tell me that?’
‘Sorry,’ said Fleur, hauling her imagination with great difficulty from the image of Magnus in the bath.
‘That’s OK. I’d been there too long anyway. Anyone interesting there?’
‘Yes. Plenty. A reviewer in particular called Adam Coleman. He said you were – what was it – a very good writer, in your own rather tabloid genre.’
‘How kind. I must remember to give him a kiss when I see him.’
‘Talking of kissing –’
‘Yes, Fleur?’
His voice had changed; become deeper, more intimate. She flushed.
‘Kissing other men,’ she said firmly, gripping the telephone. ‘Magnus, Adam seemed to have the impression this book was very – sordid. Especially about the Hollywood scene.’
‘Well, so it is. You know that.’
‘I don’t actually,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t realized you were going to write so much about it.’
‘Well, Fleur, I don’t think you can have thought very carefully about it, in that case. You know perfectly well there is a great deal about Hollywood in it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But he made it sound so – so tacky. I felt, you know, nervous.’
‘Well, Fleur, it’s a little late for that.’ He sounded cheerfully impatient. ‘These books are like landslides, you know. A little pebble starts them off, and then – whoosh, the whole damn lot’s going.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Um – Magnus, is there a lot about me in it?’
‘As much as there needs to be.’
‘Oh.’ There was a silence. She suddenly felt furiously angry. Bastard. She had supplied a lot of the material for this shitty book, and now he was treating her as if it was off-limits, wouldn’t even tell her how much she figured.
‘You can read it when it’s written,’ he said, recognizing her concern.
‘Yes, but before it’s published.’
‘Naturally. I’ll send you an advance copy.’
‘Magnus, you’re kidding me, aren’t you? I can see it before it’s too late, can’t I? In case I want to change anything.’
‘Fleur, I have too many fucking editors round my neck already. Changing things. I’m the writer, I shall decide what’s changed.’
‘Magnus,’ said Fleur and an icy fear was creeping through her veins, ‘Magnus, I really do have to know what you’re going to say about my father. That is one hundred per cent crucial. That was the deal.’
‘I don’t recall any deal that said that,’ said Magnus lightly.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Of course you have to let me see it.’
‘I don’t have to let you see anything.’
‘Well, we can come back to that one. At least you can reassure me. You are clearing him, aren’t you? Explaining what happened. What we know now.’
‘Which is?’
‘Oh, Magnus,’ said Fleur, and she heard her voice crack with tension. ‘You know. That he was set up. That he was a little indiscreet, but he got hammered. All that stuff Rose said. That Yolande said. That the person who talked to the magazine was someone he’d upset, someone who hated him.’
There was an infinitesimal silence. Then he said, easily, almost soothingly, ‘Yes, of course. Allowing for a touch of poetic licence here and there. In the – what was it? Tabloid genre.’
‘Good,’ said Fleur. ‘Any more information about Piers?’
‘Oh – a bit.’
‘And – he was there?’
‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘He was there.’
‘You’re not going to tell me any more?’
‘Not now. No.’
‘Oh, go fuck yourself,’ said Fleur furiously.
She put the phone down, and lay awake until daybreak, alternately sweating and chilled with fear and foreboding.
Chloe was sitting one afternoon in the drawing room, wondering wearily if her head was going to ache for evermore, and if so whether it was because of her concussion or because she was so unhappy, when the door bell rang. It was Caroline.
‘Good gracious, Mummy,’ said Chloe, struggling to keep her voice welcoming rather than ironic, ‘what a surprise. Come in.’
‘I can’t stop long,’ said Caroline.
‘Of course not,’ said Chloe, struggling rather harder. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please. That’d be very nice. No, the thing is I had to come up anyway, to see my gynaecologist –’
‘Is something wrong?’ said Chloe, dropping teabags into mugs, looking at her thoughtfully.
‘No, of course not,’ said Caroline, as if seeing one’s gynaecologist w
as an entirely sociable affair, nothing to do with one’s health, ‘but as I was here, I thought I’d come and see you. I’ve been worried about you.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Chloe. ‘Well, I’m sorry about that, Mummy.’
‘Don’t be silly, Chloe. There’s no need to apologize. I know you’ve had a horrible time. But you don’t seem to be getting any better. And you look absolutely terrible. I thought you might like to talk about it.’
‘Oh – no, thank you,’ said Chloe, aware that she must sound as if she was refusing a cup of tea. ‘But it’s kind of you to think of it.’
‘Well,’ said Caroline, ‘I am your mother.’
‘Yes,’ said Chloe, ‘yes, I know.’
Caroline looked at her sharply. ‘This miscarriage, Chloe. I can see it’s very upsetting. But there can be other children. And of course you already have a very nice, healthy family.’
‘Shit,’ said Chloe and burst into tears.
‘Oh, Chloe,’ said Caroline. She looked genuinely remorseful. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right, Mummy. It’s just that everyone says that. And it simply isn’t the point.’
‘No,’ said Caroline, and her voice was suddenly inestimably sad, ‘I know it isn’t.’
Chloe looked at her. Her tears had stopped. ‘Yes, I suppose you do. Know, I mean.’
‘The child you lose is always the most important,’ said Caroline and then looked at Chloe, biting her lip, her eyes shocked at what she had said.
‘Oh, really?’ said Chloe. She looked at her mother, who had so patently never loved her, never really attempted to disguise it, who had never loved her because of her sister, and moreover who had never loved her father because of her sister’s father, and found her statement, no doubt meant with great kindliness, almost obscene in its insult. ‘I suppose that explains how you felt about Fleur.’
‘Chloe, please let us not start talking about Fleur.’
‘Why not, Mummy? Why shouldn’t I talk about Fleur? I think if we could have talked about her more, if you had been more understanding about my feelings on the matter, I might have found it all easier to cope with.’
‘Chloe, don’t be melodramatic.’ Caroline took out her cigarette case, lit a cigarette, drawing on it rather hard. ‘You didn’t find it hard to cope with. You’re exaggerating it, because it suits you. There was nothing to cope with.’
The rage grew hotter; Chloe, even while realizing it was partly because of her own tension, her own sorrow, found it hard to contain. She looked at her mother. ‘Mummy, there was a great deal to cope with. Discovering her existence, that there was someone else you loved, that you had loved before Daddy, that you’d had a baby, realizing you must love her and that was why you didn’t love me –’
‘Chloe, you are being absurd. Of course I loved you.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ said Chloe flatly. ‘You didn’t and you don’t. You’ve tolerated me, that’s the nearest you’ve come to love. I’ve had love, from Daddy and from Joe, and from – well, anyway, I can tell the difference.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Caroline. ‘This is absurd. I’m going.’
‘I don’t think you should,’ said Chloe. ‘That’s what you’ve always done, gone, walked away from it, all of it. I think for once you should stay and we should talk it through a bit.’
‘Chloe, for the last time there is nothing to talk through. Your sister Fleur means nothing to me; she is far away, in America, and there has been almost no contact between us in the whole of our lives.’
‘But you’d like there to have been, I think,’ said Chloe. ‘You’d really like that. It would bring him back as well, wouldn’t it? Brendan. Brendan FitzPatrick. Or do you think of him as Byron?’
‘I don’t think of him at all,’ said Caroline. She was flushed now, pacing up and down the kitchen.
‘Don’t you? I would. If I’d loved him as much as you did, I would think about him all the time. Mummy –’ She put her hand out, meaning to try and comfort her mother, whose eyes were suddenly dark and brilliant with tears.
But Caroline snatched her own hand away, said, ‘Don’t, Chloe, this is horrible, awful. I’ve expended a lot of effort on putting it out of my mind. He’s dead, he’s been dead for a very long time now, and – and that’s the end of it. As far as I’m concerned.’
‘Only it isn’t, is it?’ said Chloe. ‘Because of this dreadful book. Your boyfriend’s book.’
‘Chloe, don’t. He is not my boyfriend. I haven’t seen him since – well, for a long time now. I’m exceedingly sorry about the whole episode. For more reasons than one, as I am sure you can imagine.’
‘I know,’ said Chloe. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ She looked at her mother slightly warily and then said, ‘It’s a nightmare, isn’t it? This book?’
‘Yes,’ said Caroline, ‘yes, I’m afraid it is. For all of us, in different ways.’
‘I try to forget it, try to pretend it isn’t going to happen, and then I remember and know it is. It’s like some awful bird of prey, waiting for us, and sooner or later, it’s going to get us.’
‘Has Piers tried to get it stopped?’
‘Yes. But unsuccessfully. I don’t quite understand the legalities, but there’s nothing apparently he can do. At the moment at least.’
‘I simply cannot believe that.’
‘Nor can I. But that’s what he says. And he won’t talk about it. Absolutely refuses.’
‘Hasn’t he seen a lawyer?’
‘Yes, of course. But – oh Mummy, I really can’t bear to talk about it. It’s so horrible. And complex. There are things – oh God, I’m sorry.’ She started crying, hard, racking sobs; Caroline looked at her awkwardly for a minute or two and then sat down and put her arms round her, and held her, patting her shoulders, stroking her hair.
‘Chloe, you have to tell me what the matter is. You have to.’
‘I can’t,’ said Chloe, fighting to get her tears under control. ‘I just can’t. I can only cope with this by taking Piers’s line, and not thinking about it, hoping it will go away.’
‘But, Chloe, it won’t go away.’
‘No,’ said Chloe, looking at her, her dark eyes blank with misery. ‘I know. But maybe we can all get used to it. I’m sorry, Mummy, I can’t tell you any more. It’s all too – too private and personal. Not mine to tell.’
‘I can imagine, I suspect,’ said Caroline grimly.
‘No. You can’t possibly imagine.’
‘Well, all right. Can’t Ludovic help?’ said Caroline.
‘No,’ said Chloe flatly, and then, because she just couldn’t help it, had to tell someone, at least about the baby, she said, ‘I’m afraid Ludovic isn’t going to help any of us ever again.’
‘Why?’ said Caroline. ‘Have you quarrelled or something?’
Caroline finally left two hours later. She told Chloe she had to get back, but in fact she booked into the Basil Street Hotel for the night. She had intended to ring Ludovic Ingram that night, but he was ex-directory; she had to wait until the morning, when she could get him at his chambers. She told him it was imperative he saw her that day; slightly to her surprise, he agreed to have lunch with her.
‘Reuben, I’m really sorry, but I have to go to London.’
Reuben looked at Fleur. ‘For long?’
‘I hope not.’
‘OK.’
‘Oh, Reuben,’ said Fleur, leaning forward, kissing him tenderly, ‘you are the nicest, most extraordinary man in the world. Don’t you want to know why?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘It’s quite early,’ he said.
When she had finished, he said simply, ‘I’ll come too.’
‘No, Reuben, you mustn
’t. It’s going to be terrible – I think.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I know, but I think I’ll be better on my own.’
‘You won’t.’
‘And somebody has to stay and do some work.’
‘This sounds more important.’
‘Reuben.’
‘Yes, Fleur?’
‘Reuben, I really do love you.’
‘Good,’ said Reuben.
All the way across the Atlantic she tried to work out how she could find out exactly what Magnus Phillips was going to write. There were basically two methods: direct and indirect. She could ask him, and refuse to leave until he told her – in which case she thought she would probably be sitting in his house until eternity or beyond; or she could try to inveigle the information out of his publisher. Who was hardly likely to divulge the most intimate details of a top-secret manuscript to some girl he had never seen. She toyed with various fantasies, such as pretending to be a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, or a copy editor who Magnus had hired to work on the book, and finally decided her only hope – albeit a faint one – was to go and see him and demand that he came across. For some reason that made her feel better and she even managed to go to sleep for an hour or two; she dreamed that when she arrived at the house, Rose Sharon was there in bed with him, and working on the book. When she woke up, it didn’t seem too totally ridiculous.
She reached Heathrow Airport at nine at night; she got on to the bus and reached the Air Terminal in the Cromwell Road at eleven. It was very convenient for Magnus’s house.
‘Hallo, Magnus. I thought you’d be in.’
‘Fleur! For the love of God. What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I’m sure you can imagine that, Magnus,’ said Fleur coolly.
He looked terrible: he had several days’ growth of beard, his eyes were sunk into his haggard face, he looked as if he had lost at least twenty pounds. He was wearing a track suit; his feet were bare.
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