Players

by Karen Swan

  There was a pause as Tor saw Cress’s point.

  ‘Well, yes, it is a bit strange I guess. But let’s face it, it’s not as if she can have any control over that.’

  ‘Really? You don’t think so? She deals with these newspapers all day every day. They’re her bread and butter. Judging by that photo, she’d certainly been with him. And that’s more than you or I had, Tor.’

  ‘I guess,’ Tor faltered.

  ‘She could have made this go away a long time ago, if she’d wanted to. She’s with him Tor, did you know that?’

  Tor gasped and shook her head down the line, too shocked to speak.

  ‘It serves her purpose to keep us in the frame. It keeps the heat off her.’

  There was a pause. ‘Well, you know these things better than me,’ Tor said diplomatically, not wanting to face up to the bald truth of Kate’s disloyalty. She changed the subject. ‘By the way, I spoke to Mark earlier in the week, when I was trying to get hold of you. Is – is everything OK with you guys? I thought he seemed pretty stressed.’

  ‘Yes, well, he has been. The papers have had their fun, let’s face it. You know and I know that nothing’s going on with Harry, but the papers can put a spin on a picture with just a clever caption. It’s all about the power of suggestion, isn’t it? He’s actually gone and believed the hype, the silly bugger, but it’s all going to be OK now. I’ve finally got what I need to convince him.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Mmm, I can’t say yet,’ Cress said enigmatically, aware her driver was listening. ‘But just make sure you get the papers tomorrow.’

  ‘OK,’ Tor said slowly, and suspiciously. She revelled in the vicarious thrills of Cressida Pelling’s unscrupulousness. They’d forged their friendship on the even playing fields of Bristol University, and Tor loved hearing these snippets about the glamour and power play of life beyond children. ‘I’d stopped buying them, but I’ll get Hen to pick them up tomorrow.’

  ‘All right babe,’ Cress said distractedly as she read the Mirror’s latest portrayal of Tor as a social-climbing yummy mummy. Someone had sold an ancient picture of her draped around a handsome rugger bugger at a university ball. ‘I’ve got to hit the phones before I get to Oxford. Let’s speak tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chandos Matlock looked out from his ivory tower, one hand pushing back his raven-black hair, the other jammed casually into his trouser pocket.

  ‘It’s bloody marvellous! A freaking media circus out there. Why did we never ask him before?’

  ‘Because he’s a shit writer?’ Freddie Tulliver replied, putting down his first edition copy of Life at Blandings and watching Chandos’s wiry frame at the window.

  Chandos strode across the room and sank down on to the worn velvet sofa. He got some Rizla and tobacco out of his pocket and started rolling up.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Not in this day and age. It’s all about the cult of celebrity; talent doesn’t come into it.’ He gummed the Rizla and looked over at his room-mate. ‘Which is just as well for you.’

  He ducked, as Freddie chucked a cushion across the room. Just because he was the fifth generation of Tullivers to go up to Oxford didn’t mean he hadn’t got there on merit.

  ‘I still can’t believe you got him,’ Freddie said, shaking his head. ‘Jammy bastard.’

  ‘I always said it was worth a shot. Nobody’s above having their vanity flattered. Even the mighty Harry Hunter.’ He took a deep drag, before blowing out rings. ‘In fact, him most of all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Freddie, standing up and taking the roll-ups from the table.

  Chandos shrugged. ‘You can tell in all his interviews he’s completely paranoid about not being taken seriously. All his recent reviews have been vicious – the literati can’t stand him – he’s only what he is because he gets the female vote.’

  ‘That’s not true. The first book was fucking A! I read it twice. And I’ve seen it on your shelf too, you pretentious tosser.’

  Chandos blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘All right. But he’s a one-trick pony.’

  Freddie leaned forward and flicked through The Times, pushing it across the table.

  ‘Well, he’s no donkey. Look at that – the shortlist for the Oscar nominations has been announced. He’s in the frame for Best Adapted Screenplay.’

  Chandos scanned the article.

  ‘So that’s what’s fanned the flames for tonight,’ he said, getting up and walking back to the window, watching the media scrum below. ‘God, talk about getting miles to the gallon. He’s gone a bloody long way on the little talent he has.’

  ‘How do you rate his chances tonight?’

  Chandos snorted and shook his head. ‘Not good. The pretty boy’s going to be annihilated.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up, smoothing down his jacket – tweed, in honour of the guest.

  ‘How do I look?’

  Freddie suppressed a sigh of appreciation. He looked incredible but he’d die rather than admit it. ‘As good as you ever will.’

  ‘Then let the games begin,’ Chandos said, grabbing his papers and marching out the door.

  Emily sat beside Harry in the car, her palms sweating, her dress too short. She’d gone for a black knitted beatnik style with grey ribbed tights and red flats, hoping to strike a naïve Left Bank note. Sorbonne chic in Oxford.

  ‘Are you sure this is OK?’ she asked him.

  Harry tuned back in and looked at her.

  ‘Stunning,’ he said. ‘Although you could ditch those bloody tights. How am I supposed to get anywhere near you in those things?’ He started pinging the waistband through her dress, and she slid down the seat, laughing and wriggling frantically.

  She slid away from his grasp on the slippery leather seat and looked out at the city she knew so well. An ex was reading law at Balliol and she’d spent many hedonistic weekends here – at least until she’d caught him in bed with his tutor.

  Not that she could throw stones. Look at the glasshouse she now lived in – double height and with river views.

  She stole a glance at her upgraded lover, who had slipped back into pensive silence. A pile of papers sat on his lap and his lips were moving as he recited his speech. He had put on a burgundy velvet jacket with pale pink shirt, and his hair was longer than usual, lending him an unkempt, bookish air.

  She smiled to herself. Her coquettish ploy had worked, her mystery rival long since kicked into touch. Ever since she’d played hard to get, lying low at her flat for a few days and being photographed partying with her girlfriends, he’d been all over her like a rash. If she’d thought the sex was good before, now it had gone through the roof, and he was as reluctant as she to leave the apartment. She knew a proposal couldn’t be far off. That would solve everything. He was already talking about spending Christmas in Verbier, the New Year in Sandy Lane and then LA, getting ready for the Oscars. He kept saying it was as good as his, but she knew his bursts of bravado just camouflaged his nerves. It meant more to him than he was willing to let on. Acceptance always seemed to be so important to him.

  Magdalen, Teddy Hall, Queen’s, All Souls, University . . . The ancient, rain-washed walls of the colleges rushed past each other seamlessly, confusing tourists until they were walking around in circles with upside-down maps, while knowing students darted in and out of old oak doors that were set at odd heights in the walls and gates.

  She saw a trio of girls walking along and laughing together, their books tied in a college affectation with string, their knitted beanies and pea coats keeping out the autumn chill. And for a brief moment, it crossed Emily’s mind that she’d left this world of privileged, youthful academia too quickly, leapfrogging straight from gauche black tie summer balls to the full-on global glamour of the Oscars.

  She stiffened again, at the thought. Harry kept joking that if she thought standing in front of the domestic press tonight was nerve-racking, just wait till Febr
uary 23rd.

  ‘The eyes of the world really will be on you then, sexpot,’ he’d laughed, as he’d pushed her over the desk for another quickie.

  Christophe pulled off the high street and slipped the wrong way up a small one-way lane – he was Harry Hunter’s driver; the laws of the Highway Code didn’t apply to him. All the little backstreets were made narrower still by rows of boneshakers propped against the walls and he snaked the oversized car around the tight corners effortlessly, until he came out into Frewin Court.

  Even through the blacked-out windows, the sudden light pollution was staggering as the hordes of photographers – who’d arranged themselves in tiers on the steps, like the pappers at the end of a catwalk – tested their flashes and light stops.

  Emily squeezed her hands together and took a deep breath. There’d been no getting out of this. He had met her halfway, coming round to her way of thinking that hiding their relationship was the best way of protecting it. Shielding her with the Tatler scandal had been a stroke of genius.

  But tonight – the time had come to blow her cover and support her man in front of the whole world.

  The night sky glowed white as Christophe opened the door and they stepped out, holding hands, the cameras frenziedly taking their picture for tomorrow’s headlines. She could just see it: ‘Harry in Love!’

  ‘Just relax,’ he said, dropping her clammy hand and waving to the crowd jostling behind the police barriers. ‘It’s me they want.’

  Emily watched him walk across the street to the fans, signing autographs on books, OU tickets and – she craned to see – a boob! One woman had hoicked up her top and Harry was laughing, taking his time with that one, indulging her horseplay.

  Emily stood alone on the steps, wondering whether to join him, get back in the car, or move into the building. Most of the snappers had trained their lenses on Harry’s walkabout, but a few stray bulbs popped in her direction and she tried to assume a pose that looked supportive and – well, cool.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘You always did know how to make an entrance,’ said a deep voice. She turned and found herself reflected in soot-black eyes.

  ‘Chandos!’ she exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  He took in her too-bright smile and scared expression. She’d looked like a deer in headlights standing alone in front of all those photographers. And as for those coltish legs . . .

  ‘I’m heading up this gig. I’m the OU President now,’ he said casually, hoping it would impress her.

  ‘God, that’s great!’ she said. ‘I’m so glad to see you.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I wasn’t sure if we were still . . . friends. Could’ve been embarrassing in front of the world’s press if you were still pissed off . . .’

  Emily tipped her head to one side and smiled. ‘All in the past. We’ve both moved on.’

  ‘And how,’ he said, a light touch of sarcasm hovering around the edges. ‘Although I accept I am a hard act to follow.’

  Emily laughed.

  ‘Been together long?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Over six months now. We’re living together actually.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Emily nodded, keeping her eyes on Harry. ‘But we’re – you know – keeping it on the QT.’

  ‘Right,’ Chandos said slowly. ‘So the whole Tatler debacle . . . ?’

  She smiled, cunningly. ‘All a ruse to keep the press’s attention elsewhere. I mean, those women are his publisher, lawyer and interior decorator, for heaven’s sake.’ She shook her head despairingly. ‘Honestly, people will believe anything they read in the papers.’

  Harry was still pressing the flesh when Cress’s car pulled up. She had expected a crowd, but this was ridiculous. It was more like a West End premiere.

  She stepped out, and there was a moment of crystal silence before the sky fell in and stars started exploding all around her. Dazzled by the response, she stood stock still in her best Victoria Beckham pose, waiting for the flashes to abate so that she could find her way to the steps.

  Christ, it was cold! What had she been thinking? Just because it was still warm in LA in November . . . would the goosebumps show up in the pictures?

  She moved slowly up the steps. The armpit-to-knee Spanx control underwear she was wearing underneath the grey flannel strapless dress gave her a sensational silhouette, but she felt like a coil ready to spring and not entirely in control of her limbs.

  Some students, a beautiful couple, were standing on the steps talking, ready to meet and greet. She held out a hand.

  ‘Hello. I’m Cressida Pelling. Harry’s long-suffering publisher.’

  Chandos shook it firmly. ‘You certainly are,’ he said cheekily. ‘I’m Chandos Matlock, President of the Oxford Union, and this is Emily Brookner.’

  Cress looked vaguely at the pretty girl. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ She looked back at Chandos, nodding her head towards Harry. ‘Has he been here long?’

  ‘Ten minutes or so.’

  Cress nodded. ‘He’ll be winding it up in a moment or two then. Is the debate still scheduled for nine o’clock?’

  Chandos nodded. ‘All the other speakers are here. We’re good to go.’

  Cress nodded, keeping her tummy sucked in and the photographers on her best side. ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Cress,’ came the honeyed voice in her ear she’d been expecting.

  ‘Harry,’ she cooed back, kissing him lightly on each cheek and letting the papers get their picture. She kept her hands on his shoulders, keeping him close. ‘How have you been? You’ve scarcely been off the front page.’

  Harry laughed lightly, wrong-footed by her willingness to be caught so close to him.

  ‘Nor you, Cress.’

  She shrugged happily. ‘It’s true what they say. “Any publicity is good publicity.” Your sales have spiked again.’

  ‘Always nice to hear. I don’t want to get low on socks.’

  ‘Well, quite.’

  ‘And I understand you’ve been in LA?’ Harry said. A little light phone flirtation with Rosie and he’d got it out of her that Cress had left the country on the first flight.

  ‘Oh yes, yes,’ she said lightly. ‘Beavering away on your behalf, Harry. Dreamworks are very keen to sign you.’

  ‘I hope you weren’t working too hard,’ he said insincerely.

  ‘I have to be honest – it was more like a holiday out there. It was all lobster salad and yoga on the beach. You made it easy for me – Tinseltown’s really in your thrall.’

  Harry nodded, watching her closely. Her tone was skippy, her eyes steady. She’d lost some weight, but that wasn’t a great surprise after a trip to LA. (There was, no doubt, a pair of trophy Size Zero jeans packed somewhere in her bags.) She wasn’t letting anything at all slip, but the fall-out for her had to have been catastrophic. The papers had crucified her. It had been intense even by his standards. He’d barely been able to juggle Kate – who was becoming more neurotic and shapeless by the day – and Emily, whom he’d only managed to silence from ceaseless questioning about the other women by keeping her permanently in bed.

  Emily and Chandos looked on, unaware of the bedrock of subtext that was loaded into every question and answer.

  ‘Shall we?’ Harry said, gesturing towards the debating hall.

  Cress smiled, and he held out an arm for her to hold on to as they went up the steps, leaving Emily to go up with Chandos.

  Cress felt triumphant as they got to the top, knowing she’d called his bluff. He hadn’t expected her to come here tonight, but she’d faced him down. And that was just for starters.

  The room was alive with conversation and colour, banks of red leather benches ranked along each wall like a mini Parliament – or its training ground. It was like being back at Hunstanton, an ode to youth – a hothouse of beauty, confidence, invincibility and freshly washed hair.

  A deafening cheer went up as Harry entered the room, looking ever
y inch the Bond-figure with his irresistible international glamour, year-round tan and surrounded by his posse of glamorous alleged lovers. One for every mood, it seemed.

  Harry raised his hand in salute and the huzzahs! grew louder still, but Emily caught a distinct rumble of discord whistling along the belly of the opposition crowd. Not everybody here was a fan.

  Harry crossed the floor to greet his opponent – the Archbishop of York – and Chandos showed Emily and Cress to their front-row seats, just next to Harry’s rostrum. Kate was already sitting there, one ear glued to her mobile.

  She looked up, her eyes widening with surprise, but she held up a hand – silencing Cress before she could even speak – as she continued her call, putting one finger in her ear.

  ‘. . . Let me make this absolutely clear to you, Mr Pryce, I am not in the habit of letting grubby little editors like you sully the . . . well, then it shall be my very great pleasure to personally make calls to every single agent in London telling them about . . . rest assured I have their ear . . . If you think the short-term gain outweighs the long-term game then you’re . . . If you go to press with that story, I’ll have an injunction slapped on you by midnight and a defamatory writ served by breakfast . . . Uh-huh . . . You do that.’

  She hung up and put her phone away, her eyes settling coldly on Cress.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Cress said levelly.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? It’ll be a heated debate, things will be said, rumours can start. It’s my job to put a lid on them before they even get that far.’

  ‘That’s funny. I was beginning to think your job was starting the rumours, not squashing them,’ Cress said lightly, settling herself on the chair and talking across Emily who was sitting between them. ‘My, but the past few weeks have been fun, haven’t they? Harry really caused some collateral damage this time.’ She looked at Kate. ‘But what am I saying? You were at the heart of it too . . . Tell me, how the devil did you manage to get away so lightly?’ She held up a hand. ‘No, let me guess: they never touch their own, right? You called in a few favours, pulled a few strings?’ She rested an elbow on her lap, looking over at Kate, her eyebrows raised in unfriendly conspiracy.