Connections

by Hilary Bailey

  We’re in January here, William. The hysteria about the Iranian nuclear weapons was mounting as it became more and more obvious that they had a possible twenty-five mobile launchers, and missiles to match. From the early nineties it had been known that some countries – Israel, Saudi Arabia and India – had been working on low-technology systems like this. The Israelis had Jericho II with a range of 1,000 miles, a real threat to the neighbours, and the Russians have been helping out the Iraqis a lot, they say. On the basis that my enemy’s enemy is my friend, I suppose. They say the Cold War’s over, don’t they, William? But you and I don’t really believe that, do we?

  The Western powers and the USA were in the position of householders waking from a recurrent dream that there was a burglar under the bed, realising with relief that “it was all a dream” and then finding the burglar there after all. But while terrifying it was also, when you come to think if it, inevitable. That awful thing had happened – the balance of power in the Middle East had been upset. This was the balance of power as seen by Western eyes, naturally.

  Leader writers searched the lexicon of gloom and doom. Armageddon loomed, as did the Final Jihad and the death of the planet. The Sun recommended a Fifth Crusade and sixty-five per cent of Sun readers voted for it. Accusations and rebuttals ran to and fro as is natural in situations where everyone’s shit scared and no one knows what to do. In the end, as usual, a culprit was found. It’s easier to blame one individual than work out all the different factors involved. In this case the villain responsible was August Tallinn.

  By now the British line was that they were making all efforts to find Tallinn but they were practically certain he’d left the country. They reminded Germany that since Tallinn had never been formally charged with anything, let alone tried and found guilty, he was technically an innocent man. You can imagine how happy the Germans felt about that one, knowing that they would by that time have had Tallinn convicted and in jail for the rest of his life, if only the Brits had handed him over when asked to do so.

  There’d been good news – the announced successful merger between a US bank and the investment bank of Strauss Jethro Smith, masterminded by the successful British banker, Sir Richard Jethro. Much was made of Sir Richard, of his initiative and entrepreneurial skills, of his humble origins, of the almost miraculous stability of his bank. And he’d come from an ordinary family and worked his way up in banking in the days when there was a thick glass ceiling preventing the progress of those who didn’t come from the right family and had not attended the right schools.

  He was also suggested as chairman to the hastily assembled but potentially very important Government Economic Council. It was tough that just as Jethro was accepting the chairmanship of the Council – he had no good reason to refuse the Prime Minister’s personal request – he was trying to sort out the mess he was in. Achilles had his heel and Dickie Jethro had August Tallinn. Oh dear.

  Twenty-Two

  Towards the end of January, in the penultimate week of her computer course, with no word from the Jethros or Ben, Fleur took the afternoon off to see Gerry Sullivan, Verity’s old accountant, in Soho. She told the gnomelike little man: “I’ve got to do something to straighten things out. Ben might come back, or he might not. In the meanwhile I’m getting three or four letters a day from creditors or their lawyers, tax, VAT – everything.”

  He looked at her, puzzled. “I wouldn’t have thought you had too many problems now.”

  “I have,” she said, puzzled. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  “I’ll give you the name of a firm which will deal with all this. They’re good. Go to them as soon as you can.”

  “Is there a fee?” she asked.

  “They won’t work for nothing,” he said, “but you’ll be able to manage that, I suppose.”

  Fleur believed Gerry Sullivan thought she was in touch with Ben, who was funding her in some way. This was discouraging because it made her think Ben had some cash he wasn’t prepared to let her have in order to pay off debts. She said to Gerry, “I’ll go and talk to them.” She felt awkward about asking, but said, “Is there any news of Ben, by the way?”

  He seemed surprised she didn’t know and said uneasily, “He’s in California, I believe, working on a project.”

  “That’s nice,” she said bitterly. “Next time you’re in touch tell him I’m still bogged down in our debts, will you?”

  She said goodbye to a still frowning Gerry and left. Fuming, she went round the corner for a coffee with Jess. “God, I felt a fool. It’s obvious Gerry’s in touch with Ben and at first he thought Ben was sending me money. When I had to ask for news of him he was amazed and I felt like a woman turning up with two kids to ask for money because her husband’s run away. And he played that man-game with me, support the bloke against the pursuing harridan. It just destroys your faith in human nature. Do you know where Ben is?”

  “No, and nor do you,” Jess said calmly. “If you can stop ranting I’ll tell you what’s going on at Camera Shake.”

  “Oh God, Jess. With what I’m facing—”

  “Shut up,” Jess said earnestly. “This is important. Debs has sold up, like I told you, but she still owns twenty-five per cent of the firm and she’s staying on as head of a small production company inside Camera Shake, which aims to make one, maybe two movies a year – big, full-length, British-style movies – which means getting scripts, raising money, putting packages together. It’s a big deal, Fleur, if it works. She told me this morning I’m going to be her deputy, which, since she plans to spend more time with her family, puts me virtually in charge. There’ll be two senior production assistants, Jane Ray – and you. Which means a big salary, car, expense account, the lot. Camera Shake’s covering the first year’s salaries, then the unit would have to be self-financing. Is this your lucky day, or what?” She sank back in her chair, grinning.

  “Thanks, Jess,” said Fleur, stunned.

  “Debs wanted you,” Jess told her. “She said she knew about you. I said I was seeing you later and she said she wouldn’t mind an answer now. She wants to get going straight away, knowing we’ve only got one year supported by Camera Shake. Shall I phone her and tell her you said yes?”

  “What do you think?” Fleur said.

  So Jess phoned and Debs Smith said she was on her way home but if they could get to the office within five minutes she’d still be there. Jess and Fleur picked up their handbags and fled.

  They sat round a table in Debs’ smart office. Debs, small, dark and whippet-thin, said briskly, “Welcome aboard, Fleur. It’s new territory. None of us has ever done it before. We need to find a basic twenty scripts, for starters, and we need to have done it yesterday. Initially it’s just a case of weeding through everything the agents and some hand-picked writers send us. If you agree, Fleur, we’ll give your job six months, shall we? Then we’ll review progress.”

  “Thanks. I agree,” said Fleur.

  “OK,” said Debs, standing up and picking up her coat and bag which were on a chair close to her desk. “See Sandy about terms and conditions today,” she added. “Meeting’s first thing on Monday morning.” She went to the door and turned. “The priority is a name. Camera Shake’s going on as before. We need a new title. Nothing stupid. All the ideas up to now make us sound like a rock group. Jess,” she said, “it’s got to be settled early next week. We can’t operate without a name.” And she was gone.

  Fleur and Jess sat on in the office, staring at each other speculatively. “Could be fun,” said Fleur. “Big fun.”

  “Big, scary fun,” said Jess. “It’s a fact you’ll be out in six months if it doesn’t work and I’ll be out in a year.” She picked up the phone. “Sandy,” she said, “it’s Jess. We have the new person for the new unit. Fleur Jethro – same contract as Jane. We need it Monday morning at the latest.”

  “Stockley,” said Fleur loudly. “Fleur Stockley.”

  Jess made a shut-up movement with her hand. Fleur subsided
. She knew Jess could gauge fame, reputation, influence to a hair’s breadth. And that this was a business which depended as much on these vibrations as a garage does on petrol, oil and spare parts. She decided that if Jess said she had to be Jethro, Jethro was what she’d be, at least for the time being. At least till the contract was signed. She leaned back in the leather seat and breathed deeply, taking in her good fortune.

  Jess fished in a silver box on Debs’ desk and came up with a couple of thin cheroots. With the sneaky feeling they were smoking in the headmaster’s office, they both lit up.

  “They’ll have to find us some space here,” Jess said dreamily. “And a budget for fixtures and fittings. I think I’ll have some French chintzes and a regular order for flowers – simple, cottage-style ones. It’ll strike a fresh note. Flowers, couches, some nice little pictures—”

  “There’ll be a battle to get even a cupboard out of Camera Shake,” Fleur said. “And Debs isn’t going to give all this up.” She thought of the course and said, “I told them I’d be back by four.”

  “Ring and say you can’t make it. Sandy’s bringing the contract up later. You’d better sign this afternoon.”

  They passed the time inventing titles for the new unit, then searched Debs’ office for information about the size of the budget. They found she had put a lot of information on the computer guarded by a password.

  “Let’s just ask her on Monday,” Fleur suggested. She was beginning to feel the reality of the situation. “We might as well start calling agents and writers. We haven’t got any time to spare. We’ll just call ourselves Camera Shake.”

  They spent an hour and a half on the phone. Debs’ fax started pushing out messages. When they took a break Jess said, “It goes to show that when you grasp the nettle everything else falls into your hands. You know what I mean – the minute you started that computer course and decided to face up to the debts there you were with a job. On the other hand,” she added, “it also goes to show a little publicity never hurt anybody.”

  “What publicity?” Fleur asked.

  “This job – Debs had seen that spread in Hello!, so when your name came up she thought of that.”

  “Oh God,” said Fleur. “Is that out?” The flight from Barbados had wiped out all memory of the photographs taken there by the magazine.

  “Didn’t you know? You’re on the front cover looking chummy with your father. It’s a very good photo of you.”

  “I’m going out to get it,” declared Fleur, standing up. “It’s embarrassing, considering what happened later.”

  “Just another version of the curse of Hello!” Jess observed. “You get photographed with your loving husband and a month later there’s a divorce. You’re photographed cosying up to all the Jethros and minutes later you’re at the airport with your suitcase.”

  Standing in her overcoat in a narrow, wind-swept street, Fleur looked down at the cover of the magazine she was buying from a street vendor. She remembered standing on the terrace with her father. Waiting for her change she flipped through – there she was alone, there with Bobby and there were all the others in various poses: Sophia and Zoe and George in the drawing-room, Bobby and her father by the fireplace, smiling at each other. “A happy reunion for the Jethros makes Christmas a very special time.”

  “‘Not just a daughter but such an attractive one,’ says Sir Richard,” another caption read. She took her change and ducked back to Camera Shake, head down, as if she thought she would be pointed out in the street. The article certainly explained why Gerry Sullivan imagined she had no financial problems.

  Back in the office Jess was on the phone and the fax was spewing out more paper. “Can you believe it, some daft girl at Combined Artists is sending a whole script through, page by page … Jennifer!” she shouted into the phone. “Stop sending that script through. Put it on a bike, darling. You’re blocking my fucking fax machine.” Her mobile rang and she grabbed it. “Hullo Charlie,” she said. “How’s it coming? Glad to hear it. Yes, we’re in business here. What have you got?” As she listened she said to Fleur, “We’re going to the Groucho later to meet Sidney Spender and a man from an investment bank who specialises in film finance, David Parker. Adrian may come along. I don’t think you need to invite your boyfriend, the one with the dog on a rope.”

  “Why not?” said Fleur.

  “Because street cred is out, and I don’t suppose any of the people at the Groucho are short of a dealer,” Jess told her. Into the phone she said, “Thanks, Charlie. Looking forward to it.”

  Several large jiffy bags containing scripts were brought in and put on the desk. The phone kept ringing. Jess made outgoing calls on her mobile while Fleur was on the office phone, speaking to writers whose agents had rung them, agents who had just spoken to writers, writers who had been passed the word by other writers, an actor’s agent, a director and an actress who had bought the rights to a book she wanted to film. The desk was covered in scribbled notes. There was a second delivery of scripts and Sandy came in with Fleur’s contract.

  “The only people not ringing are investors,” said Fleur.

  “Funny, that,” Jess replied.

  At six Fleur switched on the answering machine, they split the scripts into two big piles and, each carrying a bag, went to the Groucho Club.

  Fleur noted her new popularity. Recognisable through Hello! magazine to people she didn’t know, and quickly identified on the grapevine as part of a new production team set up to find and finance major films, she was constantly approached with greetings, ideas and even invitations.

  The to-ing and fro-ing ended when they left the bar and sat down to eat with Sidney Spender, a very powerful film agent, and the investment banker, David Parker. At that point everyone in the restaurant knew that their group was there, but was aware they could not be approached.

  The men were calm, serious and careful. David Parker would be advised what projects to invest in by the man he trusted, Sidney Spender. Fleur questioned, “If I asked you both what kind of film you thought would bring big profits over the next four years, what would you say?”

  “Good script, exciting plot, big stars,” said David Parker. “But in this country we have a problem with big movies. There’s no tradition, no large funding. But because essentially there is no British film business, there are no native business rules to follow. It’s a cliché, but if you want to succeed you ought to look for quality, though that’s harder to judge and certainly harder to finance than Star Wars.”

  “Low budget, then?” Jess asked.

  “That would be my advice,” he repeated. Then, saying he had to get home, he stood up and said goodbye.

  Sidney Spender stayed on for another brandy and said, “Well, girls. I think he liked you. He’s backed films, he’s made money and he’s prepared to do more, cautiously. Now what I’m going to do is send you a script by a young writer who’s done a certain amount of TV work. It’s crime thriller, noir, with a very unusual twist – a man comes out of prison after serving a life sentence for killing his brother. He didn’t do it, or we think he didn’t, we’re not sure, so he goes looking for his brother’s wife, who could have committed the crime. They fall in love.” He outlined the rest of the story, which to Fleur seemed sensational, slack and improbable.

  After he left Jess looked at Fleur and made a face. “If that’s the best Spender’s got we’re in trouble,” she said.

  “He’s holding out on us,” Fleur said. “We’re untried and unconvincing.” She yawned and added, “I must go. It takes an hour to Cray Hill, at least.”

  Jess said to her, “You’ve got to move to somewhere more central. You can’t stay there.”

  When Fleur got back to Adelaide House, borne up by the excitement of her new job, there were two messages on her machine. Ben said, “Darling – coming into Heathrow at three p.m. tomorrow. Meet me.” He added, “Big news. Looking forward to seeing you—”

  The second message, from Dominic, sounded grave. “Fleur.
I’m in the pub with Joe. Something funny’s happened. Can you come over tonight, any time? Important.”

  Fleur was shocked. Ben was coming back and she didn’t know where that would leave her and Dominic. Would Ben want to stay with her? She realised suddenly that she linked Ben with his wanting something – a deal, a night out somewhere, a meeting with someone, calls made, letters sent out. She’d got used to following this effortful agenda, scurrying to keep up, like a person walking with someone who had longer legs. And she was worried by Dominic’s message. He sounded alarmed, which was, with Dominic, unusual. She thought she might as well go to meet him, find out what it was all about and casually mention Ben was coming to London. He’d have to know sooner or later.

  When she got to the pub Dominic, Joe, Ellen Whitcombe and Joe’s new girlfriend Melanie were sitting together in a group at a table by the windows.

  “Can’t stay away, can you?” Patrick called to her from behind the bar.

  She joined the others. They were all looking at her in a strange way, as if they were curious, even puzzled about her. She sat down. Joe went off and got her a tomato juice. Ellen went on staring at her and Melanie was plainly anxious.

  Fleur asked Dominic, “Is something the matter? What’s going on?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. Joe came back bearing the drink. She noticed the others were drinking whisky. This alarmed her, also.

  Dominic told her, “Melanie got this magazine, Hello!”

  “Seems everybody does,” Fleur replied. “Look – I was persuaded into it. And anyway, it’s not a crime.”

  “That’s not it,” he said. “It’s your father, Richard Jethro. Joe and me recognised him.” He was speaking earnestly and there was anger in his voice.