by Jon Teckman
The Hollywood Reporter carried a picture of Bennett lying at Olivia’s feet as the sea lapped over him under the headline: SOMETHING HAPPENED! FINCH MAKES WAVES AT ‘NOTHING’ PARTY. They had found out who Bennett was and were speculating whether this would mean the end of Printing Press Productions’ relationship with Askett Brown. Buddy had told them that it was far too early for any decisions about future working relationships at this stage and that Ms Finch would like to be left alone at this difficult time.
Finally I turned to Screen International, a paper with a more European focus. Their lead photograph was of a clearly distressed Olivia being led away from the fracas by Buddy. The headline was: THE SLAP HEARD AROUND THE WORLD, under which they ran the teaser: WILL FINCH FALL-OUT MEAN STUDIOS RECONSIDER USE OF EUROPEAN PROFESSIONAL SERVICES FIRMS? SPECIAL REPORT: PAGES 7–11. Their report noted that the Askett Brown accountant at the centre of the storm, Joseph Bennett, had gone to ground. His colleague Bill Davis had offered only a terse ‘mind your own bloody business’ when asked about what had happened and whether it would have any impact on his company’s plans for expanding their business in the film and media sector.
I chewed disconsolately on my croissant and sipped my bitter coffee. My phone rang again. It was Buddy. My end was nigh.
‘Hey, Joey. How’re you doing?’ He seemed surprisingly upbeat, his tone carrying no suggestion that he’d spent a long night with Olivia trying to convince her that my name was West not Bennett. ‘Have you seen the papers this morning? We’re all over them!’ He made this sound like a good thing. ‘That Clint Eastwood picture was supposed to be the big event yesterday, tipped for the Palme d’Or and all that shit, and we knocked it out the park. That doesn’t make that jerk pal of yours any less of a jerk – and I’ll still beat the crap out of him next time I see him – but, I’m telling you Joey, you cannot buy publicity like this. We’re going to clean up over here now.’
I managed to stop him long enough to ask how Olivia was. ‘Has she said anything more about what happened last night?’
‘I tell you, Joey, that girl is so fucked off it’s unbelievable. I’ve seen some women pissed in my time, but never like this. She absolutely refuses to talk about what happened. She won’t look at the papers, she just wants to get the hell out of here. It’s like she’s in complete shock. She just keeps mumbling to herself and bursts into tears every time I ask her about it. That’s why I called. We’re taking a Lear out of Nice in an hour, probably spend a couple of hours in Paris and then head straight back to LA. I’m gonna give that stuck-up schmuck Davis a call and tell him to keep that sonofabitch away from me, my people and my company from now on. I still want to keep our business with you, Joey, cos you’re the tops, but the rest of that crowd, I wouldn’t give you a nickel for the lot of them. First chance you get to ditch them, you let me know and I guarantee you’ll be taking my business with you. Enjoy the rest of your stay and I’ll see you Stateside some time soon. Take care now.’
I wished him a safe journey and pressed the red button on the phone. A long exhalation of air signalled my relief. I was still riding the wave. If Olivia didn’t see the papers and no one spoke to her about the events of the last twenty-four hours, then she might not discover that the man who accosted her on the beach was Joseph Bennett and I wasn’t. I wasn’t out of the woods yet but I’d avoided another elephant trap – for now.
I finished my coffee and gathered up my newspapers. Then, just as I was leaving the café, my phone rang again.
‘I cannot believe I’ve had to read about all this in the Sunday Times,’ my wife yelled across the time difference. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘It’s in the Sunday Times?’ I asked. Cocooned in the special atmosphere of Cannes, I hadn’t thought about the more general newsworthiness of last night’s events.
‘And the Sun, the Express, the Mirror, the Observer, the Independent, the Mail on Sunday and the Telegraph. I’ve bought them all. It’s only their later editions that got the story, but their websites are full of it. And the TV news this morning. Cameras outside Bennett’s house and everything. They’re all saying that he accosted Finch at the party and she decked him. Most of them say they’d been having an affair but now, by the look of it, it’s over. So what really happened, Joe? Were you ringside? And why the hell didn’t you tell me about it? What’s the point of you being in the middle of all this stuff if you never tell me anything? You’re the worst bloody gossip ever.’
‘It all happened very late, Nat. I couldn’t say anything, could I?’ I replied when she paused for breath. ‘I’m sure you’d have been delighted if I’d woken you up in the middle of the night to give you the latest on Bennett’s love life. And this morning’s been totally crazy. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I’ve been talking to Bill and dealing with Buddy and everything. It’s mayhem over here. In fact, I’d better go now in case any of them are trying to get hold of me. Bill Davis and Bennett are heading back to London today and they want me back tomorrow. I’ll have to go straight into the office, but at least it means I’ll be home a little earlier than planned.’
‘That’s great. I can’t wait to see you,’ Natasha said, possibly sincerely but it was hard to tell. ‘And if you do happen to witness any more major news events, please try to let me know before I read about them in the papers.’
It’s amazing how quickly the glamour of La Croisette can be replaced by the everydayness of a small provincial French town lifted above the humdrum only by the smell of the sea and the screeching of the gulls circling overhead like vultures on vacation. Cannes ordinaire. While I’d been talking to Natasha, I’d wandered off the beaten track and now realised I was lost. I meandered through narrow, twisting streets in what I hoped was the direction of the sea, but all I found were more small streets and, sometimes, the same small streets encountered from different angles.
I ducked into another café, hoping to find someone who could direct me back to what passed for civilisation in Cannes in May. I sat brooding over a strong, black coffee for the best part of an hour, considering my future. As I weighed up the various scenarios now facing me, I was confronted by the growing realisation that I’d had it. I was fucked. All roads led inexorably to my exposure and ruination …
Buddy talks to Olivia on their flight home. She tells him that I’m Bennett and not West. Buddy laughs and explains her mistake. She convinces him that it was me she slept with. Buddy is appalled by my lack of integrity. He calls Bill Davis. Tells him everything. I’m fired. Natasha kicks me out. My life is over.
Or – Bennett swears to Davis that he has never touched Olivia Finch, has never even spoken to her before Buddy insisted on it last night. He has no idea why Finch should be texting him and telling people they’re lovers. All he knows is that she and Joe West seem pretty close. Perhaps West set the whole thing up. Davis agrees. I’m fired, kicked out of my house when Natasha finds out, etc.
Or – Bennett is interviewed by a switched-on investigative reporter. He denies the whole thing. She looks more deeply into the story. Quick word with the doorman at the restaurant in New York where the party took place. Quick scan of some photographs. Quick conclusion – nah, that wasn’t the guy Ms Finch left with. He was a short, fat, baldy guy. I remember cos we were all wondering how a woman like her could leave with a short, fat, baldy guy like him?’ Reporter puts together two and two, makes four. I’m exposed. I’m fired and so on as per earlier scenarios.
By the time I left the café, still none the wiser about where I was or how to get where I wanted to be, I was convinced of one thing – I had to get back to London as soon as possible and confess everything. At least then I could control how Natasha heard the news and do my best to save my marriage. Maybe even keep my job, although I imagined that Bennett would claim the right to knock out the rest of my teeth as the minimum price for letting me stay on.
Once I’d made that decision, an incredible thing happened: all the tension that had been building up suddenly l
eft me. I stopped panicking and became reconciled to my fate. The future might still look unimaginably bleak, my whole life still in ruins, but at least I was back in control – I could now walk with my head held high towards the gallows, not wait to be shot in the back, trying to escape. I’d pack my bags, take a taxi out to the airport and get myself on the first flight home. That’s what I’d do. It was the right thing to do, the brave thing to do. The only sensible thing I could do.
I decided to spend the day watching a few movies, then sleep on it and make my mind up in the morning. That, of course, was the Yellow Meerkat thing to do.
CITY OF LONDON
I arrived at Heathrow just after eight on the Monday and took a cab straight to the City. I dropped my bags at my desk and, ignoring Polly’s pleas for more information, headed up to Bill Davis’s office where an emergency meeting was already in session. Bennett sat hunched over a cup of black coffee, crumpled like a man who hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours. Strewn across the table in front of him were the news sections of all the main Sunday papers and several from that Monday morning. All were leading on FINCH’S FRENCH FRACAS – war, pestilence, famine and other less important matters had all been relegated to the inside pages.
The front page of the Daily Telegraph in particular caught my eye. It showed two pictures of Olivia: one in her beautiful prime, dressed to the nines and dripping with jewels on the night of a premiere or awards ceremony; the other taken late on Saturday night, her face streaked with the mascara tracks of her tears. The fear I had been feeling all the way back to London, the nervousness of knowing that I was soon to be found out or forced to confess was suddenly replaced by an even more primal, painful emotion: guilt at what I had done to this totally blameless person. Even when I looked away and my eye caught the stricken figure of Bennett in the corner, I saw only the reflection of my culpability in his crumpled form.
I wasn’t alone in feeling the tension of the occasion. Bill Davis was standing in one corner, too wound up to sit down, as if his body physically wouldn’t be able to bend enough to let him take a chair. Only one man seemed impervious to the dread-filled, dreadful atmosphere. Lounging in the two-seater sofa under the picture window with its extensive views across the City of London sat Dai Wainwright, in his element at the centre of this storm of human suffering.
‘Mr West,’ said Wainwright as I was shown into the office, ‘glad you could make it. Please grab a beverage and pull up a chair.’ I sat down at the table and poured myself a coffee from a silver thermos jug, then offered it to the others. Bennett avoided making eye contact with me while Bill shook his head.
‘Now then, Joe,’ Wainwright said when I was settled, ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that we have a very awkward situation here. The good name of Askett Brown has been dragged through the media slime and it’s my job to find out what’s gone wrong and who is to blame. And then,’ he paused like an executioner at the top of his upswing, ‘what action should be taken against said person or persons.’
‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ Bennett mumbled. ‘Can we please get on with it so I can get back to work? I have to meet a client in half an hour.’ The words still bristled with his need to be in control, but his defeated posture left them empty of impact.
Bill spoke for the first and last time. ‘Yes, you’re quite right, Joseph. Let’s get on with it. Dai, over to you. I want you to get this sorted and report back to me when you’re done. Take as long as you need. You can stay in here – I’ll go for a bit of a wander. Make sure the troops are coping OK with all this publicity.’ When he reached the door, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Goodbye chaps,’ he said with such chilling finality that Bennett and I instinctively looked at each other for reassurance and support.
Wainwright was offering neither. He picked up two buff folders from the floor and walked slowly to the table, like a sadistic games teacher about to force the fat kids to run another mile. There was a hint of ‘this is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you’ false sympathy in his expression but he couldn’t hide what he was truly feeling. He was a cat with two mice for playthings and his only dilemma was which one to disembowel first.
‘More coffee, gentlemen? No? OK, then let’s get down to business.’ He reached for the fatter of the two folders and placed it on the table in front of him. ‘Joseph Bennett,’ he read from a label on the front cover. He opened the file and took out a pristine sheet of white paper, which he lifted to his chest like an old maid playing gin rummy, concealing his hand. Then he took a sip of his coffee, cleared his throat, and sat forward in his chair.
‘Joseph Bennett,’ he repeated, ‘I have here a memorandum listing several misdemeanours allegedly committed by you in the past few weeks. I intend to read you the complete list and then we can look at each incident in turn. OK?’ Bennett blustered and tried to cut in, but Wainwright continued undeterred. ‘Number one: that, whilst on company business in New York City, State of New York, United States of America—’
‘Oh, get on with it!’ snarled Bennett.
‘… United States of America,’ Wainwright continued unperturbed, ‘on 23 April this year, you performed sexual intercourse with Ms Olivia Finch, a well-known actress and, for the duration of the making of the feature film Nothing Happened, a contracted employee of Printing Press Productions, an important Askett Brown client.’
‘That’s a load of cobblers,’ said Bennett, ‘and you know it. I had never even spoken to that bloody woman until Saturday night.’
‘I had planned to read through all of the allegations against you first, Mr Bennett, so that we could consider them in the round, as it were,’ said Wainwright, ‘but if you’d like to discuss this one now I’m happy to do so. I take it that you are denying that you slept with Ms Finch?’
‘Absolutely. She may be cute but she’s also a fucking nutter. I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.’
‘I would kindly ask you to refrain from using inappropriate language, Mr Bennett, or I may have to add that to my list,’ Wainwright said, making a note on his piece of paper. ‘In that case, can you please explain why you contacted Ms Finch confirming that you had slept with her and suggesting that you do it again some time? We have records of several texts and e-mails sent by you to Ms Finch, all of which appear to confirm that you enjoyed carnal knowledge of her.’
‘That was because I thought she was one of the studio guys,’ Bennett replied.
‘You thought you’d slept with one of the studio guys?’ asked Wainwright, leaning forwards as his line of enquiry started to get more interesting.
‘No, you bloody idiot! I thought the texts had been sent by one of the guys at the studio.’
Wainwright made another note, then said: ‘You thought one of the studio guys was texting you so you replied by commenting on his sexual performance?’
‘No!’ The veins in Bennett’s neck were standing out proudly as the blood pumped into his brain. ‘I thought the studio guys were playing a trick on me, so I replied in kind.’
‘And which studio guys would these be?’ Wainwright asked.
‘Oh, you know,’ said Bennett. ‘Just guys – from the studio. I thought they were having a bit of fun to welcome the new kid on the block – you know, yanking my chain. So I thought I’d give them a bit back. Show them I wasn’t going to be dicked around with. That’s right, isn’t it West? You were there. Tell him.’
‘Well, West?’ Wainwright asked, looking at me as if at the key witness who could make or break his case.
‘Well, I did think it was a bit odd,’ I stuttered. ‘I know most of the people at Printing Press pretty well and I didn’t think this was the kind of thing any of them would do. But Joseph definitely did say at the time that he thought it was the studio guys who’d texted him.’
‘Mr Bennett,’ said Wainwright, disappointed that I hadn’t supplied him with his smoking gun, ‘can you please tell me the names of these “studio guys” with whom you were enjoying
such a riotous time?’
‘Not as such,’ Bennett said, after a lengthy pause while his brain rifled through its filing system but produced only the sparsest pieces of information about the ‘Chinesey Girl’ and the ‘Poofy bloke’, ‘but West knows them – don’t you, West?’
‘I hardly think that is relevant to the issue at hand, is it?’ Wainwright insisted. ‘You are claiming that when you texted Ms Finch, you believed you were in fact texting one of your pals from PPP, but you can’t name a single person who works there. That’s not a particularly compelling argument, is it?’
‘Now look here,’ Bennett roared back, rising from his chair and leaning forward to close down the space between himself and Wainwright, ‘this is not a court of law and you are not a ruddy QC. I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at, Wainwright, but you’re really starting to annoy me. So let’s cut this crap and get to the point. Or I shall go straight out to Bill and tell him to call off this ridiculous charade. Is that clear?’
Wainwright had not budged an inch during this tirade. He stayed as close as possible to Bennett’s advancing frame, almost goading the bigger man to punch him. My temporary teeth ached vicariously. ‘Mr Bennett,’ he replied, craning his neck to look up into Bennett’s half-crazed eyes, ‘let me explain something to you. Bill Davis has asked me to carry out this investigation and report back to him when I have decided what actions need to be taken. He is staying out of it because he may be called upon to hear an appeal against whatever remedies I deem it necessary to apply. Do I make myself clear?’
Bennett slumped back down in his chair and started to nibble on a nail.
‘Right,’ continued Wainwright, brandishing his Mont Blanc pen with a flourish and scribbling another note on his piece of paper. ‘I will record here that you deny the first allegation. May I now read through the rest of my list?’