Paul Tucker, the most uncompromisingly masculine representative of the Monday Club, was silent on the subject of the bedchamber, claimed to have no interest in art or the workings of the imagination and said he had never knowingly read a work of fiction—“apart from the front page of the Sunday Times.”
“Sod the life of the mind,” he would say. “Give me life!”
He was ill suited to reflection; television news was his medium. He was out there—angry, unshaven, in his bullet-proof vest, filing to camera against a son et lumière of missiles, or shouting over the whirring of helicopter blades, a true inheritor of Honor’s tradition of intrepid truth seeking, a defender of the weak and scourge of the powerful. How ironic that it should be television, a medium she had always despised, that had preserved at least some of the journalistic values jettisoned by newspapers.
Honor had always found men better company than women. Homo or hetero, they were wittier, lighter about matters of the heart, and more engaged with the real world. They were also more trustworthy, free from the atavistic rivalry, the sidelong scrutiny and secret schadenfreude that women engaged in. Even so, she counted two women among her Monday Boys. Ruth, round and smug as a matryoshka doll, was the efficient one, the fixer and the paymaster. It was Ruth’s capable, gym-mistress approach to life’s admin—dismal dealings with plumbers and lawyers, accountants and taxmen, restaurateurs and travel agents—rather than her publishing expertise that earned her a seat at the monthly suppers. Her editorial skills were, as far as Honor could tell, nonexistent, or at least invisible. Which made her the best kind of editor. There had been no wrangling over points of language or structure, no sly tweaking, no “helpful suggestions.” Ruth had been the respectful handmaiden, ushering Truth …, out of print for decades, back into the public realm with a tasteful new cover, and now she was about to perform the same service for Dispatches.
In addition to Ruth, there was Clemency. Tall, homely and bowed with guilt at her enormous inherited wealth, Clemency was a professional philanthropist. She was on the board of several arts organisations and was a rich source of invitations to first nights and gala events. She was also generous with time and money, always available for late-night phone calls, a patient, admiring and reassuring listener. When Honor was at her lowest, Clemency had insisted on flying her to Lake Garda, where she was pampered at the Twisk Foundation’s villa for two months. But Clemency was drawn to the specious, her new charity being a case in point, and could be insufferably sanctimonious. She was a reformed alcoholic and had once made the mistake of expressing pious concern about Honor’s occasional indulgence. Clemency had had to work very hard to gain readmission to the Monday Club.
Tonight Inigo was the first to arrive. His lopsided smile was a good gauge of Honor’s mood. If her spirits were low, she would find it irksomely insincere. If she was buoyant, the half-hitched grin and easy charm would cheer her further.
Still drained and somehow diminished by the recent Monitor interview, a feeling compounded by that late-night phone call and her debasing brush with Clemency’s latest vanity project, Honor felt only relief at the sight of her most chivalrous and supercilious courtier. He was carrying a prettily packaged box of patisseries. He kissed her cheek—a moist brush against her papery skin.
“Am I the first?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ve got you all to myself then,” he said, his eyebrows twitching, a satirical silent-screen seducer.
“You can fix the drinks, darling,” she said.
As he went towards the cabinet the doorbell rang again. Honor sat down while Inigo, with the camp groan of an interrupted suitor, walked back along the hallway to admit the next guest.
It was Aidan, pink and glowing from the gym—surely he was getting a little old for all that weight training?—and mercifully alone. His difficult boyfriend, Jorge, an architect, was working late on an important project.
“A Midlands leisure centre,” Aidan said, with an exaggerated shudder. “Mutually exclusive concepts, I’d have thought.”
He had brought a carton of fat green olives and a pretty hardback edition of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury.
He kissed Honor, holding her a little tighter and longer than she felt was sincere or necessary, and embraced Inigo in the way that men seemed to do these days, whatever their sexual preference.
Ruth arrived next, out of breath and flustered, carrying a large tray of Lebanese meze. She looked a mess as usual: unkempt hair, frock like a beige marquee that had come loose from its guy ropes, orthopaedic shoes, all defiantly declaring her rejection of patriarchal sexual tyranny. She bent to kiss Honor with a grunt of exertion, trying not to drop the tray, then swayed into the kitchen to sort out the plates and cutlery.
“A tithe for the Empress of Maida Vale,” Inigo said, handing Honor a vodka martini.
They heard the lock turn. Bobby had let himself in with the key Honor had given him last year during a bad patch. His contribution to the evening was twofold: a case of Bordeaux, purchased on Courier expenses, and his guest, Jason Kelly, a laconic young actor of mesmerizing beauty.
“So this is your amuse-gueule, Bobby?” Aidan said, taking a step back to appraise the new arrival.
The blond, almond-eyed Kelly, whose fecund love life was the subject of intense tabloid interest, bridled. Inigo handed him a distracting cocktail before steering him over to Honor. Kelly was currently giving his Hamlet at the Old Vic, and his visceral reading of the part had attracted garrulous praise from the critics. Honor, who went to the first night with Aidan (Clemency had provided the tickets), had been equally impressed.
“Not quite ‘fat and scant of breath,’ ” was her only criticism.
Professionally Kelly was better known, and considerably better paid, for his leading role in the recent blockbuster film version of Enid Blyton’s Magic Faraway Tree. Honor, though entranced by the young actor’s Hamlet, had declined Aidan’s invitation to see the film—Hollywood hogwash, obviously—in a multiscreen cinema in a shopping mall.
“I would,” she had said, “rather spend an evening doing housework, or reading Isadora Talbot.”
But the bedroom scene with Gertrude had been extraordinarily powerful. Honor patted the needlepoint stool by her feet and invited the newcomer to sit.
“Ah. The Seat of Honor,” Inigo said, as he said at every Monday supper.
The doorbell sounded again—two short rings, one long. No one stirred.
“Ruth?” Honor called out to the kitchen. “Be a darling and let Clemency in.”
“Bringing up the rear as usual,” muttered Inigo, making his regular unkind reference to Clemency’s horsewoman’s seat.
The Twisk heiress walked in, shoulders slumped apologetically, carrying a large wheel of pungent cheese wrapped in brown paper.
“Mmm,” Inigo said, sniffing the air. “What’s that scent you’re wearing, Clemmy? Eau d’Égout?”
“By Cloaca?” Aidan threw in.
Clemency ignored Inigo and looked accusingly at Aidan’s glass of wine.
“Can I do anything?” she called to Ruth in the kitchen.
The question was rhetorical. Clemency sat down with heavy finality before Ruth had time to answer.
“Are we quorate?” Bobby asked.
“Yes,” Aidan said. “The inner cabinet’s here. But Paul’s in town so he’s going to join us, too.”
“He’s on his way from the studio,” Honor said. “Back from a weekend in Afghanistan.”
“Of course!” Inigo said, refilling the glasses. “Where else would he be?”
Honor took a long pull at her drink. Inigo had always resented Paul’s showy integrity. She liked to see them bickering, her Boys, fighting to catch her eye.
Aidan turned to Jason.
“Congratulations on the reviews.”
“Cheers,” the actor said, raising his glass.
“ ‘The glass of fashion and the mould of form,’ ” Aidan went on. “But never mind Gertrude, the s
trumpet. Or that daft bint Ophelia. Isn’t the real, unexpressed passion for Horatio?”
Jason’s pretty mouth crimped with displeasure, and Bobby stepped in gallantly, shielding his trophy.
“You might think that, Aidan. You might even wish for it. But Horatio’s function is to be the audience’s proxy: a witness. The more interesting relationship, I think, is with Laertes.”
“Piffle, and you know it,” Inigo said.
“What kind of critical language is that?” Clemency asked.
“Tom Eliot used to say that Hamlet was literature’s Mona Lisa,” Honor said wistfully, reaching for the young actor’s free hand and giving it a squeeze.
With the subtlety that had earned him plaudits at the Old Vic, Jason Kelly recoiled imperceptibly.
“That’s no enigmatic smile,” Aidan said, raising a provocative eyebrow at the actor. “That’s the proud man’s ‘contumely.’ ”
The look that darkened Kelly’s fair features was more menacing than the stare he summoned nightly for Claudius. Aidan was saved by the doorbell.
“Hercules Tucker!” he said, springing to his feet to open the door. “Back with the golden apples.”
But it was not Paul. It was the very opposite of Paul. A young woman with the abundant décolletage of a Restoration wench stood in the doorway. She was clearly a gate-crasher, and the proof of her outsider status was in her hands—a large bunch of hideous candy-pink blooms.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Tamara said. “I’m here to see Honor Tait. I’m a journalist, a friend of hers. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her about an article I’m writing.”
Aidan, smiling like a malevolent pixie, did not believe a word of it but showed her in; another amuse-bouche for the party.
“Welcome to Olympia,” he said.
“Really?” Tamara said, startled. She was sure she was in Maida Vale.
A gleam of spiteful pleasure played across Aidan’s eyes.
By now Honor was feeling woozy, one hand stroking the warm, inert paw of the young actor, the other outstretched as Inigo topped up her drink. She was watching the exchanges around her like a newcomer in the hospitality seats at Wimbledon, unfamiliar with the rules but enjoying the spectacle.
Her first response to the sight of the new arrival was disappointment; it was not her Paul. Who was going to invigorate the evening with dispatches from the real world? Then her disappointment hardened into irritation; it was the half-witted Tara from The Monitor. The girl’s face was stamped with a silly rictus of a smile, and she was holding another bunch of garage forecourt flowers.
“I’m so sorry,” Tamara said breathlessly before Honor had time to speak. “I tried to contact you. I called your publishers but they wouldn’t give me your number.”
“You bet I wouldn’t,” Ruth said, walking into the sitting room and drying her hands on her voluminous skirt. “Tamara Sim? You’re becoming a nuisance caller.”
Ruth looked towards Honor for endorsement but found that the old woman’s attention had shifted towards the hall, down which Paul, flak-jacketed and fuming, was striding.
“Door was open, Honor. Hope you don’t mind.”
He knew he did not need to apologise. Honor got to her feet and, dropping Hamlet’s unresponsive hand, accepted Paul Tucker’s ursine embrace. She shooed the relieved actor away and directed Paul to the needlepoint footstool, where he sat, monumental and masculine as Rodin’s Thinker.
“So, darling, what’s the latest from Kabul? Tell all,” Honor said.
Ruth gave a testy gasp and retreated to the kitchen, while Tamara, temporarily forgotten, shrank into a corner. Paul Tucker she recognised straightaway. He did not seem to have changed his clothes since the Archway meeting last week, and he talked unstoppably, with a level stare, as if permanently addressing a camera. But who were the others?
She recognised Clemency Twisk from the charity event. The little ruddy-faced Scotsman who had answered the door was raising his glass at Tamara and winking in a manner that was not entirely friendly, while another middle-aged man, squat as a frog, with bulging eyes, was waving a cigarette. Her reportorial antennae began to twitch at the sight of a young man who seemed to be backing away from the pop-eyed smoker. He had the blond good looks of a Scandinavian superhero, and there was something tantalisingly familiar about him. Tucker’s monologue gathered speed, his voice rumbling like an approaching landslide, and Tamara ducked into the kitchen. The publisher was muttering to herself as she unpacked small pastries and arranged them on plates, like counters in a board game.
“Anything I can do to help?” Tamara asked, propping the flowers by the sink. Ruth sighed and poured herself another slug of wine.
“You’ve got a nerve. You really have. You mess up an interview, completely alienate one of my writers, then you waltz in uninvited—gate-crash her party!—and expect to get a warm welcome.”
“It wasn’t like that. Honestly,” Tamara pleaded. “She was difficult. Impossible. I tried my best. They really want this piece on S*nday magazine and I’m running out of options.”
“We made it quite plain when we set up the interview. Honor Tait is a very private person.”
“It’s not too much to ask, is it? A few details? Family? Her glamorous life? This isn’t a hatchet job we’re planning. S*nday doesn’t do hatchet jobs. You know that.”
Ruth unpacked more pastries onto a plate.
“Look, I warned you. She despises all this personal prying. And besides, Honor Tait’s writing speaks for itself. Look up her biography if you want. It’ll be in the cuttings. But don’t expect any quotes from her.”
“Come on. You’re her publisher,” Tamara said, her arms outstretched in an appeal for sympathy. “You’re a commercial outfit, not a charity. Don’t you want to spread the word about your product? Make some money?”
Ruth licked her fingers.
“We’re not a charity, no. But commercial? Chance would be a fine thing.” She passed a plate of pastries to Tamara. “I suppose you can make yourself useful now you’re here. No one else has offered to help. Take these and pass them round.”
Tamara moved deferentially through the sitting room distributing the food, then picked up a couple of bottles and went round refilling glasses. Tucker was still holding court, and the only permitted interruptions were from Honor.
“So it’s been sealed off?” she asked.
“Yes. Thousands have fled. The place is a ghost town. Only the sick and old, those who can’t move, remain, living like rats in basements. You’re crunching over spent cartridges in the ruins, past heaps of rubble that were once apartment blocks …”
“More wine?” Tamara whispered. He glanced up, his eyes locking briefly onto her chest. Then he held out his glass and continued.
“The infrastructure’s been totally trashed …”
Tamara retreated to the kitchen where Ruth was noisily washing plates.
“Here,” said the publisher, passing a corkscrew covered in soapsuds. “Open another bottle.”
Tamara refilled Ruth’s glass, then poured one for herself. They could still hear the TV newsman’s voice from the sitting room, as insistent and uninflected as a Black and Decker drill.
“He’s quite something, Paul Tucker,” Tamara said.
“Yes, isn’t he just?”
“How well does he know Honor … Miss Tait?” Tamara asked, casually picking up a tea towel and wiping a plate.
“If you’re trying to ingratiate yourself here,” Ruth said, “you’re doing a pretty good job.”
“I just need another hour with her, to get some quotes on her famous friends.”
Ruth’s eyebrows arched in warning.
“You’re wasting your time.”
She immersed an enamel saucepan in the suds, holding it down forcefully as if drowning a puppy.
“We need to bring this interview to life,” Tamara said. “I’ve got to get an idea about what she’s really like, off duty as it were.”
�
�I’m not sure I can persuade her to spend another minute with you.”
“It would be really useful to know who’s here, for a start. You know, build a picture of her from her circle of friends. Who’s the little Scotsman who answered the door, for instance?”
“Aidan Delaney. The poet,” Ruth said. “Won the Margrave Prize for his last collection, Strychnine Kisses?”
“Of course. And the skinny one with the laugh?”
“Inigo Wint. The artist. There was a double-page spread on him in Zeitgeist last week.”
“Oh yes, I thought I recognised him,” Tamara lied. Was she meant to be familiar with German newspapers, too?
“You must know Clemency. She’s always in the culture pages.”
“Yes. I’ve seen her around. Human-rights meetings, that sort of thing.”
“Everyone knows Clemency,” continued Ruth, with an emphasis that suggested buried resentments. She balanced a glass decanter upside down on the draining board. “She’s a ‘power in the land.’ You can’t go to a first night, a gallery opening or a serious book launch without bumping into Clemency.”
Not so buried then. Tamara reached for the decanter.
“And the chunky man with the … large eyes?” she said. “The smoker …?”
As Tamara gestured with her right hand to indicate a cigarette, the decanter slipped through her fingers and smashed on the floor like a glass grenade. There was a shocked silence in the kitchen, but outside, in the sitting room, Paul Tucker did not miss a beat.
“And then the gunfire started again and, for a moment, I thought I was a goner,” they heard him say.
Ruth tutted, reached into a cupboard for a dustpan and brush and thrust them into Tamara’s hands.
“That’s it. I knew I should have thrown you out.”
Tamara knelt contritely by the shards.
“I really am terribly sorry. I’m only trying to do my job, write my story, do justice to your author.”
“There are proper channels for this sort of thing, you know,” Ruth said. “Oh, just get up, for heaven’s sake.”
Tamara struggled to her feet.
“Shall I take out some more food?” she asked.
The Spoiler Page 15