Mary Baker - The Honey Trap

Angel felt a surge of resentment towards this man, this arrogant man, who seemed to manipulate the life and emotions of the woman he loved as casually as if she were a character in one of his films. She fixed him with a steely gaze while she framed her next question.

‘Are you a fraud, Mr Wilchester? A pale imitation of the filmmakers whose work you so admire?’

‘That’s enough!’ the PR manager exploded behind her. ‘I told you, if this interview got out of hand it would be shut down –’

‘It’s okay, Kev,’ Seb said, adopting a pacifying tone much less formal and polished than the one he’d used so far. ‘She’s right to go hard on me. That’s her job. Not everything in PR’s about product placement and arse-kissing, however much your guys would like it to be. Just let me answer the question.’

He turned back to Angel and his expression seemed – but perhaps she was imagining it – ever so slightly softer than before.

‘No, Miss Blackthorne. I don’t think I’m a fraud.’ He paused for a moment and drained the last sip of his champagne, apparently savouring the flavour while his eyes met hers across the table. ‘If you’re asking do I have influences, then the answer is yes, very significant ones, and I encourage them to flow into my work as much as I can. TS Eliot, the poet, said ‘good writers borrow, great writers steal’. Or your readers might understand it better as that hackneyed phrase, ‘nothing new under the sun’. I suppose what I’m trying to say is yes, my work borrows – and steals – and yes, it’s still original, at least as long as it elicits a new emotion, creates a new sensation. All art is imitation, Miss Blackthorne. But some is, excuse me, bloody good imitation. Perhaps my work does extricate those elements it most admires in the work of others, hacks them up and monster-like assembles them again into something new. Then, to carry the metaphor to its logical conclusion, it gives them life through fresh direction and great performances by the cream of our acting talent. But without praising myself unduly, I’d say that’s no bad thing.’

He leaned back with a self-satisfied half-smile. His smug expression irritated her, though she couldn’t disagree with anything he’d said. She scribbled away, gibberish symbols meaning nothing, just to give her hands something to occupy them.

‘But you don’t have a drink, Miss Blackthorne,’ Seb said in the same calm, self-assured tone.

‘I don’t. But there’s really no need –’

He looked up at Kev. The PR man was still standing behind Angel, sullen-browed and resentful. ‘Kev, any chance you could pop over to the champagne bar and get a couple of glasses? Or milk bottles or whatever?’

Kev remained the same scowling, immovable pillar of pinstripe suit and Brylcreem. ‘You don’t pay me to be your drinks boy, Seb.’

‘No, I pay you to represent me in a good light to the public. And right now you’re making me look like an inconsiderate pillock in front of this young lady. Look, go on. It’ll only take five minutes.’

The PR man still held his position, looking stubborn and sulky. Seb flung him an impatient glance.

‘Please, Kev. As a favour. You can get yourself one while you’re there, eh?’

‘Fine,’ Kev growled. ‘This once, then. But watch what you say while I’m gone, can you? This is the bloody Investigator we’re talking about, don’t forget.’ He dragged himself away towards the VIP lounge bar, keeping his suspicious gaze on Angel to the last.

She squirmed in her chair. It was clear Seb wanted the PR man out of the way, and she wondered helplessly what was coming now.

As soon as Kev was out of earshot, the director’s eyes narrowed and he leaned over the table to take hold of her wrist in his powerful fingers. The polite, polished veneer of the professional film director dropped to reveal the Seb she knew, the one she’d met that night at the hotel, and he was seething. She noticed he was now wearing a gold wedding band on his third finger. The metal felt hot and hard against her skin.

‘For Christ’s sake, Angel, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you know you nearly ruined everything?’

‘ I nearly ruined everything?’ Angel said in a furious whisper, trying to pull her wrist away from the uncomfortable grip of his fingers. ‘Perhaps if you’d been so concerned about your wife and your bloody marriage that night, you would have remembered to keep it in your pants! No one made you cheat, Seb. You did that all on your own, and with very little persuasion, I might add.’

‘That’s not what I meant!’ he almost yelled in a voice strangled with fury.

He looked around to see if anyone had heard, lowering his voice when he spoke again. ‘That’s not what I – listen, I had a great time with you that night. And contrary to what you or your editor might think, I don’t make a habit of picking up girls in bars. Then when I saw the story I had to assume you were a private investigator, or worse, a hooker, paid to set me up. It made me sick to my stomach to think we… God! Now I find you’re what, a professional reporter? Seriously, who does that to someone? What the hell is wrong with you?’

‘Look, I’m just an intern, alright?’ she muttered, looking down at her feet. ‘Just a crappy intern. It wasn’t like I was supposed to –’

‘Supposed to what? Ruin my life? Destroy my reputation, my peace of mind, my marriage? Supposed to what , Angel?’

‘Supposed to sleep with you, Seb, okay?’ she blurted out in a choked voice, feeling the briny sting of tears.

His eyes widened when he saw the tears, then narrowed in anger.

‘Hey. Stop it. Look, go to the toilets if you need to and get yourself sorted. This is a public place and you’re making us conspicuous.’ His mouth twisted in derision. ‘And I presume you wouldn’t want another paper to get that exclusive.’

Shooting him a look, she dragged back the salty drops with an effort. He was right. This wouldn’t do, not here.

‘Okay, so I was sent by my editor to honey trap you, I think that’s pretty plain at this point. But I was only supposed to get you up to the hotel room, get one compromising shot and come away. The rest – well, you know the rest. I didn’t know we were still being filmed. You saw me block the camera with that towel. And for what it’s worth, I apologise, to you and your wife. I don’t know what made me do it. I’m a sizzling mess of a human person and just like you I ballsed things up, for all three of us but especially for her. And you can bet I’ll beat myself up about it every day of my life from now on. But if you want to know whether I regret the time we spent together, then I don’t know how to answer you.’

Seb loosened his grip on her wrist and just stared at her. His expression was unreadable, his face unflinching. She glared back, trying and failing to make her face as emotionless as his.

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Her voice cracked as he continued to stare at her in total silence. ‘It doesn’t fix things but it’s all I’ve got, Seb. I’m sorry. And for what it’s worth, I thought The Milkman Cometh was a masterpiece. Original, compelling, unbelievably tight. Wilder would have been proud to call it his.’