Lynne Pemberton - Sleeping With Ghosts

It was Jack McGowan. ‘Good morning, Kathryn, how are you on this hideous Monday morning?’ Without waiting for her reply, he went on, ‘Don’t you think we should be somewhere, any where else, than London in this bloody rain? It’s been pissing down for weeks! How about we slip down to my house in the South of France, it’s wonderful in June, we can sip chilled rosé on the terrace, and watch the sun set …’

‘I’m in the middle of a big job; you know that, Jack. I can’t just schlepp off to the Med at the drop of a hat.’ The word ‘hat’ jolted her into saying, ‘Speaking of which, I’m afraid I can’t make the wedding on Saturday. I’m really sorry, but my father wants to see me.’

‘Well, tell him you’ve got a prior engagement.’ His tone implied there was nothing more to say.

Kathryn drummed her short fingernails on top of her desk. ‘I am sorry, Jack. But he’s leaving for a lecture tour of the States soon. He’s only going to be in London for one day. I have to see him, we’ve got a lot of things to sort out. I need to discuss my mother’s estate, and all that stuff, you understand don’t you?’

Jack did not. ‘Can’t you see him on Friday? I could send a car for you first thing Saturday morning. You could still make the wedding, it doesn’t start until midday. Call your father now, tell him it’s a case of life and death; he’s a doctor, he’ll appreciate that. Tell him you’ve got to work on an important project all weekend, tell him anything !’

‘I’ll tell him the truth, Jack,’ she interrupted tersely. ‘That’s not difficult for me,’ she added, intimating that deceit came easily to Jack McGowan.

‘Business is about avoiding the truth, playing the game, Kathryn. Come on, you know that as well as I do.’

She chose to ignore this remark. ‘I’m not sure if he can make it on Friday, but I suppose I could ask.’ Kathryn was merely placating him; she was secretly pleased to get out of what she suspected would be a posh but boring wedding.

Encouraged by her hesitation, Jack said, ‘Now when are you going to get another opportunity to wear that fabulous hat?’

She was smiling. ‘Ascot?’ she ventured. ‘Ladies’ Day, perhaps?’

His voice dropped an octave. ‘I would prefer you to wear it this weekend. First for the wedding, then later for me, with nothing else but high heels, and that special smile. You know the one you wear when I—’

She interrupted with, ‘Shame on you, Mr McGowan!’

‘I’ll be totally inconsolable if I have to spend the weekend alone,’ he told her.

Kathryn also lowered her voice. ‘Since when have you ever done that, Jack? Oh and by the way, I’d love to wear the hat and heels, specially for you. If not this weekend then some time in the near future.’

His loud expulsion of breath was followed by, ‘ This weekend, Kathryn.’

‘I’ll let you know by Thursday when we’re going to the Buchanans for drinks. That will give you twenty-four hours to find a replacement.’

The humour had left his voice when he said, ‘There is none.’

Reluctant to confront his disappointment any longer, she made an excuse to terminate the conversation. ‘My other line’s ringing, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.’

She replaced the telephone thinking about Jack McGowan. He was either in love with her or, alternatively, deeply in lust. Not entirely sure of her own feelings, which fluctuated from heady infatuation to irritation at his possessive need to control, she was left uncertain and confused. When she punched out Bob Conran’s telephone number her thoughts were still with Jack. They had met at a cocktail party two years previously when she’d found him overpowering and far too egotistical for her taste. She had refused to have dinner with him, making the excuse that she never went out with married men. Then at a film premiere eighteen months later, she had bumped into him again. She had been with her boss Rod, head of Trident, an independent film company responsible for more than one hundred and sixty hours of television production each year. Rod had given her the low-down on Jack McGowan.

Born in Aberdeen to a Scottish father and English mother. Powerful industrialist. Oil-rig machinery. One of the top five hundred richest men in the country. A true-blue Thatcherite, heavily tipped for a knighthood in 1982 and 1983, when he was pouring money into the Tory party, and had billions of pounds’ worth of export contracts littering his desk. Notoriously ruthless, yet a great philanthropist, and patron of the arts. Several much publicized run-ins with the press, and one particular nasty libel case in the mid-seventies involving insider dealing on the stock market. A brief affair last year with the soprano Anna Cavelli had culminated in the break-up of his twenty-eight-year marriage; although he and his wife had no plans to divorce. He’d had a daughter who’d died of a drugs overdose at twenty-two, and there was an adopted son from his wife’s first marriage.

Jack had made a beeline for Kathryn at the post-screening party, persuading her to leave the teeming milieu, and join him for a quiet supper at Harry’s Bar. She had agreed reluctantly and, to her surprise, she’d had a wonderful evening. Subsequent outings had followed, and Kathryn had been forced to revise her first impressions of Jack McGowan. Though not entirely wrong, they were greatly diluted by her discovery of his ironic sense of humour, and irrepressible charm. She recalled in detail the first time they had made love, the encounter had left her overwhelmed. Formidable he might be to his business opponents, but in bed Jack had proved gentle, and sensitive to her every need.

Bob Conran’s deep voice broke into her thoughts as he answered her call, and instantly she forgot about Jack as she began to discuss the development of the Girls in the Red project. Bob was dashing out to a meeting and could only spare her a few minutes. He suggested lunch the following day. Kathryn consulted her diary, and they agreed to meet at Le Caprice at one. The light on her intercom was flashing as she replaced the telephone. It was her secretary, Sally. ‘Mr Franks wants to see you asap. A word of warning, he’s on the warpath about something.’

Kathryn had a good idea what it was. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sally; I’m on my way.’ She clicked the intercom switch off, and headed for Rod Franks’s office. Kathryn waited on the threshold for a few moments, thinking about her boss. She had known Rod for ten years, and worked for him for six. He was highly talented, hot-tempered, and great at what he did. He had started out at sixteen, as a runner for a small film company, and had come up through the ranks. Ten years before, at thirty-five, Rod and his life-long friend Neville Morgan had started Trident, but Neville had died of Aids two years ago. Rod was a tough bastard, there was no denying that, but Kathryn understood him, at least most of the time. She also respected his enormous talent, and shrewd intellect. He in turn admired her tenacity, her creative flair, and her ability to get things done; but more important, they shared a mutual passion for the business. Both were totally committed to producing good, aspiring constantly to ‘great’ television.

When she entered his spacious office, Rod was next to the window, his back to her. Rod had style, she had to give him that, his office reflected it. Very chic, very minimalist, very nineties. Blond wood-panelled floors, beneath blonder panelled walls. A David Hockney painting and a huge vivid splash of Miró the only colour in the room. Less is more , Rod was fond of saying; if you got it right, as he so often did, she was forced to agree.

On her third footstep he turned, he was dressed in a dark blue lightweight Paul Smith suit and a collarless white cotton shirt. His dark hair was slicked back with gel, it glistened in the overhead spotlight. Wasting no time on pleasantries he said, ‘Did you know that Sue Chandler was pitching our idea, about the black heiress, to Ryan Messum at Fox?’ And when Kathryn nodded, he added, ‘Well why the hell didn’t you tell me? I could have stopped her.’