Lynne Pemberton - Sleeping With Ghosts

‘If you recall, Rod, the story was my idea originally. I told her about it the night before she left Trident. I thought she needed a break, after the shabby way you got rid of her.’

‘Look, darling, I’m the one who needs a break around here. Sue screwed up on two major productions. Women .’ He slapped a hand to his forehead, and took a step towards Kathryn. ‘The next time you decide to give away great ideas that, I might add, are already in development, ask me. OK?’

‘OK, Rod, it wasn’t such a great idea anyway. Girls in the Red is far better.’

‘It was so lousy, I heard Messum almost kissed that fucking bitch’s ass when she pitched it to him.’

Kathryn couldn’t help grinning. ‘Can you imagine Ryan Messum kissing anyone’s ass?’

In spite of himself Rod began to smile. ‘No. The only thing Messum would be likely to kiss is his own reflection, or that yappy Jack Russell he takes everywhere with him.’

He sat down behind his desk and indicated a chair opposite. ‘You’re right, Kathy. Girls in the Red is a much better project.’ He was the only person apart from her father who ever called her ‘Kathy’. ‘How’s it coming?’

‘It’s coming; we’re on schedule. Tim got some great footage in Leningrad and Moscow. And I’m having lunch with Bob tomorrow to finalize the script.’

‘Good, tell Bob he owes me lunch, too. In fact he owes me several.’ Rod formed a fist. ‘He’s as tight as a fish’s backside.’

Kathryn winked. ‘Have you tried one lately?’

Rod grinned. ‘Leave my sex life out of this.’ His telephone rang, he picked it up, pressing the hold button, then pointing at her with the same finger. ‘I’m not finished with you yet. Can you dig out your high-heeled sneakers and red dress for a book launch tomorrow night at the Groucho? It’s the new Collins publication by that guy Stuart.’

She knew the book. ‘ Beyond Madness , by Nick Stuart?’

‘That’s the one, I optioned it this morning.’

Kathryn stood up. ‘It’s a great book, but I’m not certain it will adapt well.’

Rod pressed the hold button again. ‘Nigel, great to hear from you. Listen, I’ve got an amazing, too-good-to-miss idea for a documentary about the culling of rhinos in Tanzania.’

Kathryn turned to leave.

‘Hold on, Nigel.’ Rod looked at her expectantly.

She nodded her acceptance to the Groucho do, already dreading the noisy, shoulder-to-shoulder, cocktail party in Soho. She was halfway across the office when she heard Rod fling a final remark at her.

‘I want you to meet the author, Kathy. Apparently he’s very tricky, so you need to use every ounce of your irresistible charm.’

Kathryn stopped at the door. ‘If the stories about Nick Stuart are true, I think your charm might work better.’

She could hear Rod chuckling as she left the room.

Kathryn arrived at her flat in Notting Hill at ten past six. She had exactly forty-five minutes, to shower, wash her hair, change and get to Jack McGowan’s house in Hampstead for seven. She decided it wasn’t possible; planning her apology, she listened to her messages on the answering machine.

Bleep: Hi, Kathryn. Steve Fisher here. Thanks for the fax. Rod Franks is obviously as truculent as ever. Good to see that things don’t change. I’ve got some hot-off-the-press gen on your Nazi. Give me a call on 202 657 8826. Ciao.

Bleep: Kathryn, Bob Conran. Sorry but I’ll have to change our lunch date. If you get in before seven call me, if not I’ll speak to you at the office tomorrow morning.

‘Damn you, Bob! You promised to deliver the script.’

Bleep: This is Oliver Grant from Brinkforth and Sons. It’s four-thirty on Thursday 10th June. We have a firm offer on the table for Fallowfields; I would like to discuss it with you, please call at your earliest convenience. There was a short pause then, By the way I have forwarded the mail from Fallowfields to your present address. Bleep.

There was no time to digest this news now and instead Kathryn punched out Steve Fisher’s number in Washington. She got a nasty nasal voice asking if she wanted to leave a message on his voice mail.

‘Steve, it’s Kathryn. It’s six-fifteen London time. I’m racing now, going to a drinks party. I’ll call you when I get home. If I miss you, fax the info to my office asap. Thanks for working on it so quickly. Hope you’re well, and still enjoying life on Capitol Hill.’

She was undressing as she ran upstairs, and within twenty minutes, she had showered and was wearing an ankle-length simple black sheath, with matching high heels; her unwashed hair gelled back from her face.

On the drive out to North London, she planned what she would say to her father on Saturday. The death of her mother, and the unwelcome knowledge about Freda’s past life would have to be addressed. She imagined his reaction: one of initial shock, then suppressed emotion, followed by a complete refusal to discuss it.

When she pulled up in front of Jack McGowan’s house in Hampstead, a quick glance at the car clock told her she was only ten minutes late. Not bad going , she congratulated herself, cutting the ignition and grabbing her jacket from the back seat.

Jack’s housekeeper, Mrs Peacock, opened the door. Kathryn heard a familiar deep voice as soon as she stepped into the hall.

‘I don’t care what Nadia Foreman says; she may be a brilliant lawyer but remember, Paul, she’s not God and we can’t afford any adverse publicity right now. The contract with the Saudis is almost in the bag.’

Kathryn handed her jacket to Mrs Peacock, thinking – as she always did – that anyone less like her name would be hard to find. Mrs Peacock was brown. Everything about her was expressed in varying degrees of the colour. From her mouse brown hair; to her ashen, liver-spotted skin; dull muddy eyes; and muted beige clothes. Kathryn accepted her offer of a drink, choosing a glass of mineral water, and popped her head around the open door to Jack’s study. He was standing next to his desk, one hand holding the telephone, the other writing something on a pad next to it. He had his back to her. She waited for a couple of minutes listening to his steady voice, the soft Scottish intonation still evident in certain words.

‘I don’t give a damn if she likes it or not, she’s got to do it or look for a job elsewhere. There are plenty more budding young lawyers where she came from, Paul, remind her of that. And while you’re at it, remind her of the spin-off and perks this contract will give her, not to mention the existing perks she is currently enjoying with the chief executive.’

Kathryn assumed Jack was talking to Paul Rowland. She had met Paul a couple of times and liked what she had seen. For a chief executive he had an awkward boyish sort of charm, with a shyness that she had found extremely appealing. Not that shy she conceded; he was obviously having an affair with Nadia Foreman. The sultry, aggressive lawyer Nadia, and Paul Rowland, seemed an incongruous couple to her. She hadn’t met Paul’s wife Christine, but Jack had mentioned that she was a bossy overpowering woman. If she found out, she would probably kill him.

Silently Kathryn backed out, almost bumping into the Peacock, who was carrying a tray bearing a Perrier water and a bowl of cashew nuts. With her broad back, the housekeeper held open the door to the drawing room, giving her usual disapproving glare. Kathryn took her drink, and looking directly at Mrs Peacock she began to smile. Why let the old dragon bother me? She was still smiling, when she stepped inside the room.

It was a big square, with high ceilings and huge picture windows front and back. It could have been beautiful, if it wasn’t so cluttered and dark. It had been built in the late eighteen-nineties, when Hampstead was a garden suburb. Jack had bought it in 1978. In her opinion it had been decorated with lots of new money, and bad taste. But then who determined ‘taste’? Kathryn mused. And who was she to be so critical? Rod had once said to her, There’s no such thing as good or bad taste, merely taste – after a particularly scathing comment she had passed on the decor in her father’s house.