Beautiful

by Anita Waller

‘Then come with me and I’ll introduce you to our staff.’ John stood and waved his arm around. ‘While you’re here, treat this as your home. This is the lounge, no television in here. Strictly music and books. We have a separate room where we watch television.’

  He gave Brian a tour of the house, showing him to his bedroom before leading him downstairs into the room where he spent so many hours of his day.

  ‘Brian, I’d like you to meet Mark Carter. He’s been with me for – oh, I don’t know. It seems like half my lifetime. But don’t let him tell you he writes 90% of my books, it’s just not true. He’s a pathological liar. Mark, Brian Lazenby.’

  The two men shook hands and John was once more struck by their similar appearance. Thank God Brian didn’t wear designer silk ties.

  ‘Hi, Brian, I write 90% of his books.’ Mark winked.

  ‘I believe it,’ Brian replied.

  For the first time in their history John invited Mark over for a drink. ‘Bring Greta.’

  ‘Thanks. She’d like to meet Brian. He is quite well-known, you know.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘You mean you didn’t know? He’s been on the scene for a couple of years now and if you look through the Radio Times you’ll see him mentioned frequently. There’s an article on him in this week’s issue. I’ll bring it in. I know you’re too tight-fisted to buy it.’ He grinned at his employer. ‘Apparently he’s taken a bit of a sabbatical to do this series. He’s not doing any other work for six months. Says because of his love of books it’s something he’s long wanted to do.’

  ‘That’s funny – he said he didn’t read much. Only my novels. And that means he’s only read six books. Did he strike you as a liar?’

  ‘Not at all. Perhaps it’s just waffle on the part of whoever wrote the article. They couldn’t really put that he wanted to make a whole series on the strength of his admiration for just one author, could they?’

  ‘No,’ John said thoughtfully. ‘You’re probably right. Perhaps we’ll know him a little better after tonight.’

  In the end it proved to be quite a party. Ken, Brenda, Pat and David joined them with Freda an accidental guest. She had gone for a walk and called in to see John and Amy. It was soon obvious that she was getting on well with Brian.

  ‘Fascinating woman,’ he said later to John, as they were busy dispensing drinks. ‘Is she always so blunt?’

  ‘No, sometimes she doesn’t call a spade a spade, she calls it a JCB. Freda is the backbone of this family, I can tell you. My own parents left Cornwall just after Amy and I married, so we see very little of them. Thankfully I married into a family who completely adopted me. But Freda is the one we all turn to if we have a problem.’

  Brian looked around at the assembled company. Ken, Brenda, Amy, Pat, David, Mark and Greta – they didn’t look as if they could rustle up a problem between them.

  ‘I’ve never met a more stable set of people. You’re all very friendly. And Lauren’s a treasure. I must confess I pictured she’d look like you, but she has Amy’s characteristics; the long blonde hair, the wonderful eyes. A beautiful child.’

  ‘You knew we had a child before you came here then?’

  Just for a moment Brian looked off guard.

  ‘It’s my job to know a bit about you although I must confess that all I know about you is from book covers. You’re a very private person, John. You do understand that it will change after this programme, don’t you? Everyone will want to know you; your life won’t be the same. I don’t want you to have false illusions.’

  ‘No false illusions, I promise you. Both David and Mark say it’s time I came out of the garret and admitted I am a writer. Okay, everybody.’ He clapped his hands to attract their attention. ‘Carol’s left us a buffet in the dining room. I gave her the night off because I didn’t want her to think I always mixed with a set of drunken louts. Once that lot is eaten if you want anything else go raid the kitchen.’

  There were several jeers and catcalls but they all stood as one to sample the delicacies made by the housekeeper.

  ‘Is Carol looking for a new job?’ David asked, his mouth accommodating a prawn vol-au-vent.

  ‘Definitely not,’ John retorted. ‘If she is, I’ll give her the worst reference ever.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to marry her.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t, David Farmer.’ Pat was swift with her reply. ‘I’ll ask her for her recipes.’

  The evening passed quickly and when John finally locked the doors after midnight, he moved into his study.

  ‘Be up in ten minutes, Amy,’ he called. There was no reply. She was obviously already sleeping.

  He sat for a moment in the leather armchair he called his deep thought area and stared at the flames now almost dead in the hearth. The lamp cast a warm glow but the room was cooling rapidly. His eyes strayed to the shelf of books he had written and he stood and walked across to them.

  He stroked the covers, smooth in their newness. He had never read any of his books – he knew the characters and plots so well he never felt the urge to read the finished product. Both Amy and Lauren had their own copies of his books; Amy’s well read and Lauren’s still in pristine condition. He hoped one day she would want to read them.

  This set was for Josh. His will already made provision for the little boy and in it he had specifically stated which of his possessions were to go to him. He wondered at times if the secret would remain a secret until his death but he knew that the reading of his will would bring everything out into the open, and rightly so. He didn’t want Josh living his life unable to acknowledge his father.

  He took down the books and looked at them. It was only when he turned over the copy of Blood Red that he realised the author note on the back of this latest book was exactly the same as on Francophile, his first novel.

  Jenny’s child, his newest book, was almost ready for David – perhaps they should think about updating the author notes, particularly in view of the upcoming television programme. People would know more about him then anyway.

  It was only as he was climbing the stairs he realised that the author notes did not state that he had a daughter.

  41

  It was time to take stock, to make sure he was on the right track. Appearance completely changed, lifestyle changed, knowledgeable, reworked background and identity; everything was good to go for the next phase.

  Amy was still beautiful. She had been beautiful as a child and remained so. Her daughter Lauren was also beautiful, almost a mirror image of her mother. But he no longer wanted to fuck children; he had moved on so Lauren would have to wait until he decided she was mature enough. Then, and only then, would he enjoy her as he intended to enjoy her mother again.

  He stared at the photograph of the family, of the group that had gathered on the night they had all met at John and Amy’s home; even Lauren was included. John had given them all prints of the snap and he treasured it now. It meant he could focus on her, on Amy.

  He had tasted her sweetness long before John and he intended to have her again. But he would give her time to be with John before he got rid of him.

  This next phase was now firmly entrenched in his mind. He would allow John to live until he was fifty and then he would dispose of him. It would be an accident. And then he would have Amy again.

  And Lauren.

  42

  ‘Right, thanks, I think we’ve done enough for today.’ Brian closed the notebook, and put it into his briefcase.

  ‘Is it any good?’ John was enjoying having the producer around the place - he has a strong sense of humour and he would be sorry to see him leave.

  ‘Well, I feel as if I’ve known you for a lot longer that four days, so I guess that means we’ve come up with the goods. How do you feel about it? You don’t think you’re showing too much?’

  John shook his head.

  ‘No, you’ve treated me gently so far. But let’s face it, Brian; I’ve had a singularly uninspiring life, haven’t I.’

>   ‘Cushioned is the word you really want. I suspect there might be a couple of skeletons lurking there somewhere, they just haven’t come out yet.’

  John felt uncomfortable. Back off, back off.

  ‘So, off the record, notebook put away, no tape recorder, who’s Callum Brennan?’

  There was silence from John, not because he didn’t want to answer but because he didn’t know how to. What had David said about knowing the Beatles’ voices?

  ‘Aha! A skeleton!’

  ‘Not at all.’ John knew he had to recover, and fast. ‘I don’t know Callum Brennan. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s another author from the Farmer stable. And if you’d said as much, I might have believed he was just another author, but now I know I’m right. Why did you use a pseudonym? It’s obvious to any fan that you wrote In Praise.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’ John knew he was fighting a losing battle. ‘I don’t know him, but I’ve read the book and I would certainly like to meet him. There is a superficial resemblance to the way that I write…’

  ‘Cut the crap, John. You must have your reasons for not wanting to be linked with CB, so we’ll leave it at that. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m the only one who will notice.’

  John shook his head as if to dismiss the subject and watched as Brian picked up the briefcase.

  ‘So can I go back to Jenny’s Child now?’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ Mark’s dry voice came from the background. ‘I thought it was only me doing any work around here.’

  Brian laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry Mark. I’ll make sure everybody knows who the brains behind this outfit is. Your coffee’s superb.’

  ‘Up yours, Lazenby,’ he grinned. ‘You want coffee, you make your own - you’re part of this family.’

  Dawn missed John more than she cared to admit to herself. They had agreed, in a flush of optimism, that while Brian Lazenby was there they shouldn’t meet. In spite of having a mini-John in the shape of Josh, she felt bereft.

  She knew it made no sense to risk seeing him – an investigative producer like Brian Lazenby would soon have latched on to that side of John’s life – and while it wouldn’t have been made public knowledge, it would have meant a stranger knew of their relationship.

  The weather was too cold and miserable to spend much time out of doors, and she longed for the summer when they would really be able to appreciate the incomparable Cornish beaches. So they stayed in the flat, drawing pictures, reading books, watching silly television programmes that had Josh squealing with delight.

  They waited for the following Monday when John would return to see them.

  ‘Have you enjoyed your stay with us?’ Amy looked questioningly at Brian.

  ‘Do I need to answer that? I can’t ever remember enjoying an assignment more. John is an interesting man, and with Mark they make a brilliant team. But I rather suspect you have more to do with his success than is immediately obvious. Am I right?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Optimum keeps me out of the way, so I suppose my absence gives him the freedom to put in whatever hours he needs, but no, I don’t think I’m particularly a help to him. I’m just not a hindrance.’

  ‘Optimum? I’m missing something here…’ He looked at her for a moment. ‘I’ve committed an unforgivable sin. I’ve assumed that as you’ve been here all week you don’t work. I’m wrong…’

  She grinned at him, feeling relaxed in his company.

  ‘You’re wrong, but it really is irrelevant. You’re doing a programme on John, not his family.’

  ‘His family is John. So come on, Amy Thornton, spill the beans. What is Optimum?’

  ‘A shop.’

  ‘Selling what?’

  She stood and moved across to a large roll top writing desk. Pressed flowers had been inlaid across the top, and it gleamed with the patina of old age.

  ‘Come and look at this,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t need to – I’ve looked at it many times already,’ he laughed. ‘Did that come from your shop?’

  ‘Sort of. I buy old furniture – this piece cost me £20 – and then I work on them. The pressed flowers are my trade-mark. In the shop this would sell for a lot more. A tremendous amount of work goes into each and every item. They carry very high price tags. I took this week off partly because I was ready for a holiday and partly because I was interested in what you did.’

  He stood by her side, his hand resting lightly on the writing desk.

  ‘Was it worth it?’

  She moved away from him, aware of his closeness and disturbed by it. ‘Yes, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching you. How long have you been in television?’

  ‘Oh, a few years now. It’s only recently that I’ve realised I’ve finally got where I wanted to be when I joined the BBC. It’s been hard work.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ She smiled at him, ‘we’ll be sorry to see you go. Will you stay here when you come back to do the filming?’

  ‘If you’ll have me. Thanks very much. And quite apart from this programme, I’d like to keep in touch.’

  ‘We’d be delighted,’ she said simply. ‘You’re welcome here anytime Brian.’

  Their reunion was passionate and all-consuming. John had said goodbye to Brian in the morning and by two o’clock was in Dawn’s arms, with Josh asleep in the next bedroom.

  ‘If you only knew,’ he said softly, ‘if you only knew just how much I’ve missed you…’

  ‘I do.’ She reached up and stroked his hair. ‘Oh, my love, it’s been a very long week.’

  She rested her head against his chest, and he bent to kiss her hair.

  ‘Is everything okay? Josh?’

  ‘We’ve been fine; just wish this whole project was finished. So come on, tell me all about it.’

  She moved away from him and he followed her into the lounge.

  ‘He’s a nice chap. We got on very well – he’s staying with us when they come back to do the actual filming. He wants to get that in the bag as soon as possible. I think that will take about a week, and then it’s over.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  He didn’t argue.

  When Lauren left for Yorkshire and her promised visit to Derbyshire’s Peak District, she was on a high. She had experienced the unique world of television first hand and had loved every minute of the attention given to her.

  Uncle Brian had gone to a great deal of trouble to explain everything to her, even though a lot of it was beyond her comprehension. And he had given her two ten pound notes to spend on her holidays – said it was her wages for all the hard work she had put in.

  It seemed as though the house was always full now – such a contrast with normal. Even Mummy had taken another week off work. Everyone in the house had been on television at some point, even Grandma Brenda and Gramps Ken.

  ‘Are we nearly there, Gramps?’

  ‘We’re about five miles outside Padstow,’ he smiled ‘so I guess you could say we’re nearly there.’

  Brenda turned around in her seat to smile at her granddaughter. ’If you close your eyes and go to sleep, I’m sure we’ll be there when you wake up.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and snuggled under the blanket. Within five minutes she was fast asleep.

  ‘Clever idea travelling this early in a morning,’ Brenda said. ‘With a bit of luck she’ll sleep most of the way. So… let’s talk. What was bothering you last night? You were the quietest person at the party.’

  The party, held at John and Amy’s house, had been to celebrate the last of the filming. There had been about thirty people there and Ken had hoped Brenda hadn’t noticed his mood.

  ‘Oh, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t know. What was wrong? Your leg?

  He shook his head.

  ‘No, I don’t get pain in it now, just stiffness. I’ll be fine for the end of March…’

  ‘Ken Buckingham, you’re changing the subject. Somebody or som
ething made you feel out of sorts. What was it?

  ‘There was tension.’ He sighed.

  ‘Tension?’

  ‘Uh-huh. In Amy. She either doesn’t like that Lazenby chap, or she likes him too much.’

  Malcolm let himself into Stonebrook, and gave a cursory glance around the hallway before going into the kitchen. He switched on the kettle before heading for the stairs. He’d promised he would check everything every day – Brenda kept muttering about leaks in the cold weather, and not going on holiday unless someone looked in every day to make sure their furniture wasn’t floating away. He smiled at the thought of her worried face as she had handed him the list of instructions.

  ‘Get on with you,’ he had said. ‘Everything will be safe, and I’ve got the address of the hotel so I can contact you anytime.’

  He looked in all three bedrooms, and began to descend the stairs. He paused as he saw the front door at the end of the hall begin to open. A wave of cold air blew in and his heart sank as he realized it was Amy closing the door behind her. She turned and saw him standing halfway down the stairs.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said icily. ‘I wondered why the door was unlocked. What are you doing here?’

  He continued to descend the stairs, angry with himself at the surge of irritation that had passed over him.

  ‘I’m doing what Brenda asked me to do – check the cottage every day.’

  ‘Mrs Buckingham, not Brenda. And in future I’ll check it.’

  ‘Then it’ll be checked twice,’ he said, and pushed past her into the kitchen.

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘It’s my tea-break,’ he said. ‘Don’t cheek your elders,’ his mum had always said, but he wanted to do more than cheek this toffee-nosed bitch.

  ‘You can have your tea-break with the others from now on.’

  ‘No I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve had my tea-break in this kitchen every day since I started here. I’m not changing just because you say so.’

  He pulled the boiled kettle towards him, and reached for a mug. She stormed into the kitchen and knocked the mug out of his hand. It smashed on the tiled kitchen floor.