Anna was swift to seize the moral high ground. ‘I think I might be entitled to have heard it from you first, don’t you? Naturally I was concerned, and I didn’t want whoever did that to you to get away with it.’
‘Neither do I, but I can’t remember anything helpful so there doesn’t seem a lot of point in making a fuss, especially since I won’t be cycling.’ Intercepting another look between the two of them, she said sharply, ‘This isn’t adding up. There’s more to this, isn’t there? Have there been death threats again?’ Being a celebrity meant that these were commonplace but Anna had people to handle them and had never seemed rattled before.
And she wasn’t now, apparently. After a second she threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh dear, now I’m scaring you. No, there’s nothing out of the ordinary. It’s when they lose interest that you have to worry. It’s just with the forecast for bad weather ahead I wouldn’t want you to be cut off there on your own. But if you’re determined, I know there’s no point in arguing.
‘Now, tell me about the writers. Any promising talent?’
Despite being able to see that Marta was digging her nails into the palm of her hand, Cassie found herself sidetracked.
‘I haven’t really met them properly. I’d a full programme on Saturday and Richard took me out to lunch – as you presumably know.’
The barbed remark was ignored. ‘He seems to be a cut above the usual publicity type,’ Anna said. ‘We’ve had some horrors in our time, haven’t we Marta?’
‘Oh yes, we have.’ Marta sounded like someone reluctantly forced to play charades. ‘There was that girl with the purple hair—’
‘Oh, goodness, I’d forgotten her. And the piercings!’
Cassie got up. ‘I really don’t have time to waste listening to you reminisce. If you’ll excuse me …’
Again, a glance passed between Anna and Marta and Cassie had the strong sense of words unspoken. She couldn’t guess what they were, and Anna only gave a tiny shrug as she said goodbye.
Kayleigh Burns was just finishing doing the hall when the daughter came out and went straight out of the front door. She hadn’t stayed long and she wasn’t looking best pleased. Kayleigh hadn’t heard any raised voices, but maybe posh people didn’t make a lot of noise when they’d a row. She’d been in the wars somewhere, though, with that nasty bruise on her cheek. But she didn’t spare much time thinking about that. She’d too much other stuff on her mind.
More than ever now she was regretting getting in tow with Jason. He’d been so rude to her on Saturday night in front of his pals – even if it was true enough that she’d had the packet of fish fingers lying out waiting beside the cooker. And worse, he could really dump her in it now, even if he swore he wouldn’t.
They’d argued yesterday and she’d managed to drive up the price – he’d given her more than she’d have thought he could possibly have in his possession. Kayleigh had been able to say to Danny, ‘If you want Converse trainers that much, I’ll get them for you.’
He’d been going on and on about them; all his mates had them, and smartphones as well, but when she asked where they got them, he turned evasive. From their parents, he’d said, but she knew some of them and they hadn’t the money any more than she did. She knew where the money for all the gear was coming from and it made her feel sick. The trainers might keep Danny happy for a week or two, but it wouldn’t be enough. She couldn’t keep up with that sort of spending and Danny wouldn’t want to be left out. She could see where he was drifting, and she felt sick at the thought.
She’d mentioned it again to Jason last night and he’d scoffed at her, told her she was a neurotic mother.
‘Every kid wants stuff,’ he’d said, ‘and then they nag at their parents till they get it. Just like Danny did.’
But she didn’t know where Jason was getting his money from either. When she’d challenged him he’d muttered something about a lucky bet, but she’d never seen signs of him being a gambler before. She had a nasty feeling that she knew.
And his latest idea was worse. She’d tried to say no, but he’d reacted so violently that she’d given in. She’d never been scared of him before, but she was now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gil Paton was silently seething this morning. He’d been irritated yesterday by Richard Sansom’s attitude in the first place and then when he’d gone to see Cassie after she got back from her lunch with him for a debrief, she’d been less than communicative.
‘Oh, we just chatted,’ she’d said. ‘He seems pretty much on the ball.’
He’d made the mistake of saying, ‘I thought it was a bit odd that he’d carry you off for lunch when we could have got lunch here and I could have contributed,’ and she’d stared at him.
‘Gil, it wasn’t a business meeting. It was just a getting-to-know-you session.’
‘Right. It’s just, well, to be honest, I sometimes feel you’re trying to exclude me.’
There was no mistaking her irritation. ‘Gil, I’m grateful for the help and support you give me, but I have my job and you have yours. They’re not the same; your job is running the Foundation here and it’s a big enough responsibility for you not to feel you have to take on aspects of mine.’
Then she’d changed the subject by asking him how the writers were settling in. He’d given her a fairly terse reply and then gone off to nurse his grievance. This had been the job of his dreams, the job he deserved, but it wasn’t, really. Cassie used her privileged position to block him constantly. It was his right to be involved in all the big decisions, an important part of the public face of the Foundation; instead she got all the invitations to the parties and premieres while he was expected to sort out the plumbing problems in the cloakrooms and keep the cleaners up to scratch.
He’d thought, too, that he would get to know Anna, gain her respect so that she would take an interest in him, but that hadn’t worked at all – she’d never actually bothered to come and meet him. Marta hadn’t either. The unfairness of it cut deep; he felt entitled to much more than that.
This morning had been even worse. Even though he’d still been feeling annoyed, he’d made the effort to go in and be pleasant and cheerful at their usual meeting. Then, quite by chance, he’d said, ‘I wonder if they’ll be wanting to make Jacob’s Angel into a film.’
Cassie had laughed. ‘Oh yes. We’ve been in negotiations for some time. Terribly hush-hush, of course, but I know I can rely on you not to say anything.’
Rage was almost choking him, but he managed to say stiffly, ‘Naturally.’ Then he’d got up, saying rather pointedly that he supposed he’d better get back to his duties downstairs. He even thought he’d heard her sigh as he went out. Yet another example of her rubbing it in that he was just the hired hand.
When he reached the Hub, Sascha, Marion and Mick were all working at their desks. There was no sign of Elena; he’d hardly set eyes on her since she arrived. She was the one with real literary class, Gil reckoned, the sort the Foundation ought to be supporting instead of people like Jason Jackson, who was right at this moment making free with coffee from the flask on the refreshment table.
He turned round as Gil came in. ‘Ah! Just the very man.’ He walked across, holding out his mug. ‘What do you call this?’
Gil looked. It did, admittedly, look a bit weak this morning. ‘Coffee,’ he snapped. ‘What do you call it?’ He was smarting already and now his hackles rose at being treated like a waiter.
Jason contemplated it, as if he was seeing it for the first time. ‘Hard to say, really. Bilge water springs to mind, but perhaps that’s a rather clichéd comparison for someone who’s a writer. Still, never knock a cliché until you can offer something better and it’s such a good description that I have to admit I’ve failed.’
‘Yes, I heard that you had.’ Gil delivered the putdown with vicious satisfaction.
Jason’s eyes darkened. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by that. Someone told me once that rabbits have a rather nas
ty bite. But I was talking about the coffee. Surely Anna Harper can afford to provide something better than watery Nescafé?’
To everyone’s surprise, before Gil could point out coldly that it was filter, Marion spoke up. ‘I think it’s very nice. It’s very generous of Ms Harper to do all this for us and it’s rude and ungrateful to complain.’
Jason stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘Oooh, I bet the kids in Primary 3 were terrified of you! Sorry, miss. Don’t smack my fingers or I’ll cry.’
There was something odd about him this morning, Gil thought. He’d heard him being disrespectful of Anna more or less regularly and he’d treated Gil himself with careless contempt to the point where he’d had to walk away before he gave way to unprofessional rage, but just now Jason seemed almost high, as if he’d taken something. Which could well be the explanation.
Marion contented herself with a withering glance. Mick gave a short laugh, then went back to typing. Sascha got up and came over.
‘I want to dissociate myself from what Jason’s saying too. He doesn’t speak for any of the rest of us, Gil.’ She turned to Jason. ‘Sneering at Anna Harper while you grab whatever’s going with both hands is pretty low – just sponging, really. This is meant to be an opportunity for a writer, and I doubt if you’re even that. Your publisher doesn’t seem to be rushing out a follow-up.’
A look of black temper crossed Jason’s face and for a moment Gil thought he was going to hit Sascha. ‘You watch what you say, woman,’ he snarled, but controlled himself enough to add with an unpleasant smile, ‘And what about you? I looked you up on Amazon, but oddly enough I couldn’t find a chick-lit author by the name of Sascha Silverton.’
Sascha’s face flooded with dark colour. ‘You really are a vile little man! I don’t write chick-lit under my own name. I’m saving that for the sort of book I really want to write, the kind I’m lucky enough to have been given the opportunity to work on now, which is why I’m grateful to the Foundation.’
Gil, alarmed by the escalating row, said hastily, ‘Look, I think—’ but he was ignored. Jason cut across him saying, ‘Oh really? Judging by the puerile drivel that I read on your laptop when you were out of the room, even your pals at Mills and Boon wouldn’t take it.’
Sascha’s big brown eyes were murderous slits. ‘You’ll regret making an enemy of me, Jason Jackson. I have useful friends. Wait and see.’
For a moment he hesitated. Then he laughed. ‘Ooh, I’m scared! But don’t we all?’ He walked away, back to his desk to pick up his laptop and his coat. ‘I’ve had enough of this place. The stink of incense being burnt on the altar of the great Anna Harper is turning me sick. She’s fooled you all, but she hasn’t fooled me. Goodbye, suckers.’ He pushed open the door to the street and slammed it as he left.
The sound echoed in the huge room. In the silence that followed Gil could hear Sascha still breathing fast but it was Marion who broke it. She was trembling a little, but her voice was determinedly bright as she said, ‘Well, that wasn’t very edifying, was it? He really is a very unpleasant young man. I hope that’s the last we’re going to see of him here. Are you all right, Sascha?’
Mick, who had been a silent observer, said, ‘Oh, I reckon Sascha can look after herself. You gave as good as you got, girl.’
‘I’m sorry, everyone,’ Sascha said stiffly. ‘I’m mortified that I allowed him to get under my skin. I suppose we’re all just ridiculously sensitive when it comes to someone criticising what we write.’
‘Of course. I can understand that,’ Gil said. ‘I’m sorry too that you’ve been exposed to such a nasty little scene. This is meant to provide a tranquil haven for you to get on with your work.’
As if it was a signal, they all moved back towards their workstations, though Mick said drily, ‘Oh, don’t apologise. Sure brightened up my morning.’
Looking at Sascha’s face, set in frigid lines, Gil didn’t think she’d go along with that. He would have said he yielded to no one in his loathing for Jason Jackson, but he might even have to give her best.
When Gil left her office, Cassie Trentham sat back in her chair, her shoulders sagging in weariness. She really was very tired; she’d forced herself to keep going just as if her head and her cuts and bruises weren’t sore and her heart didn’t ache. Grief was very debilitating; the energy you needed to keep it at bay sapped your strength.
What she didn’t need was other people creating more problems for her. People like Gil. He’d been a mistake and she had no one to blame but herself. The demands on her time grew every year and appointing a deputy who could take over running the Hub made a lot of sense. She’d had a good field when she advertised – Anna’s name was a big draw – but too many of the candidates seemed overqualified: bright young graduates who were looking for more than she was prepared to offer.
Gil had far and away the least glamorous CV. He’d moved about in various jobs, but he had good references and he’d really done his homework on the Foundation and Anna too; it was his enthusiasm that had won her over. One or two of the applicants had made it obvious that they were disappointed by the job specification but he would have no reason to think that the job she appointed him to do was beneath him.
Reason clearly had nothing to do with it. He’d started encroaching almost from the start and she found it hard to deal with his sulking when an impractical suggestion he made wasn’t taken up. She couldn’t really figure him out; sometimes he seemed to be trying to chat her up and put her down at the same time. There was no doubt that he bitterly resented her superior position. As he saw it, he had beaten a whole lot of strong candidates to get his job whereas she had sailed into hers by virtue of being her mother’s daughter.
Cassie did actually feel a little guilty over not telling him about the negotiations for the filming rights to Jacob’s Angel. It was their London lawyers who were handling this, of course, so in a way it was nothing to do with the work here, but if she’d had a deputy who wasn’t suffering from delusions of grandeur she’d have talked to him about it. If she’d told Gil, though, he’d have wanted to come along the next time she went up for a meeting and if she told him that wasn’t appropriate she’d have had another hissy fit to deal with.
It couldn’t go on like this. She had a slight hope that he might flounce out when he realised she wasn’t going to let him elbow her aside, but she had a nasty feeling that he wouldn’t abandon the ground he felt he had gained. Sooner or later she’d have to sack the man, but please, not now. Not with everything else she was having to cope with at the moment.
Like Anna. What was going on there? It might seem natural enough for a mother to look drawn and haggard when she’d just lost her only son, but Cassie had never seen Anna looking like that, not when Felix died, not even at the funeral. She hadn’t started on the possessive, protective stuff until after Cassie’s own accident.
It was so obvious that there was something they weren’t telling her. She couldn’t understand why not; if it was a threat to her own safety, she had a right to know what it was. Then she could decide whether or not she wanted to be taken into protective custody at Highfield.
Anna and Marta had always had their secrets. When they were young, she and Felix had known that but never really questioned it – children tend to accept whatever is familiar and it was just the way things were. But talking to Richard Sansom had brought home to her how little, how very little she actually knew about her mother. She’d said, almost casually, that she and Felix had reckoned Anna had changed the name she’d started out with, as if that was just something people did. It wasn’t what normal people did, but if you were Anna’s child ‘normal’ sort of didn’t apply.
There was a lot subsumed under ‘The Brand’. It had been dinned into them that nothing must tarnish Anna’s image as someone so dedicated to her art that it left her no energy for commonplace activities like giving interviews and going to literary festivals; part of the mystique was that her past was a sealed book. Now
her daughter was starting to wonder in earnest what that book contained.
She was rubbing her brow to try to smooth out the furrows when there was a knock on the door. She had no appointments this morning. Oh lord, she thought, please not Gil again!
But when she said, ‘Come in,’ it was Sascha Silverton who opened the door, peering tentatively round it.
‘Look, I’m sorry to interrupt you. I hope you don’t mind – I won’t keep you long.’
Why, she wondered, when someone says, ‘I hope you don’t mind?’ is it a reflex to say, ‘No, of course not,’ even when you do mind, quite a lot?
Cassie forced a smile. ‘No, of course not. Take a seat.’
She saw Sascha’s eyes scan the room and could read her thoughts as she registered Mies van der Rohe chairs and Cassie’s le Corbusier desk. It was certainly a very elegant office but then it was an important part of the package for the Foundation’s office, and the Foundation’s Chair as well, to look the part as the front office for The Brand. As with Gil, Sascha’s envy was unmistakable.
She was, however, smiling at Cassie in a nervous sort of way, her eyes modestly lowered. ‘Look, this is a bit embarrassing. I’ve come to apologise.’
‘Good gracious! Whatever for?’
‘I’m afraid there was a bit of a scene this morning in the Hub. I’m sure Gil will tell you all about it and I wanted to say sorry before you heard.’
It wasn’t hard to recognise this as a pre-emptive apology that would allow Sascha to get her retaliation in first and the last thing Cassie wanted was to be drawn into a petty squabble. She said lightly, ‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no need. It certainly wasn’t loud enough to disturb me and I daresay there weren’t any windows broken.’
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