‘I’m sorry, darling, I really can’t. Not now. Late already. See you tonight, darling. I’ll be late again, I’m afraid. Goodbye, my darling Pandora. Bye, Kitty and Ned. Have a nice day, take care.’
He bent and kissed Chloe gently and left, closing the front door quietly. Chloe stared after him, wondering how much longer she could stand it.
She had been home for a week now; a sad, lonely week. She was still frail, still subject to severe headaches, still unable to drive or indeed do more than hobble about the house. She could never remember being so unhappy.
Ludovic had written to her: a cold, hurt little note. He said he couldn’t quite understand her behaviour, but he felt that if she could be so secretive about such a matter, it did not bode well for their future together. He said he hoped she would soon be feeling better and he wished her well. He signed the note simply ‘Ludovic’.
Chloe phoned him the moment she had read it. His secretary was polite and said Mr Ingram was in conference with a client, and she would certainly pass the message on. Ludovic did not ring. It was inconceivable that he could not have got the message, but Chloe tried once more, just in case. His secretary assured her that she had given the message to Ludovic personally.
She tried him at home: left two messages on his answering machine which he left permanently on. The first message was calm and asked him to ring her: the second was desperate and begged him. Ludovic ignored them both.
Chloe wrote a letter, pages of explanation, about her panic, her terror of upsetting Piers, always so dangerously emotional, her obsession with getting the right moment, her fear that if Ludovic had known about the baby he would just arrive at the house and tell Piers himself, and God knew what Piers would do after that. She said she missed Ludovic, she loved him, she had things she was desperate to talk to him about: she begged him to contact her. Ludovic ignored the letter.
Chloe lost hope.
But what she did have to do, she felt, was set matters straight with Piers. She could not go on with this thing between them, this terrible, unacknowledged, desperately important thing. He must know she knew; he must have found the unlocked drawer, would probably have heard from Mr Lewis at the bank about his conversation with her. And yet he had initially refused to discuss it, went on, day after day, treating her courteously, considerately, affectionately even. He never mentioned the miscarriage either. Chloe was baffled. After the first few days, when she was beginning to feel better, he left for Stratford, where Othello was to be staged, and stayed down there most of the time, rehearsing from early in the morning until late at night, putting in a call to her to make sure she was all right at some time every day, but no more. When he did come home, usually on Sundays, he slept in his small dressing room. That first Sunday she had made him sit down, told him she had to talk to him, had to know about Gerard Zwirn.
‘I don’t want to tell you,’ he had said, ‘I really don’t want to talk about it. It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘But Piers, it is. I’m your wife.’
‘I know,’ he said, and his eyes were very sad as he looked at her. ‘I know you are.’
‘Well then. It is something to do with me. You’re paying him a great deal of money, you clearly have done for years. Piers, I have a right to know why.’
He was silent.
‘Piers,’ she said, fighting to keep calm, ‘Piers, please. What is it? Is he blackmailing you or something? I have to know.’
And then he stood up and said, ‘Chloe, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it. No, he isn’t blackmailing me, and there is nothing wrong going on. I swear to that. He’s a colleague from the past, who needed my help. That’s all. You don’t have to worry about it. Now please accept that.’
‘But Piers, it’s so much money, such a huge commitment. Surely –’
‘Chloe,’ said Piers, sounding angry suddenly, in the terrible controlled way he sometimes did, ‘Chloe, can we leave this please. I don’t want to discuss it. I’m sorry.’
Chloe gave up. She told herself she was only giving up until she felt better, stronger, but she could see that unless she went out to Santa Barbara herself, she was not going to find out the truth. And she lay awake, night after night, tossing her aching head restlessly, desperately from side to side, telling herself, trying to believe, that what Piers said was true, that there was nothing wrong, nothing sinister, and failing absolutely. The other thing that haunted her, baffled her, was why he had made absolutely no attempt to discuss the miscarriage, the baby, to find out who had fathered it. But he didn’t seem to want to do any such thing. And as the days turned to weeks, and February dragged on towards March, she realized that this was how it was going to be. He wasn’t going to talk and he wasn’t going to listen. He was safe, inside his shell, seeing no evil, hearing no evil, and he wanted to keep it that way. And there was nothing she could do about it. Absolutely nothing at all.
Henry Chancellor looked at Magnus Phillips across the room he rather affectedly called his study, and tried to keep calm.
‘Now look,’ he said, ‘you’re obviously getting cold feet about this. I can understand it. One slip and you’re dead. All that. I know. It’s scary. But of course you must go on. Otherwise . . .’ He paused ominously.
‘Yes, sure, I know, otherwise you’ll lose an awful lot of money. And an awful lot of face.’
‘Magnus, it’s you who will be losing both those commodities. Far more than I.’
‘How much?’ said Magnus briefly.
‘Well, for a start, you will have to return your advance.’
Magnus shrugged. ‘I’ve only had the first tranche. Haven’t touched it. Beauman could have it back tomorrow.’
‘There are also the serial rights.’
‘Nothing signed or sold yet. Unless you’ve been holding out on me.’
‘No, of course not. But the Americans are snapping hard at Beauman’s bait. He’d be a very angry man. He’s staked a lot of his reputation on this. Especially considering not a word’s been seen yet. And then there are the tabloids. Same thing there. I would say Beauman’s got a good case for suing you for loss of profits. Given the figures on your last book, I’d put the figure at at least a quarter of a million. I really wouldn’t do it, Magnus.’
Magnus looked at him for a long time. ‘My house was broken into the other night,’ he said.
Chancellor stared at him. ‘Did – did they take much?’ he said.
‘Nothing valuable. I had what I think they were looking for with me.’
‘Magnus, you’re crazy. The thing isn’t that hot.’
‘It could be,’ said Magnus.
Henry went very white. ‘Are you saying –?’
‘I’m saying that someone might be very anxious to know what’s in it. That’s all.’
‘Oh, that’s ridiculous,’ said Henry.
‘Yes, I expect it is.’
‘Did you tell the police?’ said Chancellor.
‘Of course. They weren’t much help.’
‘Jesus, Magnus. This is – well, getting out of hand.’
‘It does seem as if it might,’ said Magnus.
‘Have you any idea who did it?’
‘A few, yes. Don’t worry, Henry, I have it with me. All the time. You won’t lose your rather warm property.’
‘Magnus, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize – I’d have been more sympathetic if I had. So – are you really serious about this? Do you really want to pull out?’
Magnus gave him his most intense look. He was silent for a long time. He could see Henry begin to sweat.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No, I don’t really. Rather the reverse, I think. It could get even more exciting. I was just – testing. Just thinking. You’re right though. It is scary.’
‘Magnus, I wish you’d finish the bloody thin
g. Then we could have the lawyers look at it, put them to work. You’re scaring me now.’
‘Henry, I keep telling you. I can’t finish it. There’s still one piece left to go. It’s the piece that will let us all sleep nights. Just be patient, old chap.’
‘And where is this final piece to come from, Magnus? Any ideas?’
‘Yes. Little place called California. I have to get back there one more time. Then I can really start writing.’
‘Start? For Christ’s sake, Magnus, it’s nearly the end of January. We have to deliver in July.’
‘We will, old son, we will. Long before then. This thing is going to fly out of the typewriter. Have faith.’
‘That’s what they used to tell the early martyrs too,’ said Henry Chancellor gloomily. ‘Look, Magnus, if you’re seriously worried –’
‘I’m not seriously worried,’ said Magnus. He grinned at Henry. ‘I’m just shitting myself, Henry. That’s all.’
Three days later Henry Chancellor’s offices were broken into as well.
February – March 1972
Writing and publishing a book, Magnus Phillips was fond of saying, was rather like the act of sex and procreation. There was the early, tantalizing pleasure as an idea was floated, researched, agreed upon; a growing and intense excitement, accompanied by huge effort, as the book was written; and then after the heady, sweaty climax of completion, a race to survive, to reach the safe haven of the reviewers’ approval, the booksellers’ welcome, the public’s esteem. After that, he would say, pouring himself another brandy, beaming round the dinner table, if you were very lucky, your progeny, because of some very special quality all of its own, grew, flourished, blossomed into something special, charismatic, brilliant, something fashionable, indeed essential, took on a life all of its own, and became independent, vital, and needed you no more. This was certainly the case for The Tinsel Underneath: not a word of it had yet been read, apart from a brief synopsis, a few compulsive paragraphs on the jacket proof, the early press releases, and still fewer (and still more compulsive) ones in the advertising campaign: nobody knew quite what it was going to be about (save that it contained the irresistible combination of scandal and famous names) and nobody even knew quite which and how many famous names were to be in it. And yet the excitement about it, initially contained in the publishing world, moving out into the chattering classes, and then a more general public, via the media, newspaper stories, magazine articles, interviews on the late-night, highbrow chat shows, was already intense.
Richard Beauman had been heard to say, in slightly baffled tones, a pleased smile none the less on his naturally rather lugubrious face, that he had as yet made very little effort to publicize the book, and yet it had gathered reputation with incredible speed, a small glittering snowflake swiftly become a rolling avalanche. The fame had spread far beyond the boundaries of London and its theatrical and media circles: there was by that spring of 1972 a huge and hungry audience greedy for this story of the great and the good and the not so good, spanning as it did London, New York and Los Angeles, the three most charismatic cities in the world. And in one of those cities, one of the people most intimately concerned with the book, most impatient for its publication, tried to distract herself from thoughts of both it and its author with the preparations for her forthcoming wedding.
Fleur had never taken drugs, but she felt she knew now what it must be like, to be obsessed with something, to crave it so desperately you would risk anything, do anything to get it. Only her drug was not cocaine or marijuana, it was Magnus Phillips and he occupied her thoughts and indeed her feelings and evoked certain physical sensations every time she allowed the thoughts to extend beyond the most fleeting variety in a way that threatened to entirely take over her life.
Only that was ridiculous, because he did not love her, and she did not love him, and in time, without doubt, she would forget about it, and him, and be able to commit herself entirely, one hundred per cent, to dear Reuben who loved her and who of course she loved, and indeed was going to marry in considerable style in only a very few months. She watched herself in some amazement trying on dresses, choosing dresses for the small female Steinbergs who were to be her attendants, buying shoes, gloves, a hat (‘I’m sorry, Reuben, but I am not going to be one of those sentimental brides.’ ‘Fine,’ said Reuben cheerfully), talking to caterers, discussing with Sylvia Morton – who had cast herself as much mother of the bride as Sol had become father – such fine points as flowers, waitresses, speeches; she heard herself choosing hymns, readings, music with Father Donahue at the Catholic church on Columbus, where she had occasionally gone to Confession (like most Catholics, Fleur set huge store by Confession, feeling cleansed, forgiven and able to start all over again once she had left the Confessional), and where she was now to be married. And she heard herself with equal detachment telling Reuben she loved him, that she was looking forward to becoming Mrs Blake, watched herself looking over apartments with him, larger, made-for-two apartments, while all the time thinking hour on hour almost exclusively about Magnus Phillips, when she might see him again, and what might happen when she did. Only mercifully for her, her sanity and her future as a respectable matron, Magnus was in London, locked away in his house in Thurloe Square, writing eighteen hours a day, and not answering letters, the telephone, or even the door bell.
One morning in late March, as she wrestled over the copy for her cosmetic range – finally taking off, under the headline ‘Just the face for Just the clothes. Just Morton’s’ – her phone rang. It was Bernard Stobbs.
‘Fleur, my dear, I’m having a little party tomorrow night. One of my new books. I wondered if you’d like to come? I’m sorry it’s such short notice, but I suddenly remembered you, and I thought it would be a nice excuse to see you again.’
‘Bernard, I’d love to,’ said Fleur, startling herself with the yearning in her voice, ‘I really really would. Thank you.’
‘Good. Just here, in the boardroom, six o’clock.’
‘I might be a tiny bit late,’ said Fleur, remembering she and Sylvia Morton were going to look at hats for Sylvia. God, this wedding was turning into a nightmare. Why on earth hadn’t she and Reuben just run away together and got married? Because I never would have gone, she thought sadly, and then crushed the thought ruthlessly. There was no future in that. She had been worried at first that Sol would complain about her frequent absences from the office, but he seemed to be as excited about the wedding plans as his own business.
‘You take as much time off as you want,’ he had said to Fleur, patting her shoulder. ‘It’s doing Sylvia far more good than that poxy therapist she sees three times a week. She’s always wanted a daughter and here you are. Ready grown, and getting married.’
‘All right,’ said Fleur with a sigh, removing his hand from where it was making its usual journey down towards her breast. She wasn’t sure that she quite liked her wedding to be seen as an alternative to Sylvia Morton’s psychotherapy, but like everything else that was happening to her at the moment, it seemed to be entirely out of her control.
After three hours of trying and rejecting hats, as being too small, too big, too fancy, too plain, she and Sylvia had a cup of tea at the Plaza, and Sylvia ate two profiteroles and a cream meringue. Sylvia was addicted to cakes and Fleur had had some problem persuading her not to have twice as many at the reception as everything else. She actually looked rather like a cream meringue herself, thought Fleur, looking at her: she was small and sweetly plump, with fluffy blonde hair, and a great fondness for lace and ribbons and glittery jewellery. Fleur had grown first to like and then to love her as she got to know her; she was permanently smiling, good-natured, generous and regarded Sol as some kind of tiresome small boy she had adopted too late to affect his behaviour in any way.
‘He just can’t help it,’ she had said to Fleur as they discussed what she called Sol’s hand problem one day.
‘Show him a thigh or a bust, and he’s on to it.’
‘Don’t you mind?’ said Fleur wonderingly.
‘Only if it’s mine,’ said Sylvia and went into peals of laughter.
She arrived at Stobbs when the party was at its peak: three glasses of champagne down every throat, the air thick with kisses, journalists assuring publishers of impossible numbers of column inches, publishers assuring authors of impossible numbers of copies already sold, booksellers assuring publishers of impossible amounts of shelf and floor space, agents assuring publishers of impossible bounty in their authors’ next books; Fleur stood in the corner, surveying the scene, enjoying it, sipping a glass of Kir Royale thoughtfully, wondering who she might talk to, when a bumptious young man called Adam Coleman, reviewer for the New York Times, and deeply in love with his own way with words, came up to her.
‘Fleur FitzPatrick! Good to see you. Haven’t seen you at one of these things for months.’
‘No, well, I’m not involved with Stobbs’s advertising any more. Sadly,’ said Fleur.
‘It is sad. For all of us. What do you think of the book?’
‘I think it’s gorgeous,’ said Fleur truthfully. It was an aerial picture-book of the States; it would undoubtedly cover enough coffee tables to reach from Park Avenue to the Midwest in a very few months.
‘Me too. I’m reviewing it the week after next. I don’t usually review these picture-books, as you know, but the text is charming, don’t you think? Somehow musical.’
Fleur said yes, very charming, admired a couple of his more recent and florid reviews (she still read the book reviews out of habit) and asked him, her voice as casual as she could make it, her eyes widely fascinated, which books he thought would make it really big that year. She could hardly have pleased Adam Coleman more, she thought, if she had started telling him he had the biggest cock in New York.
‘Well, now that’s a tough one. I guess The Breast, that’s by Philip Roth, obviously the Solzhenitsyn, there’s a brilliant new satirical novel called The Stepford Wives, but I guess the big one, the blockbuster is that English book, The Tinsel Underneath. That is one book that cannot fail. Take it from me, Fleur.’
AN Outrageous Affair Page 77
