‘You’d better come in,’ he said wearily, rubbing his eyes with his hands. ‘I’ve no idea what the time is.’
‘It’s eleven thirty,’ said Fleur briskly. ‘Thank you, Magnus, I will.’ She was very surprised by how much in control she felt: she supposed it was because she had never seen him other than powerfully alert, relaxed – albeit in his own slightly wary brand of relaxation – and patently fit.
‘Coffee?’ he said, leading her into the kitchen. ‘I imagine you don’t want to get to sleep for a while.’
‘No, I don’t. Yes, coffee’d be good. You look terrible, Magnus.’
‘I feel terrible,’ he said.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Oh – all right. It’s tough. The toughest point. I’m about two-thirds through. I always liken it to being on a raft, drifting across some vast river. I’ve lost sight of land, and I’m running out of provisions. It’s – wearing.’
‘What a shame,’ said Fleur tartly.
Magnus said nothing, just looked at her and then walked into his black and white kitchen, put the kettle on, ground some beans.
‘I’m going to have some toast,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had any dinner. I don’t think. How about you?’
‘I don’t want anything to eat,’ said Fleur. ‘I’ve been eating aeroplane food for what feels like days.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He started piling butter thickly on to the toast, reached into his larder for the Cooper’s Oxford.
‘The profits of that stuff would dip alarmingly if anything happened to you, I should think,’ said Fleur.
‘I suppose they would.’ He handed her the coffee. ‘Fleur, what do you want?’
‘I want to know what you’re saying in your book. About my father. About all that.’
‘You know I’m not going to tell you.’
‘Magnus, you have to. It’s my story. Mine. You couldn’t have done it without me.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘Well then, you have to tell me.’
‘Fleur, I’m not going to. I can’t. Anyway, it’s not just your story. Piers Windsor could make the same claim. I certainly haven’t let him read the book. Anyway, it isn’t written. Yet.’
‘That’s balls,’ said Fleur amiably. ‘I don’t need finished approved copy. Just a rough first draft will do.’
‘I don’t write rough drafts,’ said Magnus cheerfully. He was clearly feeling better; he started on his third piece of toast.
Fleur looked at him, and a sensation of pure sweet rage went over her: she reached out and knocked the toast out of his hand. ‘Go and get the manuscript, you bastard,’ she said.
Magnus looked at her and grinned. ‘You’re clearly getting excited,’ he said. ‘I can tell by your language.’
‘Oh, go to hell,’ said Fleur. She looked at the doorway, wondering wildly, foolishly, if she could run through it, up to his study, lock herself in.
Magnus read her thoughts; he moved slightly to block her way.
‘Magnus,’ said Fleur, cursing the slight shake in her voice, ‘Magnus, for fuck’s sake, let me see that manuscript.’
‘No.’ He was smiling at her slightly, like a great complacent cat with its prey; she thought she had never hated anyone so much.
‘I never thought,’ she said, ‘that I’d feel sorry for Piers Windsor. But I do now. I always thought he was the biggest bastard on earth. But he’s an angel compared with you.’
‘Compared with a lot of people,’ said Magnus. ‘As you’ll find out when the book is published.’
‘Oh, Magnus,’ said Fleur and the word came out like a groan and there was suddenly no rage in her voice, only a terrible sadness, a pain. ‘Magnus, when I met you, I was so comforted. That at last someone understood. About my father. About how I felt. I thought I’d found my answer. And all you’ve done is make things worse. I’ve bared my whole life, my whole fucking soul to you, and now what are you doing? Throwing it back in my face. I can’t stand it, I just can’t stand it. I’m going. There’s no point expecting you to behave like a normal human being because you’re not one. One day, Magnus Phillips, I hope someone torments you as you’re tormenting all of us. I hope your life gets totally and utterly fucked up. Now get out of my way. I’m going.’
Magnus looked at her, and then he looked down at the floor; for the briefest instant she saw a flash of – what? Remorse in his dark eyes. Then he looked up again and said very quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Fleur. I hope one day you’ll forgive me.’
The quietness, the gentleness startled her; she stood staring at him, frightened, and at the same time oddly moved. Then he suddenly reached out and took her hand, as he had once before, looking at it, studying it; a lick of desire, entirely unexpected, shot through Fleur. She was startled by it, by its intensity; contrasting with the other emotions, her rage, her fear, her sense of loneliness, it seemed absurdly, ridiculously sweet. She knew she had to go; that she must get out of the house, quickly, and yet somehow she couldn’t move, stood quite still, staring at him, hating him, furiously, fiercely angry with him – and wanting him more than she had ever wanted anyone.
And as he looked at her, still quiet, still gentle, he recognized that, saw it, and he said, ‘Dear God, dear dear God, Fleur, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it any longer.’ He moved forward and pushed her back against the wall, and started kissing her frantically, hard, hurting her, and she felt his hand fumbling, frantic, pushing up her dress, pulling down her pants, and then with a shocking, desperate urgency he was in her; she felt him, felt his penis, pushing up hard, harder, his hands behind her pushing her buttocks inwards, and she felt she would shatter with the force of him, wanted to shatter, wanted to break, and she did, frighteningly, fearsomely soon, broke into a rain of brightness, of shock around him, sank on to him, crying out, her voice wild and strange as she had not heard it before, her arms flung wide in abandonment against the wall, her fists clenching and unclenching with pleasure; she felt him come, and then slowly, gently, he lowered her and sank on to the floor, pulling her down beside him, and started kissing her again, saying her name, over and over, and then he stopped kissing her, pushed her head back, looked into her eyes. Great breakers of the hunger grew in her, rolled, unfurled, began to travel again; she clenched herself against them, willing them to wait, wanting to stay thus, wild, quivering, lurching, knowing nothing, nothing at all but her body and its needs and its delights, its ability to give and to take, to lead and to follow. And he was thrusting, urging, resting, then thrusting again, and every time the rollers, the breakers, grew, mounted and there was a high, bright, faint spot of brilliance and she was reaching for it somehow and it grew, fiercer, hotter, larger, until she was there, reaching into it, pushing through it and there it was, a new climax, a sweet savage violence, and as it flowed and flooded and warmed and soothed her, she cried out again; then as she quietened, eased, she looked at him, saw in the depths of his dark eyes all the joy, all the remorse, all the fear, all the pleasure of what had been done.
Later, much later, they sat on either side of the fire in his small drawing room; Magnus had fetched them each a brandy; Fleur was wearing one of his large bathrobes. She felt very odd, very confused. She didn’t say anything, just sat staring at him, waiting for him to clarify what had happened between them. She did not dare to let herself think of the consequences: on any level. One step, one second at a time: that was enough. Just one.
Finally Magnus spoke. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me.’
She shrugged, half smiled. ‘It was hardly rape,’ she said.
‘Oh, Fleur,’ he said, looking at her, and then reached out, and once again took her hand. He sat there, holding it, looking at her, his dark eyes probing into hers; finally he said, looking away, into the fire, ‘I’ve only said this on two other occasions
in my life, Fleur. But I love you.’
‘Oh,’ she said, and she was more afraid, more terrified by those words than she could ever remember being of anything.
‘I loved you straight away. When you walked into this house before. It was like – I don’t know. Being kneed in the crotch and the heart at the same time. I’ve tried to ignore it, tried to make it go away. But it won’t. I love everything about you, from your awful temper and your dreadful language to that terrible honesty of yours, and your courage, and your fucking, fucking beautiful face. I’m sorry, Fleur. I shouldn’t have told you. But I think I owe you that much.’
She was still silent, staring at him.
‘I know you love your Reuben. I know you’re going to marry him.’
She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said and her voice was rough, cracked. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
He smiled, an oddly sweet smile that sat strangely on his dark brooding face. ‘Good. Well perhaps the damage can be limited.’
Magnus,’ she said, the truth fighting to surface, struggling to be born, ‘Magnus, you don’t understand. I –’
‘Fleur, listen to me. Please. This is very difficult for me. Very difficult. But I really can’t tell you what’s in this book. It’s – well, it’s too dangerous. I hardly dare write it myself. If I tell you I’ve been burgled, and my publisher has been burgled, and I’ve been threatened, perhaps you’ll find it easier to bear with me.’
Fleur stared at him. ‘Burgled? Threatened? But – but that’s preposterous.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t.’
‘But, Magnus, why, and by whom?’
‘I don’t want to tell you, Fleur. I really think it’s better you don’t know. At the moment.’
‘But, Magnus, surely not by – by anyone to do with Piers? I mean he is a truly terrible man and a true pain in the anus, but I really can’t believe he’d do anything like that.’
Magnus looked at her. ‘I’d rather you didn’t start questioning me, Fleur. I just want you to understand why I can’t tell you any more.’
‘But surely, the police –’
‘Fleur, I’m raking over very old ground here. The whole story sounds purest fantasy. I want to get this book finished and then I think yes, the police may want to get involved. Incidentally’ – he looked at her, half smiled – ‘if you had raided my study just then, as I think you were briefly planning to do, you wouldn’t have found any trace of a book called The Tinsel Underneath. Just a lot of files and manuscripts entitled A History of Fleet Street. Only that’s classified information. For your ears only.’
‘That’s clever,’ said Fleur, ‘I like that. Magnus, this is all exactly like an episode of Starsky and Hutch.’
‘Yes, I know. It feels like it sometimes. Although I don’t think I’m quite as brave as those guys. Anyway’ – he shrugged – ‘we shall see. But no, you’re right, Fleur, I don’t think Piers Windsor is dangerous. In that sort of way.’ He smiled at her again. ‘Although, as you say, a right royal pain in the arse. I believe he’s up for a knighthood this year. Sir Piers. God, what a thought. There’ll be no holding him then.’
‘Might your book stop him getting it?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. I suppose it might.’ He grinned at her again, his most Machiavellian grin. ‘That would be a shame.’
‘Well,’ said Fleur. She felt very tired suddenly, drained of every possible emotion. ‘Well, Magnus, I don’t know what to think, what to do. It all sounds very frightening, very odd. And you really won’t tell me what it’s all about?’
‘I think you’re safer not knowing. And I care about you too much to put you at risk. I’ve been worrying about you, as it is.’
‘But why? Because I’m part of the story?’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Can you tell me one thing?’
‘I might.’
‘Does any of this really terrible stuff involve my dad?’
He hesitated. Then he said, ‘No. Well, not in the way you may be afraid of. No.’
‘Magnus, wouldn’t it be better not to publish the book? Just to go to the police, tell them what you’ve found out?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘I think publishing the book is going to be very interesting. Very interesting indeed. If the lawyers let me do it, of course. What I shall certainly do is hand everything over to the police on the day of publication. That’s what they taught us in crime-reporting class.’
‘Shit,’ said Fleur, ‘shit, Magnus, suddenly I feel scared. Really scared.’
‘You’ll be OK,’ he said, ‘but just stay out of it, all right? Just be patient for a little while longer and trust me.’
‘It’s a little difficult,’ she said, ‘to put it mildly. But I’ll try.’
She went to bed soon after that; alone in a small bedroom on Magnus’s top floor. She lay there, wakeful, exhausted, disturbed – and afraid. Afraid of what might happen, of what was to emerge, of what dreadful things Magnus had uncovered. What scandals were to be unearthed now, what reputations to be wrecked, that people should threaten him, burgle his home, try to stop him doing – what? Publishing a book? A book? Since when had a book been that damaging, that important? As the dawn broke, as the wintry light crept round the blinds, as the traffic began to roar intermittently, she gave up on that one, wrenched her mind away, forced herself to accept what he said, that she must wait, not get involved. She trusted him. In spite of everything. She always had. It was one of the things she had recognized in him, the first moment she had seen him, that she could trust him.
She turned her mind to what he had said: that he loved her. In her wildest imaginings, she had not expected, not thought that. It was so out of character somehow – or out of the character she had perceived in him, ruthless, careless, arrogant. Every time she remembered the words, his voice as he said them, wary, reluctant almost, raw with emotion, she felt weak, shaken, literally shocked; and every time she saw herself again, standing there, against the wall, with him fucking her, invading her, pushing her, driving her into that incredible soaring pleasure, her body throbbed, tensed physically at the memory. Well, it was not a love that was going to come to anything. It couldn’t. She was supposed to be – no, she was going to marry Reuben. Magnus sure as hell wasn’t going to marry anyone. What had happened between them had been an incredible, extraordinary experience, nearer to fantasy than reality; she had to put it behind her, forget it, go home, get on with her life. That was what she had to do.
The Tinsel Underneath
Chapter Ten. Accidental Death
Every plot must have a villain and a hero. In the case of Brendan FitzPatrick, he played both.
Brendan started out one of the good guys. He was a gallant pilot; a faithful lover; a devoted son; a perfect father.
What changed him was the corruption of others: and an ability to be corrupted. Had he stayed in New York, he would have been safe. But he went to Hollywood, and was no match for it. He was vain, foolish, and not overbright; the machinations of Naomi MacNeice, Kirstie Fairfax, the PR machine and his own ambition turned him into someone dishonest, greedy, and ultimately ruthless. He could be seen as a victim; but he was actually the author of his own end.
He was playing some very dangerous games; and he wasn’t clever enough to play them.
When he first arrived in Hollywood, he slept around: he was completely dazzled by what was on offer. Both men and women. Nothing new in that. Hollywood has always had a corner in sexual ambivalence. Brendan had not actually thought himself homosexual; his early inclinations were very hetero. But he slept with one man for expediency and, entirely to his surprise, developed something of a taste for the experience. He was charming, attractive, amusing; he got in with a very hedonistic crowd and, until the novelty wore off, lived life to the full.
&
nbsp; Then he met and fell in love with Rose Sharon; became, as he put it, a reformed character, and until Naomi MacNeice began to call the shots, snapped her fingers, became again the young man he had been: nice, straightforward, loyal, loving.
But once a boundary has been crossed, it is impossible to go back entirely. Brendan was, if nothing else, ambitious; he wanted money – for his small daughter as much as himself – he wanted success and he wanted fame. Those three things lured him away from Rose, away from virtue. He literally sold out. He did what Naomi said: unquestioningly. And the rewards were considerable.
But then he got bored. Naomi was a tough mistress. The studio was tougher. He missed fun, youth, diversion. He needed relief. And he found it in Kirstie Fairfax, and her dissolute crowd.
March 1972
Joe Payton was standing stark naked in his bedroom, wondering whether a clean shirt with two absent buttons would look better or worse than a slightly grubby one with its full complement, when his door bell rang. That would be the cuttings the Sunday Express were sending round, background to his piece on the new wonder boy, David Essex. He went to answer it; put his arm round the door to take the cuttings. ‘Thanks,’ he said, through the crack. ‘Anything to sign? Sorry, I’ve got no clothes on.’
‘I suppose they’re all dirty,’ said the voice the other side of the door. It was not a messenger; it was Caroline.
He had often wondered how he would react if – or rather as he supposed was more likely when – he saw her again: whether he would be pleased, angry, upset. He certainly could not have expected to find it funny.
‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘just let me get something on, and I’ll let you in.’
‘Oh, Joe,’ said Caroline, sounding impatient, ‘I don’t care if you haven’t got any clothes on.’
‘Well, I do,’ he said firmly, and went to find his dressing-gown. It had a lot of toast crumbs adhering to its front, but was better than nothing. ‘Come in,’ he said, undoing the chain, opening the door.
AN Outrageous Affair Page 79
