In the Still of the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  ‘It looked fine to me,’ Sean said, smiling at Marty Keats.

  She glanced round at him, her eyes brightening at the sight of an attractive man. ‘Thanks. You’re the scriptwriter, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. Sean. Who are you, apart from being very clever with your hands?’

  ‘Marty. Marty Keats.’

  ‘Marty, nice name.’ Sean took off his blue denim jacket and gestured to the right sleeve of his shirt. ‘I don’t suppose you could do anything about this rip in my sleeve?’

  ‘I don’t know if my union rules allow me to do work unless I’m paid for it!’

  ‘Happy to buy you a couple of drinks,’ he offered, giving her a slow smile.

  She fluttered her thick false lashes at him. ‘Now you’re talking! I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘You’re an angel. I was in too much of a hurry, coming into the studio, and caught my sleeve on a door-handle.’ Sean had spent some time arranging the ‘accident’; he hoped it looked natural.

  ‘You’ll have to take it off, honey. I can’t sew it while you’re wearing it.’

  Sean began undoing his buttons, slid the shirt off. Marty eyed his broad shoulders and muscled chest, her tongue-tip running around her lower lip.

  She put out a hand and squeezed his arm muscles. ‘I bet you work out regularly.’

  ‘In every sense of the word,’ Sean said, and she giggled.

  ‘Naughty boy.’ Her hand lingered on his bare arm, stroking him.

  Her hair was the most extraordinary colour; a mass of wild orange curls, flauntingly unreal. Was it a wig? Or dyed? And how old was she? Close to fifty, he suspected. And dressing like fifteen.

  She sat down and began work on his sleeve; it only took her a short while, her needle moving deftly and quickly.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Sean congratulated, shrugging back into his shirt.

  As he started doing up the buttons again, she pushed his hand away and did it for him, her scarlet-nailed fingers moving slowly down his chest. Sean had to fight the impulse to shudder. He disliked her touching him. Her nails were so long and so pointed, more like the talons of a predatory bird; he had a sudden image of them tearing at him, rending him, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck

  ‘You dating Harriet?’ she asked him softly.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Everyone’s betting you are.’

  ‘Then everyone is wrong.’

  ‘Our shining, shimmering star, then?’

  Sean looked blankly down at her. ‘What?’

  She gave him a cynical smile. ‘Sweet little old Annie, darling – the star of the show, are you giving it to her?’

  ‘No,’ he said, disliking her so intensely he wanted to hit her, but trying hard not to show it.

  Her fingers lingered suggestively around his belt, clipping into it, slithering down inside his jeans.

  Sean tried to look as if he liked it. His smile was hurting his face and he felt cold sweat on his forehead.

  ‘If there’s anything else I can ever do for you, just ask,’ she purred.

  He felt sick, but said, ‘We did agree to have those drinks, remember?’

  ‘I’m working until six.’

  ‘The pub across the road does a great steak and we could split a bottle of red wine.’

  ‘Big spender. OK, then – six o’clock in the pub.’

  Annie said goodbye at the end of the corridor – Johnny was going to the right, to take the lift down to the exit, and she was going down the stairs to the studio.

  ‘Thank you for a very good interview. I’ll let you see a copy before it goes to the printers,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Send it to me,’ the PR girl said quickly.

  He nodded but his eyes stayed on Annie.

  She said huskily, ‘I’ll give you my private number, Johnny. I’m ex-directory, so it isn’t in the phone book.’

  The PR girl frowned disapproval.

  Johnny said, ‘Is it still the same?’ And said the number.

  Annie gave a choky little laugh. ‘My God, your memory is phenomenal. Yes, that’s still it, but there’s the London prefix number now, of course. 0171 comes in front of the rest.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll remember.’

  Would he ring her? Annie stared at him, trying to decide. Did she really want him to? A whole lifetime divided them. She was not the wide-eyed girl she had been; he was not that skinny, eager, gentle boy.

  The PR girl shifted pointedly. ‘Sorry, but they’re waiting for you on the set, Annie.’

  She nodded, sighed. ‘Yes, OK, I’m coming. Bye, Johnny.’

  He put out a hand, their fingers touched, then she tore herself away.

  Annie and Derek had to do a re-take of a brief scene they had shot that morning.

  ‘Sorry, not your fault. We’ve had to chop the next two scenes, they didn’t work out, so yours has to be re-shot,’ explained Harriet as they hung about waiting for the cameraman to set up the same angle he had used before, for the lighting team to fix the level of lighting.

  ‘Can’t you just jumpcut?’ grumbled Derek.

  They usually shot three times as much film as they actually used, and when Harriet saw the unprocessed film she would simply jump-cut to make the story run well. It was unusual to re-shoot: far too costly, especially if you were working on location, but this scene had been shot on the studio set.

  Harriet gave him a dry look. ‘If I could, I would, thank you, Derek. I do know my job.’ She handed them each a sheet of script. ‘Just mull this over, then we’ll do a quick run-through before we shoot.’

  She darted away and Derek glared after her.

  ‘I was on my way home when she caught me. I’m dead on my feet. This job is a mug’s game, I get paid buttons and I’m worked like a slave.’

  Annie was reading her lines, not listening to him. Sean hadn’t altered much; she read the words again, frowning with concentration.

  ‘I’m getting sacks of fan mail, now, you know,’ Derek muttered. ‘Time I had a rise. Annie, will you speak to Harriet for me? Tell her you think I should have a rise. I get almost as much fan mail as Mike Bloody Waterford.’

  ‘I heard that! And it’s a lie, you don’t,’ Mike said behind them. ‘Stop kidding yourself. I get more mail than anyone.’

  Annie looked round at him and he gave her a slow, mocking smile, one of his practised smiles, meant to make women’s hearts beat faster. It did absolutely nothing for her.

  ‘Including you, darling,’ he told her. ‘I get twice as much fan mail as you do.’

  Annie didn’t bother to answer. It was probably true; women all over the country went crazy over him, fell hook, line and sinker for the auburn hair and languorous dark eyes, the totally phoney charm of that smile.

  ‘I bet you earn twice as much, too!’ Derek complained, his face sullen.

  ‘I’m worth every penny,’ Mike said in self-satisfaction, sauntering away.

  ‘I’m not being paid what I’m worth,’ said Derek. ‘Will you talk to Harriet for me, Annie?’

  ‘Talk to her yourself. But it isn’t her decision, you know that. She has to convince accounts about every single penny she spends.’ Annie hunched her shoulders. ‘Look, can we learn these lines? We haven’t got all day.’

  He looked quickly around to make sure nobody could hear them, then lowered his voice to a hissing whisper, grabbing her arm to make her look at him. ‘Annie, don’t force me to sell my story to the papers – because they’d pay a fortune! They’ve never managed to dig up any scandal about you; they’ll jump at what I know. I’ve never breathed a word before, I don’t want to – but if my back is up against the wall, I might have to.’

  Angrily she pulled free of him. ‘Don’t you threaten me, you bastard!’

  ‘It isn’t a threat, it’s a warning!’ Derek snarled.

  Annie became aware of people around them looking round, curious eyes, whispers.

  ‘Just shut up, will you?’ she muttered.

  H
e lowered his voice, but wouldn’t give up. ‘I’m desperate, Annie. Have you forgotten how that feels? You were pretty desperate to raise money for that abortion and I came through with the money, didn’t I? I didn’t let you down. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be where you are today.’

  She thought of her dead baby, of the years of pain and guilt, and tears burnt behind her eyes. Was he asking her for gratitude for all that? She looked at him bitterly.

  ‘You make me sick! Leave me alone, will you?’ She walked away towards Harriet, who gave her a frown of concern.

  ‘What’s going on? Were you and Derek having a row?’

  ‘He was on about money again, and got nasty when I refused to lend him any, or ask you to give him a rise.’

  ‘Gambling again?’ Harriet grimaced. ‘It’s getting worse, is it? What are we going to do about him? He is popular, can’t argue with that, but if the press pick up on his drinking and gambling that could change.’

  Hesitantly Annie asked, ‘Could you wangle him a rise, Harriet?’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Has he got something on you, Annie?’ Harriet’s eyes were shrewd and very sharp. ‘Could he become a problem? Because if so I’m sure Billy could deal with him. You’re vital to the series. We don’t want a has-been like Derek making waves.’

  Annie hesitated. She couldn’t face talking about the baby. The anguish welled up inside her just thinking about it; she turned her head away and closed her eyes, trying to calm herself.

  Then she looked back at Harriet. ‘If I need help dealing with Derek, I’ll come to you,’ she promised.

  Harriet eyed her, shrugged. ‘OK, do that.’ She raised her voice and yelled. ‘Derek, we’re waiting for you.’

  Derek sauntered towards them looking sullen.

  ‘OK, on your marks,’ Harriet said. She walked off to join the cameraman and the lighting team, who were still moving bits of equipment about to improve the lighting on the set. They were rarely satisfied; if you left them to themselves they would be there for hours, fiddling with equipment.

  Derek handed Annie a small white cardboard box. ‘Here, this is for you.’

  She took it doubtfully. ‘What is it?’ The box had her name printed on it, but there was no postmark; it had not come through the post.

  ‘Open it and see.’

  ‘Is it from you?’

  Before he could answer Harriet clapped her hands. ‘Ready, Annie? We’re all ready for you. Come on, we’re running out of time, let’s get going.’

  Annie put the box into her handbag and moved to the chalk mark on which she had to stand.

  When they were finished with the scene she walked over to Harriet and said, ‘You free this evening?’ And when Harriet nodded, said, ‘Will you come to dinner at my place? I want to talk to you.’

  She had to talk to somebody.

  Sean was in the bar of the Green Man pub dead on six that evening. Marty was ten minutes late. The dark oak-panelled bar was crowded, but he saw her at once when she came through the swing doors, wearing a black leather coat tightly belted at the waist, stilt-like shiny black high heels, her make-up heavy, her mouth the same predatory red as her long fingernails.

  She looked around the bar, Sean waved and she came over, swaying sensuously, watched by half the men in the bar. One or two wolf-whistled. She gave them a smouldering sideways look, a half-smile of encouragement.

  I’ve ordered steak and chips, but I thought we’d have a drink first,’ Sean said as she sat down opposite him. Sean pushed a glass of whisky towards her. ‘Whisky OK, or would you rather have something else?’

  ‘Whisky’s just what I need,’ she said, taking half of it down in one swallow. She put the glass back on the table and unbelted her coat; under it she was wearing a low-cut flame red dress; he could see her freckled pale breasts right down to the nipple. Watching Sean she said, ‘How far from here is your flat?’

  ‘Half a mile.’

  She leaned over the table and her dress sank even lower; he could almost see her navel. ‘After our steaks we could go on there, then.’

  Sean’s gorge rose at the thought, but he smiled. ‘Won’t your husband be waiting for you?’

  She swallowed the rest of her whisky before she answered. ‘The sod ran out on me years ago.’

  ‘Sorry, did I touch on a sore point? Or were you glad to see the back of him?’

  She looked down into her empty glass. ‘Can I have another whisky, or is it rationed?’

  He waved to the barman, mouthing, ‘two more whiskies, Fred!’

  ‘I don’t usually drink that much,’ Marty said. ‘It’s just the men in my life that drive me to drink.’ She took the glass from the barman, smiling flirtatiously at him. ‘But I love you, Fred, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure I do,’ he said indifferently, going back to his bar.

  Marty drank, her eyes half-closed. Sean was still on his first glass; he sipped a little, waiting.

  ‘Have you got kids, Marty?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, he left me with the kids … and not a penny in maintenance, either. At least I got the house, in the divorce settlement.’

  ‘He didn’t contest the divorce?’

  ‘We couldn’t find him to tell him about it. The bastard was in Australia at the time – now he’s back in England, but if he thinks he’s getting any money out of me, he’s wrong.’

  ‘He’s asked you for money?’

  ‘Men always end up asking you for everything they can get. Well, he won’t get anything from me. The house is mine and I’m hanging on to it.’

  ‘Is he trying to get the house from you? Have you seen him, Marty?’

  Marty frowned, staring across the table. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘I’m just interested,’ he said.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, yeah? You were a cop before you got into scriptwriting, weren’t you? Once a cop always a cop.’ She put a finger to her nose, flattening the nostrils, made a snuffling noise. ‘And once a pig always a pig.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ Sean said, grinning, trying to keep the atmosphere light, but she merely glowered at him.

  ‘I might have known you were up to something, inviting me out. Why do I always get taken for a ride? I keep thinking I’ve learnt my lesson where men are concerned, but I keep getting suckered.’ Angrily she drained her glass and got to her feet. ‘I’m going. You can eat the bloody steaks yourself.’

  ‘Did you know that he was still bothering Annie Lang?’ Sean asked as she turned to go.

  Marty stood still, her face blank. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Sean didn’t believe her. ‘Tell him to leave Annie alone, or he’ll find himself in prison this time.’

  ‘Is that what all this is about? You just wanted to pump me about Roger? You dirty bastard. And I thought it was me you were interested in! Serves me right for being a woman. Women are always the ones who get the fuzzy end of life’s lollipop, aren’t we?’

  ‘Just tell him, Marty,’ Sean insisted.

  ‘Tell him yourself. And I hope he splits your head open with a meat cleaver.’ Marty’s face was convulsed in sudden fury. She pushed through the crowded bar, the swing doors parting and closing behind her.

  The curtains were drawn. The light of a gas fire gave a red glow to the darkness, dimly lit up the pictures of Annie lining the walls.

  Lying on his back, the man on the bed stared at them, a tiny muscle ticking beside his mouth. They were all Annie, yet a whole gallery of different women stared back at him.

  Annie in a simple cotton dress looking about fifteen, with wide, innocent blue eyes; Annie cold and faintly masculine in her dark grey policewoman’s suit; Annie kneeling on a bed, leaning forward, seductive in a lacy slip which showed her small breasts and a lot of her smooth, pale skin, her lips parted in a soft gasp of invitation, her eyes shimmering sensually; Annie in jeans and a black leather jacket looking tough and competent.

  Which was the real woman? Or was she a
ll of them? Or none of them?

  She acted a part all the time, on the screen and off. The public thought they knew her, but they were wrong. Nobody really knew her, except him. He knew her more intimately than anyone in the world.

  She couldn’t hide from him; he was inside her head. He had thought about her all these years until he was under her skin, a red corpuscle in her blood, so much a part of her that no surgeon’s knife could cut him out.

  She knew; he had made sure she never forgot him – he was sure she looked over her shoulder all the time in case he was behind her, she listened for his voice every time she picked up a phone, she was waiting with terror for him, especially since she woke up to find that rose on her pillow, the Valentine’s card beside her bed.

  He wished he could have seen her face. Ever since that morning she must be on the rack, wondering what he would do next, when he would come for her.

  The joke was that he was always there, she simply hadn’t recognised him. She wasn’t the only one who could act a part, deceive people. He could do it too; could walk the streets and not be recognised. It was amazing how little people used their eyes, how much they missed.

  He looked at the picture of Annie half-naked and breathed thickly, God, she was beautiful; he thought of all the things he wanted to do to her, would do to her, soon, very soon. But she had betrayed him; she had made him suffer. She had to suffer too. She had to be punished for what she had done to him, and then he would finally have her.

  Trudie was asleep when Annie got to the hospital. ‘She’s fine,’ the ward sister said. ‘It’s the drugs she has to keep the pain down, they make her sleep a lot, and that’s good for her, at the moment. She’s doing well, don’t worry.’

  Annie stood by the bed looking at the frail, workworn hands, the gaunt face. Her mother looked small, like a child, in the bed; she had shrunk overnight. Annie sat down beside the bed and held those tired hands for a long time, stroking the backs of them with her thumbs.

  She left the hospital at six thirty, took a taxi and arrived home just as Harriet drove up in Sean’s black Porsche.

  Annie was taken aback, irritated at seeing them both – lately they seemed to be trying to take her over, run her life. But she hid her reaction, unlocked the front door and invited them both in. ‘I was going to make omelette fines herbes, with salad,’ she said. ‘I expect I could stretch it for three.’