by Susan Lewis
But thinking along those lines made her restless and irritable, and prey to such a monstrous jealousy that it was already swallowing her up inside. She tried hard to avoid it, but it just wasn’t possible when her mind was conjuring so many memories of their lovemaking, and her body, neglected for so long, was now desperate for the release. The mere thought of making love with another man was anathema, which was why the fact that he and Chrissie probably still shared the same bed, and could, for all she knew, be making love right at this moment, was almost impossible to bear. Pressing her hands to her head as though to shut out the images, she turned her face into the pillow to stifle her resentment of Chrissie, because Chrissie of all people had always known how much she and Richard meant to each other, that their relationship ran far deeper than most. Maybe it had been too much for Chrissie to bear, seeing Carla loved in a way she never had been, possibly even feared she never would be. So she had tried to take Richard for herself. Indeed she might well have thought she’d succeeded for a while, but there didn’t seem much doubt now that she was about to learn the hard way that though you could seduce a man’s flesh, you couldn’t seduce his soul.
By the time Carla arrived at the Radisson Edwardian Hotel the following afternoon she was in the very worst of tempers. Not only had her poor excuse for a car whined and spluttered the whole way there, but the passenger window had jammed open an inch making the motorway noise intolerable, as well as turning the vehicle into a mobile fridge, and then the wipers had packed up during a brief but heavy storm, outside Reading, so that the only way to carry on living was to pull over to the side of the road and wait for God to get it over with. So now not only was she unprepared for this meeting, she was also late.
Late she could more or less forgive herself for, after all she had no control over the weather. But to be unprepared was inexcusable, particularly when she knew already that if she wanted to keep Avril on her side she’d have to hire John Rossmore, and if she was going to hire him she should at least be ready to wow him with some plans for the next series. Actually, the very idea of having to impress John Rossmore was really stoking up her resentment, because she just hated being put in a position where she had no say on her own damned project. But it didn’t stop there, because there was also the fact that everyone was rooting for him, including her neighbours, since Faith had managed to get wind of his possible involvement and had delightedly spread it around. There wasn’t much doubt that Sonya was the source of that little leak, having very probably been unplugged by Avril. So now here she was, about to meet a man whom she absolutely did not want on the team, but because of pressure from other sources, as well as her own professional pride, was having to put on a show for anyway. And what had she done to achieve that? Well, what she should have done, like any good producer, was spend the entire morning assembling a coherent and cohesive set of outlines for the next series to present for discussion. And certainly that was what she’d intended to do, but with the way her mind kept wandering to Richard, and how she was going to answer his email, all she’d actually managed was three fairly competent outlines which she’d boosted with several other ideas that she’d grabbed from the filing cabinet just before leaving.
It was no way to be meeting a new director, particularly when she needed to make it clear from the start that she was the boss. It would also be an advantage to appear in some way conversant with her own ideas, but since she’d had no opportunity to try them out on anyone before coming, she would just have to wing it and hope he didn’t notice if she occasionally lost the plot. What was she talking about? The man was an actor, of course he wouldn’t notice, all that was going to concern him was what he had to say.
Locking the car, and threatening to abandon it for ever in a ditch if it didn’t get her home, she began battling her way across the car park, through sweeping gusts of wind that were gaily whipping up dust, diesel fumes, assorted rubbish and her skirt. What an utterly absurd choice of outfit to wear when she knew the airport was under constant attack from the elements, but hell, why wear a perfectly smart trouser suit, or long, heavy overcoat, when there was such fun to be had trying to hang on to her paperwork and hair while a voluminous grey voile skirt wrapped itself round her face?
Bracing herself against the thunderous roar of a jet taking off, and the pounding pace of passing traffic, she literally lurched round the side of the hotel, skimmed clownishly along the front of it, then finally flung herself in through the revolving doors. The sudden warmth and tranquillity almost dizzied her, as she stood there looking like she’d just dropped in from the local madhouse, while everyone else moved quietly and immaculately about their business. Not until later did any of this form itself into an amusing anecdote for Richard, because for the moment she was just too damned angry with herself, the weather and John Rossmore, to raise even a glimmer of humour.
After a quick trip to the ladies where she straightened up the short, double-breasted jacket of her suit, and tossed her hair into a more stylish form of dishevelment, she returned to the grand, thickly carpeted lobby with all its love seats, dark wood panelling and liveried porters, to seek out directions to the tea lounge. Discovering that it was at the top of the five or six steps over to the right, she walked briskly through the milling groups of tourists and businessmen, mounted the steps and found herself in an extremely pleasing baroque-style drawing room. The deep sofas and thickly cushioned chairs that formed each of the cosy niches were upholstered in tasteful fabrics; the lamps were elegant sculptures of bronze and marble, with white hessian shades and exquisite finials; and the small towers of petits fours and scones that were being served to the few guests were all presented on beautifully shining silver platters and crisp white linen.
Finding herself hungry and ready to be more amenable to Mr Rossmore just for choosing this place, she glanced around again to see if she could spot him. Considering his fame, and how comparatively small the lounge was, it shouldn’t be difficult, but he was nowhere in evidence, and she was just going to flip her lid completely if it turned out that his plane was late and she was forced to sit here for three hours waiting, when she had not the slightest desire to meet him anyway, and when for two pins she’d …
‘Hello. Carla Craig?’
She swung round to find him standing so close that she might have bumped her nose had he not taken a swift step back. ‘Uh, yes, yes,’ she stammered.
‘Hi, nice to meet you.’ He held out a hand to shake. ‘John Rossmore.’
‘Of course,’ she mumbled, taking his hand. Oh God, she hated men who looked like that, all glossy black hair, sculpted cheekbones and deeply intense brown eyes. He didn’t even have the decency to look diminished by reality the way most screen actors did, because he had to be at least six feet tall, and was obviously in the great shape that every woman’s fantasy should be in. ‘Hello, how are you?’ she asked tepidly.
‘Fine.’ He smiled, and she could tell instantly how used he was to winning people over with such a dazzling transformation to an already unspeakably handsome face. ‘I was at the concierge’s desk arranging a car back to the airport,’ he explained.
She nodded, mutely.
Apparently unfazed by her hostility, he put a hand under her arm, saying, ‘Come on, I’ve got us a good spot over by the window.’
Though she was aware of people staring as she allowed herself to be steered across the room to one of the more secluded niches, she was much more concerned with regaining the high ground, since he’d so neatly managed to wrest it for himself, and she still wasn’t entirely sure how.
‘Would you like tea, or something stronger?’ he offered, waving her to a sofa.
‘I’m driving,’ she answered shortly.
‘OK, tea it is,’ he declared to the waiter who’d followed them. ‘I’ll take Indian and my guest will take …?’ He looked at Carla.
‘Jasmine,’ she answered.
‘Anything to eat, sir?’ the waiter offered.
‘Oh, I think so,’
he replied, looking to Carla for confirmation. Receiving none, as she was busy opening up her briefcase, he said, ‘Bring us the works.’
As the waiter went off, Carla clicked closed her briefcase and waited as one of the nation’s heartthrobs shrugged off his much-worn Versace leather jacket, which he slung over one of the chairs, before sitting down on the sofa that was at right angles to hers. He was wearing jeans, and a bottle green collarless shirt with a white T-shirt underneath. Unremarkable on anyone else, yet contriving to look something else entirely on him.
He smiled at her again, forcing her to smile weakly back as she thought how he was neither quite as tall as Richard, nor as broad, though she’d concede that he was probably better looking, if you went for those kind of looks, which she certainly didn’t. He veered too much towards masculine beauty for her taste, whereas Richard was much more rugged. However, he did exude a certain charisma, she’d give him that, and he was clearly making an attempt to be friendly, so maybe she should too.
Deciding to begin with some small talk, she said, ‘What are you doing in Paris?’
He was about to answer when a phone started to ring in his jacket pocket.
‘Oh hell,’ he grumbled, reaching for it.
Well, there went any attempt on her part to be friendly, because the hell was she going to sit here snatching a few seconds of Mr Rossmore’s precious time in between all his vitally important telephone calls.
‘There, that should do it,’ he said, switching the phone off and stuffing it back in the pocket.
Carla blinked.
‘What were we saying? Ah yes, Paris. Actually, I’ve been there visiting an old friend, but the reason for flying back tonight is because I have to be in Rheims – how do you pronounce that blasted name? – in the morning. Would you believe there’s an induction ceremony for the new chevaliers of champagne tomorrow evening, in the caves beneath Moët and Chandon, and … Well, I’m one of the inductees.’
Just like an actor, always talking about himself, she was thinking. ‘How fascinating,’ she said, grudgingly meaning it.
‘Yes, it is,’ he confirmed. ‘Bit ritualistic, with all the cloaks and incense and swords, not to mention the kind of chants they go in for, but it’s quite an event.’
Carla was wondering if he was about to pitch it as a programme idea, and knew she wouldn’t be entirely averse if he was. ‘What exactly does a chevalier of champagne do?’ she asked.
He grimaced. ‘In my case, drink the stuff,’ he answered. ‘But I do have an interest in the different cuvées, and I’ve got quite a long association with a couple of the houses around Epernay. I do promotions for them and get involved in product placement on movies and TV series, that kind of thing, so I guess this is my reward.’
‘So you actually get knighted?’ she said. ‘Like with a sword-tap on each shoulder, in front of some kind of altar or something?’
‘Yes, that’s how it happens. In front of an altar, in an underground cave that’s entirely lit by candles.’
‘Please don’t tell me you have to prostrate yourself naked, or drink goat’s blood, or something other-worldly like that.’
Laughing, he said, ‘No, the clothes stay on and all that’s imbibed is champagne, plus an extremely regal banquet that follows the ceremony. I could arrange for you to go some time, if you’re interested.’
Startled, she nodded, then lifted a file from the small stack she’d put on the table. ‘Yes, I think I would be,’ she confessed. ‘Would they be amenable to having cameras around?’
His head went dubiously to one side. ‘That, I doubt,’ he responded. ‘But we could always ask.’
His use of ‘we’ immediately irked her, for it showed that he obviously considered himself to be already hired. She wondered if anyone ever said no to this man, and struggled with a sudden urge to become one of the first. Avril! She must remember Avril, and how none of this would be happening without her.
‘I guess now’s a good time to tell you what a great programme you have on your hands,’ he said, managing to catch her off-guard again. ‘It’s innovative, imaginative, terrific entertainment and a genuinely quality product.’
What else could she say but, ‘Thank you.’ Then she added a little swipe with, ‘I had an extremely good director for three of the episodes.’
‘Jed Forsyth, I know. He speaks very highly of you too. And the other three were directed by Chrissie Fields, is that right? Or does she go under her married name now?’
Carla instantly stiffened. ‘No, she still uses Fields,’ she told him, without having the faintest idea if it was true.
‘Her episodes are pretty remarkable too,’ he said. ‘And she does a great job of presenting. Will you be using her for the next series?’
‘No,’ Carla answered shortly. ‘She’s no longer a part of the company.’
Obviously realizing he’d stumbled onto thin ice, he rescued himself with, ‘So who have you got in mind to replace her?’
‘It’s still up for discussion,’ she answered. ‘Avril’s had a few ideas, but I haven’t arranged any auditions yet. So now,’ she continued, attempting to appropriate the interviewer’s chair, ‘what, if anything, would you change about the programme, were you in a position to?’ Subtle, she thought, but a timely reminder that his own role was not yet confirmed, nor was it above hers, which was how he was managing to make it sound.
He was about to answer when the tea arrived, and several minutes passed as it was set out and poured, while a tower of exquisite delicacies was put in front of her and her mouth began watering so vigorously that she was afraid she might actually start frothing. When was the last time she’d eaten? she wondered. Last night? No, it must have been … Good God, it was breakfast yesterday morning. No wonder she was so famished. In fact, if the waiter didn’t hurry up and push off, she might be tempted to shove him out of the way so that she could grab a couple of those dainty crab sandwiches before they got spirited away by someone else.
‘At this stage,’ John said, returning to a question she’d almost forgotten in her eagerness to get to the food, ‘I don’t think I’d change anything.’
Oh, sycophant, she was thinking, as the waiter finally dissolved leaving a clear path between her and the scones.
‘That’s not to say it’s perfect,’ he added.
She looked at him sharply, reminding him he was in no position to criticize, yet. Then she went on dolloping jam and cream on the side of her plate.
‘I just think,’ he went on, apparently not in receipt of her mentally transmitted warning, ‘that we should wait for the first series to go out, or at least the first couple of episodes, see what the reviews are like, and the audience reaction. After all, it’s pretty high-concept stuff, so we’re going to have to see how it spins with the general public. If it goes over their heads, then obviously changes will have to be made to simplify it, make it more accessible.’
It was a moment before she could answer, since she’d been relying on the actor’s love of his own voice to carry her through the particularly large bite she’d just taken out of a scone. ‘And how do you suggest we do that?’ she finally enquired, managing to block any escaping crumbs with a napkin.
He picked up his tea, and sitting back with it, lifted one ankle to rest on the other knee. As he began outlining the several ideas he’d had, she listened attentively and continued to eat. Then, noticing he wasn’t joining her, she indicated the three tiers of food.
Shaking his head, but gesturing for her to continue, he carried on talking, and quite soon they were into a lively debate on the various shapes the programme could take. There was no doubt he’d really thought about this, and, on the whole, she wasn’t as averse to his suggestions as she’d like to have been.
‘OK,’ she said, eventually, while getting ready to wolf down a thumb-sized eclair, ‘let’s move on to programme content for the second series.’ Nodding towards the file she’d made up for him, she continued, ‘That’s for you. It contains ten
or eleven outlines that I’ve drawn up, some obvious contenders for programmes, others less so, but our experience last time was that sometimes the less obvious turn out to be the most interesting.’
He was flicking through the pages, reading swiftly to see which locations she had in mind. ‘Do you script the dramas yourself,’ he asked, ‘or do you get someone in?’
‘I do it,’ she answered, daring him to comment negatively now he knew that.
However, worse than negative comment was the slow, pensive nod he gave, and the failure even to raise an eyebrow. Such flaming arrogance! What did he know about scriptwriting anyway, when all he had to do was learn the damned lines? Already she was imagining the choice words she would use when relating this scene to Richard, hopefully in a way that would make him laugh and wish that he was with her in person to share the joke.
‘Mmm, Argentina’s an interesting choice,’ he said. ‘And Timbuktu. Incidentally, do you have any idea of dates yet?’
Busy with another scone she said, ‘If we can get the money in place then I’m hoping we’ll be in a position to start shooting at the beginning of January. Are you sure you don’t want any of this? It’s delicious.’
‘No, really. But you carry on. And your schedule runs through to when?’ he asked.
‘Probably June. But obviously the pre-production is already under way. And the post-production will run on until sometime in September or October. Possibly even as late as November. Which means that you’re looking at a whole year out of your normal schedule, which is probably much too long for someone in your position.’ Why had she never thought of this before? It was perfect, because there surely wasn’t an actor alive who would view such a long spell out of the limelight as anything but death to his destiny.
