Alarm Call

by Jardine, Quintin

  ‘Nary a one, mate. I’m anchored to home for a while.’

  ‘What’s up, then?’

  ‘Do you know what Prim’s been up to lately?’

  ‘Not a clue, mate. I haven’t spoken to her since she did her thing with Nicky Johnson. You’d better talk to Dawn. Hold on, she’s here.’

  I waited for a few seconds, then heard my former sister-in-law’s soft Perthshire tones. ‘Oz. Good to hear from you. How are Susie and the kids?’

  ‘Fine. How about yours?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. What’s this about my sister?’

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to her. I get the impression that all’s not well. Anything you can tell me?’

  ‘Just that, and no more. She vanished off the radar for over three years, do you know that? She said that she was going back to nursing, to find herself again . . . our Prim can be even more dramatic than me . . . and she just disappeared. She didn’t tell any of us where she was going. We couldn’t contact her; we got Christmas cards as usual but that was all. Her mobile was always switched off and any messages Mum or I left were never returned, until a couple of years ago she called and said she was coming to Auchterarder for a visit. She did, stayed for a couple of weeks, told them nothing at all about what she’d been up to, then vanished again, with barely any warning that she was off.’ Dawn paused. ‘That was it, until a couple of weeks ago, when she landed on them again. She wouldn’t say anything about what she’d been doing, not to Mum, not to Dad, not to me, other than that she’d decided to take a break from everyone. She stayed for a while, then, as before, pissed off again. You said you’ve spoken to her. D’you mean she got in touch with you?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ I told her about the supposedly casual visit to my dad, and about our telephone conversation.

  ‘She said, “Much worse than hurt”? God help whoever did it, then, for there’s only one thing that my sister takes lying down. Take some advice, my dear Oz: don’t get involved.’

  ‘I’ll hear what the story is, Dawn, and then I’ll take a view.’

  ‘Let me know what’s happening.’

  ‘Promise. Thanks; take care of that big koala of yours.’

  When I put the phone down, Audrey was standing beside me. ‘That’s done. She’s on the two o’clock shuttle from Heathrow, ticket to be collected. I didn’t know you had two sisters, Oz.’ She turned slightly pink when I explained who Prim was.

  I turned to the business that had been lined up for me the day before. I called the man from the television company. He wanted me to play on one of those ‘guess the celebrity’ panel games. It would have meant letting cameras into our home, so I declined, politely but irrevocably, without a second thought.

  Next, Susie, Audrey and I spent an hour drafting a brief for Mr Potter, and Clark Gow, his firm, setting out our financial position, as of that moment, and as it would be in two years, once I had completed my latest contracts and the partial flotation of the Gantry Group had gone through. When it was ready for transmission, Audrey called him and asked for his e-mail address so that she could send it.

  ‘You know what he’s going to tell us, don’t you?’ said Susie, when it was done. ‘He’s going to say the same as Roscoe did, that we should go and live in some tax haven or other.’

  ‘Probably,’ I conceded. ‘So let’s the two of us and our kids go for a walk round our bloody great garden to remind ourselves why we should stay here.’

  Chapter 6

  It was a beautiful summer morning, the kind you wish you could bottle. I did the next best thing: I filmed it on my camcorder, Susie playing on the grass with wee Jonathan, Janet on the electric quad bike that I’d found for her, and all the time, the sun glistening and sparkling on Loch Lomond below us. We had no trouble convincing ourselves that we were going to live there happily for the rest of our days.

  Actually we’d made the place even bigger: for added privacy and security we’d acquired some commercially useless woodland and fields from the neighbouring estate. The extension included some virtually bottomless bogs, which I’d had capped with concrete, for safety’s sake. It all meant that we had so much land we’d bought a Mini to run around in ... and because it’s a lovely piece of design. Susie and I do like our toys.

  The morning was so idyllic that I had almost forgotten the call I was going to have to make. It took Susie to remind me of it.

  ‘Will Everett’s office be open yet?’ she asked, as we finished lunch, just after one o’clock. I knew that it would.

  As its name implies, his is a global business, so the switchboard in the New York headquarters is manned from seven a.m. on. I nodded and went back to the office.

  I didn’t expect him to be there: the GWA wrestlers are on the road a lot, and Everett, although he controls and runs the business, is still on the active list, so, after I had told her who I was, I simply asked his receptionist where he could be found. ‘Right here, Mr Blackstone,’ she replied. ‘I’ll put you through.’

  I braced myself. A few seconds later, the big drawly voice was on the line. ‘Oz, my man! This is an honour and a surprise. You found the time to call me.’

  ‘What have I done?’ I asked him, my voice all innocence. ‘What’s upset you?’

  ‘You have to ask me? You blew me out, man. You turned me down flat and you didn’t even have the stones to do it yourself: got your Mr Smooth from LA to do it instead.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘My proposition. You turned me down, Oz. I can’t believe it.’

  Oh, shit.

  ‘What proposition?’

  ‘You mean Mr Roscoe Goddamn Brown didn’t even tell you about it? Well, I’ll tell you something now, I am going to pay a call on that mother when I’m on the west coast next week and he will not enjoy it.’

  ‘Now hold on there. Before you go off and commit homicide, or agenticide at least, this wasn’t Roscoe’s fault. Blame me, if you’re going to blame anyone. Yes, he recommended that I decline whatever it is, but it was at the end of a very positive session on other things and I wanted to demonstrate my complete trust in him. So I told him that he didn’t have to go through the details with me. I’m sorry, it was my mistake. Do you want to tell me about it now, or are you so deep in the huff that it’s off the table?’

  ‘If I do will you listen to me politely then turn me down again?’

  ‘That depends on what it is and on the time frame. In three months’ time, I’m pretty much committed through to next summer.’

  ‘This would work, in that case.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Oz, I’m diversifying.’

  ‘You’re starting a dance troupe?’

  ‘Hey, wouldn’t that be something? Imagine Jerry Gradi in a tutu.’

  ‘It worked for J. Edgar Hoover.’

  He chuckled. ‘Maybe, but not for the GWA. No, I’m going into the movie business. I have a project all set up as a vehicle for Liam Matthews, Jerry and a new girl we’ve got on board. It’s written, the director’s in place and we’re all ready to start shooting. There’s only one thing left to do. I have a cameo role that I need to fill, the bad guy. It’s perfect for you and I want you to do it. I’d only need you for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘That’s what you put to Roscoe?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘How much did you offer him?’

  ‘A million dollars.’

  ‘Everett, my next three movies will earn me over twenty million euros.’

  If I’d had wax in my ear, the big man’s whistle would have blown it right out. ‘Jeez,’ he exclaimed, ‘I didn’t realise you were in that bracket. No wonder your guy turned me down.’

  ‘There might be more to it than that. You’re a newcomer to the business, and he doesn’t know you like I do.’

  ‘I’ve got someone else in place for the part,’ he said, perking up again, ‘but nothing’s signed yet. It’s still yours if you want it. Maybe I could squeeze some more m
oney out of the pot.’

  ‘Friend, I’d do it for free,’ I told him, meaning every word, ‘but I’ve got Roscoe to consider. He earns his cut, and twenty per cent of nothing doesn’t amount to much more than that. I’ll tell you what. E-mail me the script today, and I’ll take a quick look at it. What is it, anyway? I assume that with Liam and Jerry in the lead, it’s not a remake of Pride and Prejudice.’

  ‘Hell, no! It’s an action thriller called Serious Impact, based on a novel by a hot young writer. It’s set mostly in Las Vegas. I’ll have someone send it to you right away.’

  ‘Do that. I’ll be speaking to Roscoe later today: I’ll talk it through with him, I promise.’ I paused, turning a thought over in my mind. ‘Two weeks in Vegas, eh? When?’

  ‘We’d need you the week after next. I’ll book you the best suite in the Mandalay Bay, or the Bellagio, if you’d prefer to be in the heart of the Strip.’

  ‘Okay, okay, you can ease off the arm lock now: I’ll get back to you.’ I put the phone back in the cradle.

  ‘What was that about Las Vegas?’ Susie asked.

  ‘Everett fancies himself as a movie producer.’

  ‘Are you going to do it?’

  ‘That depends. Do you fancy it?’

  ‘Not one bit. I’ve been to Vegas, at a convention with my dad when he was Lord Provost of Glasgow. It’s not a place for kids, especially not in the summer: it’s in the middle of a desert and it’s ferociously hot.’

  ‘We could leave the kids with Ethel,’ I suggested tentatively.

  The look she shot me was eloquent. It said, ‘You’re a self-indulgent bastard and a bad parent.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll turn it down.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. It’s your career, and Everett’s your friend.’

  ‘And you’re my family and I promised you three months. That’s more important.’

  ‘How much money is he offering?’

  When I told her, I thought she would explode. ‘Are we so bloody wealthy that you can afford to turn down a million dollars for two weeks’ not very hard work?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, we are.’

  ‘Like hell we are! Nobody is.’

  ‘Okay, once I’ve seen the script . . . Audrey, when an e-mail arrives from someone in the GWA, print out the attachment, please . . . I’ll talk to Roscoe about it. But I’m not inclined to go without you and the kids.’

  Susie glanced at her watch. ‘We can continue this later, Sir Galahad,’ she said, ‘but first you’ve got a plane to meet.’

  Chapter 7

  I’m not saying I wouldn’t have known her, but if I hadn’t been expecting a different Primavera after my chat with my dad, I’d have been in for a shock.

  The woman who came out of the arrivals doorway at Glasgow airport, wheeling a cabin bag behind her, was not she with whom I’d fallen in lust during the death-rattle of my dissolute and free-wheeling twenties. Not that she should have been, since eight years or so had elapsed (I’ve always been vague about dates), but the changes were pretty radical.

  She was still attractive, no question about that, but she was thinner about the face. Much of its former roundness had gone, and the cheekbones, which I didn’t remember noticing before, were now quite prominent. There were new creases about her eyes, in addition to the familiar laugh-lines, and the hairstyle was indeed new: it brushed her shoulders and it was tinted, a sort of strawberry colour.

  The clothes were familiar, though. She might have got herself dolled up for her visit to Anstruther, but she had travelled in well-washed blue jeans, a pale blue sleeveless shirt and tan moccasins.

  She didn’t see me at first. I was standing behind a line of men, some in grey chauffeur uniforms, holding up boards with punters’ names on them. She scanned them, as if she assumed that one of them was for her, and only then did her eye catch mine. She started slightly, then smiled, awkwardly. I gave her a wave then moved towards her.

  There was something else different about her: she had been comfortably endowed in the chest department, a thirty-six C cup, as I remembered. She’d certainly not been in need of implants, and yet she looked as if she’d had some.

  She stepped past the line of waiting drivers and we came face to face, for the first time in almost four years. For a moment I almost offered a handshake, until instinct and good manners made me lean forward and kiss her cheek, like someone greeting an old friend, rather than an ex-wife ... although the two states are not mutually exclusive.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, and then something very strange happened. Her eyes moistened, and two big tears rolled down her cheeks.

  I took her in my arms and hugged her to me for a few moments. Maybe I should have been more careful: being famous, I was aware that a few people were looking at us, but tears from Prim are about as rare as orange juice from a potato. ‘Hey,’ I murmured, ‘I’m a professional kisser now. I’ve been coached and everything. I’m not supposed to get that kind of reaction.’

  A laugh spluttered its way on to her crumpled face: I was relieved for I’d feared we were in for flood conditions. She fished in her shoulder-bag until she found a tissue, and dried her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘You never used to have that effect on me.’

  ‘Of course I did,’ I protested. ‘The way I behaved?’

  As I looked at her, it all came back to me. Whatever it was that had bound us together, some vestiges of it had burned themselves into my brain, and would never go away. ‘It’s good to see you,’ I heard myself say.

  ‘And it’s good to see you. In fact, you don’t know how good it is. Oz, I have never felt so alone, or so much in need of you.’

  ‘Why me?’ I asked her, automatically. ‘What about Miles? He’s your brother-in-law, and he’s one hell of an influential guy. He’s on first-name terms with the Prime Minister . . .’ I paused to consider the banality of that remark. ‘. . . okay, so is everyone, but I know for a fact that the Australian version phones him up for advice on a regular basis.’

  ‘Maybe, but he won’t give me any. Miles doesn’t like me, ever since that Nicky business, and he’s turned my sister against me too. Anyway, he’s not you. He doesn’t get the business done like you do.’

  It was my turn for a sudden spluttering laugh. ‘Hold on for a reality check, woman. I’m an actor: none of that stuff’s for real.’

  ‘You’ve done plenty of things for real in the time I’ve known you. There is nobody I could or would turn to before you.’

  I felt a surge of pride as strong as any I’ve known when I’ve seen my name in lights. ‘That’s nice to know. But let’s not talk about whatever it is here. Come back to the house and say hello to Susie and the kids.’

  She gave a small ‘Hmph!’

  ‘Hey now,’ I cautioned. ‘You might think of her as the woman who stole your husband, but she knows about you having it off with her fiancé, so maybe it’s best to call it quits and let the past lie undisturbed.’

  She was taken considerably aback. ‘She does? But how . . .’

  ‘Shagging him was one thing. Writing to him was another.’

  ‘God,’ she gasped. ‘Would you believe I’d forgotten about it?’ Then she gave an old-style Prim chuckle. ‘That might tell you how memorable the late Mike Dylan was.’

  Not as late as you believe, I thought to myself, but that was our secret, Mike’s and mine.

  ‘Since you were my fiancée at the time,’ I said, casually, ‘I don’t wish to know that.’ I’d often wondered why I wasn’t more upset when I found out about that incident. I dunno, maybe I saw the poetic justice in it.

  Suddenly I wanted to get out of there: I put an arm around her shoulders and steered her towards the door, picking up her bag by the handle and carrying it rather than wheeling it behind me like a prat. As we walked towards the exit, she pressed herself against me for a second. ‘I forgot to say “thanks”, Oz,’ I heard her say.

  ‘Thank Susie, not me. If she’d said “no”, you wouldn’t be here.�
��

  Prim said nothing at all on the way back to the house.

  That was just as well, for I don’t really like to talk when I’m driving. Instead she listened to the music: I’d put some Brian Kennedy in the CD changer before I left. He’d been a favourite of hers from the moment I’d introduced them, but I hadn’t chosen him for that reason.

  He’d sung himself hoarse by the time we got there, and had been replaced by Ry Cooder and Manuel Galban playing mambo music: my recently acquired taste, but she seemed to like that too. She whistled as she stepped out of the car and saw my home. ‘Very grand for a boy from Enster,’ she exclaimed.

  There was a squeal from the playground, followed by a yell of ‘Daddy!’ as a red-haired bundle came rushing towards us. I scooped her up in my arms. ‘But not for this one,’ I replied. ‘Hey, kid, say hello to your auntie Prim, by name if not nature.’ My daughter’s response was a frown, rather than her usual bold grin; it was funny, but looking back at that moment, it was as if she recognised her as someone who had come to set ripples in the calm ocean of her existence.

  ‘Hello, Janet,’ said Primavera. ‘Don’t you look like your mother? You won’t remember me, but I came to see you when you were a baby.’

  ‘And that went down like a lead balloon,’ I told her, ‘so don’t let’s mention it inside.’

  At that moment, the door opened. I hadn’t expected Susie to come to greet us, but she did. I marked that down as a big gesture on her part, and so did Prim, for her face changed again. Uncertainty was something else I’d never known her to show before. Then my wife said, ‘Come here,’ and the two of them hugged. For all the nonsense, they’d been on decent terms in the past. Of course, Prim started crying again, didn’t she? This time I left her to Susie to sort out.

  ‘Hey,’ I heard her say, as she swept her inside, ‘there’s no need for that. Come on; I’ll show you your room and you can lie down for a bit.’ Take me back five years and tell me that I’d wind up watching that scene and I’d have called you crazy.