The Festival Murders
Page 3
Shocked laughter rang through the tent.
‘Are you saying I have no talent for fiction?’
‘Everything’s relative, Dan. You’re not Tolstoy, I think that’s pretty clear.’
‘Here we go again. Ranking everyone, marking them out of ten, like some bloody schoolmaster. Creativity doesn’t work like that, bro. Tolstoy was writing in a different century, in a different country. It would be strange if I were frigging Tolstoy.’
There was a momentary pause, during which Bryce could be heard scornfully repeating the word ‘bro’. Then Laetitia, who had been rooted to her chair, a studied look of fascination on her face, seized her chance, rushing for Dan’s microphone and pulling it from its stand. ‘Thank you both,’ she interrupted, ‘for that absolutely brilliant little dialogue on the subject of creativity and criticism. It’s at moments like this that I count myself truly privileged to be running this festival, to be able to bring together such mighty talents as we’ve heard battling it out today. Sadly, Dan Dickson’s time is now up and we have to clear the tent for Alan Titchmarsh, our next wonderful speaker this afternoon. I should just point out before we go that many of us are looking forward to Bryce’s talk tomorrow afternoon, in this very same tent, on the fascinating-sounding subject of “Celebrity and Hypocrisy”, and there are still a few tickets left for that, so I’d hurry along to our lovely girls and boys in the box office if I were you. And now, if I might ask you all to join me in a hearty round of applause for Dan Dickson, for a really very enjoyable …’
Bryce leant in to Priya. ‘Come on, let’s make a dash for it, before I’m surrounded by effing gossip columnists.’
FOUR
The Sentinel party was the most prestigious gathering of the festival, held every year in the Council Chamber of Mold Town Hall, a splendid late-Victorian room with tall windows and a fine wrought-iron balustrade at one end. Commencing at 6.30 on Saturday evening, the event was reserved for those who were giving talks or interviewing; any other big names who were in town; key publishers, agents and TV people; partners of all of the above; and finally, any journalists who were definitely going to file copy to a national newspaper. Laetitia was strict about the guest list – had to be, otherwise the thing would be swamped by hangers-on, guzzling the wine, scoffing the canapés, and diluting the glittering crowd she had so painstakingly assembled.
For yes, there was Stephen Fry, head thrown back, laughing at some bon mot of Sandi Toksvig (resplendent in a boating blazer). There was Bob Geldof, jabbing a long finger at Ian Rankin as Caitlin Moran looked on. There were Kevin McCloud and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, each sampling a mini sushi roll they had taken from a plate held by Jonty Smallbone, aka Family Man (and where else but at Laetitia’s do would you get a major TV star handing round the nibbles?). For those more in the know, there was Kirsty McWhirter, CEO of Hephaestus, chin-wagging with Amit Chaudhary of the Independent and legendary agent Julian Blatherskite; there was Rachel Lightfoot, senior fiction editor at Caliban, tête-à-tête with Sarah Sproat-Fanshawe, who selected the chosen reads for Channel Four’s Book Camp, and had recently been named by The Bookseller as the third most powerful woman in British publishing.
Though Mold was sponsored by the Sentinel, this party was Laetitia’s show. She glided among the guests, making sure that famous names didn’t get stuck with some tedious partner or other nobody bending their ear. Her eyes flashed as she flirted, flattered, or just listened dutifully as this or that author sounded off on the shocking lack of coverage for serious books in today’s newspapers, the deleterious effect of supermarkets on the bestseller lists, the dearth of decent editors, the paltry size of the average advance, the temptations of e-publishing, the fear of piracy in the digital world, and other such hot, writerly topics.
In the wider crowd there was talk of the festival and its progress; talk that was mostly focused this evening on the continuing ding-dong between Bryce and Dan. ‘Surely he’s had it coming’ … ‘it actually is completely awful’ … ‘only ever had one book in him, in my opinion’ … ‘but have you seen her, she looks about sixteen’ … ‘poor Scarlett, is she here?’. … ‘and what about the other one?’ All this muted, as both Dan and Bryce were in the room, steering well clear of each other. Any further denigration would be done in print, to a larger public, at a later date.
Bryce was, in any case, in a mellow mood. After Dan’s talk, Priya had insisted that the pair of them go out for a drive, which had become a walk, then a glorious alfresco shag in a cornfield, during which his delectable consort had been even wilder than usual, at one point sinking her teeth into his neck so hard that he’d been left with a visible love bite, which he’d now had to conceal (deliciously) with a black polo-neck. This serendipitous session had been marred only by the fact that Bryce had got some grit behind his contact lenses, which had left him rather red of eye. But now, as he truncated a conversation with a good-looking black crime writer called Francis Something-or-Other to give his full attention to a blonde gossip correspondent who worked, apparently, as a stringer for his newspaper, he was exuding, he imagined, the animal magnetism of the freshly post-coital. Even as he did his best not to stare at Grace’s delightfully perky breasts, Bryce chose his remarks carefully, mindful that they might end up in tomorrow morning’s Muckraker. But he couldn’t help but be indiscreet, as he always was with pretty women.
‘Today is nothing, believe me,’ he told her. ‘Tomorrow’s the big one.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘In terms of having a go at so-called celebrities …’
‘Really,’ said Grace, moving closer.
‘Yes,’ said Bryce. ‘I have one very big fish in my sights –’
He was saved by his beloved, appearing just in time with two flutes of champagne.
‘Gulp that down,’ Priya said, gesturing to his glass of wine. ‘This is the real thing. Present from Laetitia. She only gives them to her star writers, she says.’
‘Thrilled I make the cut.’
‘Sorry,’ Priya added to Grace, flashing her a challenging smile. ‘I’m Priya. Bryce’s partner.’
‘Grace Pritchard. Nice to meet you. We work for the same newspaper.’
‘Do we?’
‘I rarely go into the office.’
‘Be warned, dear heart,’ said Bryce. ‘Grace is a gossip hound. Anything you say may be taken down, changed, and used in evidence against you.’
Grace giggled as Priya rolled her eyes. ‘Take no notice of him,’ she said.
‘You were saying,’ said Grace, returning to Bryce, ‘about tomorrow being the big day.’
‘Oh nothing,’ Bryce replied, looking sheepishly over at Priya, ‘I was talking out of turn.’
‘Oh come on!’ Grace joshed. ‘You can’t leave me with that.’
‘Yes, he can,’ said Priya, sharply.
‘You see,’ said Bryce. ‘I can. Tell you what, make sure you come along to the Big Tent tomorrow afternoon and I promise you a red hot story. And not just for Muckraker either.’
Meanwhile, out at Wyveridge Hall, those who hadn’t managed to blag their way onto Laetitia’s guest list sat around pretending they didn’t care. The after-party was the thing, they told themselves, and that was here. The tradition had started three years ago, when Ranjit had found himself, at the end of the Sentinel shindig, among a crowd of frustrated revellers looking for somewhere to go on to. The pubs of Mold were packed and even during the festival closed at eleven. ‘I’m renting a big place just outside of town,’ he’d announced. ‘We’ve got booze and food, why not grab a bottle at the offy and join us?’ That first impromptu thrash had been legendary. Those lucky enough to be present still talked of the excesses: the drink, the drugs, the skinny-dipping in the fountain, the couple who had been found, at dawn, copulating by the embers of the fire in the morning room, oblivious to a circle of onlookers, one of whom was providing a running commentary. Each year since, the louche and young-at-heart had returned, hoping for a replay.
‘Lift your evening to a whole new level,’ she said with a conspiratorial grin. The mushrooms in question were liberty caps that she’d found in the big ‘pasture’ below the house. ‘It’s only, like, late July and already they’re fruiting. That’s one of the cool things about all this rain you get over here in your British so-called summer. In the States we have to wait till September.’
Over by the fireplace, a big, bearded guy called Adam read his short stories out loud to anyone who would listen; for the moment he had found an audience in a bird-like Australian in a flimsy green tulle dress. Just along the couch, Conal O’Hare continued to work on his laptop. He would socialise when it suited him. The Sentinel party was a waste of time, he had told Fleur, who had gone into Mold with her friend Grace but been turned away at the door. It was hardly a writers’ party any more anyway. Laetitia was so up the arse of agents and publishers and TV people it was ridiculous. If Fleur wanted to film real creative people, she would do better to preserve her energies for later.
Around eight thirty the host himself appeared, along with Carly his girlfriend and various others of the Wyveridge gang who had made it to the Sentinel bash. Striding in, Ranjit hurried to get things moving, clicking his iPod into the Bose portable system and flicking on the first track of a Prince CD. ‘Conal, you dickhead,’ he cried, ‘get with the programme, we’re having a party now.’
‘I thought this was supposed to be a writers’ retreat.’
‘Not after eight o’clock.’
‘Bryce and Priya coming by any chance?’
‘No idea. Of course they’re invited.’ Seeing the expression on his old friend’s face, Ranjit went over and leant down towards him. ‘I couldn’t not, could I?’
‘Couldn’t you?’
‘If I took everyone’s shagging history into account we’d never get the party started. Anyway, this is the perfect chance to piss her off. Seriously, mate, make her realise what she’s lost. Get Fleur or someone on your arm and get out there.’
Ranjit could be such an insensitive prat sometimes, Conal thought, as he headed upstairs to his room to change. But maybe this time he was right. He didn’t imagine Priya would have the gall to show up, but if she did, perhaps he should do the ignoring and making her jealous thing.
As he walked down the circular front staircase ten minutes later, he heard his ex’s laughter in the main room. That bubbling, upbeat gurgle was unmistakable and it shot straight to his heart. He strolled in as casually as he could, to see Bryce and Priya making their number with Ranjit. He ignored them, grabbed a glass of sparkling wine, and dived through the French windows. He might get exceedingly drunk tonight, he thought. And then do something to that smug, short-arsed twat that would really put him back in his box.
As the sun set and the dusk thickened, the terrace was crowded with chattering figures. Unlike Laetitia, Ranjit had an open guest list, so people came from all over the festival. They were enjoying the balmy late-July evening, the chance to mingle with their literary heroes, as well as feeling part of the controversy that everyone was talking about. Dan Dickson was at one end of the terrace; Bryce Peabody at the other. What price a midnight tussle?
But Bryce was weary. All these bright young faces, expecting him to be catty and witty. You couldn’t keep that pose up indefinitely, could you? Especially as they were half-cut now, most of them, desperate to engage with him, to show off in front of their peers and potential shags how awfully clever they were. It was a great game. But not for Bryce. Especially as some bird with a video camera kept hovering, trying to catch his embarrassment on film. He’d have told her to clear off if she hadn’t been so cute.
One wild-eyed character called Rory, who was definitely high on something, had announced himself as an ‘indie novelist and poet who utterly rejected traditional publishing’ and then spent five minutes haranguing Bryce about why he didn’t review ebooks, concluding that he was ‘an outmoded parasite on the tree of creativity’. Yeah right, Bryce thought. At least I’m on the effing tree, not grubbing around in the dirt below it. But though he was famous for putting the boot in in print, it wasn’t his style to highlight the failings of a tragic nobody like this to his face.
At one point he perked up briefly, as he and Priya found themselves in a group with Jonty Smallbone. Priya was trowelling on the charm, telling the sun-tanned TV tosser he was the best thing on the box, she’d just loved his recent series on food from the wild. Family Man was lapping it up, visibly irritating the dour-looking wife beside him. Enjoy your fame, you glossy fraud, because it ain’t going to last a lot longer. Despite Priya’s best efforts at persuasion Bryce hadn’t yet told her who his next victim was; it wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but it was essential to his purpose to keep the spectacular denunciation he was planning a total surprise.
He yawned again. He had definitely lost his mojo tonight. What he fancied now was a cup of herbal tea and his bed; one of those nice White Hart home-made biccies; his script for tomorrow’s talk propped up in front of him; a few addenda, then blissful oblivion.
Just before nine thirty he touched his girlfriend’s arm.
‘D’you want to stay?’ he said.
‘Don’t you?’
‘I’m exhausted. And rather weary of this “controversy”.’
‘You started it!’
‘It was only a review.’ He put his arms round her and nuzzled in to her neck. ‘I’ve got my talk tomorrow. I don’t want to be completely knackered. So anyway, I called a taxi.’
‘I hope you’re not taking her home already,’ said Family Man, now back on the scene without his wife. ‘Things are just getting going.’
‘Yeah, stick around,’ said a large American creature whose heaving mammaries were barely restrained by a loose mauve sarong.
Bryce managed his cheesiest smile. ‘No, really,’ he said, ‘I ought to get some beauty sleep. Before my event tomorrow. Which I do hope you’ll all be coming to. Three o’clock in the Big Tent. Revelations galore.’ He couldn’t resist giving Jonty a wink. ‘But you stay, darling,’ he added to Priya. ‘Enjoy yourself. You can get a taxi back in a bit.’
He hoped this would do the trick. Priya would have won her little battle and would now agree to return to the hotel with him. Such a wheeze would have worked with Anna. And even his nightmare of a long-term partner. But no. He had under-estimated his latest woman.
‘OK then,’ Priya replied, stretching up to peck him on the cheek. ‘You pop off and get your beauty sleep. I’ll come and wake you up later.’ She raised a single eyebrow, so flirtatiously he was tempted to stick around. But Priya had already turned back to Family Man.
‘I’ll do that,’ Bryce heard himself say. He paced off through the chattering throng. Priya was a complete dreamboat, but did she actually give a shit about him? Or was it just his status, his notoriety she was after? Sometimes he really didn’t know. He loved her, that was his awful secret, not to be confided, yet, even to her. As he crossed the gloomy hallway, he saw himself in the huge mirror, a jowelly figure hurrying away to bed. Hell, he was well over fifty now. He had to accept it, Priya was half his age; he was lucky to have her, on whatever terms.
Outside, his eyes were dazzled by a headlight’s beams. ACE TAXIS MOLD 5555. His cab. Bryce rushed towards it, past that same lovely creature with the video camera who now seemed to be filming the arriving and departing vehicles. Crazy youth! How he wished he were twenty-five again, his life ahead of him, that sense of endless time, of huge if unfocused talent, of anything and everything being possible. ‘Hey, wait a mo!’ he shouted, running in front
of the car, waving his arms. He puffed up to the driver’s window. ‘Are you going back into Mold?’
‘Yes, sir. But I’ve already got my fare.’
‘I just called you. Ace Taxis, yes? I’m Bryce Peabody.’
‘Sorry. I thought he was Bryce.’
Bryce looked in the back. It was Dan Dickson. ‘Are you trying to nick my cab?’ he said.
Dan shook his head slowly and smiled. ‘Hop in, mate. All roads lead to Mold.’
Ranjit looked down the terrace. Oh dear. There was a very public row occurring.
‘It wasn’t forever,’ Conal was shouting at Priya. ‘Couldn’t you wait for me for three months, you slag?’
‘It wasn’t about you, Conal.’
‘You social-climbing whore. You told me you loved –’
‘Conal, Conal,’ said Ranjit, pacing up. ‘Stop this right now.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Conal, please, you’ve had too much to drink –’
‘I have not – had – too – much …’
‘Ranjit …’ Priya’s eyes were begging him to stay.
‘Leave us A-LONE!’
‘No mate, you heard the lady. Come with me and cool off.’
Ignoring the circle of watching partygoers, Conal met the eyes of his friend with a scorching stare. ‘Traitor,’ he muttered. He clenched his big right fist, pulled back his arm and then, as Ranjit ducked out of the way, fell face forwards onto the gravel. With the strange dignity of the very drunk, he got up, dusted off a shower of little stones, and walked off ten yards or so. ‘I’ll kill the bastard,’ he shouted. ‘Bryce feckin’ Peabody. As of now he’s a dead man.’ Then he turned and strode purposefully away, down the steep grassy bank and on across the lawn, towards the ha-ha and the dark fields beyond.
Ranjit turned to Priya. ‘You OK?’
‘Just about.’ There were tears in her eyes.