His Tuesday lunchtime gear was the same as his Sunday evening kit, but he’d swapped wine for beer and put one in for me as well. “Unless,” he said with a wink, “you go Methodist on play days.”
“Beer is fine,” I responded, just about catching his drift.
We retired to a fireside table with two pints of Harvey’s. “It’s a real bonus seeing you again so soon, Tobe,” he said after a swallow of best bitter. I winced more than somewhat at “Tobe,” realizing that I really hadn’t misheard on the phone, but knew I’d have to go with it. “To what do I owe it?”
“Well, it’s, er…a delicate problem.”
“Delicacy is my speciality.”
“My wife and I split up a few years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. Occupational hazard, so they say.”
“It’s pretty common in the acting profession, that’s for certain. Anyway, our divorce hasn’t come through yet, but—”
“Are we talking last-minute reconciliation here?”
“No, no. Jenny lives with a man. They plan to marry as soon as they can. I…well, they live near Brighton, as a matter of fact. The point is that Jenny and I parted amicably. I’m still…concerned about her. So, I’m anxious to assure myself that this bloke’s not…”
“A wrong ’un?”
“Yes. Exactly. And he’s local. So, thinking about what you said Sunday night, I wondered if…you might know anything about him.”
“Hoping to dig up some dirt, are you, Tobe? Something that would make Jenny think twice about marrying him?”
“If there’s dirt to be dug, fine. If not, fine again.”
“Point taken.” Syd leaned as far across the table as his paunch allowed. “Who is he?”
“Roger Colborn.”
Syd frowned thoughtfully. “Colborn?”
“Know the name?”
“Maybe. What else have you got on him?”
“Some sort of businessman. Lives in a big house out near Fulking. Wickhurst Manor.”
“Thought so.” Syd grinned. “Father in plastics.”
“Yes. Colbonite Limited.”
“That’s it. Colbonite. Walter Colborn—Sir Walter, as he became—was Roger’s old man. He had a younger brother, Roger’s uncle, Gavin. Gav and I were in the same year at Brighton College.”
“You were?”
“No need to look so surprised. My dad had high hopes for me. His timing was spot-on, as it happens. He didn’t go bust until the year after I left. But that’s another story. Gav made senior prefect and went to Oxford, much good that it did him. Time’s evened up the achievements score between us, I’d say. He’s having to prop and cop these days, same as me, but he doesn’t have the aptitude for it. Too old, too lazy and usually too drunk to make the effort. That about sums him up.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Middling to fair. We’re not exactly close.”
“And the nephew?”
“I’ve met him a few times. Nothing more. Gav doesn’t speak kindly of him. That I can tell you. Whether it damns the fellow…is trickier to say. Gav got nothing out of the family business, see. His father left it all to Wally, probably for a good reason. That’s niggled away at Gav over the years. So, the nephew who inherited the lot isn’t top of his pops.”
“I suppose that might make Gavin quite…forthcoming…where Roger’s concerned.”
“Very possibly.”
“Any chance of…”
“Meeting for a chinwag? I think I might be able to arrange that, Tobe. Seeing as it’s you who’s asking.”
“It’d be great if you could.”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult. Can I let him know scotching Roger’s marriage plans could be a part of the equation?”
“If you think that’ll make him happier to talk to me.”
“Sure to, I’d say.”
“I appreciate this, Syd. I really do.”
“Don’t mention it. Leave me to mention it, when I need a favour in return.” Syd guffawed. “Don’t worry. I haven’t got a starstruck niece trying to get into RADA by the back door. The odd complimentary ticket’s about the most I’m likely to touch you for.”
“Any time.”
“Actually, though, now I come to think about it…” He looked almost sheepish as he turned an idea over in his mind.
“What?”
“Well, I, er, I’m…bringing a guest to the play tonight. A lady. To be as frank and open as you must already know I always am, Tobe, Audrey’s not been that long widowed, so I’m treading carefully. Trying to register a few Brownie points. If you could see your way clear…to joining us for a bite of supper after the show…I reckon I might just zoom up in her estimation.”
In the circumstances, I could hardly refuse. Not for the first time, Syd had outmanoeuvred me, since it appeared that I’d be repaying a favour before it had actually been done. “My pleasure, Syd.”
“Grrreat.” He beamed tigerishly at me. “We’re going on to the Latin in the Lane. Do you know it?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Maybe you could catch up with us there when you’ve got changed. You know, spring a surprise on her.”
“OK.”
“And by then…” He winked. “I might have news of my old school chum.”
Supper with Syd Porteous and Audrey the eligible widow wouldn’t have been my choice of late-night entertainment, but at least it sounded safe, which, with Denis’s misadventures in mind, was an undeniably good thing. I excused myself from a prolonged session at the Cricketers on the excellent grounds that Syd would want me to be at my actorly best come the evening and took myself off for a fish and chip lunch. Gavin Colborn promised to be a valuable contact, possibly invaluable: an embittered uncle to tell me the worst about his well-heeled, good-looking nephew. Or the best, depending on your point of view.
A couple of hours’ zizz was what I needed to set me up for the evening. I headed for the Sea Air with that as my sole ambition for the afternoon. Halfway along Madeira Place, however, I was waylaid.
I noticed a sleekly glowing dark-blue Porsche parked on the other side of the road. One admiring glance was all I gave it. Then I heard the door slam and my name was called. “Toby Flood?” I turned and looked.
And there was Roger Colborn in jeans, leather jacket and sweatshirt, leaning against the driver’s door and gazing across at me. He smiled faintly, as if daring me to pretend I didn’t know who he was.
“Can we have a chat?”
I crossed over to his side, elaborately checking for traffic to give my brain a chance to work out what he was up to. It failed. “Roger Colborn,” I announced neutrally.
“Pleased to meet you, Toby.” He offered a hand. We shook. “I’ve just been having lunch with Jenny.”
“Oh yes?”
“She told me about the help you’ve been giving her…with this little shit, Oswin.”
I nodded. “Right.”
“I’m ahead of my schedule today. So, I thought I’d come over and thank you. In person.”
“There was no need.”
“When someone goes out of their way for me, I like to acknowledge the fact.”
“But I didn’t…go out of my way for you.”
“For me. For Jenny. Same difference.” His smile broadened. “Busy this afternoon?”
“Not really, no.”
“Then come for a drive with me. I reckon we ought to…get to know each other.”
“You do?”
“It’ll avoid any…future misunderstandings. Come on. This beauty’s been cooped up while I’ve been away. I need to give her a run. Why not come along? We can talk on the way. And let’s face it, Toby, we do need to talk.”
Colborn had a point. He also had an edge of steel beneath the thin, silky affability. I could have argued the case for declining his invitation. But the case for gleaning whatever there was to be gleaned from his company was a good deal stronger.
We started north, the Porsche dawdl
ing throatily along the city streets, then struck east towards the racecourse. Colborn’s priority seemed to be to explain why he and Jenny had kept each other in the dark where Derek Oswin was concerned, although he must have realized I’d place my own construction on that, whatever he said.
“There’s been a communications failure, Toby, in this case for the best of reasons. Neither of us wanted to worry the other. I know Oswin of old, of course. I’ve been ignoring him in the hope that he’ll go away. It never occurred to me that he’d bother Jenny. Seeing him with a video of one of your old films naturally made her think his interest in her had something to do with you. There you have it.”
“I quite understand.”
“I’m glad you do. And, like I say, I’m also grateful. To be honest, I think it’s a good thing we’ve met like this. You and Jenny were together quite a while. There’s no sense trying to pretend your relationship with her never happened. It’s part of her. We’re adults, you and me. We know how it works. We should be able to deal with it.”
“I agree.”
“Great. So, what have you got lined up after this play?”
“Oh, there are several possibilities.” I had no intention of discussing the state of my career with Colborn, however adult and rational we were supposed to be. A change of subject was in order. “I’m curious about Oswin. What can you tell me about him?”
“He used to work for my father’s firm, Colbonite. I did myself, for a while. On a different level from the likes of Oswin, obviously. Christ knows what he’s been up to since it folded.”
“Nothing, as far as gainful employment’s concerned.”
“No surprise there. The guy’s a loser.”
“But he’s been in touch with you?”
“Sadly, yes. He’s bombarded me with letters and phone calls about this history of Colbonite he’s written. He’s even sent me copies of the bloody thing.”
“Read it?”
“I’m a busy man, Toby. Ploughing through the rambling reminiscences of Derek Oswin isn’t something I have either the time or the inclination to get around to. My father wound Colbonite up thirteen years ago. It was just a two-bit middling plastics company. One obscure victim of the slow death of British manufacturing. Who the hell cares?”
“Oswin said something about a valuable patent.”
“Did he?” Colborn’s brow furrowed briefly at that, then he concentrated on the mirror as we joined the A27, heading east. A surge of acceleration took the Porsche into its preferred cruising range. But its driver’s discourse had stalled.
“Was it valuable?”
“Mmm?”
“The patent.”
“Oh, moderately. It was a formula to prevent discoloration by sunlight. One of the company’s precious few assets. But selling it didn’t make my father rich beyond the dreams of avarice, let me tell you.”
“Richer than the redundant workforce, though, I assume.”
“They were paid their dues. Oswin has nothing to complain about.”
“I’m not sure he is complaining. About that, anyway.”
“What will your agent do with the book?”
“Read and reject, I imagine.”
“Let’s hope that satisfies Oswin.”
“I think it will.”
“And you think I should have arranged something similar before this got out of hand. Well, you think right.” Colborn glanced at me. “Thanks for getting me out of a hole I dug for myself, Toby. You’ve done me a favour as well as Jenny. I won’t forget that.”
How magnanimous of him. And of me. At this rate he’d soon have been inviting me to a round of golf at his club. We were two civilized men of the world, finessing our way round the compromises and contradictions of embodying both Jenny’s past and her future.
Complete bullshit, of course. What Roger Colborn was really engaged in was risk assessment. Was I an irritant that would soon go away of its own accord? Or a challenge he had to face down?
Somewhere beyond Lewes, he turned off the main road and headed up a steep lane onto the downs. There was a parking area at the top and broad vistas in all directions: a quilt of fields and woodland to the north, a grey slab of sea to the south.
“Game for a walk, Toby?” he asked in the moment of silence after the engine had died. “I find the open air helps clear my thoughts. And there’s something I really do want to be clear about.”
I agreed, with little enthusiasm. We climbed out into a cold-edged wind. I gazed along the crest of the downs, where a couple of hikers were the only humans in sight. The going looked chill and muddy. I was persuaded to squeeze into a spare pair of wellingtons. We set off. And Colborn began to lay out his thoughts.
“Jenny’s made me a better person, Toby. Maybe she did that for you as well. If so, losing her must have been a real blow. I certainly wouldn’t want to go back to being what I was before I met her. It was the biggest stroke of luck in my life. I’ll never do anything to hurt her. You have my word on that. I love her. I honestly believe I always will. And I know I’ll always protect her. She’s safe with me. It’s important you should understand that. I may not be quite as good for her as she is for me. That would be impossible. But I’m good enough. Plenty good enough.”
“I’m sure you are,” I lied.
“But what about you, Toby? Where are you going? According to Jenny, things aren’t looking too bright for you. Tell me to mind my own business if you like, but, as I understand it, this play you’re in has been, to put it bluntly, a flop.”
“It hasn’t gone as well as we’d hoped.”
“And film work’s pretty much dried up for you.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“There’s no need to be defensive about it.” He held up a hand to silence me. “The point is that I have contacts in the film world. Not Hollywood, it’s true, but in Europe. Co-production’s the name of the game. I have a stake in several projects.”
“What are you trying to say?”
We stopped. He turned to look at me, the wind ruffling his hair. “I’m saying I could get you into something. Back on the screen. In the relatively big time. Where you belong.”
He meant it. That was obvious. And whether you regarded it as the repayment of a favour or the removal of a stone from his shoe, the effect was the same: a problem solved for both of us. This, I suddenly realized, was what being a businessman meant. The making of attractive offers. The doing of productive deals. Cost-effectiveness. The profit margin. The bottom line.
“We don’t have to like each other, Toby. Mutual respect is all it takes.”
“Why be a loser when you can be a winner? Is that what you mean?”
“Something like it.”
“I’d be a fool to turn you down, then.”
“So you would. But I come across plenty of fools. I’m used to having win-win propositions thrown back in my face.”
“I’m a jobbing actor, Roger. I can’t afford to say no.”
“In that case, we’d better make sure there’s something lucrative on hand soon for you to say yes to.”
“It’d be music to my agent’s ears.”
Colborn smiled. “Don’t you just love being pragmatic?”
“It’s something of a novelty for me,” I coolly replied.
“You’ll get used to it.” His smile broadened. “I promise.”
We returned to the car and started back towards Brighton. Colborn elaborated briefly and pointedly on the nature of his profitably pragmatic business.
“It’s all about timing, Toby. When to get into something. When to get out. And the key to timing is the same as the condition upon which God hath given liberty to man: eternal vigilance. That’s what my staff do for me. Observe vigilantly. Freeing me to take time off. And to open my mind. I’ve learned to reject nothing without considering it. And to be willing to reject everything. It’s worked well for me.”
“Do you have any relatives or dependants to support?”
“Ex-wives and
children, you mean? None. Which helps, of course. It’s easier to take risks when there’s no-one else to worry about. Meeting Jenny’s made me a little more risk-averse, I admit, even though she’s quite capable of supporting herself, as the success she’s made of Brimmers demonstrates. To be honest, I’d always avoided long-term relationships, partly because I knew they might turn me into a more cautious operator. But I’ve got to the stage where I can indulge a little caution. And Jenny’s well worth any adjustments I’ve had to make to my life.”
It was all plausible enough, this slickly packaged version of himself Colborn was serving up. But it didn’t convince me. And not just because I didn’t want to be convinced. I’d spotted a flaw in his logic. What exactly was the ratio between the profits he’d turned on his shrewdly timed investments and the pile of cash he’d no doubt inherited from his father—the residue of that “two-bit middling plastics company?” It wasn’t so much about timing as editing. And when you edit a story there’s always a danger that you’ll leave a few loose ends dangling. I decided to give one a tug.
“Where was your office before you inherited Wickhurst Manor, Roger?”
“I didn’t…put the business on its current footing until after my father died, actually.” That was one up to me. And he knew it. His change of tack was swift and clumsy. Or maybe it was just meant to seem clumsy. “I hope missing the play last night didn’t get you into too much trouble, by the way.”
“I’m weathering it.”
“Good.” He judged a pause minutely before continuing. “How did your stand-in cope?”
It was an unusual question to ask. Why should he care? Why should he even bother to enquire? The only answer that came to mind was a deeply disturbing one. It was bad enough to think Denis might have been the victim of a botched set-up meant for me and commissioned by the man who’d just made me an offer too good to refuse. But it was somehow worse, far worse, to suppose that the set-up hadn’t been botched at all; that Denis’s brush with calamity had been devised quite deliberately as a message to me: a demonstration of what might befall me if I were foolish enough to reject the offer.
Play to the End Page 9
