Cruel Venus

by Susan Lewis

  Shelley groaned. ‘How could that make me feel better?’ she said, glancing at her watch. Everyone would be in the studio by now, she’d be needed.

  ‘OK, not better,’ Allyson responded, ‘just aware that that side of my life is still very much dominated by Bob Jaymes, which is the main reason I went last night, in the hope of making him jealous.’

  Shelley smiled. She wasn’t sure it made it any better, but that was at least something she understood.

  Allyson hugged her, then watched her go off to check on the last-minute details for recording, her long shapely legs moving swiftly and confidently beneath the gentle cling of a cashmere skirt, her lovely dark hair falling in short waves over the collar of a cerise silk shirt. Whichever angle she was viewed from there was never any mistaking what an exquisitely beautiful woman Shelley was, which could only make Allyson wonder about the extraordinary perversity of a fate that dealt her such bad hands with men. For her part Allyson honestly didn’t want to cause her any more pain, nor was it her intention to, but she couldn’t help wondering how long it was going to take for her to really forgive Shelley for making Tessa Dukes the star of Soirée.

  The cameras were moving into position. Upstairs in the gallery the production team was getting ready to record. Tessa’s face was on every monitor, rehearsing with the autocue that contained the opening link. She looked cute and sexy, with her fresh open face and a newly designed skin-tight catsuit. She’d already met the guests, a flighty little actress who was playing the bitch in a new teenage soap, and a car-wrecking stuntman who’d just cut his first single. It was going to make a change for her to interview someone now, after all the interviews she’d given these last few days. Her face was going to be on the cover of at least two glossies when they came out, and Hello! magazine had been in touch asking to take shots of her at home. Of course they couldn’t do that, but she wasn’t going to pass up on the publicity so she’d find a way round it. Maybe one of Bob’s rich friends could lend them a place to get photographed in.

  ‘OK, recording in one minute,’ the floor manager announced.

  A sound man came up to fiddle with her mic, then went away again. Tessa peered through the lights and found a couple of researchers smiling their encouragement. No sign of Allyson, or Shelley. They were probably watching upstairs. She hadn’t expected to feel this nervous, in fact it was getting closer to panic.

  Then Shelley was walking towards her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  Tessa nodded, but she looked as scared as Shelley had expected.

  ‘The pilots were fantastic,’ Shelley told her. ‘Mark Reiner called to say he thought so too.’

  ‘Mark Reiner?’ Tessa echoed, obviously pleased.

  ‘We both think you’ve got something special. Just keep the enthusiasm down a notch, it can get overwhelming, but you’re a natural when it comes to letting your guest talk. It took Allyson a long time to learn that.’

  Tessa knew then that she was going to be brilliant.

  Satisfied that the compliment at Allyson’s expense had worked, Shelley squeezed the girl’s hand and disappeared into the darkness surrounding the set. It was true, Mark had called, and he’d been as impressed as everyone else with the pilots. He’d had nothing to say about his date with Allyson last night, nor about what had happened in his office before Christmas. So Shelley hadn’t mentioned anything either, for she was nothing if not a professional, and minutes before a recording wasn’t the time to be dealing with matters that were so very personal. She couldn’t help wondering if that was why he’d rung when he had. But even if it was, he’d at least remembered to wish her a happy New Year, and, if she’d heard him correctly, she was sure he’d said something about looking forward to seeing her again soon.

  ‘Shelley? Any last-minute notes?’ the director said as she entered the gallery.

  ‘No,’ she answered.

  ‘OK, studio, stand by.’ The director was speaking into the talkback.

  ‘Can someone verify the spelling of this guy’s name?’ the caption operator called out from his end of the gallery.

  A researcher came forward to check.

  ‘Everyone ready to go?’ the director asked.

  ‘Standing by,’ came several voices.

  ‘OK, roll tape,’ the production assistant instructed.

  The tape rolled and the countdown began.

  ‘Good luck everyone,’ Shelley said, taking her position the other side of the PA. ‘Does Tessa have an earpiece?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tessa answered, her anxious face filling up the monitors and making her look younger than ever.

  ‘Be brilliant,’ Shelley said.

  Tessa smiled.

  ‘Ten seconds, nine, eight …’ the PA announced.

  ‘OK, on you camera two,’ the director said as the countdown ended. ‘And cue Tessa.’

  Despite two false starts when Tessa tripped up in the opening link, her first real recording turned into a triumph. It took her next to no time to get her nerves under control, and she ended up putting on a show that surpassed even Shelley’s expectations. She was entertaining, energetic and impressively professional considering her lack of experience. She caused an audible gasp in the gallery when she asked the actress, point-blank, how much her new breasts had cost, and made them all laugh when she got up to jig about to the stuntman’s new hit. As a performer she was outlandish, unconventional and definitely refreshing. She was also on an incredible high by the time she came out of the studio, and ready to party all night.

  However, Shelley sobered her up by reminding her that the transmission hadn’t happened yet, and then she’d be in the hands of the press. Not that Shelley expected anything but praise in the next morning’s papers, she just wanted to keep the girl’s feet on the ground, and do what she could to avoid rubbing the success in Allyson’s face.

  The reviews next morning were much as Shelley had expected, though, ironically, Tessa’s limelight was somewhat stolen by Bob Jaymes’s appearance in court for being drunk and disorderly. As his arrest had happened on New Year’s Eve people were more inclined to laugh than condemn.

  Allyson was one of the few who didn’t find it funny, and might have called him, had she not been flying off to recce the Sporting Club in Monaco as a possible venue for her first foreign programme. That had to take priority now. Bob’s increasing problem with drink and the reasons behind it were no longer her concern. Let Tessa deal with his mess, after all she was the one who’d created it.

  Chapter 11

  GETTING BOB OUT of bed after a heavy night was no easy task, but Tessa had a day off today and was determined they should spend it together. She’d gone to a lot of trouble organizing things, so she had no intention of letting him spoil it, even if it did mean giving him a breakfast of thick black coffee followed by a fortifying gin.

  By ten o’clock he was showered, shaved and dressed ready to go. His face was a bit pale, but he looked pretty cool in his black Hugo Boss jeans and a white Armani shirt, though definitely his mood could have been better. But, as he probably had a head like a wrecking ball, she wasn’t going to annoy him by telling him to cheer up. Instead, she carried on running up and down stairs filling up the car with their belongings.

  By ten thirty they were ready to leave. Tessa had intended to drive, but he insisted he would, so avoiding an argument she slipped into the passenger seat and adjusted the radio. Very soon they were sweeping through New Covent Garden, heading towards Chelsea, and Tessa was chattering on about Allyson and how she’d gone to France on a supposed recce, but, according to everyone in the office, was apparently meeting up with Mark Reiner, the new owner of the company, whom she’d been out with on New Year’s Eve.

  ‘Just shut the fuck up about her, will you?’ Bob snapped in the end. ‘I’m doing what you want, aren’t I? So you don’t have to wind me up any more.’

  ‘I was only saying …’

  ‘Don’t. Just give it a rest.’

  ‘Sorry.’
Tessa turned to look out of the window and said no more.

  The photographers and a reporter from Hello! were already waiting when they drove into Cheyne Walk. Though Bob had some qualms about what they were doing, he was still angry enough with Allyson to go along with it, and since this was his home too, he reminded himself that he had every right to be there.

  Once inside, the photographer started setting up in the kitchen, while the make-up artist took Tessa into the bathroom. This was the first time Tessa had ever been inside the flat, so it was all she could do not to give herself away by exclaiming how fantastic everything was. As far as the reporter was concerned this was where she and Bob lived, so to start drooling over the amazing draperies around the bed, or the size of the rooms, or the incredible black and white marble bathroom with its twin basins, massive shower, jacuzzi bath and French bidet, was going to look a bit odd. So she just went about opening cupboards, doors and drawers with the idle panache of someone who was playing down their extreme good taste.

  Very soon she was helping herself to Allyson’s cosmetics, then rummaging through her underwear drawer looking for clean tights. Next she took a look in the wardrobe to see if there was anything she might be able to squeeze into. Then she tried the shoe cupboard, shoe cupboard! to see if anything fitted her there. Nothing did, so she ended up wearing the daring and glittery stuff she’d borrowed from the wardrobe department, which Bob had carried up in a suitcase.

  It was like a game as the photographer clicked away, taking shots of her and Bob in the amazing designer kitchen, looking incredibly romantic as he hugged her in front of him, with all of Allyson’s saucepans and utensils hanging on racks behind them. From there they moved into the sitting room where Tessa was photographed on one of the creamy yellow sofas, feet curled under her and looking for all the world as though she were the queen of Chelsea living. No-one mentioned the silver-framed photographs of Allyson and her parents, or Allyson and Bob on their wedding day, or any other of the many photographs that were of friends and family, but none of them Tessa.

  All the time the photographer worked the reporter was asking questions about how it felt to be famous, what it was like facing so much success at such a tender age, which designers she preferred, all kinds of trivial stuff that Tessa could handle easily, unlike the more in-depth interviews that wanted to delve into her background and know all kinds of details about her parents and family that she wasn’t prepared to discuss. So this was a cinch. All she had to do was change outfits from time to time, move from one room to another to pose in front of all the best features of the flat, like the fireplaces, the paintings, the balconies, the weird and wonderful antiques, and talk about things that ultimately meant nothing. There was an awkward moment, though, when the photographer asked her and Bob to pose on the bed and Bob flatly refused. Knowing from his expression that there would be no point in arguing, Tessa took the reporter and photographer to one side and said, ‘He’s very private about our life together. In fact, I had a hell of a job getting him to agree to this at all, so, if you don’t mind, we’d better call it a day.’

  The photographer and make-up artist started packing away their gear while the reporter asked Tessa a final few questions. When they were ready to leave Tessa walked out to the front door with them.

  ‘It’s a wonderful place you’ve got here,’ the reporter said, as Bob came into the hall. ‘Isn’t this where you and Allyson used to live?’

  ‘Yes, but we live here now,’ Tessa answered, pulling open the door. ‘Thanks very much for coming. Let me know which issue it’s going to be in, won’t you? And you know where to find me if there’s anything else I can do.’

  Their footsteps could still be heard on the stairs as Tessa closed the door, then turned to look down the hall to where Bob was standing outside the bedroom. Her eyes were glittering brightly, and her breath was quickening with exultance. ‘See, I told you,’ she laughed, ‘we had to get out of that grotty little place or we were going to go mad.’ She ran towards him and he caught her as she threw herself into his arms and circled his waist with her legs. ‘We’ve only been here a couple of hours and already everything feels better.’

  She looked down into his face and saw how troubled he was.

  ‘Oh Bob,’ she groaned. ‘You’re home. I thought it was where you wanted to be.’

  How could he say yes, but not with you? How could he say anything now the reporter and photographer had gone with evidence of their unforgivable intrusion into Allyson’s life? But if Allyson was down there in the South of France with another man, a man she might be intending to move in here, who might already have spent the night in his bed …

  ‘Bob?’ Tessa whispered.

  He looked into her eyes, which were full of uncertainty and eagerness to please.

  ‘Do we have to go?’ she said, her disappointment already starting to show.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to decide whether we should bring our bags in first, or …’ he was turning into the bedroom.

  ‘Or?’ she said, starting to laugh.

  ‘Or whether I should make love to you right now.’

  ‘I’d say there’s no contest,’ she said as he dropped her on the bed.

  ‘I’d say you’re right,’ he responded, lying down beside her. And, aware of Allyson’s photograph on his nightstand, he began to undress first Tessa, then himself.

  Allyson was sitting at one of the two dozen or so long tables that fanned out from the empty stage of the Monte Carlo Sporting Club. With her were Justine and Zac, her researchers, and Monsieur Thibault, a representative of the Société des Bains de Mer, the organization that controlled everything in Monaco, including the permissions needed to film.

  Being one of the Principality’s most exclusive venues, the Sporting Club, where the likes of Stevie Wonder, Liza Minnelli, Rod Stewart and Whitney Houston performed after-dinner cabaret for an extremely wealthy and star-studded audience during the summer months, was an ambitious target for Allyson’s first transmission. So ambitious, in fact, that it hadn’t really surprised her when her first efforts to book it had met with a disdainful no. However, she wasn’t so easily put off, for she was viewing this as a critical test of her producer’s skills, so had no intention of being felled at the first hurdle. Her next approach, when she’d finally got Thibault back on the line, had hinted at a hefty facility fee without actually stating how much, and a follow-up fax had detailed the incredibly valuable publicity the programme could offer the Principality for free. They’d now been in negotiation for the past two days, and for the moment at least they appeared to be making some headway. Allyson hardly dared to imagine what a coup it would be if she could pull this off, for the large, circular room, with its vast floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a spectacular view of the Mediterranean, where millionaires’ yachts cruised through the surf and magnificent five-star hotels topped the surrounding cliffs, was a location like no other in the world.

  ‘You say you will need the club for three days,’ M. Thibault purred in his charming French accent. His clean-shaven, fleshy face was suddenly cut across by a rogue ray of sunlight and he raised a hand to shield it. ‘One to set up, one to rehearse and shoot, and one to de-rig.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Allyson confirmed. ‘There’ll be about twenty crew in all, including make-up and wardrobe, and fifty specially invited guests to make up an audience. We don’t normally have an audience for the programme, but as this is something of a special case we’re changing the rules to create a party atmosphere. Obviously, there’ll be the programme guests too, which should number around six, I believe?’ She was looking at Zac and Justine, seeking confirmation.

  Zac, the lanky, tousle-headed Irish lad who was the senior of the two researchers, pushed a sheet of paper across the table. ‘I’ve drawn up a list of those we’ve approached,’ he said. ‘They all live here, in Monte Carlo, some British, some American. I’m still waiting to hear back from a couple, so I’ll confirm nearer the time who
we’re actually going to use.’

  ‘And the audience invitation obviously extends to you and whoever you would like to bring,’ Justine added with a fetching smile.

  Whether it was the invitation or the smile that Thibault appreciated was hard to tell, but either way Justine’s additional touch had clearly done no harm. After giving Zac’s list a look-over, Thibault turned back to Allyson.

  ‘You understand that we make you a special rate because it is winter,’ he said. ‘The Club is not used so much in the winter.’

  ‘We’re very grateful to you,’ Allyson said, knowing she’d have to cut into the location budgets of future programmes to cover this ‘special rate’. ‘And if all the facilities check out, for camera access, lighting …’

  ‘The Club is already set up for such events,’ Thibault interrupted. ‘But you must inform us if you have any special requirements. Your dates are January 26th, 27th and 28th, oui?’

  ‘Oui,’ Allyson responded with a smile.

  Thibault nodded graciously, then returned to his perusal of the documentation in front of him. ‘You are returning to London tomorrow?’ he said, after a while.

  Allyson replied, ‘We leave Nice at midday.’

  ‘Then I shall have an answer for you before you leave. Will you be at the Hermitage again this evening?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m afraid our budget only ran to one night at the Hermitage. So Zac and Justine are staying at a hotel just outside Beaulieu tonight, and I’m staying with friends on Cap Ferrat. I’ll give you the number.’

  Justine was already writing it down, her long crinkly red hair flowing onto the table as she bent her head over the page.

  Half an hour later Allyson was at the wheel of their hire car driving along the spectacular coast road towards Beaulieu. Justine was in the seat beside her, Zac was behind, and all three of them were having trouble containing their excitement.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you two if this doesn’t work out,’ Allyson laughed, as she pulled up outside the quaint, typically French auberge they’d found yesterday while touring the region. ‘Will you be able to handle the disappointment?’