Eighteen

Harry had gone straight home from the airport, but not stayed there long. After a shower and change of clothes, he had set out to walk two miles across London, to visit Ben Lazenby.

Lazenby lived in Edwardian splendour in central London. His flat was in a claustrophobic square populated by politicians and media freaks. Harry had not the least hesitation in cataloguing the lot of them as freaks; after all, he represented most of them.

Marianne answered the door.

‘Hello,’ Harry said, slinging his coat down on the chair in the hall. He gazed upwards at an enormous wind-chime over his head. Two carpet fitters were busy laying a bright red carpet up the stairs. He looked at Marianne, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Don’t ask,’ she said. She was a tall, aristocratic-looking girl, hardly twenty, long in the face and with a chin-length sheaf of white-blonde hair. She looked wearily as if her life had already passed before her.

‘What happened to the Pollock?’ Harry asked, meaning the enormously expensive painting that had graced the hallway on his last visit.

‘Too angular,’ she drawled, shutting the door. ‘Cutting chis. Too black. Not auspicious.’

‘Cutting what?’

She walked to the back of the house, and Harry followed her. In the huge kitchen, Lazenby sat in an armchair, muffled up as if against Siberian cold. He was shouting into a phone. Paper littered every inch of the six-foot table, and was spread liberally on the chairs and the floor. ‘Mahler,’ Lazenby was saying. ‘Ta … da … tadada …’

Harry propped himself against a worktop.

‘A drink?’ Marianne asked.

‘Coffee.’

‘Decaff, Café Direct …?’

‘Marianne, just put something in a cup.’

Ben had already waved at him to sit down. Harry did so, resting his head in his hands. A cat came and lay at his feet, stretching itself to full length on its back. He nudged it away with the tip of his shoe.

Lazenby came off the phone. ‘Don’t come near me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this flu. What do you think of the hall? Feng shui. Releases the energies, gets everything flowing.’

‘What did you get for the Pollock?’

‘Nothing. It’s in the bank.’ Ben took out a handkerchief, and wiped his nose. ‘I had this chap round last month—went through the whole house. We had a little shrine up here, we had him clapping like a maniac in every room, we had bells, we had Chopin, we had holy water, we had fucking anemones—don’t ask—we changed the carpet because of the colour, I’ve got these crystals, I had to take the wrought iron out of the balcony, I had to put a fish tank in, he said we had to move the bathroom out of the fortunate bloody blessings—’

‘Ben,’ Harry interrupted.

‘Do you know what it cost me?’

‘No.’

‘Thousands! Do you know what it’s done for me?’

‘Ben …’

‘Nothing. Got this flu—worst flu I’ve ever had. I’ve been in bed, I’ve had her there blowing horse pills down my neck with a funnel, I’ve had Bellamys cancel the contract, I’ve had Lin Gallagher disappear into exile, I’ve had a musicians’ strike, I’ve had a burst pipe in the cellar, I’ve got fucking chilblains, I mean! I said, what the hell is a chilblain, for Christ’s sake. Williams said, “It’s either that or gout,” and bloody well smirked! I’ve had Elizabeth refusing to work Lotus …’ He paused. Marianne was laughing softly from the other side of the room. ‘And I’ve got this bitch laughing,’ he said.

‘Ben,’ Harry murmured, ‘it’s about Lin.’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s been taken into hospital.’

Ben stared at him for a moment. ‘When?’

‘Yesterday. Kieran and I caught a flight back this morning. He’s gone to see her now.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘No one knows.’

‘But …’ Ben paused. ‘I went to see her at the beginning of the week. She was fine then.’

‘It was very sudden.’

‘With what?’

‘They think maybe meningitis, but they don’t know yet.’

‘God,’ Marianne said.

‘Jesus,’ Ben echoed. He looked up. ‘This is his fault,’ he said. ‘Kieran’s.’

‘How do you figure that out?’

‘Leaving her to the mercy of that ex-wife of his.’

Marianne delivered the drinks. Harry took his cup gratefully.

‘Get him something to eat,’ Lazenby said.

‘I’m all right,’ Harry replied.

‘Get me something to eat, then.’ He made a face of supplication at Marianne, who stuck her tongue out at him and turned away.

Harry looked down at his feet.

‘You know his trouble?’ Ben said. ‘He believes his own publicity. What did you get out of him? The trouble we had filming.’

‘I know,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve heard it all from the crew these last few days.’

‘What the hell is the matter with him?’

Harry sighed. ‘I don’t know. He’s restless. Something isn’t right.’

Marianne had given Lazenby a slice of toast, which Lazenby promptly stuffed, folded, into his mouth. After a couple of chews, he spoke with his mouth full. ‘Lin thinks he prefers the ex-wife. She thinks he’s sick of TV and wants to go back, rewind, give it all up. Give her up.’

Harry frowned. ‘She said that?’

‘Reading between the lines.’

‘I don’t think it’s as bad as that.’

Ben leaned forward, pointing at him. ‘I don’t care what it is, frankly,’ he said. ‘I’m sick to death of him. If he’s prevaricating over this next contract, I’ll have him dropped. It doesn’t make good film. Now, I’ll tell you what I want.’

Harry sat back, and crossed him arms.

‘I want Lin,’ Ben went on. ‘I’ve got something in mind for her. Something along the same lines, but perkier. He labours those celebrities, deflates them. She’ll perk ’em up. Big Breakfast, Don’t Forget Your Toothbrush. In-your-face stuff. I’m cogitating, and if Gallagher doesn’t fall in line, I swear to you, Harry, it’s no go. I’ll sink The History House. I’ll put Lin in a new vehicle.’ Lazenby’s gaze drifted to one side. ‘What hospital is she in, poor cow? I’ll send her something.’

Harry told him. Lazenby scribbled the address on the nearest piece of paper. Then he looked up. ‘I don’t want to make your life difficult,’ he said almost kindly. ‘But that’s the size of it.’

Harry sighed, finally getting sick of the cat and forcibly pushing it away from his feet. ‘I don’t like the sound of this Ruth business,’ he said. ‘She was there when Lin was taken ill, you know.’

Ben had picked up a file and now glanced at Harry from over its open pages. ‘There’s something going on there,’ he said. ‘Mark my words.’

‘Not according to Kieran.’

Ben snorted, but said nothing. It brought on a coughing fit.

‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ Harry said, trying not to echo Marianne’s almost malicious grin as she showered several wads of tissue into Ben’s lap.

‘Go and see Lin,’ Ben said. ‘Go and tell her what I said. Cheer her up.’

‘I might,’ Harry murmured, turning for the door. ‘I might.’