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?’

‘We won’t have to,’ Zac assured her. ‘Thibault’s going to come through, I just know it.’

Allyson grinned. ‘OK, I’ll pick you up at nine in the morning so we can go and recce the Old Town. You gave Thibault the mobile number as well, did you, Justie?’

‘Of course. But if you hear from him tonight, don’t forget to let us know.’

‘As if,’ Allyson laughed, and putting the car back into gear, she waited for them to close the doors then drove off towards the Cap.

Valerie and Jean-Marc Clausonne, the couple she was staying with, were old friends of hers and Bob’s, so she knew their villa well, having spent many long, lazy summer evenings drinking good wine and eating delicious food on their exquisite veranda that overlooked the wonderfully scallop-edged terraces of the garden, unfolding gently down to the sea. Until now she’d been anxious about returning without Bob, knowing it was almost bound to upset her, but with today having gone so well she was hardly thinking about Bob, not even as she watched the sun setting romantically over the sea, she was just looking forward to seeing Valerie and Jean-Marc.

It didn’t surprise her one bit to discover that she wasn’t their only guest, for they invariably had friends dropping in from all over the world, who were either there on business, just passing through or availing themselves of the wonderful setting and superb facilities for a two- or three-week holiday. With an eight-bedroomed Italian-style villa, a live-in staff of three, and a daily help of eight, including the gardeners, the Clausonnes could always accommodate.

Leaving her car and luggage to the butler, Allyson walked in through the wide sixteenth-century front doors, across the vast marble hallway with its curiously macabre paintings and stained-glass windows, and out through the sitting room full of pastels and Impressionists, to where Valerie was already pouring champagne into a glass for her, and making ready to introduce her to a suave-looking couple from Boston.

‘Darling, you look divine and so undamaged,’ Valerie declared, with her own inimitable frankness. She was part English, part Italian, and spoke both languages with a pronounced American accent. She had to be at least fifty, though looked closer to sixty thanks to all the hours she spent in the sun. But there was a real beauty to her face that no amount of lines could disguise, and such a playful light in her eyes that it was impossible for anyone to take offence at her outspokenness.

‘How are you?’ Allyson laughed, embracing her. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

‘I have been so worried, but look at you!’ Valerie cried. ‘Look at her,’ she demanded of her other guests. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous? Who would ever believe her husband left her for a younger woman? The man he is, pah! a fool. Allyson, you must meet Marla and Wesley Van Owen. They are very good friends of ours all the way from Boston.’

Allyson greeted the Van Owens, then was scooped into a giant bear hug by Jean-Marc as he came out onto the terrace. Like his wife he had been aged by the sun, and also like his wife he favoured flowing, brightly coloured caftans to eliminate any constriction of the blood flow in their large, overfed bodies.

Two glasses of champagne later they were joined by more friends who lived nearby, and the kitchen staff started to load the table up with food. As always chez Clausonne, the conversation was as stimulating as it was varied and with so many people from such different strata of jet-set life, it shouldn’t have been such a surprise when Mark Reiner’s name came up.

‘Did you say Mark Reiner?’ Allyson asked Wesley Van Owen. ‘Of Leisure and Media?’

‘Sure,’ Van Owen answered. ‘Why, do you know him?’

‘He’s my boss,’ she answered. ‘He’s just taken over the TV station I work for.’

‘Well, how about that?’ Van Owen said, looking at his wife.

‘Mark Reiner?’ Valerie squealed. ‘We know Mark. He is a very good friend. As a matter of fact he was here, staying with us, just a few weeks ago. Isn’t that right, Jean-Marc?’

‘Had a gorgeous lady with him,’ Jean-Marc added, his rheumy eyes twinkling. ‘What was her name? Do you remember her name, Val?’

‘Jennifer? Jane? Something like that. Was she French? I think she was French. No, maybe she was English.’

Though Allyson kept her smile in place, she was aware of the warmth seeping out of it. But Valerie had said it was a few weeks ago, it could very well be over by now. And besides, it might not have been a girlfriend. It could have been just a friend. And even if it was a girlfriend, and it was still going on, Shelley would get to find out sooner or later without it having to come from Allyson, who’d only be guessing, because she could hardly start asking who this Jennifer or Jane actually was when the subject had already moved on, and when it would almost certainly appear that she was the one who wanted to know.

‘So tell us more about this programme of yours!’ Jean-Marc demanded, as he prised a succulent langoustine from its shell. ‘We are all invited to the party, non?’

‘If it happens you can count on it,’ Allyson responded.

‘Give me the name of the person you have to convince,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to him first thing in the morning.’

Allyson laughed. Jean-Marc loved playing Mr Fix-It, and with so many well-placed friends and influential contacts he generally succeeded. However, in this instance, she wanted to go it alone, and know that if they did manage to secure the Sporting Club it would be through their own efforts. So she made Jean-Marc swear he wouldn’t do anything unless, for some reason, M. Thibault turned them down. At that point she might consider letting Jean-Marc pull a few strings.

But there was no need, for at ten the following morning M. Thibault called her on the mobile to announce that he was delighted to offer the facilities of the Monte Carlo Sporting Club to her programme under the terms and conditions they had agreed. The second she rang off Allyson gave a scream of joy, then flung her arms round Zac and Justine as they congratulated her and themselves and swore undying love for M. Thibault and all his descendants. Losing her status as a presenter was hard, but if this first real experience as a producer was anything to go by, then Allyson strongly suspected that working behind the scenes, and out here in the field, was going to prove far more rewarding than anything she’d done before. And that in itself felt like a triumph over Tessa Dukes, not to mention a poke in the eye for Bob, who might have been deluding himself into believing that she couldn’t survive without him.

By the time the plane touched down at Heathrow Allyson was so exhausted by all the elation and intense hard work of the past couple of days – not to mention the late night she’d had at the Clausonnes’ – that instead of going straight to the office she went home first to shower and change.

After the taxi dropped her off she hurried up the stairs with her heavy bag, only to find that though the key went into the lock, for some reason it wouldn’t turn. Baffled, and not a little irritated, she was about to get out her mobile to call a locksmith when, to her amazement, Julian came bounding up the stairs behind her. He stopped dead when he saw her.

‘Julian?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

He looked ready to bolt. ‘I just, well, uh Tessa left something here. I’ve come to pick it up.’

Allyson stared at him, not sure she’d heard right. ‘Tessa’s been here?’ she said, her heart starting to thump.

His colour deepened. ‘Uh, I’ve got to go.’

‘No, wait. How were you going to get in?’

He looked at her wretchedly.

‘You’ve got a key, haven’t you? They’ve changed the locks.’ She held out her hand. It was shaking, and her knees had turned weak with the shock, but her voice was icily determined as she said, ‘Give me the key.’

He didn’t put up much of a fight.

Allyson turned to open the door. ‘Come with me,’ she said. She was so angry she felt violent.

The place was a mess, newspapers and unwashed dishes all over the floor, no attempt to make the bed or pick up towels after a shower, and the kitchen was too horrible to face. She stalked straight into the laundry room, grabbed a roll of black plastic sacks and began filling them.

‘Help me,’ she snapped at Julian.

Obediently he took a bag and began filling it.

When Allyson was satisfied that everything of Tessa’s was gone, she made Julian help her carry the sacks down to the bins.

‘You can go now,’ she said when they’d finished.

Returning to the flat she called an emergency locksmith who came within the hour. When he’d finished she got into her car and drove to the office.

Tessa was just coming out of the studio. Whether Julian had had time to get to her before she’d gone in to record wasn’t possible to tell. Allyson didn’t care. She grabbed hold of Tessa’s arm, marched her down the corridor then flung her up against the wall.

‘If you ever set one foot inside my flat again I’ll have you arrested,’ she hissed. ‘Do you hear me?’

‘Let go of me,’ Tessa cried. ‘Just who do you think you are, pushing me around!’

At that Allyson dealt her such a resounding blow to the face that Tessa staggered sideways into a cupboard.

Allyson turned and walked away.

‘Bitch!’ Tessa screamed after her.

Allyson kept going, past those who had stopped to stare, and upstairs to the office. ‘See if you can find my husband,’ she said to Shelley’s assistant as she stalked into Shelley’s office.

Shelley looked up. ‘What’s happened?’ she said.

‘Nothing. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to tape our first foreign programme in Monte Carlo. Oh, and if …’

The door crashed open and Tessa flew at her.

‘What the hell?’ Shelley cried, leaping to her feet.

Tessa was on Allyson’s back, clawing her hair and trying to bang her head against the wall. ‘Bitch!’ she was screaming. ‘She attacked me. Bitch!’

‘Get her off,’ Shelley demanded as Alan and Jerry ran into the office.

Quickly they grabbed Tessa and prised her away. Allyson stumbled against the desk and brushed the hair from her face. ‘I’m warning you,’ she shouted at Tessa, ‘you stay away from me and what’s mine or I’ll fucking well kill you.’

The others watched in silence as she walked out of the room.

‘I’ve got your husband on the line,’ Marvin told her.

Allyson walked right past him. ‘Tell him to die,’ she seethed.

Shelley caught up with her in the car park.

‘She tried to move into my flat,’ Allyson gasped. ‘I got back to find the locks had been changed and her and Bob’s things were all over the place. I wanted to kill her, Shell. I swear, if I had it in me …’ She took a breath. ’And as for him, I was considering giving him some money, but he can rot in hell now. They both can, because I’ve had it. They’ve turned my life upside down, they’ve mocked me, humiliated me and now they’re trying to destroy me.’ Fury was making her breath short, tears streamed down her face.

‘It’s OK,’ Shelley said, as she started to sob with anger and frustration.

‘I don’t understand it,’ Allyson raged. ‘How does a man you’ve loved for more than twenty years suddenly turn into this monster?’

‘Because like most men he’s weak,’ Shelley answered. ‘He saw something he wanted and took it, without thinking about you or anyone else. And this is what it’s got him. No job, no money and a stupid little cow of a girlfriend who he probably can’t stand any more.’

‘Then why doesn’t he leave her?’

‘Because he’s got nowhere else to go.’

‘He’s got me.’

Shelley looked at her. ‘Are you sure about that?’

Allyson looked back, her eyes dark with confusion. In the end she closed them. ‘God, I hate her,’ she said. ‘I hate her so much it scares me.’