‘So be like your uncle Rory, kids,’ stage-whispered Roy. ‘Get clever or you’ll sure as hell get conned.’

  ‘You’d be striking a blow for democracy.’

  Roy raised an eyebrow. ‘Giving back condescension to the people?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Paul, ‘It’s too much fun to be hogged by the privileged few.’

  ‘You oughta join the Labour Party.’

  Paul leaned forward enthusiastically, ‘Actually; what you said … “Getting clever” … Could make a song.’

  Roy started quaking. ‘Is this where we sing and tap-dance together?’

  After a sip of wine, Paul shook his head. ‘I don’t do things, Roy. I think of them.’ He left a brief pause, then turned to Matthew, ‘That’ll do for now.’ The cameraman glanced at Matthew, who said nothing.

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Paul. ‘You want to waste film …’ He turned to Roy. ‘The soup’s cold; so let’s have the salmon.’

  ‘Got to have chips and vinegar with mine,’ said Roy.

  ‘I’ll see if cook can manage it … He’s a bit rough on the refinements.’

  Roy heard Matthew say, ‘Cut.’ Only then did he realise how shaky he felt; as if he’d been riding pillion on a motorbike with a driver who didn’t believe in brakes, but had somehow stopped without an accident. Gemma came up beaming.

  ‘That was terrific, Roy.’

  ‘Terrific?’ he snarled. ‘Jesus, baby, you’ll have to say better than that if you want a part in my movie.’ No trouble, he thought light-headedly.

  She pouted; then said briskly, ‘How are you going to establish this scene, Matty?’

  Matthew seemed puzzled. ‘You mean shots of Roy arriving, the butler leading him through twenty reception rooms?’

  Gemma looked delighted. ‘It’d be hysterical. Let’s do it.’

  ‘It’ll take a month to light … otherwise, great.’

  She jabbed a finger at him. ‘All right maestro, let’s have some ideas.’

  ‘I’d rather hear yours first.’ He rattled some change in a trouser pocket. ‘You were the ones who wanted some hammed-up sequences …’

  Gemma smiled. ‘Give us enough rope and we’ll hang ourselves?’ She picked up Paul’s glass and drank from it. ‘Only trouble is, we’ll hang you too.’ She tut-tutted school-ma’amishly. ‘A pop star and a peer in the same film. Dear me, Matty, not at all your usual fodder … what will the critics say?’ She rolled her eyes in sympathetic horror. ‘Have to do something special.’

  Matthew turned to his crew. ‘We’re breaking for a script conference.’

  ‘Script conference be damned,’ laughed Paul, ‘this is strictly improvised.’

  As he cantered through various suggestions, Matthew contented himself with comments based on technical grounds. Exterior set-ups would be best because not requiring lights, and so forth. On the whole Matthew thought Paul’s basic idea perfectly viable; a montage of conversation pieces, using house and grounds to advantage, would work well visually. If some scenes were covered in long shot – Paul and Roy rowing on the lake for instance, or looking down from the battlements – any appropriate conversation could be used, and a seemingly unbroken dialogue carry on from set-up to set-up on sound. Both funny, and useful in creating the ironically nonchalant impression Paul seemed set on giving his efforts as a promoter. How this would mix with verité coverage of actual events – concerts, recordings, etcetera – Matthew wasn’t sure (except that Paul was taking a colossal risk). If Roy triumphed, Paul’s comically off-hand statements would make him look a casual genius; but if Roy failed, Matthew didn’t imagine there would be many people wanting to change places with Paul for all his money.

  As soon as the next set-up had been agreed, Matthew decided to dispose of a question that’d been niggling him since his arrival. Affecting only marginal interest, he said,

  ‘Why didn’t Eleanor stay to see the fun?’

  Paul turned sharply. ‘I thought you knew she’s not wildly enthusiastic about our efforts.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Matthew, ‘that’s why I was surprised she didn’t stay to keep an eye on things.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘How can that effect what we’re doing?’

  Knowing that Paul would only brush it aside, Matthew saw no point in telling him that his wife had vowed to stop the film.

  *

  On a drab winter day, a month after the filming at Castle Delvaux, Eleanor was walking along Pall Mall, chatting to her father. Although Paul’s invitation to Matthew and his TV people had shaken her, seeming to contradict everything agreed after the ‘happenings’, Eleanor had nonetheless shied away from treating it as a crisis. She had also done her best to avoid burdening her parents. But already she fancied her success had been limited. As she and her father passed the grimy façades of the clubs, she was often aware of covert glances, concerned yet somehow reproachful.

  Today she had picked up her father at the Travellers’ (more often it would be White’s), and they were now on their way to Prunier’s for another of the regular luncheons he had been dutifully arranging, since learning that she was spending more time in town. Passing the RAC, Lord Herrick asked Eleanor whether she had recently been reading the papers. She wondered, with a flutter in her stomach, whether he had seen anything about Paul. To her relief it became clear that he was referring to rumours of a summer election. Lord Herrick had reasonably well-founded hopes of a junior ministry should the Tories be returned to power. When her father began ruminating on the week’s principal foreign news – another Viet Cong offensive and more genocide in Biafra – Eleanor found it bizarrely incongruous that her own attention should recently have been engaged by matters such as the announcement of Rory Craig’s forthcoming single (archly entitled ‘Getting Clever’), and the news that the record of ‘Image Man’ had now risen to number three in the charts.

  In truth, Eleanor had been collecting information about Roy Flannery with as much zeal as her father had ever brought to his life-long study of politics. But, as yet, she had done little with her store of goodies. Convinced that nothing would alienate singer from benefactor until a clutch of hits had swollen Roy’s ego and his bank account, she had resisted the temptation to act prematurely. But the waiting seemed almost at an end. Recent despatches from the press cuttings agency she subscribed to, had given Eleanor ample proof of Roy’s burgeoning prosperity.

  ‘Usually it takes a string of solid chart-busters before any star can think of shopping around for his first country mansion or Lamborghini runabout. But though Roy’s first single hasn’t made it to number one, prospects for his next release look rosy enough to make most established stars bluer than their heated pools. And how come? If you’ve seen TV these last few months, you’ll know. After Rowntree’s fruit gums, and Pepsi Cola, Rory’s vocal chords are right up there with the leaders, thanks to … what’s that camera called?’

  A profile last Sunday, in one of the heavies, had depress ingly underlined the extent of Paul’s hold.

  ‘Professional is a word that says a lot about Mr Craig. Not that this stops him being refreshingly open about success in a business where hyperbole normally rules supreme. “Wasn’t he worried to owe so much to a commercial?” I asked, to be smartly rebuked for being “suckered by that opting out bullshit”. “Do any of them weave their own pants, or do without doctors?” “So … er … what’s the answer?” I mumbled. “Answer? Answer to what?” snapped Rory. “I’m no ten per cent guru with answers. People who wanna sell records shouldn’t pretend advertising’s a dirty word. The kids who say: ‘Gotta keep our hands clean,’ are gonna keep them empty too. And who’s the loser? Them? Or the fat cats who run the floor-show?’”

  A bit rough on the idealists, you might think, But if ‘get stuck-in’ is going to be Rory Craig’s answer, he should find plenty of takers in a generation bored to death with contemplating its own less than transcendental navel.’

  Lord Herrick having chosen trout and Lady Eleanor sole, desultory conversation about plays and films creaked into motion. Eleanor soon sensed her father’s dissatisfaction with the impersonal tone, but since she considered her feelings her business, and what he did, his affair (as it all too often was), she spun-out her comments on a film he hadn’t seen.

  In spite of her father’s spotty record as a husband, Eleanor loved him, and enjoyed his company – mainly when he wasn’t being serious. She preferred his malicious little sketches of party colleagues: ‘A really first-rate man, with a grasp of detail I admire tremendously, but what does rather let him down, don’t you think, is his lack of intelligence?’ She enjoyed his various poses too; conformity, yes, but with a hint of self-parody. Perfect suits from Savile Row, but sometimes worn with soft collars and a coloured shirt. His hair too was just, but noticeably, longer than many of his banking and political associates would consider quite de rigeur. Other small things: his liking for works of modern art, paintings by Miro, Kandinsky, and so on. As he sat listening to her, looking like a rakish version of Anthony Eden in middle age, Eleanor became uncomfortably aware of the sneakily envious way a couple of men in the corner were looking at him. It didn’t seem likely that he would risk bringing ‘girlfriends’ to such a well-frequented place, but the staring eyes still embarrassed her.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he declared portentously, gazing at the red-coated sentry stamping about in front of St. James’s Palace. ‘Shoot me down if I’m being Victorian.’ His search for an expression made her think of an actor trying to decide how to play a tricky scene. His smile hovered between sympathetic brother and puzzled parent. ‘I suppose I’m asking how normal it is these days for people like us … people your age … not long married, to lead such different lives?’

  ‘I expect there are surveys,’ she replied, blushing fiercely. Lord Herrick’s mouth twitched. ‘I’m not sure how to put this.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better not.’

  He was about to expostulate when their fish arrived, along with a bottle of Sancerre. Filleting his trout with surgical precision. Lord Herrick murmured, ‘I don’t mind admitting I’ve been putting this off.’ His voice had sunk to a whisper which would be driving their inquisitive neighbours mad.

  ‘Am I still “getting on” with Paul? Is that it?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re getting on with him. It’s more a matter of how the land lies on his side of the fence.’

  The shout which burst from her lips was louder than anything she had intended; loud enough to turn heads, and bring their waiter scurrying.

  ‘It’s dried-up,’ she told the man with sudden inspiration.

  ‘Trout’s safer,’ said her father, when her plate had been removed.

  Eleanor said icily, ‘If you’ve chosen a public place, because you think I’ll sit quietly rather than make a scene, you’re making a howling mistake.’

  His pained expression might have convinced her several years ago, but Eleanor had learned a lot since then. A well-publicized break-up between Paul and her wouldn’t help her father’s political prospects.

  He looked at her sadly as if guessing her thoughts. ‘Can’t I express concern without having some underhand motive?’ He lowered his knife and fork. ‘I care, Eleanor. Or is that too conventional to be taken seriously these days?’

  Feeling that his behaviour to her mother gave him as much right to preach as a bishop in a brothel, she still could not help smiling. He had always juggled the claims of pleasure and reputation dexterously, and had never openly embarrassed his family. Nor would he lie if rumbled. A strange morality perhaps, that rated ‘being found out’ a worse sin than years of successful deception, but not without its merits for a peer who detested hypocrisy but could not afford to cause public offence.

  She lowered her eyes. ‘If you say you care, daddy, I’m sure you do.’

  With a full mouth, he grunted approval, then murmured, ‘Promise not to fly off the handle if I’m honest with you?’ He swallowed some wine and met her eyes. ‘Couple of days ago I had a call from this chap on the Express. Any truth in the rumour that you and Paul were splitting up? “Total codswallop,” I told him. Then was I aware that Lord Carnforth’s step-sister was with him every day from dawn to dusk whenever he was in town? Naturally I gave him a hell of a roasting. Any kind of sister, step-half-whole, was one of the family and only a muck-raking mind would read anything into a perfectly natural friendship.’ He stared down at his plate. ‘So then I did a little digging. Apparently young Gemma’s on the pay-roll of Paul’s music outfit.’

  ‘That all?’ asked Eleanor flatly.

  ‘Course I’m relieved you’re not worried … but I do think…’ he tailed off uneasily. ‘Maybe it doesn’t mean they’re up to any monkey business.’

  ‘Monkey business?’

  ‘All right,’ he laughed uncomfortably. ‘Not a happy phrase. But however unlikely it is, I still think you’d be wise to take more of an interest in his … uh … hobbies …’

  ‘You mean spy on him?’

  ‘God no. Just a shift in attitude.’

  She smiled briefly. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly advising.’ He raised a conciliatory hand. ‘But I did wonder … no criticism meant … whether he isn’t one of those men who find ordinary domesticity insufficiently involving. Perhaps he needs…’

  ‘Someone more exciting than his conventional wife?’

  ‘No, no,’ he objected breezily. ‘It’s just that some married men seem to need occasional sorties … getting involved in show business could be Paul’s way.’

  ‘Or getting involved with his step-sister,’ murmured Eleanor, forcing him to meet her eye.

  Lord Herrick looked back without embarrassment. ‘My dear, all I’m saying is, give an impression of caring about his concerns and don’t invite unnecessary problems.’ He brought his hands together with finality. ‘How about more wine?’

  Eleanor pushed back her chair sharply. ‘You think I don’t care about Paul’s concerns?’ she gasped, snatching her coat from the seat beside her. ‘Well perhaps it’s time to make his life exciting.’ She stood up and began putting on her coat.

  ‘Please, Elly,’ he begged. ‘Eat something first.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ She picked up her bag and drained her glass. ‘Here’s to unconventional sorties.’

  ‘You promised not to fly off the handle,’ he reminded her, trying to look amused rather than alarmed.

  ‘One or two things I ought to do.’

  ‘Give it a day or two,’ he suggested firmly, amazing her, and the men in the corner, by planting a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘I’m quite able to look after myself,’ she replied, intending to convey toughness, but fearing she had only achieved plucky pathos – her mother’s speciality that always made her cringe.

  As the waiter bustled up with her second, and presumably half-cooked, fish, Eleanor walked out.

  *

  Roy slammed down the receiver and tried another number. From behind the net curtains he could see five dumpy teenage girls huddled together over by the garage doors on the far side of the mews. It was cold enough to freeze the balls of a polar bear, but they’d been out there since before he’d got up, and now it was past two in the afternoon. Gemma was already an hour late for lunch, and he’d failed to reach her on any of the numbers he knew. ‘She’ll be back soon,’ he’d been told by three different secretaries, which meant two had to be wrong. Not that he minded being pissed around because he was crazy about her – he wasn’t; though he didn’t rule out a bit of encouragement changing that. No, what really got up his nose was the way she and Paul could be all over him one day, when he’d done a good film sequence or killed himself in rehearsal, and the next chuck an appointment or treat him like a hole in the air.

  In some ways life had been amazing recently – getting his end away most nights, even if the crumpet he’d been pulling at the clubs wasn’t exactly top-drawer. (Half of these fame-fuckers would screw a chimpanzee if it’d been in the papers). His image was also getting across famously; journalists gobbling up the shrewd professional pitch Paul and Gemma had laid on; but sometimes he’d found it spooky. As if this Rory Craig character was grabbing all the glamour Roy Flannery had earned. This was why Gemma’s failure to turn up was such a downer. She knew who he actually was, so ought to treat him decently on a personal level. He wasn’t going to become one of those stars who droned on about their celebrity status tearing them apart, but things certainly hadn’t turned out how he’d expected.

  For a start he hadn’t got anything personal (nothing to get hold of anyway) out of the fact that Stella Records had shoved out special publicity folders with the first thirty thousand Image Man discs, and were going to do better with Getting Clever, or that his face (minus a few spots) was leering down from about twice that many bedroom walls. The same with the stickers, banners, and press kits – that was all out there, while in here, in his dinky mews house, a bod called Roy Flannery was being ignored. If he’d built up slowly from a club following, written his own songs and really sweated to interest a record company, or even if the lads from his old group were still around to share things, it’d all feel different. But there weren’t any lads, old or new, because Exodus had done it all, so far, with half-a-dozen young session pros, who’d only turned up in the flesh for two TV studio spots he’d taped earlier in the month.

  Some live gigs would’ve helped, but Paul had been dead against that. ‘The idea is to make you big-big-big first, before you appear live… The recluse image; get ’em thinking maybe you can’t manage live shows; then shazzam, you knock ’em endways with the full twenty city tour.’ The way Paul saw it, after two hit singles, hours of radio playtime, the TV spots, the LP (when he’s made the sod), there won’t be a dry seat in any cimena or dance hall from Dundee to Dover. And another big bonus: they’d know the songs by the time he came to sing them. ‘Don’t want you stepping on at your first big venue as a maybe-he’ll-make-it hopeful, but as a fully-paid-up-super-tax-superstar.’ Only one drawback: Roy-boy felt he’d had less to do with his ‘success’ than Iceland had to do with winning World War Two.