But he could take a drive in his ’36 Bentley (a bit different, said Gemma), or spend a week in his new horror-film house in the country (Gothic revival is coming back, said Paul). And never any need to put himself out, what with the woman who cooked, the woman who cleaned; Tony who drove the car and saw off unwanted callers. His own accountant, own lawyer, a full-time bird who ran his fan club. Of course these serfs weren’t just icing on the cake. Without Tony (ex-night club bouncer), he’d be pulled apart by the kids in the mews (already they’d made souvenirs of his letterbox, doorknob, and both the Bentley’s wing-mirrors). Without his accountant, the taxman would eat him alive. Without a lawyer he wouldn’t know who was cheating him worst; and without Hammer Hall, and three miles of fencing, he’d be lucky if he saw another tree or daisy without running for his life. ‘But that’s show business,’ said Paul. And the way his money was flowing out, Roy reckoned he’d have to make plenty if there was going to be anything left when he jacked it in. ‘You certainly can’t afford to be a poor ex-celebrity these days,’ warned Gemma. ‘Not if you want to keep your balls in your scrotum,’ added Paul.

  When the dainty clock on the mantelpiece struck three, Roy told Tony he wanted to eat; and a right schlop he was to have waited so long. But Gemma was like the last bus: turned up just when you’d left the stop, and zoomed off again before you could sprint back.

  Several mouthfuls into his Hungarian goulash, Roy heard screaming in the street, which might mean his fans had started laying into Gemma; though she knew better than to leave her car before Tony was out there to help. Roy looked down and saw a classily dressed broad beating them back with her handbag (pity her hat stopped him seeing her face). The way she was clobbering them, he felt almost disappointed when Tony did his famous impersonation of a carnivorous cuckoo clock, shooting out and whipping her inside. Very impressive, but Roy still didn’t like some of his sly looks: like he was saying, ‘If I wasn’t being paid a bundle, don’t think I’d be working for a streak of shit like you.’ But to be fair, he could be hilarious at times. His Agatha Christie butler routine was one of his best, when he chose the right moment, which wasn’t now, as Roy realized the moment he boomed, ‘The Marchioness of Carnforth to see you, Mr Flannery. Shall I show her in?’

  Taken aback by Eleanor’s unexpected visit, Roy gaped as she barged past Tony, like he was a talking hat-stand.

  ‘Any more where that came from?’ she asked cheerfully, pointing at Roy’s steaming plate. Roy started spluttering like a drowning frog. It was beyond anything … treating him like a performing jackass at Delvaux, and now coming on as if they’d known each other twenty years.

  Roy dabbed at his eyes. ‘Grab another plateful of this stuff from Mrs Gillard, Tony.’

  ‘With rice or without, Mr Flannery?’

  ‘With, please,’ requested Eleanor.

  ‘You heard her … and, Tone, bring us a bottle of the ’61 Pommard.’

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow. ‘You drink a lot of wine, Roy?’

  Roy grinned. ‘Paul and me did this classic film scene last week. I was in this cordon bleu joint, sending bottles back, taking a sniff, then telling ’em that this or that year was better. Drove the poor sods crazy.’

  ‘It’s not unknown to send wine back, surely?’

  ‘And talk like I do? I roughed it up for ’em too.’ He laughed. ‘Did even better in a Bond Street Gallery … You know about Piet Mondrian and neo-Plasticism?’

  ‘I’m afraid Paul’s never found time to tell me.’

  She was still smiling, but though Roy hadn’t got over his surprise at seeing her, he knew the joke was over. She was sitting very still; just looking at him with those big black eyes.

  ‘And the people in the gallery? Did you drive them crazy too?’

  ‘They had to be put down,’ he replied, getting up abruptly. Tony had brought in the wine and was doing his butler act: polishing glasses, showing the label, and making a big performance of pulling the cork. ‘Cut it out and pour the plonk,’ he muttered. When Tony had gone, Roy remarked neutrally, ‘Last time we met, you weren’t too friendly.’

  Those bloody eyes again; all shimmery tearful now. She set down her glass and murmured hoarsely, ‘I’m afraid I had … things on my mind.’ She stared hard at him and frowned. ‘As far as I can remember, you weren’t quite so … sure of yourself.’

  Seeing Tony in the doorway, Roy hurried across to take the plate of goulash before he got started on any more ham-acting.

  ‘Looks lovely,’ she said, as he dumped the plate in front of her. ‘I missed lunch earlier. The usual rush.’ She smiled mechanically. ‘Would you think me awful if I asked for something to eat with?’

  Rather than summon Tony, Roy went out himself. ‘Delighted to obleege,’ he murmured suavely, proffering a fork. She took it from him and asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity, ‘Do you find the way I speak irritating?’

  ‘Not on its own.’

  ‘I expect I should have warned you before coming.’ She started to eat ‘Gosh, I’m hungry. Aren’t you going to finish yours?’

  ‘I’ve gone off it.’

  ‘What a shame.’ She looked worried. ‘Would you be frightfully offended if I asked you to sit down while I’m eating?’ Roy sat. She ate in silence and then laughed girlishly, ‘I would have telephoned only I got the idea … you know what one reads about the way pop stars live? The idea you wouldn’t care two hoots about formal invitations.’

  ‘Yeah well, now I’m rich and famous I’ve started dressing for breakfast as well as dinner.’ Annoyed with himself for enjoying her laughter, he couldn’t resist adding, ‘By dinner I mean lunch, naturally.’

  Eleanor lowered her fork and said gently, ‘You’re very funny you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Her scrutiny was making him blush. She had a really fantastic face, he decided, when she was being natural.

  ‘You’re also very touchy.’ She leaned forward and smiled sweetly. ‘You’d do much better if you made up your mind to be yourself the whole time, instead of playing Paul’s games.’

  So now she was starting to come out with it. Roy gulped down some Pommard. ‘Only thing is … I did it my way for four years and got nowhere… Tried it his way for four months, and did better.’

  ‘Only because he made sure money was spent on you.’

  ‘I’m lucky then.’ Her don’t-believe-a-word-of-it expression irked him. ‘Anyway,’ he rasped, ‘you and I know it was more than money. He did toss in a few ideas.’

  She nodded sadly. ‘Most of them very sick ones, Rory.’

  ‘My name’s Roy.’

  ‘You think Paul cares about you?’ She gazed at him sympathetically. ‘I expect he’s wonderful to you now … and will be for as long as you’re prepared to be what he wants.’

  ‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ he exploded. ‘I had all that from the director of the sodding film. “Did I know Paul’s making an ape of me? Putting words in my mouth? Telling the world what a wise-guy he is to have given the kids the pus-rotten hero they deserve.” I’m not a moron.’

  She seemed shocked that he might have thought her so imperceptive. ‘Of course you’re not. But are you sure you’ve thought enough about what kind of film it’s going to be?’

  ‘You reckon I’m going to be Paul’s stooge on camera?’ He said quietly, ‘Lemme tell you something, darling: if I don’t like a scene, I don’t do it. If it’s a sharp idea I play along, and you’d better get hold of this, I’m the one who makes it work.’

  She looked back at him expressionlessly. ‘Perhaps you do, Roy. But the rest won’t wash. You can’t expect to come out of it very well if you get rich by doing something, and then turn round and say it was totally insincere.’

  Roy suddenly realized she was saying the kind of things that’d worried him till they’d started having a ball with the filming.

  ‘What you oughta see,’ he began soothingly, ‘is that Roy and Rory aren’t the same… Roy’s taking a ride, see, not being taken for one. Okay? Rory’s a go-getter, a bit of a rip-off artist; but that’s his pitch. And if people like it, and lots seem to, why should Roy want to come on like a Boy Scout? It’s a double-act Roy can pull out of any day he likes, and Paul’s not going to stop him when he reckons it’s time for out.’

  Thinking she’d be reassured, Roy was taken aback by a scary look on her face. Her fist was clenched round her fork so hard it looked like she wanted to break it.

  ‘When I think what you were like,’ she faltered, ‘how straightforward and normal … and now … everything you said…’ She looked at him in desperation. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it possible … what he’s done to you.’

  ‘Now wait a bit,’ he cried, all his old mistrust returning. ‘Perhaps when you take a good look at yourself, you think, “Great, that’s just how I want it. Right thoughts, mannerisms, character … mustn’t change a thing here.” I mean there are people who think they can make improvements. Like if someone else has a good idea, they think why not learn from it.’

  ‘If you learn from an idea that’s wrong…’ She paused to calm herself ‘I wouldn’t call that learning. I’d call it being corrupted.’ She stared at him with an eagerness he found unnerving. ‘Try and help yourself; please, try.’

  ‘Help myself?’ he repeated dully. ‘You think it’d help me if I told Paul to get stuffed?’ She was still beaming out this wide-eyed sorrow. ‘I was living on eight fucking quid a week before Paul came along … nothing helpful there, yer ladyship.’

  She bowed her head. ‘You must think I’m an awful prig.’ Roy kept his mouth shut. ‘All I want you to do … now you’re successful, is ask whether you need him any more.’

  ‘You wanna see my contract?’

  She smiled wanly. ‘It isn’t a pact with the devil.’ She got up and wandered to the window. ‘Are they always out there?’

  ‘Them or others,’ he replied flatly.

  She let the net curtain fall back. ‘Did your contract say you had to make a fool of yourself on film?’

  ‘Back to that again,’ he muttered wearily. ‘Okay, I’ll come clean. He winds me up every morning.’ Roy walked jerkily towards her like a clockwork toy. ‘I.am.at.your.command. master.’ He halted, and, raising his arm in short fractured movements, brought it to a final salute.

  Eleanor turned. ‘Could you ask your keeper to bring my coat?’ For a moment Roy reckoned she was going to crack up, but she sounded back to normal on the stairs, ‘If I were you,’ she advised, ‘I’d start every day by saying, “I’m Roy Flannery”, five or six times.’

  As Tony helped her on with her coat, she smiled. ‘A mews house and lots of money. You’ve done well. Really you have, Roy.’

  ‘Give it a rest.’ He watched her arranging her silk scarf, and then told Tony to drive her out of the mews. ‘Wouldn’t want her hurting those kids.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She gave him one of her loveliest smiles. ‘Why didn’t you like me praising you just then?’

  ‘Because this place isn’t much … not to you.’

  She leaned against the wall and shook her head. ‘You’re lying.’ A horn sounded in the mews.

  ‘Means he’s ready.’

  ‘You don’t like being praised, because you’re not a rip-off artist or any of the other things. And it sticks in your throat.’

  ‘And what sticks in yours?’ he shouted back. ‘Is your life so perfect you can puke all over mine? So next time … why not try sorting out Paul? I’m not his only…’ He stopped, already furious with himself. ‘Don’t misunderstand that,’ he mumbled. She didn’t look at him for a long time, but when she did, he was thankful she didn’t seem particularly upset.

  ‘If you can say what you like to me, why not try it with Paul?’ The horn blasted again, and raised a weak cheer outside. ‘You’ll have to stand up to him sooner or later.’ She opened the door, and stepped into the waiting car.

  10

  ‘I prefer whisky,’ said Bridget Nairn, politely refusing the joint which Roy had just offered her.

  It was spring now; a pleasant evening, shortly before eleven o’clock, and she, Roy, Paul and Gemma were sitting around drinking and smoking in Roy’s extraordinary new Hampstead home. In truth Bridget had felt a little uneasy about coming, since, when Roy had phoned earlier the same evening, he had really wanted to speak to Matthew, who was in America looking for co-production cash for a possible series on the oil industry. But when Roy had gone out of his way to urge her to come over, she’d thought, why not? Partly she’d been curious to see his set-up, and partly, she’d been swept along by the man’s genuine friendliness. Certainly it’d been a shock to find Gemma lolling in a chair, but she’d been pleased to see Paul; and the house itself was something she wouldn’t have missed.

  It wasn’t really a house at all – more a series of vast rooms, disposed inside the shell of a disused Methodist Chapel. The entrance hall was odd enough, with its steel walls, and huge central replica of the Rolls Royce ‘Winged Victory’ emblem (a bit like the presiding deity of some dotty well-heeled cult); but the room they were now sitting in was in a class of its own. ‘Picture-palace Egyptian’, Paul had called it – quite aptly, since much of the plasterwork had been ‘rescued’ from a condemned cinema. But that didn’t really do it justice, because it left out the neo-Gothic windows. The whole effect suggested to Bridget the inspired efforts of a hard-pressed designer, obliged to adapt sets from Murder in the Cathedral for a production of Antony and Cleopatra.

  Dotted about in isolation, on a floor extensive enough to accommodate several dancing classes, were little atolls of leather furniture and exotic palms, adrift in a sea of parquet. Apparently Roy had not commissioned his new surroundings (which had been created for a film producer, now living in California), but the fact that he had been able to buy a lease on such a place, only weeks after Getting Clever had gone into the charts, was some indication of the sums he must already have started to earn. All in all a setting that would be an incredible bonus for Matthew in his filming (not that he’d said much about it since his most recent failure to get her to return the painting). Thinking back on that episode, Bridget’s principal emotion was intense gratitude to Paul. When she had phoned him, in a panic about vague threats Eleanor was supposed to have made, Paul had begged her not to blame Matthew for exaggeration. Unless one knew Eleanor, she could seem menacing, but really it was all surface. She’d been furious about the filming at Delvaux. So she’d let off steam. But as for actually doing anything to harm Matthew – that’d be totally out of character. After her chat with Paul, Bridget felt that there was no need to fear selling the thing quickly. It would be better to get it over with, rather than allow Matthew to go on thinking he could engineer its return.

  After several large gins, Bridget’s initial hostility to Gemma gave way to a more benign attitude. Whatever had happened between Matthew and her was plainly no longer happening; and from the way Roy occasionally looked at her, something else soon might be – though it did not look as though her casual intimacy with Paul had ended with his marriage.

  Roy reckoned it could have been the pot on top of several drinks, but for the first time in two months he’d started feeling resentful of Paul’s rapport with Gemma. When he’d just about reached rock bottom, Matty’s meek little wife started telling him about being a teenager in Leeds. How when she’d first heard Presley on some juke-box, she’d been sweating-up Shaw’s plays for an exam – and what a mind-blaster it’d been: drinking Expresso froth with George Bernard doing things to her head, and Presley doing things to her other bits. For some reason she was knocked out by a remark he made about doing Saint Joan for ‘O’ Level. If only her students came to her as ‘fresh’ as him, wanting to ‘feel’ things. Did he still read a lot?

  ‘D. H. Lawrence in braille, so I can “feel” more.’ He could see the joke hadn’t gone down too well, so told her truthfully that he sometimes read about singers’ lives.

  Bridget squeezed a tight smile. ‘Don’t you find that kind of biography rather dull when the early struggles are over and success sets in?’

  Gemma smiled at him. ‘Roy, I do believe she’s saying you ought to take an overdose to keep our interest.’

  Obviously needled, Bridget said sourly, ‘I suppose self-destruction’s been a good selling-point since suicide was a gleam in Buddy Holly’s horn-rims.’

  ‘Buddy died in a plane crash,’ Roy told her.

  ‘But was he the pilot?’ asked Bridget, bursting out laughing. The noise hurt his head. Who the hell did she think she was, babbling about biography and then getting mean about Buddy … always good for an easy laugh about noseplugs, but special just the same. The next Roy knew, he’d snatched her gin and poured it down her dress. Uproar. Paul said, tell her sorry. Roy told her. Said he didn’t know what’d got into him.

  After a while, everything almost back to normal; except she decided to go. Reckoning for the sake of the film that he ought to try to tone down what she was likely to say to Matthew, Roy ambled out with her. In the end she clambered into her crock of a car in an almost friendly mood.

  Quite a bit later, there was the kind of knocking on the hall-door you get when the cops arrive at the hoods’ hide-out in a gangster movie.

  ‘For you?’ enquired Gemma, acting cool, though worried because it was so late.

  ‘Fans?’ Paul shook his head.

  ‘Aw stow it,’ groaned Roy. ‘What if it’s the fuzz?’

  Paul shrugged. ‘Could be …’ Then kind, and in control, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see to it.’

  While he was out, Roy and Gemma did their best with the ashtrays, and then flopped down in their chairs as Paul returned – accompanied not by teenage girls, nor policemen, nor even journalists, but by his wife, who said that the knocker had looked so ‘wonderfully feudal she’d had to give it a whirl’. Eleanor waved to Roy and sat down on the other end of Gemma’s sofa.