‘You won’t forget to tell me what it is? Could be quite a shock otherwise.’

  She leaned forward solemnly across her Pacific prawns. ‘Just trust in the Lord, Roy.’

  8

  Eleanor gazed out between glazed chintz curtains at wet pavements and the constant stream of cars and taxis bound for Hyde Park Corner. Even on this drab September day she would far rather have been in the country than cooped up in the Carnforth’s Wilton Crescent house. But since Paul had recently increased the length of his London visits, she had thought it advisable to spend more time in town. Her aim was not to watch him, but to give notice that she meant to go on loving the whole man she had married, and not just the part of him he chose to exhibit at Castle Delvaux.

  Yet undeniably, with Paul out so much, she was often bored. There was shopping, of course; she could go to a theatre matinée or a film; have tea at Fortnum’s or the Ritz. But how long before that became dreary? To talk to friends might help, she sometimes thought. But whenever she did go out with someone she had known a long time, she could not bring herself to talk about her problems.

  Later that morning Eleanor was under the dryer in a traditionally chic, though far from trendy Knightsbridge hairdressing salon. Having forgotten to bring a book, she flicked through the varied assortment of magazines. Most of her favourites were being read, so she soon found herself sampling reading matter she would not otherwise have chosen. A lot of the articles were about cinema stars, sporting personalities, off-the-peg fashion and other subjects she considered more Paul’s line of country than hers. Yet for that very reason, this was an opportunity to inform herself.

  Then suddenly her detachment gave way to interest. In amongst the columns of print were three photographs: one of Paul, one of Roy Flannery, and a smaller picture of Matthew Nairn. A forthcoming television film about ‘Rory Craig’. The name meant nothing to her, although she quickly noticed that it appeared under Roy’s picture. She read rapidly; nervousness making her concentration wobble. The film to be directed by Matthew. But why was Paul part of it? Because he had discovered ‘Rory’ and was promoting him. Only now did she notice the heading: POP GOES THE PEERAGE. As her heart started to slow down, she began to recognise the gushing tongue-in-cheek style, and knew that Gemma was the author.

  ‘Down in the shires Lord Carnforth’s recent foray into the flashy world of popular entertainment has caused the sort of eyebrow-raising stir normally reserved for cataclysmic events like the outbreak of swine-fever or a drop in the number of pheasants …’

  Having got the gist of the piece, Eleanor overcame a powerful urge to fling away the magazine. But there might be a sting in the tail. Spurts of anger made her hands shake as she read:

  ‘Sometimes I really love my work, Like last week when I visited Paul Carnforth (he doesn’t use his title at work) in his glass-walled office. Half expecting the young marquess to be one of those chinless wonders who can’t stop opening boutiques with pop singers, I was knocked out by an articulate and highly amusing man, with a pair of high velocity blue eyes that make Paul Newman’s famous ice-blue glare seem as lively as a couple of dead light-bulbs. Though Rory Craig has to be special to have attracted anyone as canny as Lord Carnforth, my advice to Rory is, “Work hard, lad, if you don’t want to be upstaged by a swinger who certainly gets my vote as peer of the year, give or take a decade.”’

  Back in Wilton Crescent, phrases from the article remained with Eleanor, causing her such anger that she longed to rush into the street and take the first cab she saw. But dashing off to abuse Paul seemed unlikely to solve anything. She sank down in a chair and shut her eyes. ‘Sometimes I really love my work …’ She imagined Paul and Gemma side by side in front of the same typewriter, laughing and nudging one another intimately as they wrote. And because he had assumed she would never read it, he hadn’t even mentioned the article.

  A television documentary would be seen by millions. What would she feel were Paul to repeat anything like the Delvaux ‘happenings’? Would he tell people what he had told her? While she had thought Roy’s career would be the only manifestation of Paul’s interest, she had suffered in silence, but the prospect of Paul himself clambering in on the act and speaking directly to half the population was intolerable. But how to stop him? And when? As the afternoon dragged by, Eleanor concluded she would do nothing for her cause if she blundered in before knowing exactly what to do.

  As she paced back and forth among buhl tables and Empire chairs, she wondered whether Paul’s excesses were changing her. Open and spontaneous on marrying, wasn’t she becoming the reverse? A tight-lipped ice-goddess, denying her spirited husband his fun. But of course … wasn’t this precisely the kind of person Paul had jokingly told her she was, right from the start? What else had he meant by telling her so often that she was the real aristocrat, whereas he crept in by the side-door of a freak inheritance? A joke perhaps, because so clearly a distortion, but the implication clear: ‘You are typecast; I am free.’ Sometimes she had been naïve enough to abet him in this travesty. Her bitchy asides, (a defence against being thought ill-educated) he read as true character. ‘That’s a very Elly answer,’ he would say.

  For instance: people to dinner, an earnest political discussion about Mr Maudling’s prospects for the Tory leadership. ‘Too fat,’ she announced briskly, ringing for the next course, and bringing to a sudden end a thoughtful conversation. And what else was ‘very Elly?’ Her toughness, her intolerance … in fact any quality that could be pinned down. Though for himself, Paul reserved a positive Houdini’s arsenal of quick-silver characteristics. Like a ship, honeycombed with watertight doors, he was unsinkable.

  Yet nothing seemed to reduce her need for him; her love. Not that tough, intolerant Elly was supposed to be clinging or sentimental. (Perhaps someone else supplied these fluffy feminine things?) Undeniably he was proud of her; they looked good together in public – she dark, he fair; beautiful people both; wonderously self-assured. But in private, Eleanor sometimes got the feeling they were in public still; too self-aware to be genuinely intimate. Could this have been all Paul had hoped for when he married her?

  Eleven o’clock. Lord and Lady Carnforth ‘at home’ to one another. They have dined, watched television, and talked in their brittle way about nothing much. In an armchair opposite his wife’s, Paul sipped brandy. Harmony requiring no words? Eleanor pictured Paul and Gemma at that typewriter again; they laughed and chattered; shared zany ideas. And then? But this evening Eleanor drew a mental curtain on them. She and Paul were in their own water-tight compartment, and until able to open others she would have to give her attention to the only one she knew.

  Would she and Paul make love later? Partly because of her upbringing, partly because she loathed being rebuffed, but mainly because Paul liked to pretend that she was the one who granted him the favours in this line, Eleanor would not try to persuade him to fuck her unless he led the way. (‘Fuck’ was an all right word between them since Paul’s Elly was aristocratically direct and loathed mealy-mouthed euphemisms.) But Paul did not fuck her in the manner of the novels he professed to like. He would kiss her, would stroke her a little; but he would not admire her, or undress her, or say endearing things about her body. And only now, as she gazed at her handsome husband sipping his brandy, did Eleanor see this too as part of the pattern. Torrid sex and ice-princesses were incompatible. Very-Elly-Eleanor (as Paul had shaped her) viewed sex as a mildly enjoyable physical process, which it would be vulgar to get too excited about. He behaved to her exactly as he had decided to see her. And because she still found him the most sexually attractive man she had ever met, she rarely failed to achieve orgasm. No surprises there for Paul; ice-princesses could be expected to be efficient users of their sexuality.

  At eleven-thirty the Marquess and Marchioness of Carnforth retired to their bedroom (contemporary Chinoiserie involving bamboo bedside tables, swirling chintzes, and porcelain dragons supporting lamps). Eleanor had disliked the Edwardian dowdiness of the previous furnishings, but had started to detest the new ones more. Recently she had decided to have it ‘done’ again, which would kill six weeks or so. Paul yawned. He often seemed tired these days.

  Even so Eleanor undressed a little more ostentatiously than usual. Hard to judge the impact. In bed, he lay back eyes closed, then, after two or three minutes, slowly moved towards her. Not getting her usual quick response, he hesitated.

  ‘No,’ she said suddenly, although she had meant to say something quite different. Paul drew back in mock despair. ‘Darling,’ she murmured, ‘Don’t you ever feel you’d like to …’ She broke off as she recognized the smile invariably employed to greet “very Elly” remarks.

  He flopped on to his back, chuckling. ‘Trust you,’ he laughed. ‘Instead of saying, “Sorry, not tonight,” you go for the real killer.’ He put on a tired, refined voice, ‘Don’t you ever feel you’d like to read, get more sleep, do yoga, take a cold shower …?’

  ‘That isn’t what I meant,’ she cried; but instead of conveying tenderness, she heard only anger in her voice.

  All right, if he thought he didn’t need to listen to understand her, she would have to show him in some other way. She kissed him passionately with open lips, at the same time running an uncharacteristically urgent hand down his thigh.

  ‘Why not say it?’ he gasped, when his laughter had subsided.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Elly, Elly … That kiss after what you’d just said …’ He was still smiling, still sure she had been piling irony on irony. So that now, if she were to say, ‘Make love to me, be tender, be sentimental,’ he would laugh even louder. But she tried once more, ‘Please, Paul, listen to me.’

  For the first time his good humour looked strained. ‘Christ, Elly,’ he muttered, ‘the hook was terrific, I don’t need the upper-cut.’

  A sort of shudder, half-way between a sob and a moan; but she breathed deeply and nothing else happened. And why should it? Neither Paul’s Eleanor, nor the real one, had ever had any truck with self-pity. Tomorrow her cook would cook, and her maid would clean; she herself would have plenty to do … browsing through fabrics and wallpapers; a snip of this end and a snip of that, and if that scissor-work began to pall she could look for ways to cut out Gemma; and after that? A small matter of a film … that first, perhaps.

  *

  Returning to his office from lunch, ten days after his visit to Alexandra Palace, Matthew was surprised by a call from reception.

  ‘We have Lady Carnforth down here, Mr Nairn.’

  Although Matthew had no idea why Eleanor might want to see him, and was none too eager to see her, he said, ‘Send her up.’

  Putting on his jacket, he swore under his breath. The utilitarian appearance of his office did not usually annoy him, but waiting for Eleanor he cursed the absurd dispensation that granted fitted carpets, armchairs, and bookcases to executive producers, and yet lumbered directors, who actually did the work, with rudimentary tat.

  He rose as his visitor entered; as improbably perfect as a flesh and blood fashion plate.

  ‘I’m sorry to spring upon you unannounced,’ she said, sitting gingerly on a chair that would not have looked misplaced in a prison cell.

  Matthew closed one of the files on his desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘That’s what I want to find out.’ She snapped open the gold clasp on her handbag and proffered a magazine article. After skimming through it, Matthew waited. She raised a graceful hand to the brim of her black trilby. ‘Do you realize how painful it’ll be for me if you go ahead?’

  Though finding it ironic that she should have come to reproach him for instigating a project which Paul had dreamed-up, he managed to sound friendly as he said, ‘I really don’t intend to involve you.’

  ‘Anything that involves Paul involves me.’

  Matthew smiled pleasantly. ‘I certainly don’t envisage making it a vehicle for Paul. Apart from Roy’s progress, it won’t be about personalities.’

  ‘Then what is it going to be about?’

  ‘Pop music,’ he replied, stung by her peremptory tone.

  She looked at him with astonishment. ‘But it’s such awful trash.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Don’t you? I mean the words are fatuous, the music’s bad. For idiots by idiots, if you ask me.’ She smiled. ‘Be honest … it’s nothing like your usual serious stuff.’

  Too surprised by this cheerful onslaught to feel angry, Matthew told her that it was listened to by millions and therefore couldn’t be ‘negligible from a social point of view’. He frowned. ‘It’s as typical of average Britain as bingo and holiday camps.’

  Eleanor laughed delightedly. ‘When did you last play bingo?’

  ‘I’m not very typical.’

  Her black eyes narrowed. ‘Paul doesn’t give a damn about “social points of view”, so what’s his interest?’

  Guessing that what he said would go back to Paul, Matthew decided not to give too damning an account of his motives. ‘I imagine he’s hooked on the problems. A star having to seem original and be entirely typecast. A teasing problem for a detached mind.’

  ‘You mean some kind of game?’

  Taken aback by her anger, Matthew did not answer.

  She looked up sharply. ‘Would you ever have thought of making this programme if he hadn’t asked you to?’

  ‘Probably not. In my business one finds ideas where one can.’

  ‘And favours one’s friends?’

  ‘If his idea is as good as the next man’s, where’s the favour?’

  Eleanor stared at the shafts of sunlight fanning-out through the slatted window blinds. ‘I suppose Paul stands to make pots of money out of Roy as a result of this film?’

  ‘I can’t see that mattering to Paul.’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘Would it matter to you?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ he replied, certain that if she had noticed the Hobbema’s absence, Paul would not have told her where it had gone. ‘You see, if the film sells heaps of records for Roy, I’ll still only be paid my salary.’

  She showed such scant interest in his reply, that Matthew was unsure whether she had really been implying that Paul had persuaded him to make the film by promising a share of the profits. She was still staring aimlessly at the drawers of a grey filing cabinet when she said, ‘Remember that time when we were finishing dinner – the night before Paul’s jokey evening? You seemed so sure you wouldn’t do what he wanted.’

  Matthew’s cheeks felt warm. ‘We all change our minds occasionally.’

  Her lips were smiling but her eyes studied him intently. ‘Would it be awful of me to ask why you changed your mind.’

  The silence started to get on his nerves. She was waiting; watching him with a half-amused, half-expectant expression. Why not tell her part of the truth? It’d cause Paul more difficulties than it’d cause him. Matthew said, ‘Have you ever noticed the way Paul thinks he’ll always get his own way? It was like that with the film … never crossed his mind that he wouldn’t be calling the tune if we went ahead. So I thought why not try him and see. More of a challenge than refusing outright.’

  She seemed bemused. ‘Aren’t you worried that I’ll tell him that?’

  ‘He knows already. Part of the fun for him … overcoming opposition.’

  He noticed how pale and strained she had become. ‘And if it goes your way, he’ll end up looking a fool?’

  Matthew shrugged. ‘Only if he is one. I want to tell the truth.’

  She got up and walked towards the door. ‘You realize I’m going to try to stop it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have come otherwise.’ Her determination touched him for the first time. He said gently, ‘If I were you I wouldn’t assume he’ll be discouraged by complications.’

  Eleanor left without answering.

  *

  Two weeks later Matthew was becoming increasingly perplexed by Paul’s continuing neglect of the basics on which Roy’s success Would depend. Already two of the three days’ pre-production filming were over, and nothing significant had emerged. Just some run-of-the-mill footage shot in the street where Roy lived; a depressing evening filming him at a suburban dance hall gig; and half a day devoted to a photographic session, at which he had done some mildly amusing things with scale models of London landmarks; picking up Big Ben in one hand, while menacing Westminster Abbey with a massive Cuban heel. But of the songs that would become hits – nothing. Worse still – as far as Matthew knew, Paul had not recruited a single member of the backing group Roy would have to have.

  Then, when least expected, Paul telephoned. Roy would be recording his vital single the following Monday, so could Matthew book a crew?

  It was with a peculiar blend of scepticism and suspicion that Matthew entered the vulgarly opulent reception area of the recording studios on the appointed day. Almost at once he was met by his disgusted cameraman and equally indignant sound recordist, who told him the house engineer had stopped them setting up. Matthew strode purposefully across acres of royal blue carpet to the gilded desk where a receptionist was busily filing her nails. With a brisk smile he gave his name, and added, ‘Lord Carnforth told me to have my crew here at nine.’

  The girl gave a final dismissive rasp to a purple nail, and studied him from between mascara-caked lashes. ‘He shouldn’t’ve told you that, love.’ Her voice was thin and nasal, and made her sound like a deb pretending to be a Cockney (or, less probably, a Cockney pretending to be a deb).

  Still clinging to the hope that Paul had not deliberately set out to make a fool of him, Matthew said very slowly, as though talking to a foreigner, ‘Is Rory Craig recording today?’

  ‘Course he is.’ She smiled encouragingly, and replied as slowly as he had spoken to her, ‘Now for the hard bit … Lord Carnforth and Exodus have hired out Mr Craig and the session lads to the agency who are doing the commercial.’ She left a pause for this to sink in. ‘Which means the advertising blokes are paying for the studio, right? So when their producer says he’s not having five bods clumping round with a load of gear while he’s trying to lay down a track for his telly ad, you’d better believe him.’