Connections (29 page)

“Thanks. I agree,” said Fleur.

“OK,” said Debs, standing up and picking up her coat and bag which were on a chair close to her desk. “See Sandy about terms and conditions today,” she added. “Meeting's first thing on Monday morning.” She went to the door and turned. “The priority is a name. Camera Shake's going on as before. We need a new title. Nothing stupid. All the ideas up to now make us sound like a rock group. Jess,” she said, “it's got to be settled early next week. We can't operate without a name.” And she was gone.

Fleur and Jess sat on in the office, staring at each other speculatively. “Could be fun,” said Fleur. “Big fun.”

“Big, scary fun,” said Jess. “It's a fact you'll be out in six months if it doesn't work and I'll be out in a year.” She picked up the phone. “Sandy,” she said, “it's Jess. We have the new person for the new unit. Fleur Jethro – same contract as Jane. We need it Monday morning at the latest.”

“Stockley,” said Fleur loudly. “Fleur Stockley.”

Jess made a shut-up movement with her hand. Fleur subsided. She knew Jess could gauge fame, reputation, influence to a hair's breadth. And that this was a business which depended as much on these vibrations as a garage does on petrol, oil and spare parts. She decided that if Jess said she had to be Jethro, Jethro was what she'd be, at least for the time being. At least till the contract was signed. She leaned back in the leather seat and breathed deeply, taking in her good fortune.

Jess fished in a silver box on Debs' desk and came up with a couple of thin cheroots. With the sneaky feeling they were smoking in the headmaster's office, they both lit up.

“They'll have to find us some space here,” Jess said dreamily. “And a budget for fixtures and fittings. I think I'll have some
French chintzes and a regular order for flowers – simple, cottage-style ones. It'll strike a fresh note. Flowers, couches, some nice little pictures—”

“There'll be a battle to get even a cupboard out of Camera Shake,” Fleur said. “And Debs isn't going to give all this up.” She thought of the course and said, “I told them I'd be back by four.”

“Ring and say you can't make it. Sandy's bringing the contract up later. You'd better sign this afternoon.”

They passed the time inventing titles for the new unit, then searched Debs' office for information about the size of the budget. They found she had put a lot of information on the computer guarded by a password.

“Let's just ask her on Monday,” Fleur suggested. She was beginning to feel the reality of the situation. “We might as well start calling agents and writers. We haven't got any time to spare. We'll just call ourselves Camera Shake.”

They spent an hour and a half on the phone. Debs' fax started pushing out messages. When they took a break Jess said, “It goes to show that when you grasp the nettle everything else falls into your hands. You know what I mean – the minute you started that computer course and decided to face up to the debts there you were with a job. On the other hand,” she added, “it also goes to show a little publicity never hurt anybody.”

“What publicity?” Fleur asked.

“This job – Debs had seen that spread in
Hello!,
so when your name came up she thought of that.”

“Oh God,” said Fleur. “Is that out?” The flight from Barbados had wiped out all memory of the photographs taken there by the magazine.

“Didn't you know? You're on the front cover looking chummy with your father. It's a very good photo of you.”

“I'm going out to get it,” declared Fleur, standing up. “It's embarrassing, considering what happened later.”

“Just another version of the curse of
Hello!
” Jess observed. “You get photographed with your loving husband and a month later there's a divorce. You're photographed cosying up to all the Jethros and minutes later you're at the airport with your suitcase.”

Standing in her overcoat in a narrow, wind-swept street, Fleur looked down at the cover of the magazine she was buying from a street vendor. She remembered standing on the terrace with her father. Waiting for her change she flipped through – there she was alone, there with Bobby and there were all the others in various poses: Sophia and Zoe and George in the drawing-room, Bobby and her father by the fireplace, smiling at each other. “A happy reunion for the Jethros makes Christmas a very special time.”

“‘Not just a daughter but such an attractive one,' says Sir Richard,” another caption read. She took her change and ducked back to Camera Shake, head down, as if she thought she would be pointed out in the street. The article certainly explained why Gerry Sullivan imagined she had no financial problems.

Back in the office Jess was on the phone and the fax was spewing out more paper. “Can you believe it, some daft girl at Combined Artists is sending a whole script through, page by page … Jennifer!” she shouted into the phone. “Stop sending that script through. Put it on a bike, darling. You're blocking my fucking fax machine.” Her mobile rang and she grabbed it. “Hullo Charlie,” she said. “How's it coming? Glad to hear it. Yes, we're in business here. What have you got?” As she listened she said to Fleur, “We're going to the Groucho later to meet Sidney Spender and a man from an investment bank who specialises in film finance, David Parker. Adrian may come along. I don't think you need to invite your boyfriend, the one with the dog on a rope.”

“Why not?” said Fleur.

“Because street cred is out, and I don't suppose any of the people at the Groucho are short of a dealer,” Jess told her. Into the phone she said, “Thanks, Charlie. Looking forward to it.”

Several large jiffy bags containing scripts were brought in and put on the desk. The phone kept ringing. Jess made outgoing calls on her mobile while Fleur was on the office phone, speaking to writers whose agents had rung them, agents who had just spoken to writers, writers who had been passed the word by other writers, an actor's agent, a director and an actress who had bought the rights to a book she wanted to film. The desk was covered in
scribbled notes. There was a second delivery of scripts and Sandy came in with Fleur's contract.

“The only people not ringing are investors,” said Fleur.

“Funny, that,” Jess replied.

At six Fleur switched on the answering machine, they split the scripts into two big piles and, each carrying a bag, went to the Groucho Club.

Fleur noted her new popularity. Recognisable through
Hello!
magazine to people she didn't know, and quickly identified on the grapevine as part of a new production team set up to find and finance major films, she was constantly approached with greetings, ideas and even invitations.

The to-ing and fro-ing ended when they left the bar and sat down to eat with Sidney Spender, a very powerful film agent, and the investment banker, David Parker. At that point everyone in the restaurant knew that their group was there, but was aware they could not be approached.

The men were calm, serious and careful. David Parker would be advised what projects to invest in by the man he trusted, Sidney Spender. Fleur questioned, “If I asked you both what kind of film you thought would bring big profits over the next four years, what would you say?”

“Good script, exciting plot, big stars,” said David Parker. “But in this country we have a problem with big movies. There's no tradition, no large funding. But because essentially there is no British film business, there are no native business rules to follow. It's a cliché, but if you want to succeed you ought to look for quality, though that's harder to judge and certainly harder to finance than
Star Wars.
”

“Low budget, then?” Jess asked.

“That would be my advice,” he repeated. Then, saying he had to get home, he stood up and said goodbye.

Sidney Spender stayed on for another brandy and said, “Well, girls. I think he liked you. He's backed films, he's made money and he's prepared to do more, cautiously. Now what I'm going to do is send you a script by a young writer who's done a certain amount of TV work. It's crime thriller,
noir,
with a very unusual
twist – a man comes out of prison after serving a life sentence for killing his brother. He didn't do it, or we think he didn't, we're not sure, so he goes looking for his brother's wife, who could have committed the crime. They fall in love.” He outlined the rest of the story, which to Fleur seemed sensational, slack and improbable.

After he left Jess looked at Fleur and made a face. “If that's the best Spender's got we're in trouble,” she said.

“He's holding out on us,” Fleur said. “We're untried and unconvincing.” She yawned and added, “I must go. It takes an hour to Cray Hill, at least.”

Jess said to her, “You've got to move to somewhere more central. You can't stay there.”

When Fleur got back to Adelaide House, borne up by the excitement of her new job, there were two messages on her machine. Ben said, “Darling – coming into Heathrow at three p.m. tomorrow. Meet me.” He added, “Big news. Looking forward to seeing you—”

The second message, from Dominic, sounded grave. “Fleur. I'm in the pub with Joe. Something funny's happened. Can you come over tonight, any time? Important.”

Fleur was shocked. Ben was coming back and she didn't know where that would leave her and Dominic. Would Ben want to stay with her? She realised suddenly that she linked Ben with his wanting something – a deal, a night out somewhere, a meeting with someone, calls made, letters sent out. She'd got used to following this effortful agenda, scurrying to keep up, like a person walking with someone who had longer legs. And she was worried by Dominic's message. He sounded alarmed, which was, with Dominic, unusual. She thought she might as well go to meet him, find out what it was all about and casually mention Ben was coming to London. He'd have to know sooner or later.

When she got to the pub Dominic, Joe, Ellen Whitcombe and Joe's new girlfriend Melanie were sitting together in a group at a table by the windows.

“Can't stay away, can you?” Patrick called to her from behind the bar.

She joined the others. They were all looking at her in a strange way, as if they were curious, even puzzled about her. She sat down. Joe went off and got her a tomato juice. Ellen went on staring at her and Melanie was plainly anxious.

Fleur asked Dominic, “Is something the matter? What's going on?”

“Not exactly,” he said. Joe came back bearing the drink. She noticed the others were drinking whisky. This alarmed her, also.

Dominic told her, “Melanie got this magazine,
Hello!
”

“Seems everybody does,” Fleur replied. “Look – I was persuaded into it. And anyway, it's not a crime.”

“That's not it,” he said. “It's your father, Richard Jethro. Joe and me recognised him.” He was speaking earnestly and there was anger in his voice.

“What do you mean? Recognised him from where?” she asked.

Ellen, opposite her at the table, was now looking very distressed.

“What's he done?” Fleur asked.

“It was about five years ago,” said Dominic. “A long story. Not very nice. Vanessa wasn't even sixteen then. I was twenty-one, Joe was twenty. I came down from Liverpool because there wasn't any work and found there wasn't any here, either. Joe'd been in and out of hostels and short-stay places and squats since he'd got out of the children's home. We were all on the street. We got together in a short-stay place we were in, got friendly. We were a team, the three musketeers. We did what we had to do, boosting from shops, a bit of dealing – and the rest. There's always opportunities to sell what you've got. There was a lot of stuff we didn't do, though,” he said carefully, looking at Ellen. “Joe and me were trying to watch out for Vanessa, but by that time she was getting to be a full-time addict. We were trying to keep her off the game because obviously that's the easiest way for a girl to get money for drugs. Boys too.” He was still talking to Ellen. “You know all this. Then you two started speaking again and there was a chance Van would go into a programme. She was
talking about it. It was a critical moment for her, I still think that. And that was where your father came in,” he said to Fleur.

Fleur's heart was in her boots. She looked at Ellen's face, so drawn and sad, Melanie's questioning stare, Joe's face revealing nothing, carved from stone.

“We were going along one Sunday night,” Dominic said. “We had no money and nowhere to go. It was autumn, cold and rainy. About nine at night, dark and we were heading towards Holborn to find somewhere to bed down. We hadn't got much to look forward to: a frosty night, an early wake-up and no cash – not even for a cup of tea. Vanessa was saying she wanted to pick up a punter and get something and we were arguing with her. She wasn't experienced at that sort of thing,” he told Ellen. “I've got to say she'd tried it once or twice, but it had put her off. But broke is broke and she needed a fix just to tide her over. I'm telling the truth,” he assured Ellen. “She wanted to get better. This particular night was more of a blip and we all knew if we could get over it everything would be better next day. Sunday's a bad day in that life, that's a fact.

“We were mooching along somewhere in the West End, arguing about what to do. A long broad street, very quiet, houses and posh hotels. Then suddenly coming up behind us was a big black limousine, chauffeur in front and a guy leaning out of a half-open door as it travelled along, waving a big wad of cash at us and shouting, ‘Girl – do you want some money?' and stuff like that. He hardly spoke English. He had a Russian accent, or something similar. Scary bloke. He had a black coat on. He was tall, very young, with long fair hair – white really – and very pale blue eyes. The car came right beside us, crawling forward, him leaning out the door, waving the money. I didn't like the look of him. He looked dangerous. He looked like a person who lived by violence, one of those people who you'd be talking to one minute and the next he'd be trying to kill you. There was another man, sitting next to him while he was leaning out of the door, a man in a business suit, looked English and he was frowning. He didn't like what the other guy was doing but he wasn't trying to stop him.