The Shooting in the Shop (6 page)

‘The betting shop?’

‘How well you know me.’

‘I didn’t know you did Sundays there as well as
weekdays.’

‘The habit of losing money is a deeply entrenched
one,’ said Gerald Hume. ‘If we do not chance to meet
again before the outbreak of festivities, I trust that
you will have an enjoyable Christmas.’

The response, ‘Oh, I’m sure I will’, was instinctive.
It was how she had covered up the loneliness of
her recent Christmases. But, with a sudden surge of
good cheer, for a moment Carole entertained the
hope that her answer could be accurate for once. With
Stephen, Gaby and Lily, she actually might have an
enjoyable Christmas.

Carole was suddenly aware of a loud, cultured voice
saying, ‘Ah, well, that’s something Elton John would
have thrown a real tantrum about. Though fortunately,
when I was working with him, he was in one
of his calmer phases.’

She didn’t need telling that the speaker was Ricky
Le Bonnier, but serendipitously Jude was passing and
effected the introduction. Smiling, he took her hand
in both of his and said, ‘Carole, such a pleasure to
meet you.’

He certainly had charm – or even what someone
less hidebound than Carole might have called
‘charisma’. Ricky Le Bonnier was tall, quite bulky
above the waist, with grey, thinning hair hanging long
to about jaw level. His glasses had narrow rectangular
lenses set in frames whose designer appeared to
have been influenced by the technology of the Eiffel
Tower. He wore cherry-coloured corduroy trousers
and a fuzzy cardigan with an abstract pattern of blues
and greys.

Although he was in the centre of a small audience,
Ricky Le Bonnier appeared to have brought two
women with him, but neither was his wife Lola. The
first was elderly, ensconced so deeply in one of Jude’s
heavily draped armchairs that Carole had to bend
double to talk to her. She was introduced as Flora,
Ricky’s mother, and the expression of adoration that
she fixed on her son might well have explained his
robust self-esteem.

Although she had claimed to have no knowledge
of the name, Carole recognized the woman instantly.
Every period television drama of the previous decade
seemed to have featured Flora Le Bonnier, usually as
the proud head of some patrician family. And before
that she had had a long career in British films. But
it looked as though her acting days might now be
over. She was thin, probably quite tall if she stood up,
with a beaky nose and white hair expertly fluffed
out by an expensive stylist. Her hands were curved
rigidly inwards, the finger joints knobbly with arthritis.
Propped against the armchair were the two sticks
that, presumably, she needed for walking.

The other woman, perhaps in her late twenties,
was introduced to Carole as Polly, Ricky’s daughter –
though clearly not from his current marriage. Nor did
she actually look very like him. Polly was thin, dark
and wiry, attractive in a daunting, don’t-mess-with-me
manner. She wore tight black jeans and a sweater
which emphasized her trim figure. Her hands were
fiddling restlessly with a mobile in a fluorescent pink
phone sock. Polly’s dark eyes darted around the
room, looking for someone else she knew, someone
who might give her the excuse to move away from
her current conversational group.

Carole told Ricky that she’d met Lola in the shop.

‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Gallimaufry, the great Le Bonnier
indulgence.’

‘Lost cause more likely,’ snapped Flora. If Carole
hadn’t recognized the face, she could not have failed
to recognize the voice. Husky, finely modulated,
marinated in centuries of aristocratic history.

‘That remains to be seen,’ said her son easily. ‘As
we know from all the doom merchants in the media,
England’s high streets are suffering in the current
economic climate, and there will inevitably be some
casualties.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I never read newspapers,’ was
his mother’s rather grand response. ‘They are full of
inaccuracies and libel. Which is why I have made it a
rule throughout my professional life never to speak to
the press.’

‘All right, Mother, we all know you don’t read the
papers. But you watch television and listen to the
radio. You can’t pretend that you don’t know things
are tough on the high street.’

‘Very well. And I also know that first to the wall
will be mimsy-pimsy shops which sell over-priced
rubbish for people with more money than sense.’

Carole was glad to meet someone whose opinions
of Gallimaufry coincided so exactly with her own
(even though she had ended up buying a glittery boa
and a Glow-in-the-dark Computer Angel there), but
she was more interested in the subtext of the old
woman’s words. The impression came across that not
only did Flora Le Bonnier disapprove of the shop, but
she hadn’t much time for its owner either. Ricky’s
mother was not a fan of his most recent marriage.

Carole’s mind went back to the moment in Gallimaufry
when Jude had issued the invitation to her
open house. Lola had suggested that Ricky’s mum
might look after the children while she and Ricky
came to Woodside Cottage. In the event, it appeared
that Lola herself had been left holding the babies.
And somehow Carole couldn’t imagine her using the
expression ‘Ricky’s mum’ in Flora Le Bonnier’s rather
daunting presence.

‘Oh, come on, Grandma,’ said Polly, ‘give the place
a chance. It’s hardly been open three months. Lola’s
worked bloody hard on it and we should all give her
as much support as we can.’

Carole was surprised to hear this expression of
solidarity. According to hallowed fairytale stereotypes,
Polly should resent her stepmother, but that
appeared not to be the case. Maybe the two young
women were near enough in age to bond as girlfriends.

Ricky Le Bonnier evidently considered that he
had been silent too long. ‘I think, next to putting your
own money into a musical or opening a restaurant,
going into the retail business must be one of the
riskiest investments out there. But as you say, Polly,
if anyone can make a go of it, Lola can.’

This prompted a barely disguised snort from
Flora, as her son continued, ‘Mind you, it can work
for the lucky few. I knew Gordon and Anita Roddick
when they started up Body Shop – not far away from
here, the first store was in Brighton – and, God, I wish
I’d got in on the ground floor of that. Some of their
franchisees have just minted it over the years.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Ricky, because
you’ve done very well yourself. You’ve made your
money through the music business,’ said his mother,
as though this was an article of faith.

‘Oh yes, I’m not complaining. Mind you, the
people who really clean up there – apart from the
artistes, of course – always end up being the middlemen,
the lawyers, the accountants. At the more
creative end of the spectrum, the producers and
so on are usually the ones who miss out. Very few
creatives are also good businessmen.’

He favoured Carole with a big, confidential smile.
He had that ability, shared by many professional
charmers, of being able to make the person they’re
looking at feel for that moment that there’s no one
else in the room. ‘My background’s as a record producer.
Worked with a lot of big names in the past . . .
Led Zeppelin, Procol Harum, Jethro Tull. My name
was never in the foreground, but, to give them their
due, a lot of the artistes always make a point of
recognizing my contribution . . . you know, when
they’re interviewed, that kind of stuff.’

Still rather sensitive about her own retired status,
Carole asked, ‘And are you still working?’

He chuckled and made a broad gesture to his
womenfolk, whose message seemed to be, ‘Isn’t it
amazing that people still have to ask questions like
that about Ricky Le Bonnier?’ ‘Carole,’ he said gently,
‘I’m the kind of guy who’s never not working. I’m
always switched on. I don’t do downtime. So, yes, in
answer to your question, I am still working.’

‘Still in the music business?’

‘You betcha. They say it’s all changed, and certainly
it isn’t the same world I grew up in. God, we
knew how to enjoy our work in those days. We
knew how to lunch. We knew how to have a proper
all-nighter in the studio with a few bottles and, er,
other stimulants, to aid the creative process. Today’s
Perrier-sipping wimps in the music industry couldn’t
keep up with the pace we used to live at. But, hell,
it worked! The stuff that came out of those studio
sessions was pure gold. Now the accountants have
moved in – as they have in most of the creative industries
– but they still have to turn to me for help when
they get stuck. Oh, yes, the skills of Ricky Le Bonnier
remain very much in demand.’

‘So when did you last actually produce a record?’
asked Polly coolly.

For the first time Ricky looked slightly thrown by
the question. His daughter, it seemed, had the ability
to get under his skin. For the first time Carole was
aware of considerable tension between them.

‘It’s not actually to produce the record, Polly love,
that they look to me for these days. I work more in an
advisory capacity. I allow them to pick my brains
when they need a bit of expertise – not to mention
experience.’

‘And do they
pay
you for your “expertise – not to
mention experience”?’ There was no doubt now that
Polly Le Bonnier was deliberately needling her father.

He looked down at his mother with the same
expression he’d used when Carole had asked whether
he was still working. He sighed and addressed his
daughter. ‘Look, love, you should know by now that
your daddy just attracts money. He doesn’t have to
go out of his way to find it. He works hard for it,
certainly, but your daddy is a money magnet.’

‘And a babe magnet?’ There wasn’t much affection
in Polly’s tone.

Her father looked down to Flora in her armchair
and shrugged helplessly. She smiled up at him lovingly
as he said, ‘Guilty as charged.’

Polly’s snort was very similar to the one recently
emitted by her grandmother. Then the girl looked at
her watch. ‘Can we get back soon? You know I’ve got
to catch the seven-thirty-two train back to London this
evening and I haven’t seen much of the little ones.’

Ricky’s hands rose in a placatory gesture. ‘Just a
few more people I want to see. I haven’t spoken to the
lovely Jude properly yet.’ And he drifted off. Flora
was also lifting herself out of her armchair with the
help of her sticks, saying she needed ‘the little girls’
room’. Carole noticed how little movement she had in
her clawlike hands; she couldn’t grip the sticks, only
push them into the right position to support herself.

Left alone with Polly, she asked, ‘When you mentioned
“the little ones” . . . ?’

‘Lola’s two. Mabel and Henry.’

‘Your stepsister and stepbrother?’

‘Yes, though it’s more like I’m their aunt, really,
given the age difference.’ Polly seemed noticeably to
have relaxed now her father was not beside her. ‘But
I don’t get a chance to see much of them . . .’ she
looked again with irritation at her watch ‘. . . and,
quite honestly, I’d rather be with Mabel and Henry
at this moment than at a drinks party full of people I
don’t know.’ Realizing how ungracious this must have
sounded, she was quick to apologize.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Carole. ‘I’m not much of a
one for parties myself. It’s just that I live next door, so
I know Jude and . . .’ She shrugged.

‘Bit of a life force, isn’t she?’

Carole had never put it into words before, but
of course, yes, that was exactly what Jude was; a
‘bit of a life force’. With inevitable and dispiriting
logic, Carole wondered what, by comparison, that
made her. She didn’t pursue the thought.

‘So you’re not spending Christmas down here,
Polly?’

‘No, I’ll be at my boyfriend’s parents’. They live in
Gloucestershire.’

‘Oh. Very beautiful county,’ said Carole with all
the fatuity of small talk. ‘Or, at least, bits of it are.’

‘The bit where they live certainly is. Near the Slad
Valley. Laurie Lee country. No, we’ll have a few days
down there, living in the lap of luxury, miles away
from the real world, and then we’ll have to come back
to the harsh reality of making a living.’

‘And how do you do that? I mean, what do you
do?’

Polly Le Bonnier wrinkled up her prominent
nose. ‘I’m an actor.’

‘Like your grandmother.’

‘Yes. Or rather, not like my grandmother. Anyway,
she isn’t really my grandmother.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not Ricky’s real daughter. I’m his stepdaughter.
He married my mother.’

‘Ah, and is she still—?’

But Polly clearly didn’t want to talk about her
mother. She moved brusquely on. ‘No, I’m not like
my grandmother. She was successful. I may have a
famous name – which arguably isn’t mine by right,
anyway – but I’m only an actor when somebody will
employ me. The rest of the time I’m an occasional
barmaid or waitress.’ She sounded rueful rather than
dispirited about her situation.

‘Ah. Well, maybe things’ll pick up for you next
year.’

‘Maybe.’ Polly didn’t sound like she’d put a very
large bet on the possibility.

‘And your boyfriend . . . Is he also . . . ?’ Rather
proudly Carole remembered a phrase Gaby had used
when speaking of the clients at the theatrical agency
where she used to work. ‘Is he also “in the business”?’

‘Yes. To some extent. But Piers is a comedy writer
too, so he’s not so dependent on the acting as I am.
Mind you, that may change.’

‘What do you mean?’

Polly opened her hands in a gesture of self-deprecation.
‘Just that I’m having a go at writing
something.’

‘A comedy script?’

‘No, no, it’s more . . .’ She seemed embarrassed to
be talking about her writing. ‘It’s a book, I suppose.
Well, it is a book, yes.’