Well Groomed (17 page)

‘What exactly did you have in mind for me to do on her behalf?’ Tash asked humouringly. ‘Deliver a
mot d’amour
by horseback to his box at a competition? Slip a love-drug into his coffee next time he’s at the farm trying to buy a cheap horse?’

‘You’ll do it then?’ India looked ecstatic. ‘Brilliant!’

‘Well, I’m not . . .’

‘I thought a Valentine’s card to start off with. That’s next week, isn’t it? You can make one.’

‘Me?’ Tash laughed. ‘That’s ridiculous – I’ve painted some of his horses for him; he knows my style. He’ll just think it’s from me.’

‘Well, if I do it it’ll look like it came from a GCSE art student – which I am. I mean, I know I’m good, but I’m not as good as you.’

‘Can’t you just buy one?’ Tash was beginning to think this wasn’t just a daft schoolgirl idea. It was a very dangerous bad one.

‘No, we can’t.’ India started to gather up squashed tubes of paint. ‘You’re going to do it because then you can say an anonymous local glamourpuss commissioned it from you if Hugo asks. I mean he’ll
know
you didn’t send it personally, won’t he? You loathe him. And you’re marrying Niall.’

‘But I haven’t time. I have to make Niall a card.’

India handed her a tube of leaking crimson. ‘Better get started then.’

‘You’ve been a long time.’ Zoe greeted her daughter at the door and waited patiently for her to remove her shapeless man’s overcoat, two cardigans, lambswool scarf and the thickest of her three jumpers before kicking off her wellies and wandering through to the sitting room to seek a place by the fire.

‘I’ve been talking to Tash.’ She looked victorious, gathering up a half-eaten Galaxy bar from Gus’s littered desk. ‘I think I might have done something rather brilliant.’

‘What? Tidied up the forge?’ Spurred by the thought, Zoe started gathering up mugs – of which there appeared to be several on every surface; Gus and Penny never took them back through to the kitchen. Two had been used as ashtrays.

‘Nope.’ India grinned over her shoulder as she plumped down by Wally, who thumped his tail and wriggled across the hearthrug on his belly to sniff interesting Beetroot smells lingering on her jeans. ‘I’ve persuaded her to send Hugo Beauchamp a Valentine’s card.’

‘You what?’ Zoe froze in horror. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Well, you were talking to Penny last night about thinking that Tash still fancies him rotten . . .’

‘You were never supposed to hear that conversation!’ Zoe’s face flushed. ‘It was just idle gossip over a bottle of wine.’

‘I was next door, I couldn’t help hearing it,’ she pointed out. ‘And I also heard you saying that you thought that Hugo was secretly wild about her too.’

‘India, that gossip was so, so idle it was almost asleep. We were a bit tight and being very silly. It’s all absolute rubbish.’

‘I think you were right.’ India played with Wally’s ears, turning them inside out to expose their guava-pink centres. ‘I think she really does have a thing about Hugo.’

‘Oh, poor Tash,’ Zoe sighed, shaking her head as she wandered out.

‘Poor Niall.’ India stared into the flickering fire, watching it spit tongues of sparks up into the sooty flue.

She didn’t care what her mother said, she was certain that she’d done the right thing. And what’s more, she was going to make sure Tash carried on believing that she was playing Cupid. Having just read
Cyrano de Bergerac
, India thought the whole idea of Cupid being shot by his own arrow impossibly romantic and sexy. At school, Valentine’s Day was wildly influential, making or breaking relationships; she was certain the same was true throughout life, however sceptical her cynic of a mother was.

AS EVER THE QUEUE of traffic turning into Marylebone High Street from Regent’s Park was banked up and beeping, as angry as a swarm of wasps trying to get at a maggot hole in a plum.

Lisette Norton wasn’t unduly bothered. For once she didn’t cut up a fellow driver or lean on her horn. She had just driven through a beautifully frosted park and had a wonderful conversation on the car phone with her production manager, Flavia Watson. It was the best possible news. Flavia had rung from Ireland where she was on location with the hottest director of the moment, David Wheaton. Lisette had been chasing Wheaton for weeks in the hope that he would come on board to direct Four Poster Bed but he had continually eluded her. He loved the script, adored Lisette’s ideas and the suggestions for art director and DoP; he was also in total agreement as to who should be offered first refusal on the lead roles. But he wouldn’t agree to go ahead with contracts until they had at least one of those lead players confirmed. And that elusive lead player refused to confirm until David had. That player was Niall O’Shaughnessy, and Lisette knew him well enough not to push him; he was extremely wary of making a film with her in the first place, despite the over-inflated fee she was offering him – three times that of the other actors and far more than she could really afford. She had only been able to offer so much by arranging a last-minute tie-in deal with a leading gossip glossy – an idea that she’d thought up during her recent dinner with Sally. If she put him under any pressure to commit, she suspected he would blow up in her face and defect back to the States, where he was being offered ten times as much for a third of the commitment. As such David Wheaton was her trump card and she had fought capped-tooth and acrylic nail to secure him.

Just as she had begun to despair of moving the stalemate situation on to fresh ground, Flavia had confessed an absolute dream of a secret. Three vast glasses of wine in Soho House and Lisette’s rather uppity, super-efficient West Indian manager had carelessly let out a Freudian slip of the tongue of glorious dimensions. Safe, reliable ‘I’m-not-a-fornicating-luvvie’ Wheaton, who lived in a baby-infested house in Highgate and had a well-publicised marriage to a children’s television supremo, had once been her lover and they remained on very friendly terms. Lisette had seized on the news with delight – dispatching Flavia to Ireland where Wheaton was shooting the last few location shots of a big-budget American nostalgia movie. Flavia had been very reluctant to pull strings, but as Lisette had pointed out, she either pulled them or pulled the plug on her job. Flavia had clearly pulled herself together into the bargain and, with Wheaton confirmed as on board, Lisette knew the project was now on full throttle.

She dialled through to Bob Hudson’s office as she finally turned into Marylebone High Street, catching the eyes of a few good-looking men outside the street’s bohemian cafes and wishing she had the time to fall in love these days.

‘Bob – it’s me. The
Cheers!
magazine deal has now been accepted as we discussed and – wait for it – Wheaton’s a definite, so I’d like to confirm Niall for Daniel as soon as possible. Will you get the okay from him and ring me back today so that I can get the contracts out to you? Thanks.’

Ringing off, she turned her red Alfa into the small mews where her office was based and smoked a stealthy cigarette before scaling the external stairs to the glossy, first-floor rooms which housed Sleeping Partners Productions.

The team’s production secretary, Lucy, was waiting eagerly for her at the door

‘Bob Hudson’s just called. We’ve definitely got Niall so long as he gets the publicity tie-in confirmed in the contract.’

‘Niall wants that?’ Lisette was momentarily surprised.

‘Bob wants that.’ Lucy checked her note-pad. ‘He says he wants a copy of the
Cheers!
magazine offer before he gets Niall to sign.’

‘Sure.’

Lisette smiled smoothly and headed into her office where she closed the door behind her and shuddered with happiness. Drawing a bottle of Bushmills out of her filing cabinet, she poured herself three fingers and downed it in one with another shudder of pleasure. The taste brought back such vivid sensory memories that it was like drinking a distilled essence of Niall.

She had often wondered how she would react to the news that he was to remarry. She had anticipated a mule-kick of jealousy in her belly, a stab of rejection in her temples. Not once had she imagined feeling quite so delighted at the prospect.

The timing of Niall’s marriage, she reflected, was of supreme convenience to her marketing campaign.

When Tash finally heard Niall’s voice, she almost broke down with happiness. He was calling from Glasgow where they were rehearsing for the swash-buckling swords-and-sporrans epic Celt, which was due to start shooting the following week.

‘I’ve missed you so much!’ she wailed.

‘Shh, angel – I know, and I’m bloody sorry I’ve made such a cock-up of getting hold of you. Christ, but it’s been hectic up here.’

‘I can imagine – I got your fax. It was lovely. I’ve been writing back but you know how lousy I am at finishing anything.’

‘Oh, so the fax is back together again then, is it?’ Niall cackled. ‘I wasn’t sure if it had got to you.’

‘I’ve borrowed Gus’s – he says he doesn’t know how to work it anyway. Oh, it’s so lovely to hear your voice.’

‘Yours too, angel, yours too. Listen, I can’t talk long as I’ve a line rehearsal with Minty in a minute.’

‘Minty?’ Tash tried hard to sound cool and cheerful, but the age-old jealous demons were already clawing at her back. It happened every time he was working on a new film – the appearance of an unfamiliar woman’s name, one she had never heard Niall mention before the shoot, yet undoubtedly one that she had seen on credits and fly-bills long before that. That name would crop up in their conversations over and over again, to vanish like a popped bath bubble the moment the film was wrapped.

‘Yes, you know – Minty Blyth. Christ, that girl’s a talent! She puts me to shame.’

So long as that was the only place she was putting Niall then Tash supposed it was all right. Minty Blyth was a fantastically pretty actress with a mane of black corkscrew hair, a body which curved as perfectly as an egg timer and eyes that acted out a bedroom scene even when she was off set. Fresh, precocious and unbothered about stripping off in every film she did, she also had a reputation for sleeping with her leading men. Tash was extremely wary of her.

‘Tell me what you’ve been doing?’ Niall said softly. ‘I want to hear you speak a little longer.’

Considering he’d just hailed her with tales of missing luggage, a suicidal set dresser, a coke-addict director and a film that was going over-budget before shooting had started, Tash felt her news was slightly paltry in contrast. She didn’t really want to admit that her life was currently consumed by weighing food and comparing it against a ‘Once A Week Treat’ chart, doing sit-ups, reading endless low-fat recipes and watching Elle MacPherson videos to depress herself. Nor did she think Niall would be fascinated by a run-down as to the precise amount of interval training she was putting the horses through to get them fit for the forthcoming season.

‘I went to the pub with Penny and Gus last night,’ she said lamely. ‘They’re very on form. Ange had a black eye – he says he slipped in the kitchen, but Denise was strangely quiet all night so Penny’s convinced she clocked him one. She kept sending Gus up to get her to pull pints and look at her hands to see if she had bruised knuckles. Gus ended up plastered.’

Niall burst into riotous laughter which Tash thought was something of an over-reaction to a rather blandly told tale. She’d never possessed his ability to make the mundane sound wonderfully ridiculous.

‘God, I miss life down there. How are Zoe and the kids?’

‘Very well. Rufus had a ravishing new girlfriend for about a week; he brought her to the farm for dinner and she fell in love with Ted, which rather depressed Rufus.’

‘Poor lad – I bet Ted flirted with her all night. He’s such a young sod.’

‘I don’t think Rufus is too bothered. He’s got two more girlfriends now, apparently. He sees one for a snog in twenty-minute morning break and the other at lunchtime in the common room. Neither seems to mind, but he’s forking out a lot on Valentine’s cards.’

Niall sighed happily. ‘Zoe okay?’

‘Mmm – not bad.’ Tash was unwilling to mention India’s ludicrous bit of match-making. She was supposed to be finishing off the first instalment of their stupid Cupid plot that night, a prospect she’d been putting off all week. She quickly changed the subject. ‘Listen, you can tell me where to get off here, but I’ve just read one of the scripts you left lying around at Christmas and I think it’s fantastic.’

‘Oh, yes – hi, Minty. Be with you in a moment.’ Niall was clearly distracted by the arrival of the long-haired curvy one. ‘Which is that?’

Tash stretched across to pick it up. ‘Four Poster Bed. It’s seriously funny.’

‘I know. I loved it too – we’ll talk about that another time, yeah?’

‘You mean, you’re going to do it?’ Tash asked excitedly. It hadn’t escaped her notice that it was all due to be shot in England, which would keep Niall on her side of the Atlantic at least until autumn.

‘I may – we’ll talk about it soon, I promise.’ He sounded terribly distracted now, and very eager to get her off the phone. ‘Don’t forget that lunch with your step-mother on Saturday – will you book a table somewhere? I’m flying down on Friday night. Patrick Guest’s hired a chopper to get to his wife in Somerset and I’m cadging a lift as far as Thruxton in it.’

Tash finished the call and rang off feeling absurdly dejected. She could just imagine Niall in his hotel suite, rolling his eyes at Minty – Tash somehow saw the actress arriving in a black negligée, clutching chilled champagne and the script – eager to shake off the clingy girlfriend who had just bored him rigid about the romantic excesses of a lanky seventeen year old. Minty was probably being all soothing now and saying coy little things like, ‘Well, people who don’t know our profession can seem terribly staid at times, Niall darling. Shall we run through those lines or have a drink first? You look like you need a shoulder massage.’