Nocturne (9 page)

‘
Is he always like that?
’

‘
Yes,
’
she laughed,
‘
ever since I can remember.
’
I reached to take the tray, genuinely curious.
‘
How long
’
s that?
’

‘
Twenty-two years, almost to the day,
’
she looked up, laughing
again when she saw the expression on my face.
‘
He
’
s my dad, in case
you were wondering. And you
’
re right. He
’
s a lunatic
.
’

When I got back to Doubleact, Brendan couldn
’
t believe it. He
’
d just
had a heavy session with his wife about budget over-runs and the news
of Fairweather
’
s defection had been the last straw. After two hours
with the spreadsheet, he looked exhausted.

‘
He said yes? Just like that?
’

‘
Yes,
’
I nodded.

‘
So what did it take?
’

‘
Nothing.
’

‘
Nothing
?
You mean he didn
’
t want money? Didn
’
t want
…
?
’
He
looked wildly around for something else of equal value. Not finding it,
he settled for me.
‘
What did you promise him?
’

‘
Nothing,
’
I repeated.

At this point, one of the Assistant Producers stuck his head round
the door. There
’
d been a phone call. For me.
‘
Morris Fairweather,
’
he mouthed.

‘
What did he say?
’

‘
He
’
s talking dinner. Tonight. I said I thought you could make it.
’

Brendan nodded vigorously.

‘
Definitely,
’
he said.
‘
She can definitely make it.
’

The AP disappeared, leaving me and
Brendan gazing at each other.

‘
I
guess he
’
s paying, as well,
’
he said brightly.
‘
Gets better and better,
doesn
’
t it?
’

We had dinner at the Caprice. Unlike most politicians I
’
d met,
Fairweather was genuinely comfortable with small talk. He
’
d made a
fortune in estate agency during the Eighties boom and the money
seemed to have freed him from the straitjacket of the Tory machine.
He didn
’
t care what the Whips thought. He was impervious to the
lashing he was getting from the tabloid press. All that, he said, was for
the birds. More unusually still, Fairweather seemed to have a real
interest in the small print of other people
’
s lives and after the second
bottle of Montrachet, I found myself telling him about Gilbert.

When we
’
d finished at the Caprice, we went to a club he knew in
Frith Street for coffees and brandies. There was a jazz quartet on a
small, raised stage but we stayed at the bar, perched on stools, tucked
into a corner. We were talking about Gilbert again. Fairweather
wanted to know exactly what it was that alarmed me.

‘
His unpredictability,
’
I said.
‘
He does strange things. I know him
and I don
’
t know him.
’

‘
Do you trust him?
’

‘
I
trust the Gilbert I know.
’
I corrected myself,
‘
Knew.
’

‘
And now?
’

I shrugged, fingering the huge balloon of brandy. Fairweather was
still looking at me, still waiting for an answer.

‘
I don
’
t think he
’
s all there,
’
I volunteered at last, using a favourite
phrase of my father
’
s.
‘
There
’
s definitely something odd about him,
something missing. It wasn
’
t anything I could put my finger on, not
until the weekend anyway, but I recognise it now, definitely.
’

‘
And does it frighten you?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
And you want advice?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Then move. It
’
s a free world. No one
’
s keeping you there.
’

I nodded, acknowledging the logic of what he was saying. Problem
was, I didn
’
t want to move. I liked the house. I liked living at the quiet
end of a cul-de-sac. And I still liked Gilbert, as long as he behaved
himself.

Fairweather was pressing me to do as he suggested. He was very
black and white, a businessman for whom a personal fortune had
solved more or less everything. Gilbert was someone I could live
without.
Moving house would simply delete him from my life.

‘
Well? Don
’
t you think I
’
m right?
’

I said I didn
’
t know. He patted me benignly on the hand and told me
I
’
d be crazy to do anything else. After another brandy, he called me a
cab. I was home just after midnight. The cats were in the kitchen,
waiting patiently beside the door.

Instead of a salary bonus, Brendan offered me a promotion. So far I
’
d
been employed as a researcher, a catch-all job description that
included more or less anything he chose to pass my way. As well as
compiling background on the weekly guests, I
’
d been in and out of
various video
archives
, looking for footage, tracking down stills, and
checking out old stories, as well as finding time to speed-read the daily
papers and make the odd phone call to the handful of political
journalists who would, for a fee, mark our card.

This list of little errands, though trivial enough, had begun to give
me a real feel for the way the political world worked, and the deeper I
got into it all, the more naive I realised I
’
d been at university.

Politicians weren
’
t just corrupt. Some of them were bloody clever at it.
This revelation gave me every incentive to dig deeper still and when
Brendan hauled me into his office for a little chat about my infant
career, I was wide open to offers.

‘
Guest researcher,
’
he repeated.
‘
Solange
’
s got
to have an opera
tion.
’

Solange was the girl who
’
d got her neck half-broken in a traffic
shunt on the Hammersmith flyover. She
’
d been guest researcher on the
series, and since the accident, I
’
d been picking up bits and pieces she
couldn
’
t manage. The guest researcher books the weekly invitees. The
job involves lots of showbiz networking and high-powered chat to
agents. Even politicians, you
’
d be amazed to know, have agents.

‘
You think I
’
ve got the experience?
’

‘
No, but I know you
’
ll pick it up. Agents are like most human
beings, only worse. Twice as nasty. Twice as ruthless. Twice as
susceptible.
’

‘
To what?
’

‘
You
’
ll love it.
’
He dismissed my query with a wave.
‘
It
’
s all word of
mouth, anyway. Your name gets around, your reputation, the deals
you
’
ve done, all that stuff.
’

‘
Deals?
’
I frowned, trying hard to think what he could possibly
mean. He smiled back at me in that knowing way men have when
they
’
re not quite sure of their facts.

‘
You
’
re telling me Fairweather
’
s coming in for nothing?
’
he in
quired archly.

‘
Absolutely.
’

‘
Good dinner, was it?
’

‘
Lovely. And good company, too.
’

Brendan looked at me for a moment or two longer, toying with the
temptation to take the conversation further, but I foreclosed on him. I
wanted to know how long Solange would be away. I wanted to gauge
how genuine this offer of his really was.

‘
Months,
’
he said vaguely.
‘
She thinks early summer at the earliest.
’

‘
So I
’
d be booking for the rest of the series?
’

‘
Definitely.
’

‘
And you
’
ll get another researcher in to replace me?
’

He looked at me again, that mischievous smile back on his face. By
now, I
’
d been at Doubleact
for
long enough to recognise what drove the
company forward. Greed was pretty high up on the list, Brendan
’
s and
the bitch-queen Sandra
’
s. The fewer paid hands at the pump, the more
of the production budget slipped effortlessly into their pockets.

‘
We
’
ll be looking at it,
’
he said lightly.
‘
Seeing how you get on.
’

‘
Meaning yours truly does both jobs?
’

‘
Meaning yours truly trusts me.
’

The notion of trusting Brendan made me giggle. He looked briefly
hurt.

‘
You don
’
t want the job?
’

‘
Of course I want the job. What I don
’
t want is a heart attack, or a
breakdown, or ending up in a traffic queue, not concentrating
properly,
’
I smiled at him.
‘
Like Solange.
’

Brendan sighed and stared out of the window and I knew what was
coming next. Out there, he
’
d say, are ten squillion bright young things,
hurting, yes
hurting
,
to get into television. Ten minutes on the phone,
and he could have the pick of them. Double firsts. Treble firsts.
Prizewinners. Sex queens. Wannabe film auteurs. All of them just
aching for it. And yet here I was, just a couple of months in, being
difficult about the prospect of an extra challenge or two. What was the
matter with me? Why didn
’
t I have the stamina for it? Where had my
hunger gone?