Ambition (27 page)

‘I’m beginning to, Gary.’ She most certainly was.

‘I’ve been around, Sue, y’see? I especially been around that gaff in Lowndes Square with Candy some nights when the sister of ’ers has been nodding out. She’s got a
loose mouth on her, that Caroline, as well as everything else. And I’ve kept my head, when all around me were getting stoned out of theirs – that’s Kipling, you know. Yeah,
I’ve picked up a few things, sitting there drinking ponce-water when they’ve been getting smacked up to the gills.’ He smiled. ‘Are you receiving me, Sue?’

‘I think so, Gary.’

‘Right, then. That’s settled. You know which side your croissant’s buttered, gel. I’ll lay it on the line: you got me Rupee, you can get him back. Or if not him –
because to be frank, now the God Squad have got him, he’ll never write another decent pop song again – then another one like him. Pop stars, they’re all the same. Come and go. But
you got an
eye
for talent.’ He leered alarmingly. ‘That’s ’cos you’re talent yourself. Fancy a bunk-up?’

‘No, thank you,’ she said primly. ‘I have a boyfriend in the next room.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He stood up. ‘But remember – I want some product and I want it
now.
I’m not planning on going back to being the world’s forgotten
boy in a hurry. Thanks, I’ll let myself out.’ He twinkled. ‘I know my place.’

‘Sure. Have them,’ said Tobias Pope when she called him in Munich the next morning. ‘Good thinking, girl – very ecological, though I don’t usually
approve of the waste not want not line. Waste not, taste not is more like it. Still, if it’s saving me money and trouble . . .’ He thought for a minute. ‘And why not take the
darkie off my hands? He’s a fucking pest and well past his best. Isn’t there some sort of vogue in your quaint country for Negro crooners from the nineteen-sixties?’

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘Why, Mr Pope, you’ve been reading your
NME
!’

‘It’s my business to know things, madam. You’d be surprised at what I know.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, I know that you’re taking it down the throat from my son and heir as often as you can. I also know that said heir’s bimbo fiancee has eaten more pussy than she has hot
dinners.’

‘Oh.’ She was shocked. ‘Well, doesn’t good news travel fast?’

‘It’s no skin off my nose. You’re all little insects to me. Just don’t do anything stupid, that’s all.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like fall in love and get married. I was married to a broad who did that. It ruins a woman.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Heard anything more from the Commie germ?’

‘No. I don’t really think the
Jack Black Show
is on Joe Moorsom’s agenda, Mr Pope. He’s a very busy man.’

‘He’ll be busy dodging car-bombs if he uses this as an excuse to get back on my case.’ He paused. ‘I liked seeing you in New York.’

She was silent.

‘I mean it,’ he insisted. ‘I know I laughed at your starry-eyed view of the skyline but the old neighbourhood has been known to affect the most intelligent of young moderns in
that way. Anyway, I enjoyed it – it was the cerebral equivalent of having the soles of one’s feet tickled by geisha. Good for the digestion.’

‘Thanks a fucking
bunch
.’

He laughed. ‘Anything you want from here? What a dump, like your delightful Birmingham with serious money. And their eating habits! They put pig in everything, even the finger-bowls, and
as far as wine’s concerned they bottle their own piss. The women probably have less idea of how to undress than anywhere else in the world, including Canada. Still, my secretaries tell me the
shops are quite nice. Can I bring you anything?’

She couldn’t resist it. ‘Only yourself,’ she husked, straight-faced. He was still laughing when she put the phone down, and she found she was smiling.

She automatically felt well-disposed towards anyone who could make her smile these days, anyone who could make her forget for a moment the name of her new constant companion: Fear.

Fear was with her all the time, since tea at Brown’s Hotel. After her initial burst of adrenalined insouciance, it had turned up early the next morning and stayed close to her ever since
– shadowing her with all the silky skill of the new signing to Napoli. She woke up with a start at dawn, and the dawn chorus she heard was Fear, lying between herself and Matthew, happily
humming the Lilliburlero – Fear was a stickler for tradition. Looking into the rear-view mirror of her morning cab, she saw Fear driving behind her – Fear drove a Jaguar, of course, and
his bumper sticker read ‘MY OTHER CAR IS A HEARSE’. And inside the
Best
building, absorbed in her morning paper, she sensed Fear from the corner of her eye as he got into the
lift with a cheeky PING! Yet when she got out at her floor, the elevator was empty. Fear moved fast.

In her office, the serious Fear began. What had once been an altar to action, decision and dynamism had become a high-tech waiting-room: every phone call could be a diarist asking her if she
would deny or confirm The Rumours, every messenger might be bearing proofs of the piece sent by Ingrid to taunt her, every strange man with a camera might be there to shoot her as opposed to taking
orders from her. So when Kathy tapped on the door and came in carrying a large brown paper parcel, she was not her usual contender for the Perfect New Woman Boss title.

‘Sue, this—’

‘Kathy, what’s that around your neck?’

Kathy’s hand darted to the incriminating garland of small blue bruises.

‘Is it some sort of state-of-the-art necklace from Lesley Craze? Or did someone jog your arm in the tube while you were trying to put on your eyeshadow?’

Kathy flushed. ‘Sue, you know my boyfriend’s in the Israeli army. He drives a tank. It’s awful, we never get to see each other from one month to the next. And he’s on
leave—’

‘And on heat, judging from the state of your neck. Really, Kathy – you’re how old?’

‘I’m twenty-five.’

‘Well, take a tip from one who’s been there – love bites don’t look good on anyone over fifteen. They especially don’t look good on a senior secretary and personal
assistant who’s angling to get an NUJ card sometime next year. Do you get my drift, Kathy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Now for God’s sake wear a high neck until your condition heals, or you can get a skin graft, or something. Or at least ask him to take his teeth out before he attacks you.
You look as though you’re auditioning for a white-collar remake of
Dracula
.’

‘Right, Miss Street.’ Kathy’s soft West Country voice was cold and dull. ‘Sorry, Miss Street.’ She put the parcel on Susan’s desk. ‘
This
just
came by messenger.’

The door slammed, and Susan’s sigh was almost as loud. She was behaving like a man, in the worst possible way – taking it out on her secretary, indeed! How low could you go?
She’d be being rude to waiters next; real suburban middle-management slob stuff. And what a
nerve
she had, complaining about a few kosher love bites given in all good faith by a
member of the Israeli Armed Forces – no wonder Kathy wore them like medals. And here
she
was, sitting with a
brand
on her head. And all because the lady
loves
ambition . . .

Wearily she reached for the parcel, automatically checking the SCANNED stamp in the corner. It wouldn’t do to let herself get blown up just before the
Commentator
spread came out,
would it? And spoil it for everyone . . .

A game of Monopoly lay on her desk, with a note on House of Commons paper. She picked it up.

SUSAN, LOOKS LIKE I’M BACK IN THE GAME AFTER ALL. I DON’T KNOW WHICH PIECE YOU WANT, BUT I’LL BET ON THE (UNDER) DOG EVERY TIME. REGARDS, JOE.

There was a noise from the corner of the room – a whispering. She didn’t look up, but she knew straight away what had happened. Fear had found a friend.

‘Beigebeat?’ Gary Pride looked suspiciously at Candida Malaise across the table for four at the Dorchester. ‘Whass that when it’s at
’ome?’

Candida played with her treacle pudding, pouting. A summer in South Africa had not darkened or diminished her Poohsticks appeal. ‘Washy, why don’t
you
explain?’ She
giggled. ‘I’m
so
stupid.’

‘Don’t call me Washy, girl.’ Washington Brown sat back in his chair and looked around the grill room with stupefied satisfaction, as well he might considering that he had just
finished a bottle of 1959 Margaux which Gary Pride had been forced to spring three hundred pounds for. He could smell success coming back down that lonesome trail, and he was well pleased by the
aroma of it – even more so than with that of the steak and kidney pudding he had just demolished, complete with a side-dish of Branston pickle. ‘Right . . . Beigebeat is the sound you
get when black and white unite.’ He closed his eyes. ‘It’s the cacophony of confidence underscored with a backbeat of suffering. It’s agony and ecstasy. Chalk and cheese.
Day and night. Put them together – and what you got yourself is Beigebeat.’ He opened his eyes and smiled triumphantly at Candida.

On cue, she bounced in her chair. ‘Washy, that’s practically
poetry
!’

‘
I’d
be fucking poetic on a bottle of
that
plonk,’ muttered Gary to Susan.

‘Isn’t he great, Susie?’ Candida squeezed Washington’s gnarled hand. ‘You’re so lucky to have heard all his great stuff the first time around. Me, because
I’m so silly and young, I had to search it all out! But it was worth it!’ She gleamed at him. He glinted back. ‘Isn’t he
ace
?’

‘Ace.’ Susan looked at Washington suspiciously.

His eyes met hers with only a hint of mockery. ‘Hey.’ He spread his hands, pantomiming his innocence. ‘If your boyfriend wants to take me off ice, I got no quarrel with him.
I’m just sick of sitting on my black ass by some bad swimming pool, is all, doing nothing but getting bedsores and chilblains from all that ice and idleness. And Candy feels the same. He
wants to cut us loose, we can’t be bothered to badmouth him? Whatchoo say, sweet Sue?’

‘Can we really go, Susie?’

‘You most certainly can.’

‘And will you handle us, Gary? Like you did with Rupee?’

‘It would be a pleasure,’ said Gary graciously, but his eyes were hard. Hearing Gary try to talk when his mind was in this mode was like watching a pocket calculator trying to chew
gum. His brain had been flicking through the index of pop trends over recent years, and had put one and one together and come up with the answer – megabucks. The biggest white acts were all
trying to sound black and the biggest black acts were all trying to sound white. Duets were back. And of course, all the pop world loves a lover. Sensing a new twist, he looked at them slyly.
‘You two having it away, then?’

Candida giggled. ‘Gary! You’ll always be an oik!’

‘Hey, man.’ Washington held up a shaky though still impressive finger. ‘Speak like that again and I may just have to take that space-phone of yours and stick it where that sun
don’t shine. That’s a lady you’re talking about; one very
special
lady.’

‘Sorry, mate. No hard feelings. Let me get you some fine port.’ Gary clicked his fingers urbanely at a waiter and lowered his voice to Susan as Washington and Candida smooched over
their dessert menus. ‘Hear that?
Special lady,
my foot. When a spade calls a white chick a special lady, he’s poking her. Law of nature. What d’you think? The new Sonny
and Cher?’

‘Which one’s which?’

‘Very funny. I got a name already – Coffee and Cream. What do you think?’

‘How about Bubble and Squeak? Her temperament and his voice, by the time he’s been through the wine list.’

‘God, you’re right. Got to start looking after my investment.’ To the waiter who had materialized, he gave his order for Washington’s drink. ‘The gentleman would
like warm water with a little honey.’

‘Hey – I thought you said port.’

Gary patted his own throat reverentially. ‘Your larynx, Mr Brown. Think of it as a temple. You wouldn’t throw shit on the walls, would you?’

‘What . . . well, I guess not.’

The light of mutiny died in Washington Brown’s eyes, and he turned to smile at Candida. He was under new management and over the moon, no longer an angry man. One less bullet in the gun
that Irving and Lejeune were holding to her head. Susan finished her white port with a slightly lighter mind.

‘You’re late,’ said David Weiss from her Kioto chair with his feet on her Turbeville-Smith desk.

She closed the door and leaned against it. ‘I know.’

‘You’re late and you’re drunk.’

‘Perk of the job. Like getting free drugs if you’re a doctor.’ She took off her raincoat. ‘Can I sit down? I have work to do.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He got up. ‘I just thought I’d warn you. I’ve seen the proofs of the
Commentator
story.’

‘What? Where?’

‘Your friend Miss Irving was kind enough to show them to me last night after a party at the Polish Club.’

‘She had the proofs with her?’

‘No. They were at her flat.’

‘You went back to her flat with her?’

‘Yes.’

She lunged at him, her nails out, aiming for his face.

He caught her wrist. ‘Now you calm down at once or I’ll slap you.’

‘You stupid, evil, ugly prick, how COULD you?’ she screamed.

‘Would I be right in assuming that you believe I had carnal knowledge of Miss Irving?’

‘You certainly fucking would, boy.’ She glared at him. ‘Why else would you go back to her place?’

‘I told you. To see the proofs.’ He let go of her. She rubbed her wrists resentfully. He sat back down, in the visiting chair this time. ‘Susan, I would not consider sleeping
with Miss Irving, or indeed any Englishwoman again, now knowing the depths of malice and duplicity they can habitually sink to. It’s not
your
fault; you’re a nation of spies,
it’s in the blood. I went home with Miss Irving – who, I think, was similarly under the impression that I was going to sleep with her – purely to see what she had on you in black
and white.’