What Will Survive (5 page)

He pressed a button to end the call and speed-dialled Aisha's number one more time. ‘Christ,' he said before her voice had finished asking him to leave a message. ‘Why aren't you answering your phone? Why's Tim calling my office?' He checked himself. ‘Sorry, it's — very frustrating, not being able to get hold of you. Call me as soon as you get this, OK, it doesn't matter what time.'

He hesitated for a moment, then keyed in Tim Lincoln's number. It took a few seconds to connect, followed by the engaged tone. ‘Shit,' Stephen said again, drawing a hostile look from an usher, and ended the call. Thrusting the phone in to his pocket, he braced himself for the unwelcome task of entertaining Lord Lennard for the next hour.

15 July 1997, 11:59 BST
LONDON (Reuters)

Kensington Palace has issued a ‘clarification' of remarks by Diana, Princess of Wales, who is on holiday in the south of France. The Princess has no intention of leaving the UK, said a spokeswoman, claiming that her conversation with photographers yesterday had been misinterpreted.

She said that the Princess had exchanged ‘jocular' remarks with the photographers, who spotted her sunbathing of St Tropez on a yacht belonging to the owner of Harrods, Mohammed al-Fayed. The Princess jumped into a motor cruiser and approached the journalists, appealing to them to respect her privacy.

The conversation was ‘good-natured', said the spokeswoman, and asked that the Princess be left alone to enjoy the remainder of her holiday. ‘She works very hard during the year, and like anyone else she needs to recharge her batteries,' the spokeswoman said.

15 July 1997, 12:17
BST
LONDON
(Reuters)

Campaigners against landmines have renewed their call for a ban after a man died and two people were injured in a blast in Lebanon yesterday. The explosion happened in the south, just outside the area where the Syrian backed terror group Hezbollah is fighting to end the Israeli occupation.

‘Landmines are silent killers,' said Hilary Lukes, a London-based activist who has worked for a ban with Diana, Princess of Wales. ‘They go on doing their lethal work for years after a war finishes, which is why it's so important to ban them.'

The nationalities and condition of the survivors of yesterday's accident are not yet known.

15 July 1997, 13:27
BST
LONDON
(Reuters)

The Prime Minister is ‘afraid to face the House of Commons,' the Leader of the Opposition claimed today, stepping up his attack on the decision to reduce PM's Question Time to a single weekly session on Wednesdays.

‘This government has no respect for Parliament or its traditions,' he said. ‘The Prime Minister has been in office for less than three months, and he has already shown that his style is presidential and unaccountable.' In an interview with the BBC's World At One programme, he went on to accuse the Prime Minister of being ‘frit'.

15 July 1997, 13:42
BST
PARIS
(Reuters)

An elite anti-terrorist squad has arrested four men who are believed to have been planning bomb attacks on the Paris Métro. First reports say bomb-making equipment was found at an apartment in a high-rise block in Aulnay-sous-Bois, in the north-eastern suburbs, which was raided early this morning. The men, all in their early twenties and believed to carry passports from North African countries, put up no resistance when they were surprised by armed police.

Unofficial sources say they may be connected to the GIA, the Islamic terror group which is suspected of organising a series of terrorist attacks in France, as well as the hijacking of an Air France flight from Algiers in 1994. The GIA has been blamed for thousands of deaths since the government cancelled the result of the general election in Algeria five years ago. A statement is expected later today.

Actors, Amanda thought, pressing the fast-forward button on her tape recorder. The voices, her own and the Hollywood star's, turned into a series of high-pitched squeaks, slowing into recognisable speech when she lifted her finger. He was still discussing his latest film, a hostage drama set in an unnamed African state although the production team had never set foot outside the United States, as Amanda had discovered by reading the credits at the end of the preview.

‘The special effects may get more spectacular,' the article on her computer screen began, ‘but does anything really change in Hollywood?' She went on to point out that the thirty-three-year-old star, currently one of the most highly-paid actors in the world, was doing exactly the same as Johnny Weismuller, the Olympic swimming champion whose Tarzan movies had been filmed in Florida. She had tried several times to ask the actor about cultural imperialism: ‘So do you really, um, think it's all right to set a film in Africa without going there?' she heard herself say on the tape, rephrasing an earlier question in response to his uncomprehending look. She scribbled in her notebook as he embarked on the answer she wanted to quote.

‘Sure, we all wanted to shoot in Africa. I'm like, what I always aim for is maximum authenticity. But the studio talks to the security guys and they say, hey, this guy's a big star. This is not me talking, you understand, but if the studio believes there are folks out there... if there are, like, security considerations?'

Amanda stopped the tape and was typing the quote when her phone rang. She hesitated, not wanting to lose momentum, but the thought that it might be someone from the office made her pick it up. It occurred to her, as she did so, that she really must get one of those phones that showed the caller's number.

‘Mandy?'

Her heart sank as she recognised the voice of her ex. ‘Patrick, I'm in the middle of writing, I can't talk now.'

‘It's a very quick one — have you heard about the mortgage?'

She breathed out, trying not to lose her temper. ‘I called the building society last week, it's all going through —'

‘Can't you hurry it up?'

‘I've told you, there's nothing I can do. It takes as long as it takes.'

‘Sure there isn't a problem? With you being freelance, I mean?'

‘I spent an hour with the manager and he's got copies of my accounts. The moment I hear, I'll let you know, all right?'

‘I suppose it'll have to be.'

‘Look, I've already said, I've got a deadline—'

‘No need to lose your rag. Give me a call at the weekend, yeah, let me know how it's going.'

He rang off. Amanda leaned against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. She put her hands up to her hair, which she had recently had cut short — too short, she thought, and then remembered how a single conversation with Patrick could drain her confidence. He had left her, after they had lived together for nearly two years, and now he expected her to buy him out of the flat, just like that.

Amanda took a couple of deep breaths — yoga breaths was how she thought of them, though she hadn't been to a class for months — and tried to focus on her computer screen. She started typing again, slowly at first, pointing out the irony of a Hollywood studio not daring to film a story about kidnapping in Africa in case the star was kidnapped. Soon she was describing the studio's PR operation and how, when she was finally ushered into his suite, he gripped one of her hands in both of his and said how glad he was she had come. She had barely turned on her tape recorder when he launched into a ready-made spiel about how thrilled he had been when asked to do the picture, how much he had enjoyed working with the director, the cinematographer — Amanda recalled he had recently played a surprise cameo role in a film by Patrice Leconte — and everybody else from the other actors to the make-up artists.

Listening to the polished phrases, she realised she was reminded of the Prime Minister, whom she had met during the general election campaign. Of course the Leader of the Opposition, as he then was, was quite a lot smarter, but he too had turned a beam of attention on her as she asked her question — agreed in advance, naturally — at a lunch for women journalists. She had felt like the most important person in the world, then it was
someone else's turn and his attention shifted elsewhere, just as the actor's did when her thirty minutes were up. She was reaching for the list of subjects that he was not prepared to talk about, faxed to her by the studio before the interview, when the phone rang again. Amanda groaned and answered it.

‘Amanda, it's Simon on the newsdesk. How busy are you today?'

Not wanting to turn down a commission — thanks to Patrick, she needed every penny she could earn — she responded cautiously: ‘Quite. I'm doing something for the magazine.'

‘Can you put it off? This might be a big one. Remember that profile you did of Aisha Lincoln? Last summer, wasn't it?'

Amanda stood up and turned away from her computer. ‘Sure, what's she done? I heard she was going to be made a UN goodwill ambassador. Mind you, I've heard the same rumour about Geri Halliwell.'

‘Geri? I didn't know that.' He paused. ‘No, Aisha Lincoln's been in some kind of incident.'

‘Incident? What does that mean?'

‘Some kind of explosion.'

‘An explosion?' Amanda was alert, the adrenalin beginning to flow. ‘You mean a terrorist thing?'

‘We don't know yet. She's been travelling round the Middle East and the car she was in seems to have blown up. That's all we know so far. Dermot's away so we're using a Swedish stringer, Ingrid something. The British embassy in Beirut's saying nothing officially but off the record...'

‘God, she's not dead, is she?'

‘No, but I won't know how bad it is till Ingrid calls from the hospital.'

Amanda breathed out. ‘Where did you say this happened?'

‘Lebanon. There's a load of junk hanging round after the civil war, apparently. Ingrid says people, you know, shepherds or — or whatever, are always stepping on shells and landmines.' Simon had been the paper's New York correspondent before he was summoned back to London as news editor, and his chief interests were footballers, pop stars and gossip. ‘Somebody's done a report on it, which I'm getting.'

‘You're absolutely sure it's her?'

‘The British ambassador's going to make a statement this afternoon. She wouldn't be doing that for your average tourist, would she? Can you get going on a backgrounder? Don't worry about Sandra, I'll talk to her. What were you doing for her?'

Amanda whipped round, saved the file, pressed a key and watched it disappear from the screen. ‘Nothing that can't wait. Some showbiz thing.'

‘Oh yeah, she mentioned it at conference. Say a thousand words, unless I tell you otherwise. Want me to fax you the agency stuff and cuttings?'

‘Please.'

‘Oh, Fiona's telling me something, hang on...' His voice faded. ‘Wow, this is fantastic, has Mark seen it? Thanks, Fi. Amanda? There's a piece in
Hello!
about this trip she was on. Do you want me to send it as well?'

‘Course. You've got my fax number?'

‘Yeah. Anything else you need?'

‘Don't think so. Call me when you hear anything.'

‘Sure thing.'

Amanda gathered up her tape recorder, interview notes and faxes and put them on a shelf in the alcove next to her desk. Taking down a file marked 1996, she sorted through it until Aisha Lincoln's face stared up at her from a transparent wallet. It was an arresting face, even under its plastic cover: the skin pale and almost unlined, the eyes intense, black with pinpoints of light, under high arched eyebrows. Even though Aisha's dark hair was caught up at the back of her head, a mass of strands had escaped and curved like a sculpture around her head. As Amanda drew the article from its wallet, a piece of paper fell to the floor, and she stooped to retrieve it. Now she remembered: Aisha had sent her a letter after the feature appeared, on thin blue paper with her address — Cranbrook Lawns, Cranbrook, Somerset — in neat handwriting at the top. It was a thank-you note, saying she had enjoyed reading Amanda's article and wished other journalists took her work in developing countries as seriously. Aisha's husband, Tim, had said something similar when she took Amanda upstairs to her office.

‘This is where my husband works,' she had remarked quietly, pointing to a closed door on the first-floor landing. It seemed he had heard them
for he opened it and stared distractedly, as though two women were the very last thing he had expected to see.

Aisha said, ‘I told you Amanda was coming today. She's a journalist.'

‘Did you? I forgot.' He screwed up his face, as if gathering his thoughts from far away, then looked closely at Amanda. ‘Another worshipper at the shrine? Who did you say you write for?'

Amanda told him, holding out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you,' she added as his features relaxed.

‘That's what I read — if I get round to reading a paper at all, I mean. Too depressing, most of the time. I wish you people weren't so obsessed with bad news.'

Amanda said something vague, observing Tim Lincoln minutely in case she wanted to describe him in her article. He was tall and sinewy, with a long bony face and receding sandy hair. His trousers were old and he was wearing a shirt that didn't match, almost as if he was making some sort of point about his wife's perfect taste.

‘I'll look out for your byline,' he said, leaning against the door frame. ‘Isn't that what you call it? Just don't make my wife out to be a plaster saint, that's all.'

‘I'm taking Amanda up to my office,' Aisha responded. ‘Will you join us for lunch?' She laid a hand lightly on Amanda's arm, drawing her away.