Friends & Rivals (14 page)

Suddenly he wished he were going home to The Rookery tonight and Catriona's quiet understanding, and not to Eaton Gate and Kendall's insatiable physical and emotional demands. The problem was that, after a few short months together, Ivan had fallen hard for Kendall Bryce. In the beginning, it had been the thrill of ‘stealing' Kendall from Jack that had fuelled his attraction. That and Kendall's youth, fame and ridiculously sensual body, so pneumatically proportioned it must have been dreamed up by a teenage boy and willed into glorious, erotic life. But as time went on, Kendall became more than a mere sexual distraction. She was so vital and ambitious and
young
. Being with her made Ivan feel all of those things too. As much as she exhausted him, both in bed and with her chronic, almost manic neediness, Kendall also energized him in a way he hadn't felt since leaving Oxford. Back then Ivan had felt invincible, immortal, ready to take on the music business and the world and make his mark. But recently, with the creeping onset of middle age, that life force had begun to drain away, like sap oozing out of a slowly dying tree. Catriona, dear, gentle Catriona, was content to grow older with him. But Ivan wasn't ready to go gently into that good night. He still raged against the dying of the light, and Kendall Bryce raged with him. She had brought him back to life.

There was, of course, a price to pay for this rebirth. His relationship with Kendall was a constant performance, sexual, professional and emotional. He could never be himself with her, or show weakness the way he could with Catriona. Nor did Kendall soft-soap her responses. She found Ivan's insecurities boring and had no interest whatsoever in easing the pressures of his working life. On the contrary, Ivan was there to make
her
life easier, not just as her lover but as her manager. Like most artists she was insecure about her career and talents. She expected constant reassurance, and when she didn't get it was liable to act out, flying into alcohol-fuelled rages that left Ivan feeling drained and helpless. Most of all, though, he feared losing her sexually. Everywhere Kendall went, men swarmed around her like hungry locusts. Used to being the strayer in his relationship, Ivan had no idea how to handle the jealousy that overwhelmed him whenever Kendall was away from him. Which was at least every other weekend, as well as for week-long stretches during the school holidays. Ivan knew he was neglecting Catriona and the kids, particularly Hector, and he did feel guilty about it. But between the demands of his blossoming career, his family and his difficult young mistress, he felt increasingly like a butterfly having its wings pulled off, which wasn't a pleasant sensation.

The cab rounded the corner of Sloane Square, still busy with Saturday-night revellers. It was only ten o'clock, although to Ivan it felt much later. Wearily, he paid the driver and opened the front door of the flat.

‘Kendall?'

‘In here!' Her voice barely reached him over the noise of the hairdryer. Walking into the bedroom he found her stark naked, bent over at the waist, drying her long hair upside down. Ivan felt his dick harden instantly. Walking over, he slipped a hand between her legs.

‘Did you miss me?'

‘Hmmm?' Kendall turned off the hairdryer and turned around to face him. Her face was flushed from the heat and from hanging upside down and her half-dry hair fell tousled to her shoulders. Ivan didn't think he'd ever seen a vision so desirable.

‘I said, did you miss me?' he growled, grabbing her bare bottom with one hand and fondling her left breast with the other.

‘Not really.' Kendall's eyes flashed with a potent combination of mischief and lust. The truth was that, beneath the bravado, she was far more insecure in Ivan's affections than he would ever have imagined. But she'd learned long ago that the only way to hold a powerful man's interest was to keep him on his toes. Unlike Jack Messenger, Ivan Charles was naturally jealous. He was also turned on by drama; in this respect at least, he was with the right woman. ‘How did it go?'

Irritated, Ivan released her. ‘You know how it went. You saw it. It was a bloody disaster.'

‘Actually, I didn't see it,' said Kendall, switching the hairdryer back on.

‘What do you mean you didn't see it?' said Ivan, unplugging the dryer at the wall.

Now it was Kendall's turn to be irritated.

‘I mean, I didn't see it. What part of that are you failing to understand, exactly?'

‘It was the pilot show, for fuck's sake,' Ivan exploded. ‘It was a big deal for me. And you couldn't even be bothered to switch on the TV?'

‘Jesus,' Kendall rolled her eyes. ‘My girlfriend Lisa called from LA, OK? So I was on the phone with her for, like, an hour. And then I had to wash my hair.'

‘Wash your
hair?
'

‘Yeah. It was dirty. Seriously, I don't see what the big deal is.'

She reached down to turn the hairdryer on again, but Ivan grabbed her wrist. He knew she was doing it deliberately, taunting him, feigning a lack of interest just to elicit a reaction. But he couldn't help himself. Tonight had been one of the worst nights in his life. The least he expected from his mistress was a little support.

‘How would
you
feel if I didn't show up to one of your concerts? Or I didn't watch your performances on the talk shows? After Graham Norton, I sat and listened to you for hours while you analysed every fucking question he asked you. Remember that?'

‘That was different,' said Kendall. ‘You're my manager. It's your job to care about my career. Last time I checked, I don't take fifteen per cent off
your
top line.'

‘This has nothing to do with money,' said Ivan as she wrenched her hand free. ‘It has to do with you being a spoiled, self-centred little madam.'

‘Yeah, well,' Kendall shrugged. ‘Maybe I'm tired of listening to your midlife crisis, did you ever think of that? What do you want me to tell you, anyway, Ivan? If you think you did a bad job tonight, chances are you did. Maybe you're not cut out for television. Jack may have been an arrogant ass at times, but at least he always put his clients' careers before his own. Maybe you should try doing the same.'

‘You bitch,' said Ivan. Kendall's hypocrisy was breathtaking.

‘Call me what you like,' she shot back. ‘But if you're looking for an ego-masseuse, I suggest you try your wife.' Pushing past him she began pulling clothes out of the closet. Some she flung into a Burberry overnight bag, others she pulled on over her still-damp limbs.

‘What are you doing?' asked Ivan, whose head was starting to ache. Fighting with Kendall was fine as long as it resulted in make-up sex at the end.

‘What does it look like? I'm leaving.'

‘Don't be so melodramatic,' said Ivan, reaching for the bag, but Kendall was too quick for him, sweeping it up off the bed and heading for the door.

‘I'll be at The Dorchester when you're ready to apologize.'

‘
Me
apologize?'

‘And I'm charging the room to your Centurion Card,' Kendall added over her shoulder, slamming the front door of the flat behind her with an almighty, violent bang.

Ivan clutched his temples. To his immense annoyance, he still had the remnants of a hard-on. What the hell was he doing, risking his marriage and draining his energy on an affair with this infuriating, intoxicating, hell-cat of a girl? Joyce Wu had never given him this sort of trouble. No one had ever given him this sort of trouble.

Wearily, he poured himself a double Laphroaig, downed it, then poured himself another. Tomorrow morning he would drive down to the country. At least he could be sure of a little tea and sympathy from Catriona, and it would be good to spend some time with the children. A trip to the toy shop in Carterton would smooth things over with Hector, and dear little Rosie, God bless her, adored her daddy whatever he did.

Maybe I will break things off with Kendall
, he brooded darkly. Although he knew the moment he ended it she would hook up with someone else, a thought so unbearable it had him reaching for the bottle again. At least he would let her stew in her own juices at The Dorchester for a day or two.
If she thinks I'm rushing over there to grovel at her feet, she's got another think coming.

Ivan was woken the next morning by the telephone. At least, he thought it was a telephone. It may have been an air-raid siren, or a fire alarm, or an electric drill boring its way merrily through his cranium. Whatever it was, it was deeply unpleasant, considerably increasing both the throbbing in his head and the wave of nausea that overtook him as soon as he sat up.

‘Hello?'

No answer. Ivan looked perplexed, then realized he was holding an electric alarm clock to his ear. Dropping it with a curse, he got out of bed and scrambled under a pile of clothes on the floor until he unearthed the house phone.

‘Yes?' he barked. ‘Who is this?'

‘Ivan, it's me, Mike. Have you seen the papers?'

Mike Marston-Gilley was Ivan's agent. Ever since he'd begun thinking about branching into reality TV, Ivan had discussed the idea with Mike M-G, an old school friend with a reputation as something of a star-maker on the British small screen. It was Mike who'd landed him the
Talent Quest
gig. No doubt he was calling to begin the grim business of post-morteming last night's disastrous first show. Which was his job, of course, and had to be done. But not before Ivan had got up, thrown up and downed a vat of coffee and a plateful of bacon sandwiches.

‘I haven't seen anything,' groaned Ivan. ‘I just woke up.'

‘Riiight.' Mike hesitated. He was a kind, polite man, but Ivan could tell at once from his tone that the news wasn't good.

‘The reviews are awful, I take it,' he said, sitting down as the hammering in his head intensified. ‘Who was the worst, the
Mail
? Bloody Melanie Phillips has always had it in for me. Or was it
The Times
? That smug twat Adrian Gill's been trying to get his own TV show for years. God preserve us from jealous critics, eh?'

There was a long silence on the end of the phone. Finally Mike Marston-Gilley said, ‘Ivan, this isn't about
Talent Quest
.'

‘It isn't? Then what's it about?'

Mike let out the sort of sigh that no one ever wants to hear from their agent.

‘You'd better sit down.'

Ned Williams arrived at the Burford Newsagent's just as it was opening. It was bitterly cold outside and still dark, but Ned's face glowed hot and red after his early morning run. At his feet a snow-bedraggled Badger panted forlornly. Rosie Charles was quite wrong about Badger pining to death when Ned left for Mustique. Had the poor mutt known he was in line for three weeks of lie-ins by the Aga, he would have thrown his hairy head back and howled for joy. Much as he loved his owner, Ned's latest fitness-jag was definitely beginning to pall.

‘Ran all the way here, did you?' Mrs Chapman, the newsagent, winked conspiratorially, a grin lighting up her fat, gossip's face. ‘After this, I suppose?'

She handed Ned a copy of the
Mail on Sunday
. He was about to say no, that he frankly wouldn't wipe his arse on the
Mail
and was rather hoping for the
Sunday Times
as usual, when he saw the front-page headline. And picture. Reaching into his pocket he pulled a wodge of notes out of his pocket.

‘It's only a pound,' said Mrs Chapman.

‘I know,' said Ned, pressing the notes into her clammy hand. ‘I'll take every copy you've got.'

‘Every copy?' The old woman laughed. ‘How're you going to carry them, my lovely? That dog going to drag them home on a sledge, is he?'

‘Just get them off the shelves, all right?' said Ned. ‘I'll run home for the car. Is it all right if I leave Badger with you? I think he could do with a bowl of water.'

Half an hour later, Ned was driving his battered old MG along the back road to Swinbrook. Badger lay sleeping on the back seat, surrounded by a vast pile of newspapers. It was an impulse decision, buying out Burford News, and probably a stupid one. The locals would get hold of the story soon enough. Ivan Charles was one of their own, after all. Ned had probably bought Catriona no more than an hour or so of respite from the inevitable public humiliation. But an hour was better than nothing.

In the kitchen at The Rookery, Catriona was frying bacon and tomatoes for her and Rosie's breakfast. It was only half past seven, but Rosie had been up since six, mucking out her beloved Sparky, and Catriona had barely slept worrying about Ivan. He'd been so upset last night, he hadn't even felt up to talking on the phone, which was really unlike him. She felt particularly bad that he'd had to go back to the Eaton Gate flat and make small talk with Kendall Bryce. She was a nice enough girl, but really, after months in England, Catriona didn't see why she couldn't have found her own place to live. Poor Ivan couldn't be expected to play host for ever.

Desperate to call him, Catriona restrained herself, distracting herself instead by cooking breakfast while Rosie waxed lyrical about her pony and how he really needed a new set of fleece blankets now that the snow had settled in. Cat was reaching up behind the Aga for pepper when a knock on the kitchen window nearly made her jump out of her skin.

‘Ned! Good gracious, you frightened the life out of me.'

‘Ned? He's here?' Rosie gasped. ‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God.'

Catriona tried to open the window, but a thick shelf of snow had sealed it closed like glue. Ned made a gesture to indicate that he would go to the back door, giving Rosie time to tear back upstairs like a banshee and beautify herself before he saw her.

‘Just don't let him leave, Mummy, OK? Make sure he's still here when I come down.'

A few moments later, a flushed, visibly anxious Ned appeared in the kitchen doorway. He had a newspaper under his arm and a semi-comatose Badger at his heels.