Gone to Ground (12 page)

Lesley did her best not to scowl. Natalie's expression made it clear she couldn't care less.

"What'll you drink?" Scarman asked.

"Fruit juice."

"Whisky chaser?"

"Just juice will be fine."

"Which kind?"

"Any."

Natalie was drinking lager from the bottle. Not, Lesley suspected, her first. Her lipstick was very dark, almost black, and there were careful gradations of brown above her eyes; her hair, cut shorter than Lesley's own, and spikier, was highlighted, here and there, with silver-gray.

"If you've got a recorder in there," Scarman said, indicating the bag on Lesley's shoulder, "and you're planning to use it, why don't we find somewhere quiet?"

The sofas were the kind you sink into, the lighting in that corner of the room designed for mood rather than illumination, and Lesley was thankful she could work the controls on her recorder blindfold.

"A few ground rules," Scarman said. "Nothing about that nonsense the other night at the hotel..."

"I thought the police had agreed not to press charges?"

"Listen, will you, to what I'm saying. Nothing about..."

"Scott, Scott," Lesley said, laughing. "I'm winding you up, okay?"

Natalie giggled and took a swig from her beer.

"Okay, okay. Very fucking funny. But this is serious. Nothing about Natalie's personal life, relationships, past misdemeanours. Nothing about her family. Strictly out of bounds. She's happy to talk about her work with Orlando, future projects..."

"
Shattered Glass?
"

"
Shattered Glass,
maybe."

"Maybe? I thought that was the reason for Natalie being here?"

Scarman essayed an elegant shrug of the shoulders. "Let's say it's no longer as squared away as we thought."

"Problems?"

"Nothing that can't be sorted. A glitch in the timing, that's all. But there are plenty of other things in the pipeline, a new theatre piece, for instance. Nat, why don't you tell Lesley something about that?"

Natalie held up her empty lager bottle with a finger and thumb. "I need another one of these before I can talk about anything."

Scarman sighed but got to his feet all the same.

"Hate it when he calls me that," Natalie said, as soon as Scarman had turned his back. "Nat. As if I'm some stupid little buzzing thing he can swat."

"At least it's a name," Lesley said. "With me it was sweetheart, sweetheart."

Natalie made a face like she was going to throw up.

"I think he called all his women sweetheart," Lesley said. "Saved any possible embarrassment."

"While you were married, he screwed around?"

"Does the bear shit in the woods?"

Natalie laughed. It was a good sound, loud and untrammeled, and Lesley found herself joining in.

"You two seem to have found something amusing," Scarman said, quickly back from the bar.

"What happened to my drink?" Natalie said.

"They're bringing it over."

"I don't think," Lesley said, "he liked the idea of leaving us alone together for too long."

"Really?" Natalie said, and fixed Scarman with her smile. "Scott. Scottie. Now you've told us what we can talk about, really, you could just fuck off and leave us to it. Don't you think? Girls together?" The smile widened. "There's a sweetheart."

Scarman thought about standing his ground, but opted for yielding gracefully instead. "An hour," he said, summoning up a small degree of menace. "Tops."

"All right, sweetheart," Natalie said, emphasising, with apparent innocence, the last word.

Lesley had to look away.

When the waiter arrived at their table a few minutes later, Natalie asked Lesley if she wouldn't like a real drink and with only a little hesitation, Lesley chose Oban from the list of single malts. "Large one," she said. "No ice. Water on the side." In for a penny, she thought, especially if the pennies were Scarman's and not her own.

For fifteen minutes or so girl talk was what it was, woman talk anyway; Lesley chose to be more than a little indiscreet about a brief fling she'd had when she was in New Zealand and Natalie responded with a tale, more or less blow by blow, of an affair she'd had with a screenwriter she'd met on the rebound from Carl Peters.

"Made love as if he'd just come back from a course on constructing a fucking story, yeah? Build up to a small climax, relax the tension, throw in something surprising around the end of act three, then hang on for dear life till the final credits." Natalie laughed. "There'd he be when it was over, 'stead of pulling his manky briefs back on, standing beside the bed like he was expecting a Golden Globe or something. A Bafta for bloody boffing."

Lesley laughed along, then reached down and activated the recorder. Time to get down to business. "It must have been difficult," she said, "after something as successful as
Electric,
to have known what to do next."

"Not really."

"But there would have been offers? Lots of them, I imagine. All the praise you got for that role, the award and everything, it gave you a level of recognition that as an actor you'd hadn't had before."

"Look," Natalie swung one of her long legs round from the settee. "That award stuff, it's bollocks right? Dog's bollocks, maybe, but bollocks all the same." She smiled, remembering. "There you are in a few grands' worth of borrowed dress, literally pissing yourself, and when they say your name, yeah, okay, it's amazing."

The second leg followed the first and she stared at Lesley seriously.

"What I did though, what me and Orlando did, what ended up on screen, okay, it's there, some people like it, some people don't. But awards, Oscars, stuff like that. That's not down to me. That's Scarman, people like him. Marketing spend. Back hand-ers. Blow jobs in stretch limos. That's where Oscars come from. Not what I do. Not really. It's what they do with it after. What they fuckin' make of it."

She swallowed down the rest of her beer.

"Okay, end of lesson. Now let's have another drink."

A young man in a too shiny leather jacket, egged on by his mates, leaned between the two of them and said, "S'cuse me, but you're Natalie Prince, right?"

"No, darlin', I'm Judi fuckin' Dench. Now why don't you go and play with yourself in the Gents."

Lesley was enjoying herself more and more.

"Doing a remake of
Shattered Glass?
"she said. "Was that your idea, or...?"

"Mine? God, no."

"You didn't like the idea?"

"Liking didn't come into it. I didn't even know about it—the original, I mean—not till Orlando told me. Two years ago? Less. Made me sit down and watch it, one of them poky little viewing theatres in Soho. An old print, but even so. It's fantastic, right? Okay, some of it, it's a bit hokey, but, no, it's great, really great."

"But she's what? Your great aunt?"

"Yes."

"On what? Your mother's side? Your father's?"

"My mother's."

"I'm surprised you hadn't seen it before."

"If it had been around—you know, on video or something—I suppose I would have. But there's nothing. I don't think it's even been on TV. Oh, TGM at four in the morning, maybe, but that's all. And besides..." Natalie threaded her fingers through her hair. "What you have to realize, my Aunt Stella, okay, I knew about her when I was growing up, the soap stuff she did for tele, but that was about all. She made films, yeah. Back in the fifties. But that was history, right? All Trevor Howard and
Brief Encounter
and that was the last place I wanted to go."

Natalie crossed her legs and the hearts of at least half a dozen men skipped a beat.

"Like I say, that was all a couple of years back. Ever since then, it's been a question of doing deals. Finance. Distribution. Orlando, not me. I wouldn't have a fucking clue."

"And meantime you do what? Wait?"

"Meantime I sit around and get royally pissed." Rising slightly unsteadily to her feet, Natalie put two fingers to her mouth and whistled. When the waiter looked in her direction, she signaled for more of the same.

"The problems Scott mentioned about doing the movie," Lesley said, "they're serious?"

"They were. One of the backers pulled out at the last minute. Just when we were set to announce. Now it looks like my dad's going to step in and put up the money." She crossed her fingers. "Maybe."

"He can do that?"

Natalie laughed. "Howard? Ten times over. If he wants to. If he cares. Which usually he doesn't. If this happens, it'll be a first."

"How come now?"

"God knows. He heard about what had happened—I mean, I told him, sort of begged, really. How it would be great for my career and that. Finally, he said he'd talk to his accountant, see what he could do. It's some dodge, bound to be, some way of writing it off as some kind of tax loss, but still, looks as if it's going to happen. Long as they can sort out a few things first."

"What kind of things?"

"Oh, control. He'll want control, some anyway. Not over the movie, but other things. Budgets. Publicity. Publicity especially."

"He doesn't want anyone to know he's investing the money?"

"That's part of it, yeah. But it's more than that. Reporters, press, media—where my father's concerned, they're dirty words." Natalie paused while the drinks arrived, taking a good swallow at hers. "My dad, he's made a lot of money, yeah? Shit loads. In fact, he's made a whole lot of money twice."

"Most people find it hard enough once."

Without asking, Natalie leaned down and switched off the recorder. "First time he lost it, right? All of it. Millions. Bad judgement, bad luck. Somebody screwed him, that's what he thinks. Got his confidence and then betrayed him. I don't know how exactly and he's certainly not saying. But now he's frightened, I guess, someone might do it again. It accounts for what you might call a degree of paranoia. And then, of course, there's Lily." She lit another cigarette. "My mother. She's what you might call fragile. I don't know. Clinically depressed? Bipolar? In Victorian times, they'd probably have shut her up in an attic."

Seeing the look on Lesley's face, Natalie shook her head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Not about my own mother. Too much
Jane Eyre
at an impressionable age. But my dad's right to be cautious. It doesn't take much to set her off."

"She's in hospital?"

"Not right now. But she has been, off and on practically ever since I've known her. Since I've been able to understand what was going on."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well. Shit happens. But it helps explain the way my dad feels about publicity."

Lesley grinned. "He must love you, then."

"He loathes it, all the fuss and attention, course he does. But what can he do? And I think deep down, maybe he's proud. Not of all the bullshit, but of some of the things I've done. The work, you know? Least, I like to think so. And as long as I never go into print with anything about the family, I'm okay. Just so long as nothing spills over onto them."

"It can't be that easy," Lesley said. "The media being what it is."

"Bastards like you, you mean?"

"Exactly."

Natalie sampled some more lager. "It's not just reporters you have to be careful of, let me tell you."

"What do you mean?"

Natalie leaned closer. "Less than a year back, this guy gets in touch. This was before Scott was handling my PR, yeah, so he came straight to me. Talked my agent, the silly cow, into giving him my number. Says he's writing a book about Stella. You believe that? Reckons there's a big revival of interest and can he come and talk to me? So I tell him more or less what I told you, I hardly know anything about her at all, but he keeps at it and in the end I say okay. Fuck knows why."

She paused to drink some more.

"He comes down to London, which is where I'm living. Primrose Hill. Bit of a geek, but there are worst things, right? Turns out what he really wants, as much as anything, is a way of getting to my mum and dad. Especially my dad. Seems he's written to him a score of times without getting as much as a reply. So, partly because, now I've met him, he is kind of nice—I mean, I don't fancy him or anything, which is as well cause he's queer as a clockwork mouse—and partly, if I'm honest, to get him off my back, I say, yes, sure, I'll do what I can. And so, next time I see him, my dad, I start mentioning it and he goes fucking ballistic. Bloody poof, sticking his nose where it's not wanted. Calm down, I told him. Chill. Poor guy's only trying to do his job. Just keep well away from him, my dad says, don't tell him a bloody thing."

Natalie paused for a quick swallow from her beer.

"The geek," Lesley said. "I know him. He's my brother."

"Your brother?" Natalie stared at her, amazed. "You're kidding."

"Correction," Lesley said. "He was my brother."

"Was? What do you mean? He was? You mean...?"

"He was murdered. Stephen was murdered. A week ago."

"Murdered? How? I mean, Lesley ... Jesus!"

"So?" Scarman was suddenly beside them, clapping his hands. "We just about wrapped up here?"

"Fuck off, Scott," Natalie said, scarcely throwing him a glance.

"Lesley, you must have enough now?"

"I said fuck off," Natalie said, loud enough to divert a little attention. "Or at least get me a fucking drink. Get us both a fucking drink."

"I think you've already had quite enough, don't you?" Scarman stretched a proprietary hand toward her and she knocked it away.

"Who d'you think you are, my fucking father?"

"Natalie..."

She picked an empty bottle from the floor and slammed it down hard against the table edge. Glass shattered and people screamed and there were two suited security guards shouldering their way toward them through the crowd.

"Look," Scarman said, turning to face them. "I can settle this. It's nothing. It's all in hand."

The taller of the two guards went through him as if he weren't there. The other one lifted Natalie bodily into the air, blood running down from the hand she held to her mouth, and began to carry her, high through the crowd, toward the door.