The Honey Trap. Mary Baker Jayne

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СКАЧАТЬ was going anywhere with this guy was a high-powered taser and a clear shot at his groin, but nevertheless she stood up to follow as he turned back towards the club’s VIP area. She made an apologetic face to Leo, snatched her bag and left him looking puzzled by the bar.

      ‘The rules will be as follows,’ PR Guy continued as she trailed after him through the dimly lit club, illuminated only by the blue LED strips embedded into the floor and bar. ‘No personal questions about my client’s home life, marriage, childhood, ex-partners, sexual preferences, family or future plans. No implications about my client’s lifestyle, nor nuanced inferences about his private life from the answers he does choose to provide. If Mr Wilchester is made to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed by any questions put to him, the interview will be terminated immediately. If I feel the questions put to Mr Wilchester will be likely to cause him future embarrassment, the interview will be terminated immediately. If –’

      ‘So am I interviewing him or you?’ Angel interrupted, narrowing her eyes. ‘If you’re expecting me to write some promotional puff piece for Tigerblaze Studios you can forget it. I’m not doing your job for you, mate.’

      PR Guy turned to face her, glowing with resentment. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. This is a film premiere. Your questions will relate to my client’s work and the film you have just seen. Or this interview can and will be shut down.’

      ‘Fine,’ she snapped back. ‘Suits me. It’s his work that interests me, not his private life. Enthralling though I’m sure it is.’

      They continued in sullen silence until they reached the VIP lounge. A plaited cord, rich electric blue like everything else in the place, barred their entrance. PR Guy unhooked it at one end and ushered her through, flashing some sort of ID at the burly bouncer stationed just inside.

      The reality of what she was doing hit Angel with a solid drop-kick to the abdomen when she spotted Seb in a private booth, lounging in the corner of a round, white-leather sofa. He was drinking a mini milk bottle of champagne and chatting to the lead actor from The Milkman Cometh with a smile that didn’t extend to his eyes. She was relieved to see Carole Beaumont wasn’t with him.

       Too late to back out now…

      She took a few hesitant steps towards his table, but stopped dead in her tracks when he turned and caught sight of her. His eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared, his sculpted lips setting in a thin line. There it was, the very expression she’d been dreading: disdain, hard and unforgiving. She dug her heels into the thin black carpet, willed her posture into erect dignity, but he refused to withdraw his stare.

      She could feel the PR man’s eyes burning into her from behind too, wondering what she was waiting for now she’d finally got the coup to end all coups; an exclusive audience with publicity-shunning Sebastian Wilchester. Forcing her lips into a polite smile, she pushed herself forward and into a seat at the other side of his table.

      ‘Thanks, George, good job with everything tonight,’ Seb said to the young actor, ignoring her. ‘You’d better go find your mum before she starts worrying. Catch up in a bit. Just have to do a quick press thing before I can socialise.’ He jerked his head in her direction.

      ‘You’re a martyr to it, aren’t you, Seb? Okay, see you in a little while then.’ George nodded to Angel and the PR man as he stood up to leave.

      Interview! Shit! She really hadn’t thought this far ahead. Here was Seb, eyes thrusting a thousand knives in her direction, and the Tigerblaze PR manager ready to shut her down the instant she went off message, and she hadn’t thought up a single question. All she wanted to do was get whatever closure she could by offering an apology, congratulate Seb on the film and go, never to darken his red carpet again. But she could hardly do that with PR Guy breathing down her neck.

      ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she mumbled, trying not to wilt under Seb’s cool, appraising gaze.

      She took out her dictaphone and placed it on the table. ‘You don’t mind…?’

      ‘Not at all,’ he answered, with flesh-freezing good manners and just a touch of sarcasm. ‘Always committed to helping the Investigator get its facts straight.’

      The last time she’d been this close to him, his tawny eyes had been soft and heavy with post-orgasmic warmth. Now, it was obvious they could hardly stand the sight of her. Why the hell had he agreed to this? Did he just want to make her feel uncomfortable? Some sort of petty revenge?

      She fumbled with the dictaphone, pressing the button to record, and pulled out her notebook.

      ‘You’re going to make notes and record as well?’ the PR man asked. He glanced over her shoulder, frowning when he caught sight of the indecipherable squiggles of her shorthand. ‘I’m surprised you still need to learn that, with all this technology working for you.’

      ‘Yep. Never know when the recording might fail.’ She looked up at him. ‘Anyway, I wanted to learn it. Keeps what ought to be private, private.’

      ‘It’s fine, Kev. I’m sure she’ll give us a fair write-up,’ Seb said in a calm tone. ‘She certainly looks like she has – integrity.’

      There was no doubting the perfectly timed pause, the charming, chilling tone, or the killing expression hanging on his features. Cool, solid dislike oozed from every syllable.

      In the dim light she squinted at the shorthand notes she’d made during the film earlier; little more than a list of actors’ names. It was enough to be bluffing along with, anyway.

      ‘Why the genre change, Mr Wilchester?’ she shot out, looking down at her notepad as if the questions were right there in front of her. ‘Bit of a jump, isn’t it, from British Gangster – sorry, ‘East End Noir’ I think you call it – to black comedy?’

      His face remained impassive, but she thought from the flicker in his eyes she detected a glimmer of disappointment. Not a new question then. Her ‘gutsy girl reporter’ routine might have carried her through in the 1930s, but it seemed to be falling a bit flat right now. So long, Lois Lane, and thanks for nothing.

      ‘I pioneered East End Noir, Miss Blackthorne, although I wasn’t the one to name it. My style of direction, and to some extent my writing, were heavily shaped by Film Noir influences. When, at the age of barely twenty, I first started experimenting in film, it was only natural they would dictate my interpretation of that most British of genres, the London gangster movie. My first film, Unreal City, drew on the stylistic framing I so admired in the work of John Huston, for example.’ His lips curled into something like a sneer. ‘But of course, I’m sure you noticed that.’

      She pinkened and jutted out her chin. He was mocking her; patronising her. Did he know she hadn’t seen any of his films before tonight, or was this his way of showing her that airhead little slappers on tabloid papers had no place interviewing filmmakers of his calibre?

      ‘The genre jump was, in fact, a perfectly natural one,’ he continued. ‘In Milkman, I take elements of Noir and mingle them with the traditional British farce; again, I hope, creating something that is almost a genre unto itself – dark, thrilling and funny all at once. How far I have been successful is for the public to decide, but for myself, and for the cast and crew, I must say we have been very proud of the result.’

      A genre unto itself? Okay, it was true, but still… pretentious bastard.

      ‘Your work has often been compared to that of Orson Welles.’ She made an attempt to СКАЧАТЬ