The Honey Trap. Mary Baker Jayne

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СКАЧАТЬ to him. Seb still looked angry, but just as mortifying to her professional pride was that he looked bored. She shuffled in her seat, swallowing hard, calculating her next move.

      ‘Your work has often been compared to that of Orson Welles,’ she repeated, meeting his gaze. ‘Which, given the similarity in your backgrounds, is perhaps inevitable. But your latest venture seems to have been more heavily influenced by fifties-era Billy Wilder, with perhaps a smidge of Robert Hamer thrown in for good measure. What would you say to those who might suggest your work is not only influenced by these directors, but to a great extent derivative?’

      She faced off against him, blazing defiance, feeling Kev’s frown through the hairs on the back of her neck. It was a bold gambit, but it worked. Seb’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, his anger tempered with a new and healthy dose of respect.

      ‘I’m flattered, Miss Blackthorne,’ he said, inclining his head towards her. ‘We all want to be like our heroes, and I’m certainly no different. You have coupled my name with two of the men in this business I admire more than many others, and for that, I thank you. If my work is, as you say I’m likely to be accused of, ‘derivative’ – well, if it can bring even a tenth of the pleasure I’ve experienced while watching Sunset Boulevard or Kind Hearts and Coronets to my audiences then my time won’t have been wasted.’

      The men in this business. His words annoyed her, bringing back the vivid memory of Carole Beaumont in The Milkman Cometh: that stellar performance and perfect comic timing.

      ‘You talk of men, and those are certainly two of the greats,’ she went on, all caution now gone. It was amazing how appearing nude on the front page of a national newspaper could break down your inhibitions in social situations. ‘But there’s a great woman in the equation here too: your wife and leading lady, Ms Beaumont.’

      His face hardened and she felt Kev take a step towards her, ready to shut down the interview if he felt she was veering in any way towards an invasive personal question. She gritted her teeth and looked down again at the notepad.

      ‘Carole Beaumont, who I think we’ve seen tonight is a true comic talent. Can you tell me how you came to build up this rapport you seem to have together as director and actor?’

      It was a weak question and she knew it, but she was clutching at straws now, hanging on as best she could. She wished Kev would go away for just five minutes so she could extricate herself from the whole charade.

      She could feel the bitterness emanating from Seb when he answered, hating her for bringing up Carole’s name and reminding him of their shared betrayal.

      ‘Carole is my wife, yes, and we have had a long – by showbusiness standards at least – and successful marriage.’ He glared at her, almost daring her to object. ‘But she’s more than that. Carole is my oldest and closest friend. It’s easy to build up a rapport, as you call it – or as I like to think of it, an empathy, an affinity – after twenty-four years in each other’s company.’

      She had to try hard to stop herself flinching, or bursting into tears, or laughter, in the angry beam of his gaze. She thought of her oldest friends, Leo and Emily, and the affinity she had with them. There was a difference though, she remembered, thinking of the dark circles around Carole Beaumont’s eyes. She would never do anything to hurt those closest to her.

      Angel felt a surge of resentment towards this man, this arrogant man, who seemed to manipulate the life and emotions of the woman he loved as casually as if she were a character in one of his films. She fixed him with a steely gaze while she framed her next question.

      ‘Are you a fraud, Mr Wilchester? A pale imitation of the filmmakers whose work you so admire?’

      ‘That’s enough!’ the PR manager exploded behind her. ‘I told you, if this interview got out of hand it would be shut down –’

      ‘It’s okay, Kev,’ Seb said, adopting a pacifying tone much less formal and polished than the one he’d used so far. ‘She’s right to go hard on me. That’s her job. Not everything in PR’s about product placement and arse-kissing, however much your guys would like it to be. Just let me answer the question.’

      He turned back to Angel and his expression seemed – but perhaps she was imagining it – ever so slightly softer than before.

      ‘No, Miss Blackthorne. I don’t think I’m a fraud.’ He paused for a moment and drained the last sip of his champagne, apparently savouring the flavour while his eyes met hers across the table. ‘If you’re asking do I have influences, then the answer is yes, very significant ones, and I encourage them to flow into my work as much as I can. TS Eliot, the poet, said ‘good writers borrow, great writers steal’. Or your readers might understand it better as that hackneyed phrase, ‘nothing new under the sun’. I suppose what I’m trying to say is yes, my work borrows – and steals – and yes, it’s still original, at least as long as it elicits a new emotion, creates a new sensation. All art is imitation, Miss Blackthorne. But some is, excuse me, bloody good imitation. Perhaps my work does extricate those elements it most admires in the work of others, hacks them up and monster-like assembles them again into something new. Then, to carry the metaphor to its logical conclusion, it gives them life through fresh direction and great performances by the cream of our acting talent. But without praising myself unduly, I’d say that’s no bad thing.’

      He leaned back with a self-satisfied half-smile. His smug expression irritated her, though she couldn’t disagree with anything he’d said. She scribbled away, gibberish symbols meaning nothing, just to give her hands something to occupy them.

      ‘But you don’t have a drink, Miss Blackthorne,’ Seb said in the same calm, self-assured tone.

      ‘I don’t. But there’s really no need –’

      He looked up at Kev. The PR man was still standing behind Angel, sullen-browed and resentful. ‘Kev, any chance you could pop over to the champagne bar and get a couple of glasses? Or milk bottles or whatever?’

      Kev remained the same scowling, immovable pillar of pinstripe suit and Brylcreem. ‘You don’t pay me to be your drinks boy, Seb.’

      ‘No, I pay you to represent me in a good light to the public. And right now you’re making me look like an inconsiderate pillock in front of this young lady. Look, go on. It’ll only take five minutes.’

      The PR man still held his position, looking stubborn and sulky. Seb flung him an impatient glance.

      ‘Please, Kev. As a favour. You can get yourself one while you’re there, eh?’

      ‘Fine,’ Kev growled. ‘This once, then. But watch what you say while I’m gone, can you? This is the bloody Investigator we’re talking about, don’t forget.’ He dragged himself away towards the VIP lounge bar, keeping his suspicious gaze on Angel to the last.

      She squirmed in her chair. It was clear Seb wanted the PR man out of the way, and she wondered helplessly what was coming now.

      As soon as Kev was out of earshot, the director’s eyes narrowed and he leaned over the table to take hold of her wrist in his powerful fingers. The polite, polished veneer of the professional film director dropped to reveal the Seb she knew, the one she’d met that night at the hotel, and he was seething. She noticed he was now wearing a gold wedding band on his third finger. The metal felt hot and hard against her skin.

      ‘For Christ’s sake, Angel, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?’ he hissed. СКАЧАТЬ