The Spoiler (23 page)

But six years into their easy marriage, looking more closely at the discarded receipt, she saw that the bustier he had bought, in vulgar
rouge et noir
, was built to accommodate a
belle poitrine
of 117 cm, a 46DD. Was Tad in the grip of a helpless passion for a giantess? Was obesity now “his bag”? As a man with a certain status in the film industry, he had always enjoyed the attentions of pretty young actresses. But had his tastes, jaded by the predictable amusements of slender-hipped ingenues, grown more arcane?

After much interrogation and many tears (she asked the questions, he wept) it finally emerged: Tad had a secret hobby. The lurid corset, with its integral garter belt, was for him. Tad Challis, the bluff and affable American gent of Pinewood Studios, liked to wear women’s clothing. Red eyed and begging forgiveness, he brought out a tin trunk, concealed in a cupboard in the spare room of the flat. He unlocked it, and a tangle
of brightly coloured silks, satins, brocades and floral cottons spilled out, like the contents of a monstrous child’s dressing-up box.

Even in her rage—Honor could not bear that he had concealed all this from her—it would have seemed cruel to point out that at six foot three, weighing two hundred pounds, with the physique of a dissipated rugby player and an out-thrust jaw stippled with grey bristle, he would make the most implausible woman. He was nothing like a dame, unless the dame was appearing in a pantomime.

Under the pretext of trips to discuss film projects that never materialised, while Honor was pursuing her own work, or assignations, he would check into a corporate hotel at an airport and, in the harsh lighting of his hotel room, proceed to transform himself, with an immense padded bra, floral frock, wig and copious makeup, into what he saw as Gina Lollobrigida in her prime. Widow Twankey would have been nearer the mark. Thus attired, he would—by his account, and Honor chose not to press him further—go down to the bar, drink a couple of cocktails, eat a solitary meal in the restaurant and retire inviolate and alone to bed in peach chiffon nightwear.

For all that, it had been a happy marriage. Tad’s confession had left her freer to pursue her own interests. They asked fewer questions of each other, and Tad curbed his jealousy, or at least was a little more abashed when he expressed it, and when they were together it was an agreeable reunion of old friends.

She picked up the photo again and looked at it closely, as if her stare could charge the image with life. She took in the familiar expression of delight, the little twist of pleasure in the corners of his mouth. He was one of the privileged few, and he gloried in it. His status had nothing to do with economic advantage: Tad had the gift of happiness. But there was something withheld, too, a cast of secretiveness about the eyes that she came to recognise later. No matter. Vanished. She traced the outline of his lips with her finger, set the picture back on the table and fetched another drink. The flats opposite were in darkness, and she was seized by a sense, thrilling and irrational, that she was the only person awake in a city of sleepers.

When was Inigo’s opening? Ruth had put a three-line whip on it. Honor knew she had to get out, overcome this reclusiveness—a dry run for the grave—and see people. In the same spirit, she had accepted Bobby’s invitation to the Press Awards dinner next week. She should find
Inigo’s invitation and transfer the date to her diary. She must not forget. Lately, she was becoming more absent-minded, she was sure of it. Losing things. Missing appointments. That was how it had started with Lois.

Honor sifted through the mail in the hall on the small tiered table that Tad had insisted on calling an étagère. She was sure Inigo’s invitation had been here—she clearly remembered the moment she had opened the envelope—but there was no sign of it. Had she imagined it? Had she also imagined the taunting postcard, in an envelope bearing a London postmark? And the phone call, which had robbed her of the few hours’ sleep that was her nightly allocation these days?

It was getting light now. The strip of sky visible above the flats opposite was saturated with a fleshy glow. Dawn. The loveliest, loneliest, hour. She summoned her most recent memory of Lois, dozing in a wheelchair, her toothless mouth open. Lois’s course, so hard to discern at the beginning, had been as clear and true as a Roman road. First she lost things, keys, spectacles, occasional words, and then she began to lose herself. There was a brief period of religiosity, painful to watch in such a rationalist, before she succumbed to full-blown visual and aural hallucinations. Daniel was there, restored, and then he would be gone again, a cause of consuming anxiety. The dead returned to her, the living ceased to exist. Was that, Honor wondered, the way ahead for her, too? And her dead? Were they waiting for her?

She picked up her notebook.

She could not work. Nor could she sleep. Insomnia was another curse of age. How cruel that you needed less sleep as you got older, leaving more waking hours to contemplate encroaching oblivion.

Tamara murmured a polite greeting to Courtney and walked towards her desk. She could not believe it. Tania was sitting there again and had arranged another pile of books on top of Tamara’s back copies of
OK!
and
Hello!
.

“Oh, sorry!” Tania said, with a vixen’s smile. “Computer’s down again.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing something about it? Isn’t that
your
department, computers?”

“Well, no, actually. We’re not technicians. We’re journalists. If you’d like to spend a morning on the Web site to see what we really do, I’d happily show you around.”

“No thanks,” Tamara said airily, reaching for a copy of
OK!
and upsetting Tania’s stack of books. “I gave up Space Invaders years ago. Strictly for spotty teenagers.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong,” said Tania, whose blemish-free complexion was a radiant rebuttal. “It’s the future. For all of us.”

“That’s what they used to say about unisex silver jumpsuits and time travel.”

Tania laughed, a tinselly chime, and gathered up her books. Tamara looked at the spines: one by Martha Gellhorn—Tamara squirmed at the memory of her recent gaffe with Honor Tait. One by John Pilger, the Australian yachtsman, and a history of World War Two. Didn’t she ever relax?

Seated at her reclaimed desk, Tamara drew out her notebook from her bag. There were captions to be written—Tod Maloney and Pernilla Perssen, the Swedish supermodel–turned–lingerie-designer, had been pictured squint eyed outside a West End nightclub—and she still had to finish this week’s A-List: “Skinny Minnies and Manorexics.”

First, though, she needed to write up her notes from Honor Tait’s salon. Then she would put in another call to Uncumber Press. Discretion was essential. Courtney and Jim were conspiring in a corner again.

Across the top of her screen, a message flashed. It was from Simon: “Lunch?”

She typed: “Great! Just finishing the A-List.”

He called over to her, “Fantastic. Half an hour?”

Ignoring Courtney’s scornful stare, she got down to work.

They took their table in the centre booth at the Bubbles. Simon needed to unburden himself.

“So Lucinda’s thrown Serena out of the flat.”

“Well, it was bound to happen,” Tamara said. “I mean, once Lucinda found out you were sleeping with her flatmate, what else could she do?”

“And now Serena’s homeless, she’s threatening to come round and confront Jan.”

“What’s
she
meant to do about it?”

“Quite.”

“I mean, it’s not as if your wife’s going to say, ‘You’re welcome to move into the spare room,’ is she?”

“No. Plus which, she’s got her hands full with Dexter’s eighteenth coming up.”

His mobile phone rang.

“Yes, darling … Of course … No one …” he said.

Tamara bit viciously into a breadstick. Perhaps she could insist on a mobile phone as part of her
S
^*
nday
contract.

“Look, Serry …” Simon continued, “I know how awful this is for you … I’m doing my best to sort it out … I’m getting the deposit together this afternoon … What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger … It’s going to be fine, darling …”

At a nearby table, Tania, a rare visitor to the Bubbles, was in animated conversation with Vida over a shared bottle of sparkling water.

“Byee … Love you … Byee,” Simon cooed into the phone.

He turned it off and Tamara pounced.

“So I went to the salon.”

He looked at her blankly for a moment then sat back, smiling.

“Of course. I meant to say. Nice. Really suits you.”

“No,” she said. “Not the hairdresser’s. Honor Tait’s salon. The Monday Club.”

“Oh, right.”

His phone rang again.

“Thank god …” he whispered into the receiver, turning his face towards the wall. “I’ve been so worried about you, darling … No … No one … I’m on my own … Of course not … You know it was all a terrible mistake … It’s you that I love … No really, Luce … I need to see you. We can work through this … What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger … Okay, sweetheart … Call me later … Please … Love you …”

He switched the phone off and pensively poured himself another glass, reached for a breadstick and then looked across at Tamara with a start, as if surprised to find her there.

“Lucinda,” he said, nodding towards the phone.

Tamara’s face was tense and unsmiling.

“Where were we?” he said. “Ah yes, Honor Tait’s harem. Did you get the goods on her gigolos?”

“Not exactly. I got in, but there didn’t seem to be much going on, apart from a lot of drinking and high-flown talk.”

“Who was there?”

“A few queeny nonentities. And Paul Tucker … Jason Kelly.”

Simon whistled softly.

“Kelly. Now, he’s hot. That would make a tasty front-page splash. Especially if he’d do a kiss-and-tell.”

“I didn’t see any kissing.”

“No problem. It’s all in the telling.”

“He didn’t say much either.”

“It’s not talking he’s famous for. Tucker might make a para or two, depending on quotes. No one wants to hear him on famines and genocide anymore—not even the readers of
S
^*
nday
. But Kelly …”

“Well, it was all very sedate. Nothing of interest to report.”

“Don’t tell me they remained fully clothed all evening.”

“I couldn’t say. They threw me out.”

Simon laughed.

“Well, I’d take that as an admission of guilt—and a declaration of war.”

His phone rang again.

“Hello, darling … Yes. Fine … No. On my own … Sounds good … Did you get the quote from the other caterers? … Of course. Up to you, sweetie … Yes … See you later … Bye, Jan … Love you.”

Tamara folded her arms huffily. If he answered his phone again, she would snatch it from him and hurl it across the room. If it hit Tania Singh, so much the better.

“The thing is,” she continued, “I don’t know how to take this piece further. I drew a blank at her little party last night, and she’s unlikely to let me cross her threshold again. What’s my next step?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“No.”

Simon groaned. “Look, if she won’t give you another interview, if you can’t get what you need legitimately, then you’ve got no choice but to raise your game. Follow her. Dog her footsteps. Get your colour that way,” he said, looking up at the passing waitress, his finger miming a signature in the air. “You’ve done that often enough before. Watch her in her unguarded moments, gather details of her daily life, find out more about her young men. Stake her out.”

He tucked the receipt into his pocket. Lunch. Contacts. Features ideas.

They pushed their way out through the bar, nodding to colleagues who were suffused with a second-bottle glow. Tania and Vida had already left.

As they walked back to the office, Tamara asked him the question she had been reframing all morning.

“Do you think you could have a word with Lyra?”

He stopped in his tracks and looked at her sharply.

“What sort of word?”

“I just wanted a firmer briefing from her on this article. I’ve been trying to talk to her, phoning, sending messages, but she’s impossible to get hold of. I thought you might mention it casually when you saw her at Morning Conference or a features meeting.”

“What exactly do you expect me to say?”

“You know: ‘About that commission you’ve given my writer, Tamara Sim. She’d really like to know what angle you’re looking for, exactly. Are you thinking more Hollywood? Love life? Or fancy arty friends? Or is it the war stuff you’re after?’ ”

“I really don’t think that would be very helpful.”