said: “I’ve been thinking you ought to have first look at a project one of my clients is working on.”
“Anybody I’ve heard of?”
“He’s collaborating with a certain politician’s dumped doxy who has quite a tale to tell. Several tales, in fact.”
“You mean ghosting.”
“The collaboration is a bit closer than that.”
“Tell me more.”
Her immediately receptive attitude was unusual. As a rule, her studied indifference was part of the game, waiting to see if the next move was worth following up or should be wiped off the board
I told her more. About the revelations, political and personal, the minister’s discarded mistress was telling to her new lover—a journalist who had done many skilful interpretations of governmental scandals and was always eager to broaden his collection of misdeeds. There was also a hint—I wasn’t going to admit to more than a hint at this stage—of some slightly kinky involvement of another woman in the new ménage At intervals Ms. Whiteley nodded, as if to hurry me along and get down to the real business—which I assumed would be the usual wrangle over royalties, advances, availability of the key people for interviews and publicity and so on.
When I had finished and, to my surprise and delight, she had expressed readiness to conclude a deal as quickly as I wanted, I said: “And now I’ve got a favour to ask.”
“I’ve already done you a favour, buying your project.”
“No, I’ve done you a favour by giving you first offer.”
She smiled and crossed her long, lean legs. She really was in a good mood this morning. I wondered if she was having an affair, and was still purring over the pleasures of the previous night. But her attention did seem to be entirely on what I was saying.
“Why don’t we have lunch together?” I suggested.
I quite expected her to say that she was tied up that day—it was pretty short notice—but she said: “Why not?”
Over a cool, scintillating Sancerre I put the proposition to her. In return for the rewarding deal I had just done with her, would she be prepared to publish a subsidised edition of Crispin Brooke’s latest novel? Yes, I knew she had already seen both of the more recent ones, and rejected them; but one hadn’t been all that bad, had it?
“Not all that bad,” she granted, “but not all that good.”
“But it wouldn’t actually disfigure your list.”
“No. Only it wouldn’t be likely to sell many copies. Precious little return for our money. Our accountants wouldn’t like that.”
“It’s not your money I’m talking about. Accountants don’t get too cross if income is guaranteed before any expenditure has to go out, do they? Crispin’s wife is offering to underwrite the book. Just so he can see his name in print again. To give his friends autographed copies. You know what authors are like. That’s all we have in mind.”
“We?” She swilled the wine gently round her glass, and the word round her palate. “David, just what terms are you on with Mrs. Brooke?”
“I’m…well, she’s Crispin’s wife, we’ve all been good friends, she’s…well, naturally I see quite a lot of her.” I didn’t dare lift a suggestive eyebrow.
There was a long silence. I thought she was marshalling arguments against the proposition, but in the end she said: “I’d rather like to meet her again. Talk this over with her, personally.”
“Is that necessary? I can act for her, the way I act for her husband.”
“Then you can arrange an appointment for her in my office.”
* * * *
On the Tuesday, Gemma made no move to undress until I had told her the result of my meeting. Then she stripped with methodical deftness and settled obediently on her back.
When we had finished, she said: “Thank you, David.”
I didn’t suppose she was offering gratitude for my physical prowess. She simply wanted to take up the conversation where we had left off.
“Has it occurred to you,” I asked, “that if Crispin cheers up, he may get demanding again? Maybe you’ll find yourself with a reinvigorated lover.”
“Would you be very jealous?”
It had never occurred to me until now. “I…I don’t know.”
“I don’t think we’re taking too great a risk,” she said.
A reverberating note of contempt had crept into that usually level voice. It was quite frightening hearing her virtually write her husband off as inadequate—and this at a time when the two of us were conniving to salvage him.
Trying to keep it light-hearted rather than dig too deep, I suggested that the best system would be for me to pay the total amount direct to the publisher, while Gemma could make regular payments to me in order not to knock too sudden and obvious a hole in the Brooke bank accounts.
“You can make regular visits here,” I said. “And hand over the instalment for my services. Give you an extra frisson.”
She smiled thinly. “If it were about that sort of thing, shouldn’t you be paying me?”
“That would muck up the whole plan. Anyway, better for you to regard me as a gigolo than for me to regard you as…well….”
“Do stop talking rubbish.”
We did stop talking for a while. She had got her way, so I could have mine.
I then told her that Nina Whiteley would like to meet her again. And suggested that we should both go along. Gemma, very cool and offhanded, said she would prefer to handle it on her own.
“Look,” I said, “this isn’t just girl-to-girl chat, you know. Not with Nina Whiteley. She’s tough. A real butch lady at heart. Not safe to tangle with her unless you’ve got good back-up.”
“I’ll tell you later how it goes,” she said with dismissive firmness.
We made love again. Or, rather, I made love and Gemma let me. But, again surprisingly, when we parted she kissed me more fervently than usual—yet with a bit of an effort, I sensed—and said: “You’re really not bad, David.”
Not bad…at what, specifically?
* * * *
Crispin was complacent rather than grateful when I called him to announce that I had found a buyer for his Dummy Run. He has always assumed the attitude of a strong, silent man of action. “About time, too. Glad they’ve come to their senses at last.” His tone of voice was the equivalent of a condescending pat on the shoulder. One of his NCOs had at last come up to scratch.
I imagined him being just as taciturn and doing things according to a strict discipline when making
