leading the blind! But never mind that; Jean’s given me a whole list of things we have to do, places we have to be seen at. Shall we chew them over now, with a nice mug of drinking chocolate, or would you rather we left them to the morning?’
‘They’ll keep,’ Fenella told him with a sick smile. Before they worked out tactics for the coming two weeks she would have to confess that they would be a complete waste of time. After her outburst to Saul Ackerman earlier this evening Alex’s programme would be trashed—no matter what happened! No need to depress him tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
‘We did it, sweetheart!’ Alex bounced into the kitchen, his arms full of newspapers. ‘This one’s a blinder!’ He dropped a folded tabloid on the table in front of her. ‘Any coffee left in that pot?’
‘Plenty.’ Fenella made a gulping sound in her throat. When she’d crawled out of bed half an hour ago the flat had been silent. Believing her uncle to be safely asleep, she’d sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and trying to decide exactly how she would tell him of her run-in with his boss.
It wasn’t going to be easy, especially as he was looking so pleased with himself, delighted now because the plan to kick him back into the public eye seemed to be working.
‘Well—aren’t you going to read it?’ He had pulled out a chair opposite her, cradling his coffee-cup, his eager grin and boyishly rumpled blond-streaked grey hair reminding her of how attractive to women audiences he had been in his heyday.
Feeling sick inside, she unfolded the paper and ran her fingers over the newsprint. Foreign wars, the balance of payments deficit and the latest cowardly IRA bomb attack had been relegated to a few square inches of print, the majority of the front page sporting the moment when the cameras had caught her hiding her mischievous smile in Alex’s jacket. It came over as a snuggling embrace, Alex’s arms curved protectively around her slinkily clad body and the huge caption read: “Has-Been Has-Got?”
‘Don’t look so shattered!’ Alex grinned, swinging the paper round on the table-top, and read out the article, with plenty of hysterical expression.
Alex Fairbourne, whose top-spot TV show is to be axed—or so rumour has it—pictured outside one of London’s most exclusive restaurants, finally sheds his dull-dog image. His lovely young companion coyly refused to state her name or business. Maybe his wife could throw light on the identity of the Mystery Mistress? But poor old Jean, we hear, has been conveniently banished to the wilds of Scotland. Did she go willingly, or was she pushed?
‘Grief! “Mystery Mistress”! How tacky can you get?’ Fenella giggled. ‘But Aunty’s not going to like that “poor old Jean” bit.’
‘She’s going to love it,’ Alex contradicted. ‘And since when did you ever call her Aunty?’
Since never, Fenella admitted, her face straightening out. Alex, her mother’s younger brother, and Jean had always seemed more like an older brother and sister. It had nothing to do with their ages, more to do with their boundless capacity to enjoy life. Only people as perpetually optimistic as they could have devised such a scheme when faced with the persistent rumours—plus a very definite hint from Saul Ackerman himself—that Evening With Alex was to be axed. And, what was more, put it into practice.
And now she was going to have to tell him that she, who had promised to help, had thrown a ten-ton spanner into the works!
‘We’ll put in an appearance at Tinkers tonight,’ Alex told her, pouring more coffee for them both. ‘You won’t have heard of it—how long is it since you were last in England? But it’s the night-spot of the moment,’ he burbled on jovially. ‘The newshounds are always sniffing around, waiting for something to happen. Only a couple of weeks ago there was a deplorable fracas involving a minor Royal and a lady whose credentials are far from being unimpeachable. One of the pack earned himself quite a scoop that night. Since then there’s always someone hanging around, waiting for something they can blow up into a scandal.’ He pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Now, what shall we have for breakfast?’
‘Wait; there’s something you should know,’ Fenella said heavily. She felt awful. She’d let him and Jean down. She hadn’t felt happy about the idea of putting on a deception for the sake of the more gutter-bound Press but once Jean had talked him round Alex had been just as enthusiastic as his wife, pointing out that Fen was the only answer—part of the family, utterly trustworthy and, almost as important, she looked the part.
‘Well?’ Alex prodded. ‘What should I know?’
‘I argued with Ackerman last night.’ She took the plunge, her tongue feeling like wood. ‘In the rest-room corridor, of all places. He accused me of being rude when he invited us to join his party.’ She met his eyes miserably. ‘And he was right. I was rude. Then I lost my head and accused him of being blinkered. I said there was nothing stopping you working with another company where your talents would be appreciated. I’m sorry if I’ve blown it.’ She lowered her head dejectedly. ‘He didn’t come over as the type of man who would take any kind of rudeness or criticism lying down. There’ll probably be a letter in tomorrow morning’s post telling you your contract won’t be renewed. So carrying on with this—’ she flicked the tabloid disgustedly with her fingernail ‘—would be a total waste of time and effort.’
There were two more pre-recorded shows to run before the end of the current—and rumoured final— series. He would be on tenterhooks to see if all this publicity halted the abysmally falling ratings. ‘Nothing will save the show, after what I said. A flicker of public interest because you appear to be running around with a woman young enough to be your daughter won’t alter a thing.’
She had said as much when her aunt had first enlisted her help but once Jean had persuaded Alex to take the idea on board there had been no dampening their enthusiastic optimism.
And no dampening now, either, she thought despairingly as Alex hooted, ‘Rubbish!’ and started to make the belated breakfast. All that stuff in the papers this morning had made him see himself as a celebrity again; he was, once more, the idol women had scratched each other’s eyes out to be first in the queue for his autograph, a lock of his hair, the clothes off his back!
‘Saul’s too astute a businessman to let something like an insubordinate female affect his judgement. He was probably intrigued by the way you stood up to him. He’s used to having females at his feet, not at his throat. And I’d lay odds you were the first ever to turn down an invitation from him!’
‘If you say so.’ Fenella was too dejected to argue. Alex might be her uncle but right at this moment she felt more like his grandmother. Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, she laid the table while he toasted wholemeal bread and scrambled the eggs; she took over as the phone in the living-room warbled out and was still half-heartedly stirring when he rushed back in again, rubbing his hands.
‘What did I tell you? That was Saul on the phonenot his secretary, mark you—the great man himself. I am commanded to attend the open day tomorrow in my best bib and tucker. And you, my dear Fen, are likewise commanded! “Bring your niece”, he said!’ He bounced over and ruffled her hair affectionately then snatched the pan from the burner. ‘Good God, Fen, these eggs are like case-hardened rubber!’
But even the ruination of his breakfast couldn’t wipe the beam from his face and she felt a complete spoiler as she pointed out, ‘He doesn’t believe I am your niece.’
‘Of course he doesn’t. He wasn’t meant to, was he? But he still wants you along. Most insistent.’
