then a knife in the back?’
Jo was watching her intently, admiring Bet’s professionalism. The relaxed lunch at Wheeler’s, the casual gossip – she had seemed only to glance at the typed notes Jo had pushed across the table but now, as she reeled off the titles of the articles, she proved she had memorised and digested them. Bet had no need to refer back to the paper she had slipped into the enormous leather sack she toted everywhere on her shoulder.
‘“Whole Food: Health or Nostalgia” – a bit old hat, lovie, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s been bunked and debunked so often. Unless you’ve got a new approach?’
Jo grinned. ‘Trust me, Bet. OK the series in principle and I’ll show you some outlines.’
Bet looked at her sharply. Jo was wearing her innocent look, her grey-green eyes staring vaguely into the middle distance, her dark hair framing her face so that she looked disarmingly soft and feminine. Meeting her for the first time she had thought Jo might be an actress, or a model perhaps; Bet smiled inwardly. Were there any clues? The uncompromisingly large man’s Rolex watch perhaps?
Their eyes met and both women smiled appreciatively. They had been friends for five years, ever since Bet had taken over as editor of Women in Action. Jo had been on the staff then, learning the trade of journalism. She learned fast. When she left to go freelance it was because she could name her figure for the articles she was producing.
‘“Anything Ethnic”, “Medieval Medicine”, “Cosmic Consciousness” – my God, what’s that? – “Meditation and Religion” – you’ll have to keep that light –’ Bet was going through the list in her head. ‘“Regression: Is history still alive?” That’s the reincarnation one, yes? I read an article about it somewhere quite recently. It was by an American woman, if I remember, and totally credulous. I must try and look it up. You will, of course, be approaching it from quite the opposite standpoint.’
Jo smiled. ‘They tried it on me once, at university. That’s what gave me the idea. The world authority on the subject, Michael Cohen, tried to put me under – and failed. He gave me the creeps! The whole thing is rubbish.’
Bet gave a mock sigh. ‘So another set of anodynes for the people bites the dust, already!’ Her raised shoulders emphasised the sudden Jewish accent.
Jo gave an unexpected gurgle. ‘Am I that cruel?’
‘You know damn well you are. That’s what we’re paying you for! OK, Jo, show me the outlines. I’m thinking in terms of a New Year or spring slot so you’ve plenty of time. Now, what about illustrations? Are you fixed up or do you want them done in house?’
‘I want Tim Heacham.’
‘You’ll be lucky! He’s booked solid these days. And he’d cost.’
‘He’ll do it for me.’
Bet raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he know that?’
‘He will soon.’
‘And what will Nick say?’
Jo’s face tightened for a moment. ‘Nick Franklyn can go take a running jump, Bet.’
‘I see. That bad?’
‘That bad.’
‘He’s moved out?’
‘He’s moved out. With cream please.’ Jo smiled up at the waiter who had approached with the coffee pot.
Bet waited until he had withdrawn. ‘Permanently?’
‘That’s right. I threw his camera across the room when I found out he’d been sleeping with Judy Curzon.’
Bet laughed. ‘You cow.’ She sounded admiring.
‘It was insured. But my nerves aren’t. I’m not possessive, Bet, but he’s not going to mess me about like that. If it’s off it’s off. I don’t run a boarding-house. What do you think about the title of the series?’
‘Nostalgia Dissected?’ Bet looked up, her head a little to one side. ‘Not bad. I’m not totally convinced, but it certainly puts the finger on your approach.’ She beckoned to the waiter for the bill. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me any more about Nick?’
Jo put down her coffee cup and pushed it away. She stared down at her hand, extending it over the tablecloth, flexing her fingers as if amazed they still worked. ‘It is three years, four months and eight days since I met Sam again and he introduced me to his brother. Doesn’t that surprise you?’
‘It surprises me that you counted, lovie,’ Bet said, slightly acidly, tossing her American Express card down on the waiter’s tray.
‘I worked it out last night in the bath. It’s too long, Bet. Too long to live in someone’s pocket, however well one gets on. And, as you know, we don’t all that often!’
‘Bullshit. You’re made for each other.’
Jo picked up her coffee spoon and idly drew a cross in the surface of the sugar in the earthenware bowl in the centre of the table, watching the crystals impact and crumble with a concentrated frown.
‘Perhaps that’s it. We’re so awfully alike in a lot of ways. And we are competitive. That’s bad in a relationship.’ She stood up, the drab olive of her dress emphasising her tanned arms with their thin gold bangles as she unslung the canvas satchel from the back of the chair and swung it onto her shoulder.
‘Tim said he’d be at his studio this afternoon so I’m going up to see him now. Are you going straight back across the river?’
‘’Fraid so. I’ve a meeting at three.’ Bet was tucking the credit card back in her wallet. ‘I won’t give you any good advice, Jo, because I know you won’t listen, but don’t hop straight into bed with Tim out of revenge, will you. He’s a nice guy. Too nice to be used.’
Jo smiled. ‘I didn’t hear that, Miss Gunning. Besides I’m a nice guy too, sometimes. Remember?’
She walked slowly, threading her way through the crowded streets, the June sun shining relentlessly on the exposed pavements. Here and there a restaurant had spilled umbrella-shaded tables out onto the pavements, where people dawdled over their coffee. In England, she thought affectionately, the sun makes people smile; that was good. In a hot climate it drives them to commit murder.
She ran up the dark uncarpeted staircase to Tim’s studio in an old warehouse off Long Acre and let herself in without knocking. The studio was deserted, the lines of spots cold and dark as she walked in. She glanced round, wondering if Tim had forgotten, but he was there, alone, in shirtsleeves, reclining on the velvet chaise-longue which was one of his favourite photographic props. There was a can of Long Life in his hand. Above him the sun, freed from the usual heavy blinds, streamed through huge open skylights. ‘Jo! How’s life?’ He managed to lever himself upright, a painfully thin man, six foot four in his bare feet, with wispy fair hair. His unbuttoned shirt swung open, revealing a heavy silver chain on which hung an engraved amulet.
‘Beer or coffee, sweetheart? I’m right out of champers.’
Jo threw her bag on the floor and headed for the kitchenette next to one of the darkrooms.
