about six weeks if you need a production manager.’
‘Thanks,’ Shannon said, ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
Another woman appeared out of the crowd. Sleek, blond, her curvy figure encased in a sheath of shimmering silver. ‘Dev?’ She tucked a hand into Devin’s arm. ‘We’re on our way. The Borlands have invited us to supper.’ She gave Craig a dazzling smile and held out her free hand. ‘I’m Rachelle Todd. I loved you in the film.’
Craig grinned at her and modestly ducked his streaked-blond head.
Rachelle looked inquiringly at Shannon, and Devin introduced them, this time confining himself to names only. Rachelle made a vaguely complimentary comment on her directing skill before urging Devin away to join their party.
‘Ex-husband?’ Craig queried.
‘I don’t talk about it,’ Shannon said shortly. ‘And I don’t suppose he does either.’ It was no real secret, but she’d continued to work under her own name during their marriage, and deliberately not trumpeted her connection with a much more prominent one. The fact that she’d briefly been a member of one of New Zealand’s richest families wasn’t widely known.
‘Touchy subject?’ Craig’s hand squeezed her waist. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t spread it about.’
More people approached them, and Shannon tried to forget the unexpected encounter.
The film was received with mild to almost extravagant praise for the most part, although some reviewers ignored it, and one was scathing about the acting, the direction and the script, throwing Shannon into deep depression for several hours. Then she dug out the positive reviews that had preceded it and cheered herself up by re-reading them.
But the day her last hope for financing her own project fell through, she wanted to curl up in a corner and cry.
Instead she phoned Craig. ‘If you’re offered that TV part you auditioned for,’ she said, ‘you’d better take it.’
‘Someone else got it,’ he told her. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m not going to be able to make A Matter of Honour. At least not this year.’
‘Why?’
‘The money hasn’t come through after all. And I was so sure they couldn’t turn me down this time…’
Craig commiserated. ‘So we’re in the sugar pile.’ He sighed. ‘Tell you what, I’ll come round to your place, we’ll find a pub and drown our sorrows.’
In the event Craig did considerably more ‘drowning’ than Shannon, and leaned heavily on her shoulder as he escorted her somewhat unsteadily back to her tiny flat in the old inner-city suburb of Ponsonby.
Once there she tipped him onto the sofa in the living room where he fell instantly asleep, and Shannon took herself off to the bathroom and then bed.
In the morning she fed him toast and tea, sitting across the kitchen table from him as he squinted at her blearily.
‘How come you don’t look the way I feel?’ he demanded.
Shannon laughed. ‘I didn’t drink as much as you.’
‘We’re in the wrong business, you know that?’
‘You want to become a bank clerk?’
He cast her a look, not bothering to answer but going off on a tangent. ‘Your husband—’
‘Ex.’
‘Your ex-husband,’ Craig amended. ‘Is he one of the Keyneses that own half the printing firms in the country?’
‘His family does,’ Shannon acknowledged. ‘Devin made his own fortune out of digitised printing presses and copiers.’ His company sold them worldwide, and she knew he had interests in several other businesses.
‘Ah—fortune. That’s the operative word.’ Craig wagged a finger at her.
‘What?’ Shannon stared at him, deliberately obtuse. ‘If you’re thinking—’
‘I’m thinking that your husband—ex, whatever—might be a good bet for a backer.’
‘Uh-uh.’ Shannon shook her head.
‘You seem to be on reasonable terms with him.’
‘Brawling in public isn’t Devin’s style,’ nor hers, ‘but he wouldn’t dream of investing in any project of mine.’ She couldn’t imagine why he’d turned up at the premiere. Unless the blond and beautiful Rachelle had dragged him along.
‘Have you asked him?’
‘Of course not! I know he’d say no.’
Craig leaned forward. ‘Sometimes people surprise you. How long since you two separated?’
‘Three years. Why?’
‘People can change a lot in that time. I did hear that someone else is interested in the Duncan Hobbs trial.’
‘Who?’ Shannon demanded, dropping the knife she was using to butter toast. ‘That’s my story!’
‘History is anybody’s, Shan, you can’t copyright it. Jack Peterson’s supposed to be the director they have in mind.’
Peterson’s name was enough to have producers and investors scrambling for a piece of the action. ‘I don’t have a hope now of getting funding this year, and by next year it could be too late, if someone else gets in first.’
‘Why don’t you ask your husband?’ Craig urged. ‘After all, who else do you know with that kind of money?’
No one, of course. She stared back at him helplessly.
He got up from the table. ‘Do you have his number?’
Shannon shook her head. ‘I haven’t spoken to him for years—until the other night. What are you doing?’
He’d opened the telephone book on the shelf below the wall phone. ‘Looking him up.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Maybe.’ Craig’s roving finger stopped in the middle of a page. ‘This should be him.’
‘Craig!’ She pushed back her chair and got up, but he was already dialling.
Even as she snatched the receiver from his hand she heard faintly from the other end a deep, unmistakable voice say, ‘Keynes here.’ And then, ‘Hello?’
‘Go on!’ Craig took her hand and lifted it, pressing the receiver to her ear. ‘Ask him.’
‘Who is this?’ Devin’s voice was suddenly louder, imperative.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Shannon.’
She
