Lola on the cheek.
‘Will you be okay yourself? I mean, going home to an empty flat?’ Lola looks at Elizabeth meaningfully.
Elizabeth feels her sides constrict and her heart sink as she thinks of the deathly silence waiting for her: the unlit rooms, the unoccupied double bed. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, turning away.
‘Well, if you’re sure. Speak tomorrow. Call me.’ Lola squeezes her hand and leaves.
Elizabeth makes a half-hearted attempt to stash the empty bottles into an already overflowing recycling bin. She realises her silk shirt is clammy and clinging uncomfortably to her flesh. There are some unidentifiable stains on the front of it. She leans against the sofa and runs the shaking fingers of one hand through her fringe – her forehead is damp and strands of dark hair fall wetly on to her cheeks. The waistband of her skirt suddenly feels tight and restrictive; she feels she might have trouble breathing. She catches Matthew looking across at her, his face creased with concern. Kevin leaves the room with a brief nod in her direction.
Matthew puts down his whisky glass and moves towards her. ‘How you doing, kiddo?’
Elizabeth is thirty-five but it’s somehow become accepted between them that he will occasionally confuse her, his most senior female producer, with his teenage daughter Millie. It’s a subtle but useful reference to the power play between them and Elizabeth is perfectly aware why he does it. And equally, she knows that occasionally she finds it comforting to treat Matthew like a dad. For too many long years now, she hasn’t had a dad – and the older she gets, the more she realises what a void this is in her life. She’s genuinely fond of her boss; she indulges all his foibles (as you would a dad) and allows him to tell his celebrity anecdotes uninterrupted, even though she’s heard them a hundred times before. It’s a purely professional partnership but it works well and she’s grown to feel genuinely fond of him, especially given his recent trauma. But she’s no longer sure she needs Matthew – or any boss, in fact. She’s begun to harbour dreams of setting up a production company of her own. It’s high time, she thinks, to call the shots herself.
‘Is someone going to the hospital to meet Lorna?’
‘Yes, Kev’s organising it. She’ll need help with the press – word is creeping out.’
‘I hear you had lunch with Ricky yesterday.’ She speaks more sharply than intended.
Matthew raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that a question?’
‘Yes, I think it is. Especially as he missed our programme planning meeting because of it.’
‘Did he?’ Her boss moves to open the door in an elaborate display of chivalry and gestures for her to lead the way out. ‘Well, yes, I had lunch with Ricky. At The Ivy actually. I suspect there may be paparazzi shots, which are bound to get used once the papers hear about this. Kevin’s checking it out now.’ Matthew seems quite pleased at the prospect of some intrusive evidence of his celebrity lunch.
Elizabeth hesitates at the open door. ‘Will you be telling the police?’
‘Well, yes. If it comes up.’ Matthew pauses. ‘Actually, as lunches with Ricky Clough go, this wasn’t so bad. He seemed, well, reconciled to the inevitable.’
‘The inevitable? Did you tell him we’re making a new show without him?’ Elizabeth stops in surprise.
‘Yes, I did. Although actually I think he knew anyway. He just wanted confirmation. But yes, Ricky took it remarkably well. He asked if the new show was with Hutch, and I said it was. He had quite a few very nasty things to say about Hutch and what he thought were his fatal flaws. Nothing I wasn’t expecting.’ Matthew gestures that they should continue walking and Elizabeth, whose face is aflame at the mention of Hutch’s name, avoids looking at him as he continues. ‘But you know, Ricky seemed more relaxed about his future than I’ve seen him for a while. There was none of that recent aggression. He had a few ideas for new shows himself – they were all terrible, of course – but I got the impression his heart wasn’t in it. I think maybe he was beginning to think about other things he wanted to do in life.’
Elizabeth doubts this. She can’t imagine Ricky enjoying a life out of the spotlight. And she isn’t entirely sure they can judge him, notorious as he was for his volatile mood swings, by just one day’s good behaviour. But of course it’s irrelevant now. Pointless. Poor Ricky. She suddenly finds her eyes welling. ‘Well… That’s a real shame, given…’ A tear creeps out of the corner of her eye and she rubs it away, fiercely.
Matthew grabs her hand. ‘I know, I know. It’s terrible, Elizabeth. I’m going to miss him too. He was brilliant in his heyday. Unbeatable. But he was living on the edge – you know he was. His appetites were too large. He was caning it, night after night. He’s not a child, he knew what he was doing. It’s not your fault. It’s not our fault.’
‘But he was a child in so many ways… We indulged him just like we would a child! And it feels like my fault. I was supposed to be in charge this evening. Why didn’t I spot it? Why didn’t I see that he was so ill?’ A shuddering sob escapes.
‘Elizabeth, listen. In this business, we’re all control freaks. But there are some things we simply can’t control. No producer – not even one as good as you – can stop nature taking its course.’ He smiles at her. She knows that she will tuck away his rare compliment for a future rainy, otherwise unrewarding day, but for now she gratefully accepts the neatly pressed hanky he hands her.
‘Have you got a car to take you home?’ he asks, still smiling. ‘Take mine. I might walk for a bit.’
‘Are you sure?’
The Controller is very sure. Elizabeth’s phone call had pulled him away from a meeting in a discreet hotel room where the irresistibly long-legged hostess of his lunchtime consumer show is waiting to consume him. She’s blonde and favours the sort of wrap dresses that show just about enough of a luscious cleavage (although some viewers have written in to complain that her breasts are putting them off their sandwiches). He figures that he’ll get more comfort there than he will from going home to Hampstead and his wife, the history don, who despairs of absolutely everything to do with his job – other than its considerable income.
Tears are now falling freely down Elizabeth’s cheeks and she allows herself to be ushered into Matthew’s Mercedes with its deep leather seats and the heady smell of aftershave. Winston, Matthew’s driver, tilts his mirror to look at her in the back seat and then silently hands her a box of tissues. As the car pulls away from the kerb, she sees Deniz Pegasus, Ricky’s friend and manager, lurking in the shadows of the building. He steps out and moves towards the car but without saying anything, Winston gently presses down on the accelerator and they glide smoothly past him. Elizabeth turns and looks out of the back window to see Deniz standing in the street, his legs apart, his arms outstretched, watching her go. ‘Thank you,’ she says to Winston. He nods at her in the rear-view mirror. She pulls the hood of her parka low down over her face, sinks back into the seat and Winston turns up some soft jazz. The car slides like a snake, stealthy and smooth, through the London night.
Elizabeth woke alone in her flat the following morning, having had no more than a couple of hours’ sleep and feeling parched and nauseous. The day was already bright and spring-like. The cherry blossom in the street was showering dusty blooms, leaving a pale pink underlay on the pavement. She reached for her mobile to check her messages.
