Love's Prisoner. Elizabeth Oldfield
station into the summer sunshine. Hooking the strap of her beige leather satchel more securely on to her shoulder, she set off towards Regent’s Park and the grand Nash terrace where Hugo Armstrong had his home.
Last week, in the split-second after the returned hostage had so forcibly told her that she must manage without him, Suzy had realised that she could—and still include him in her book. As there were plenty of unauthorised biographies around, so she could write an unauthorised profile—if she read up on what had already been published about him, and if his family and friends were prepared to talk.
When Randolph Gardener had rung the next morning to ask how she had got on at the clinic, Suzy had floated her plan.
‘It’s not the ideal,’ she admitted, ‘but I see no reason why Piers’ lack of co-operation should be allowed to kill the project stone dead.’
‘Neither do I,’ the editorial director agreed, and had proceeded to voice his full support.
On jettisoning the telephone, Suzy had swung into action. Her time as a reporter had left her with plenty of contacts among the fraternity, so she had embarked on a journey which had taken her from one newspaper office to the next; though, wary of entering Piers’ territory, she had avoided The View. People were consulted and articles photocopied until, two days later, she had assembled a comprehensive file which detailed the circumstances of Piers’ kidnap and release, his responses at the airport press conference, and just about every other of his utterances which had since appeared in print. She had spent the weekend poring over the file and making notes, and on Monday morning had moved on to that second and vital ‘if’—talking to his family and associates.
The first and obvious person for her to approach was Hugo Armstrong, with whom, when interviewing him a year ago, she had established an immediate rapport. Why this should have happened she did not know, Suzy thought as she walked along, for, on the face of it, he was not at all her kind of person. A stereotypical ac-tor of the old school, everything about Hugo was larger than life. His gestures were dramatic, his choice of words flamboyant, he seemed to be forever striding around on his own invisible piece of stage. Yet she had warmed to him—and he to her—and, when his son had disappeared, she had gone round the very next day to offer her sympathy. After thanking her, Hugo had spoken of his wish to mount a campaign, and Suzy had found herself saying she would like to help; so they had met intermittently ever since.
A line cut between her brows. At the time, Hugo had also told her that instead of him being close to his only child, which was what he had previously and publicly asserted, their relationship was strained. With tears glistening in his eyes, he had confessed that they rarely met, and whenever they did Piers was aloof. The trouble lay in the past. Apparently, after only a few years of marriage Hugo had, without warning and giving no reason, abandoned his wife Diana, who, less than two years later, had been tragically killed in a car accident—at which time he had despatched his young son to boarding school. On reaching manhood, Piers had accused his father of showing a selfish disregard both as a husband and a parent; and thereafter kept his distance. It was a distance which the older man longed to narrow and had attempted to narrow, but Piers remained unresponsive. Had the events of the past year brought about a reconciliation? Suzy wondered hopefully. After the traumas both father and son had gone through, it seemed possible.
Reaching the park, Suzy followed a path which circumnavigated the pond. Although yesterday Hugo Armstrong had responded to her request for a next-day interview with an affable affirmative, since then she had been on tenterhooks. Honesty had insisted she alert him to his son’s opposition, so might he reconsider and change his mind? Or, more to the point, if—when—he mentioned her call, would Piers change his mind for him? Even before setting off this morning, she had wondered whether the phone might ring and the interview would be regretfully cancelled, but her fears had proved groundless. She crossed her fingers. So far, so good.
When she had originally met the actor and given him her name she had, she recalled, wondered if he might recognise it. He had not. Though why should he? Suzy thought drily, as she headed across the daisy-dotted grass towards the park’s eastern perimeter. Piers’ history was littered with girlfriends and, two years earlier, he would not have bothered to mention the guileless young blonde who had been just one more. Her ivory silk shirt was tucked tighter into the waistband of her short beige skirt. She had seen no point in telling his father of the long-defunct connection, and later the moment for revelation had passed. Hugo was aware that she and Piers had once worked on the same newspaper, but that was all.
The terrace of pristine white town houses overlooked the green pastures of the park, and Suzy made her way along to one where well-manicured box trees guarded the porch. Mounting the stone steps, she pressed her finger on a gleaming brass bell. A minute or so later, footsteps sounded and the front door swung open to reveal Hugo Armstrong, immaculate in a navy blazer, pearl-grey flannels and with a blue and grey silk cravat knotted around his neck. While their styles of dress were very different, he could be immediately identified as Piers’ father. It was not so much his facial features—only their noses were similar—but his long-limbed ease and size. Both were well-built and carried themselves with the aplomb of tall men.
‘You’re wonderfully punctual,’ Hugo boomed, in the treacle-rich voice which was famed for its ability to reach the rear stalls.
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ Suzy said, as he kissed her on both cheeks and welcomed her inside.
‘It’s always a delight to see you, my dear,’ he replied, the twinkle in his eyes making it plain that he retained an ongoing appreciation of the fairer sex, despite being in his sixties and despite having a mistress.
In his love-’em-and-leave-’em attitude Piers was following in his father’s footsteps, for ever since his wife’s death Hugo had gone from one amorous alliance to another. Each was recorded in the gossip columns with salacious glee. Each had eventually come a cropper. However, for over three years now, which constituted a record, he had been sharing his home with Barbara Dane, a fifty-something choreographer.
‘It’s fortunate you didn’t ask for a chat a week ago,’ Hugo continued. ‘I’m rehearsing a new play, and at the time we were having the most tremendous problems with the second lead. To say the chap’s acting was wooden would be an insult to trees, and— ‘
Humorously describing the angst which he and everyone else in the cast had suffered before the culprit had finally got to grips with his part, he ushered her along a chandeliered hall and through an archway into an opulently decorated green and gold drawing-room.
‘Babs is out, she’s due back soon, and on her return she’ll make us a flagon of coffee,’ said Hugo, tugging at the razor-sharp creases of his trousers as he sat down opposite Suzy in a gold brocade armchair. ‘She’s gone to pore over menus with the caterers. You see, although Piers doesn’t know it, we’re planning a mammoth welcome-home shindig.’
Suzy smiled. A party seemed to indicate that the rift with his son had finally been healed—thank goodness! She was tempted to tell Hugo how happy she felt for him, but hesitated. While at the time of Piers’ disappearance he had spoken about the discord frankly and at length, he had never mentioned it again. Indeed, his staunch avoidance of the subject had made her realise that his confessions must have spilled out in a weak moment and were regretted. Confessing to flaws was not his style.
‘Sounds like fun,’ she remarked.
‘It’ll be a truly memorable occasion,’ Hugo enthused, and leant forward. ‘You won’t say anything about it to anyone?’
‘Not a word,’ Suzy assured him.
‘Thank you, my dear, and in return I promise not to tell my son and heir about this little tête-à-téte.’
As she took her notebook and tape recorder from her bag, Suzy grinned. ‘Thank you.’
Although it seemed inevitable that the subject of her profile would find out what she was doing sooner or later—someone was bound to give the game away—if his father kept quiet then she might be able to log several more interviews without