Love's Prisoner. Elizabeth Oldfield
over the years.
‘How did you feel when you first heard that Piers had been snatched?’ asked Suzy, as her machine began to whirr.
When she had called round it had been obvious how Hugo had felt—shaky, beside himself with anxiety, completely thrown—but, of course, he had to describe his reaction in his own words.
‘Shocked—what father wouldn’t be?—but not too perturbed. Piers is entirely capable of taking care of himself. Wry in calamity, nonchalant in triumph, and always in control,’ Hugo enunciated, sounding as though he might be quoting lines from a play in which he had appeared.
Suzy blinked. Although the description of his son struck her as apt, this was not the kind of answer she had expected.
‘The thought of him being held hostage didn’t keep you awake at night?’ she protested.
‘Indeed, no. I never had any doubts but that he’d survive unharmed, and I always knew he’d come through it beautifully, which he has.’
Her brow furrowed. Clearly Hugo had stepped on to his own private piece of stage and was playing the supportive parent of the noble son to the hilt. It might be an amazingly persuasive performance, but if her profile were to have any credibility it was vital he be honest.
‘My parents would have been pacing the floor, unable to concentrate, jellies of neuroses for the entire year,’ Suzy said, attempting to coax him into an admission of equivalent distress.
‘Maybe, but—’ The blazered shoulders moved in an elegant shrug.
She changed tack. ‘Could you tell me what Piers was like as a child?’
‘Never caused any trouble. Unfortunately my career meant I was unable to give him as much time as I would have liked, so after Diana died he virtually brought himself up, and made a bloody fine job of it,’ Hugo declared.
‘How old was Piers when his mother died?’ Suzy enquired, realising that she did not know.
Though how much did she know about him? she thought. Not a great deal. Three years ago, the demands of Piers’ career had meant that the number of hours they had actually spent together had been few. Then they had been busy catching up on what each of them had been doing and there had never been much opportunity to swap background information.
‘He was eight. A mature eight.’ Hugo adjusted the line of a snowy white cuff. ‘He excelled at school.’
‘In which way?’ she queried.
‘In every way. Piers not only shone in his studies, but at sports—all sports.’
Suzy asked another question and another, but to her rising desperation and with her heart sinking, the interview continued with Hugo lavishing fulsome praise. Whether in his youth, as a journalist, or doing his period as a hostage, his son had been out-and-out perfection. She knew otherwise, she thought acidly, but no matter how hard she tried there was no way the actor could be induced to contribute anything which was not exaggerated and which sounded real—about Piers, about anything. And, of course, the friction which had existed between them was wholly ignored.
‘Each profile is being illustrated with a page of photographs, so do you have any snaps which I could use?’ she requested, when she had reached the end of her questions and, ruefully acknowledging defeat, had switched off her machine. ‘Both when Piers was young and up to the present day.’
‘There are some in my study,’ said Hugo, with a smile. He was rising to his feet, when the door bell suddenly pealed. ‘This’ll be Babs,’ he said, diverted. ‘She’s always forgetting her key. Please excuse me.’
He disappeared, but a moment or two later the surprised rumble of his baritone down the hall indicated that whoever it was who had arrived, it could not be his present partner. Suzy put her notebook away in her bag. Her job was done, the actor had a visitor, and she was intruding. As soon as the photographs had been provided, she would leave.
‘Guess who’s here,’ boomed Hugo, striding back in to flourish a delighted arm. ‘Haven’t seen him since he was discharged from the clinic, so he’s more than welcome.’
As a tall lean-hipped man in a black polo-shirt and blue jeans strolled in through the archway, Suzy’s stomach hollowed. Her head pounded. She gave a silent protesting wail. Another five minutes and she would have been gone, so why must Piers choose this particular time on this particular morning to pay his father a visit? Why must he catch her red-handed? Why, when Hugo had so obligingly offered to remain silent, did he have to be alerted to her strategy so soon?
The new arrival stopped dead. He frowned at her, down at the tape recorder, then angry grey eyes swept back up to nail themselves to hers.
‘There’s no need to ask what you’re doing,’ he said, in a damning indictment.
Suzy sat straighter. His displeasure did not mean she had to feel ashamed, or guilty—nor that she must apologise.
‘I’m only doing it because you’ve given me no alternative,’ she retorted, forcing herself to gaze steadily back.
Piers swung to his father. ‘You won’t know this, but Miss Collier—’ his enunciation of her surname was harsh and distancing ‘—has already asked me if I’d agree to be interviewed for her book, and I flatly refused.’
‘You’re wrong, old boy, I do know,’ Hugo told him, with an awkward smile.
‘I explained that you weren’t in favour when I telephoned to fix the interview,’ said Suzy.
Piers scowled at her, then turned back to his father. ‘Yet you were still willing to speak?’ he demanded.
‘You may insist on hiding your light under a bushel, but I see no earthly reason why I shouldn’t say a few words about my brave son,’ Hugo protested, his pride shining through. ‘Isn’t it time you paid a visit to the barber?’ he continued. ‘I don’t deny that your hair looks dashing in a cavalier sort of way, but—’
‘Never mind my hair,’ Piers cut in. ‘What we’re talking about is your agreeing to assist with a profile which I have not sanctioned and which I do not want!’
‘But this is your fifteen minutes of fame which Andy Warhol promised everyone back in the Sixties, and one profile in one book isn’t going to cause you any bother,’ said his father, obviously reluctant to quarrel. ‘Besides, Suzy’s a friend of mine, and she helped in your campaign, and—’
‘I just typed a few letters,’ Suzy said, in quick dismissal. She had no intention of trading on what she had done—which she would have done for anyone. ‘All the profile means is that you may be mentioned in a review some time next year,’ she went on. ‘If my book’s lucky enough to be reviewed.’
‘It will be,’ Hugo assured her gallantly. ‘You asked for photographs,’ he said, remembering. ‘I’ll go and get them.’
‘You may not have won any prizes, but you’re a dead cert for the Sneak of the Year Award!’ rasped Piers the moment they were alone.
‘Just because you didn’t bestow your blessing on the profile, you expected me to abandon it?’ Suzy protested.
‘Damn right! Coming to see my father behind my back is—’
‘Although I may have failed to despatch a fax giving you advance notice of our meeting today, he could have told you,’ she defended. ‘I didn’t ask him to keep quiet, as I shan’t be asking anyone else I interview to keep quiet either.’
‘You intend to cast your net wider and drag in other people?’ Piers demanded.
Her chin lifted. ‘I’m sorry if it offends your sensibilities, but yes.’
A muscle clenched in his jaw and his grey eyes darkened to leaden black. If he had been a pirate, there was no doubt her insubordination would have been punished by her being keelhauled or made to walk the plank.