Waiting Game. Diana Hamilton

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE group of photographers and reporters outside the highly exclusive, highly expensive West End restaurant snapped to attention as the taxi rumbled to a halt.

      ‘You were right, they did follow.’ Fenella wriggled along the seat, closer to Alex, her golden eyes smiling wickedly into his, slipping into a warm Cornish drawl as she tacked on, trying to help him loosen up, ‘Brace yourself, me ‘andsome!’ Picking up languages had always come as easily as breathing, so regional dialects were an absolute doddle, and Alex grinned back at her.

      ‘I’m always right, sweetheart, you should know that by now. Come on, let’s strut our stuff!’ He had his hand on the door release but despite his jokey tone the interior light picked out the lines of tension around his mouth.

      Fenella felt her own lips tighten. At fifty-five Alex was still a handsome man, his considerable talent as a light entertainer still very much intact. She didn’t know how Saul Ackerman, that hard-nosed business mogul, had the gall to try and put him down. And out.

      What would he know about anything? Alex’s talent was creative; Saul Ackerman wouldn’t know anything about that because his head would be stuffed with columns of figures, and big profits were the name of the game.

      But her triangular, cat-like smile was firmly in place again as she stepped out on to the pavement and simply stood there, illuminated by the soft lights beneath the awning, one slender hip elegantly tilted forward, her honey-gold head tipped slightly to one side, her slumbrous golden eyes almost taunting the jackals of the Press as Alex paid off the driver.

      Her height gave her an advantage—helped by the ridiculously high heels she was wearing—and the tight sheath of her low-cut evening dress gave an elegant emphasis to the width of her white shoulders, the black silk clinging lovingly to understated yet exquisite curves.

      As the taxi slid away the activity among the waiting Press men became frenetic as they recognised her companion. Having followed Saul Ackerman’s party from the theatre, got photographs, and possibly comments from him and the leading lady he was squiring, they had probably decided to call it a day. There was only so much they could milk from a first night, a brilliant young Cornish playwright and a leading lady whose name was a household word on both sides of the Atlantic.

      Her smile firmly in place, Fenella swayed over to Alex’s side, felt his arm snake possessively around her narrow waist and tried not to flinch as the flashes exploded around them.

      ‘You were at the opening, Mr Fairbourne?’

      ‘What do you think of VisionWest’s new boy genius?’

      ‘Now Ackerman’s consortium has the franchise do you see your programme continuing in the same format?’

      Questions were bitten out thick and fast and Fenella gave Alex full marks for his performance. There was no sign of that tension as he picked his answer, his voice as smooth and rich as ever.

      ‘I would hardly call Jethro Tamblyn a boy, but he is certainly a genius. As you know, Vision West has him under contract to produce two new dramas for us a year, which will, of course, be sold to the networks. A scoop the board is justifiably proud of.’

      This was common knowledge, safe stuff. VisionWest had had their own camera crew outside the theatre, making sure everyone in the west country knew that their regional commercial television station was backing the Cornishman to the hilt, Saul Ackerman, the chairman, attending the first night, wining and dining the author, his wife, and Vesta Faine, the glamorous leading lady, in high style after the performance.

      ‘And will the networks continue to buy Evening With Alex? Are you worried by reported falling ratings?’

      ‘Darling,’ Fenella interjected with a tiny pout and a manufactured shiver. ‘Do we have to hang round here? It’s cold.’

      It wasn’t. The mid-May evening was unseasonably warm, if anything, but she wasn’t going to see Alex savaged by this mob. She moved subtly closer to him, as if seeking his warmth, his protection. In the whole of her twenty-five years she couldn’t remember needing or wanting a man’s protection. But she would do anything to save Alex from having to answer that particular question.

      And then a voice, coarser than the rest, heavy with salacious overtones, drawled out, ‘Couldn’t your wife make it tonight, Alex? Did you leave her tucked up in bed with a good book, in case she cramped your style?’

      Fenella felt Alex’s arm tighten around her waist and glared at the reporter who was pushing a notepad under her nose. She knew they had a job to do, a living to earn—but did they have to be so despicable?

      ‘Jean is visiting her mother in Edinburgh,’ Alex said uncomfortably. ‘Now, if you don’t mind—’

      But they were like hounds on the scent and one of them bayed, ‘And you are a keen theatre-goer, Ms—? Or is it Mrs? Or are you just a wannabe?’ The voice persisted as Fenella refused to give her name. ‘A model, perhaps, just itching to break into television?’

      ‘Oh, Alex—’ Fenella hid her twitching mouth against his broad, dinner-jacketed shoulder just as the flash lights exploded again.

      Alex said toughly,