Waiting Game. Diana Hamilton
Mystery Mistress? But poor old Jean, we hear, has been conveniently banished to the wilds of Scotland. Did she go willingly, or was she pushed?
‘Grief! “Mystery Mistress”! How tacky can you get?’ Fenella giggled. ‘But Aunty’s not going to like that “poor old Jean” bit.’
‘She’s going to love it,’ Alex contradicted. ‘And since when did you ever call her Aunty?’
Since never, Fenella admitted, her face straightening out. Alex, her mother’s younger brother, and Jean had always seemed more like an older brother and sister. It had nothing to do with their ages, more to do with their boundless capacity to enjoy life. Only people as perpetually optimistic as they could have devised such a scheme when faced with the persistent rumours—plus a very definite hint from Saul Ackerman himself—that Evening With Alex was to be axed. And, what was more, put it into practice.
And now she was going to have to tell him that she, who had promised to help, had thrown a ten-ton spanner into the works!
‘We’ll put in an appearance at Tinkers tonight,’ Alex told her, pouring more coffee for them both. ‘You won’t have heard of it—how long is it since you were last in England? But it’s the night-spot of the moment,’ he burbled on jovially. ‘The newshounds are always sniffing around, waiting for something to happen. Only a couple of weeks ago there was a deplorable fracas involving a minor Royal and a lady whose credentials are far from being unimpeachable. One of the pack earned himself quite a scoop that night. Since then there’s always someone hanging around, waiting for something they can blow up into a scandal.’ He pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Now, what shall we have for breakfast?’
‘Wait; there’s something you should know,’ Fenella said heavily. She felt awful. She’d let him and Jean down. She hadn’t felt happy about the idea of putting on a deception for the sake of the more gutter-bound Press but once Jean had talked him round Alex had been just as enthusiastic as his wife, pointing out that Fen was the only answer—part of the family, utterly trustworthy and, almost as important, she looked the part.
‘Well?’ Alex prodded. ‘What should I know?’
‘I argued with Ackerman last night.’ She took the plunge, her tongue feeling like wood. ‘In the rest-room corridor, of all places. He accused me of being rude when he invited us to join his party.’ She met his eyes miserably. ‘And he was right. I was rude. Then I lost my head and accused him of being blinkered. I said there was nothing stopping you working with another company where your talents would be appreciated. I’m sorry if I’ve blown it.’ She lowered her head dejectedly. ‘He didn’t come over as the type of man who would take any kind of rudeness or criticism lying down. There’ll probably be a letter in tomorrow morning’s post telling you your contract won’t be renewed. So carrying on with this—’ she flicked the tabloid disgustedly with her fingernail ‘—would be a total waste of time and effort.’
There were two more pre-recorded shows to run before the end of the current—and rumoured final— series. He would be on tenterhooks to see if all this publicity halted the abysmally falling ratings. ‘Nothing will save the show, after what I said. A flicker of public interest because you appear to be running around with a woman young enough to be your daughter won’t alter a thing.’
She had said as much when her aunt had first enlisted her help but once Jean had persuaded Alex to take the idea on board there had been no dampening their enthusiastic optimism.
And no dampening now, either, she thought despairingly as Alex hooted, ‘Rubbish!’ and started to make the belated breakfast. All that stuff in the papers this morning had made him see himself as a celebrity again; he was, once more, the idol women had scratched each other’s eyes out to be first in the queue for his autograph, a lock of his hair, the clothes off his back!
‘Saul’s too astute a businessman to let something like an insubordinate female affect his judgement. He was probably intrigued by the way you stood up to him. He’s used to having females at his feet, not at his throat. And I’d lay odds you were the first ever to turn down an invitation from him!’
‘If you say so.’ Fenella was too dejected to argue. Alex might be her uncle but right at this moment she felt more like his grandmother. Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, she laid the table while he toasted wholemeal bread and scrambled the eggs; she took over as the phone in the living-room warbled out and was still half-heartedly stirring when he rushed back in again, rubbing his hands.
‘What did I tell you? That was Saul on the phonenot his secretary, mark you—the great man himself. I am commanded to attend the open day tomorrow in my best bib and tucker. And you, my dear Fen, are likewise commanded! “Bring your niece”, he said!’ He bounced over and ruffled her hair affectionately then snatched the pan from the burner. ‘Good God, Fen, these eggs are like case-hardened rubber!’
But even the ruination of his breakfast couldn’t wipe the beam from his face and she felt a complete spoiler as she pointed out, ‘He doesn’t believe I am your niece.’
‘Of course he doesn’t. He wasn’t meant to, was he? But he still wants you along. Most insistent.’
Fen wanted to ask why but glumly decided she wouldn’t like the answer—supposing Alex knew it, which she doubted. She asked instead, ‘What is this open day? Anything important?’
‘The best news I’ve had in six months, sweetheart!’ Alex abandoned all attempts to eat his breakfast, leaning back and smiling expansively. ‘Part of the studios will be open for members of the viewing public to meet the regular presenters and the back-room crews. It’s an annual thing but this year the board, in their wisdom, decided to throw a garden party, issuing the invitations as if they were made of diamond-studded gold. Much more exclusive. Backers and advertisers in the main with a sprinkling of showbiz names. A few selected members of the viewing public—they’ve been running a competition for the past three months. Twenty-five lucky winners received a couple of tickets apiece. Not forgetting the performers in, and writers of, the most successful series we produce. I wasn’t asked. Not until today! It’s a public-relations stunt, of course—make the viewers feel part of the network. Not to mention making the invited advertisers feel important.’
‘And you!’ Fen pointed out with an indulgent smile. His high spirits were infectious and at least last evening’s piece of rudeness hadn’t produced the backlash she’d expected. That made her conscience easier.
‘Ab—so—lutely!’ His blue eyes were gleaming like sapphires. ‘Clear up, would you, Fen? I’ll phone Jean and tell her the good news. The whole thing’s beginning to work like a dream. Oh, and—’ he was halfway out of the room before he turned ‘—we’ll have to scrub Tinkers tonight. Pity, but it can’t be helped. We’ll drive down to Tavistock this afternoon and be nice and rested for tomorrow’s high jinks. Be sure to pack something sexy to wear.’
By no stretch of the imagination could the simple, wrap-over amber silk dress be called sexy, Fen consoled herself as the Daimler Jean had given Alex for his last birthday swept over the Tamar into Cornwall.
She had happily dressed for the part she’d been allotted when they’d attended the first night and shown up afterwards at the restaurant. But for some unknown reason she could no more bring herself to dress the part of a femme fatale this afternoon than fly. Long sleeves looked demure enough and the narrow belt was tied tightly around her waist to ensure that neither the bodice nor the cleverly draped skirt would gape.
A floppy-brimmed hat in fine amber straw, festooned with huge cream silk roses, completed the ensemble and, emerging from the guest room in the Tavistock house, she had blinked in surprise when Alex, looking very elegant and Fred Astaire-ish in a morning suit, had told her, ‘You look fantastic!’
It was probably the hat, she decided edgily, not looking forward to the coming afternoon one tiny bit. Certainly nothing to do with the dress which covered her from her neck to just below her knees as effectively as a shroud.
‘Don’t forget to stick