Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Susan Lewis
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Copyright
When Penny Moon is banished from Fleet Street to resurrect an ex-pat magazine on the French Riviera, the worst news is yet to come. Her partner will be David Villers, the man she once tried – and humiliatingly failed – to seduce.
But when she arrives at the Riviera, she is surprised to find that, instead of the usual headaches and frustrations of restarting a magazine, all that should be impossible is easy. Then, quite unexpectedly, she meets Christian Mureau, a mysterious and elusive man who is wanted by the FBI, and her curiosity is instantly clouded by passion.
Swept along by the glamour and intrigue of Mureau’s life and increasingly affected by David’s charm and humour, Penny finds her loyalties as mixed as her feelings. Feelings which lead her deeper and deeper into a web of love and deceit towards the terrifying consequences of two men’s crimes – and beyond…
Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of twenty-seven novels. She is also the author of Just One More Day and One Day at a Time, the moving memoirs of her childhood in Bristol. Having resided in France for many years she now lives in Gloucestershire. Her website address is www.susanlewis.com
Susan is a supporter of the childhood bereavement charity, Winston’s Wish: www.winstonswish.org.uk and of the breast cancer charity, BUST: www.bustbristol.co.uk
Fiction
A Class Apart
Dance While You Can
Stolen Beginnings
Darkest Longings
Obsession
Vengeance
Summer Madness
Wildfire
Chasing Dreams
Taking Chances
Cruel Venus
Strange Allure
Silent Truths
Wicked Beauty
Intimate Strangers
The Hornbeam Tree
The Mill House
A French Affair
Missing
Out of the Shadows
Lost Innocence
Forgotten
The Choice
Stolen
No Turning Back
Losing You
Memoir
Just One More Day
One Day at a Time
First and foremost my thanks must go to Hilary King for sharing so generously her experience of the magazine world as well as her wealth of contacts around the globe. This book as it stands wouldn’t have been possible without Hilary’s input and for that as well as her friendship I shall always be deeply indebted.
In Hong Kong my sincere thanks go to Julie Ammann of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel and Justin Strachan for the unforgettable experience of a night in Mongkok. I thank Tom Andrews too for his help. Sheri and Rob Dorfman and Teresa Norton Bobertz I thank with all my heart for smoothing the way and making my stay in Hong Kong so memorable and pleasurable.
Also I thank John and Hilary Andrews for the doors they opened in Manila, one of which led to Barry Riddell, a remarkable man whose knowledge of all things Filipino and whose enthusiasm for the book added such richness to the story. Of those in Manila who spared me so much of their valuable time I would like to thank Atty Ramsey L Ocampo, Police Chief Superintendent, PNP Narcotics Command; Miguel G Coronel, Police Chief Superintendent, PNP Director for Operations; Crescencio Maralit, Police Chief Superintendent, Antipolo.
And on the idyllic retreat of Pamalican which is home to the Amanpulo I thank Madeleine and Belle – and Alison Frew and Trina Dingier Ebert for organizing the trip.
‘WHAT DO YOU mean, you don’t know where you are!’
‘What I said: I don’t know where I am.’ The plaintive voice echoed down the line, along with the muted honking of horns and alien street bustle.
‘But how the hell can you not know where you are? How did you get there?’
‘By plane – I think.’
Penny Moon closed her eyes briefly, opened them again and looked impatiently at her watch. This was something she could do without at the best of times; today it was about as welcome as a Dear John. ‘OK,’ she said, holding on to her exasperation, ‘just tell me the name of the country and we’ll work from there.’
‘But that’s just it, I don’t know which country I’m in.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Penny muttered, thinking only her scatty kid sister could do this to her on such a morning. ‘Well, look around you – what colour are the people?’ That might give them a fighting chance.
‘They seem to be, well, sort of black, I suppose,’ the answer came after a pause.
‘What language are they speaking?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t understand it.’
Penny took a deep breath. ‘Is it hot or cold?’
‘Hot. Very hot.’
This line of questioning was proving about as productive as a lottery ticket. Thinking of which, ‘Do you have any money?’ Penny said.
‘Not a bean. I might have been robbed, because I’m sure I did have some the last time I looked.’
Penny looked out of the smeary, casement window to where south London was basking in yet another dismal, rainy start to a day. She gave a short, impatient sigh. There were times, like now, when she wished she could be as capricious as Sammy and not give a damn where she was or where the next sou was coming from. Except, of course, Sammy did care, otherwise she wouldn’t be calling. ‘Look,’ she said, realizing she was going to be late, ‘get yourself to the nearest police station and call me from there. I’ll be at the office within an hour.’
‘But how am I supposed to know where the police station is,’ Sammy pointed out.
‘You’ll find it,’ Penny told her and, slamming down the phone, she snatched up her briefcase, pulled on her raincoat and ran out of the door. A few seconds later she was back, puffing from the sprint up the stairs, to collect her umbrella. She was definitely going to miss the bus now and the chances of finding a taxi in Wandsworth on a morning like this were about as good as rooting out a workable European policy.
‘Any chance of borrowing your car?’ she cried, bursting into her flatmate’s bedroom.
‘What?’ Peter grunted, prising open a bleary eye.
‘Your car,’ Penny said. ‘I’m going to be late otherwise and I can’t be, not today.’
‘Just pay for the parking tickets,’ he told her and, rolling over, went promptly back to sleep.
Ten minutes later, having drenched Monica, her neighbour, in making a rally-like swerve to the kerb to scoop her from the depressing clutch at the bus stop, Penny was swearing in time to the pulse and swish of the windscreen wipers as, up ahead, the lights changed from red to green and back to red with nothing moving. She loved London, absolutely adored it, except on mornings like this when it seemed the entire world’s mood was as filthy as the weather and when it was debatable which was going to boil over first, her frustration or the radiator of Peter’s ancient Mini.
Looking at her watch, she groaned aloud and only just resisted the temptation to slam her hand on the horn and keep it there, as though the noise might transform itself into a giant prong that could slide beneath all the other cars and flick them into the Thames. Of course, being late wasn’t going to change anything, the decision on her promotion would already have been taken, but if only, just this once, she could show her boss that she was capable of arriving somewhere on time . . .
‘OK,’ Monica declared, attempting to lurch forward within the confines of her seat belt to stuff the newspaper she’d been reading into her bag.
‘Did they run it?’ Penny asked, throwing her a quick glance.
‘Nope,’ Monica responded shortly.
For a moment Penny wondered if the lingering drops of rain on Monica’s freckled cheeks were, in fact, tears, and when Monica turned an unsteady smile in her direction she was left in little doubt.
‘What was the article on?’ Penny asked.
‘I can’t remember,’ Monica replied dismally. ‘The only thing I seem able to retain these days,’ she added, gazing glumly down at her thighs, ‘is water.’
Smiling, Penny reached over to squeeze her hand. This had been happening to Monica for several weeks now and, though it had never happened to Penny, as a fellow journalist she had no problem understanding Monica’s depression. To have one’s articles consistently dropped and for no apparent reason was both humiliating and frightening. She could sense the dilemma going on inside Monica as keenly as she could if it were her own predicament: was it that she was losing it, could no longer report events in a way that was informative, readable and insightful; or was it that Monica’s boss, the editor of the newspaper for which she worked, was trying to edge her out now that he had dumped Monica in favour of the home affairs correspondent?
‘Have you thought about striking out on your own, going freelance?’ Penny asked, inching the car forward.
Monica nodded. ‘I think about it all the time, but I’ve got a mortgage to pay – and if . . . Well, if I am losing it . . .’
‘You’re not losing it,’ Penny told her firmly.
Monica turned to look at her and this time her smile held more assurance, a glint even of laughter and not a little affection. ‘Being around you always does me good, Penny Moon,’ she chuckled, ‘but please, spare me the positive thinking. I’m not up for it this morning.’
Penny grimaced as her stomach clenched with a lively spasm of nerves. ‘No, me neither,’ she said.
‘Oh God, I’d forgotten,’ Monica groaned. ‘Today’s the day, isn’t it?’
‘Today’s the day,’ Penny confirmed.
‘So, do you think you’ve got it?’
Penny shrugged.
Monica turned to look out of the window. ‘I think you have,’ she said, trying to keep the envy from her voice. It wasn’t that she would begrudge Penny her promotion to features editor on Starke, it was simply that Penny’s life seemed to have a golden halo of luck around it and when compared with Monica’s life right now Penny’s seemed so insufferably charmed and cosy that Monica would have bartered her very soul for a boss like Sylvia Starke.
‘You’d make a terrific editor, you know,’ Monica said generously. It was true, in a lot of ways Penny would, and a little flattery at this point might not go amiss, especially as it was very likely she’d be looking for a new job pretty soon. Magazines weren’t really her cup of tea – she preferred the cut-and-thrust and impossible deadlines of daily newspaper journalism – but beggars and choosers and all that.
Penny laughed. ‘I don’t think Linda Kidman would agree with you,’ she said, to a chorus of angry horns as she shot through a set of red lights at World’s End. ‘In fact, she’s pretty damned certain she’s got the job, if for no other reason than she’s much more experienced than I am. She’s been with Starke at least twice as long and she’s proved herself over and over.’
‘So have you,’ Monica pointed out. ‘And Sylvia’s just crazy about you, everyone knows that.’
‘But she’s fair,’ Penny said. ‘She’s announcing the results herself, by the way.’
Monica gave a snort of laughter. ‘Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it?’ she declared. ‘She wants to be the one to tell you that you’ve finally achieved what she’s been grooming you for ever since she plucked you out of knitting patterns and napkin-folding on that happily long-forgotten little rag you started on.’
‘It might be that she just wants to let me down gently,’ Penny countered, hoping to God it wasn’t true. If it were and Linda Kidman was going to be her boss, then she didn’t see that she’d have any choice but to leave Starke, for the very idea of having to suffer Linda’s supercilious adjuncts to triumph was about as palatable as having to kiss Linda’s backside, which she would unquestionably be expected to do. In truth, it was the prospect of having Linda as her editor that had added several sticks of dynamite to her own ambition – an ambition that had, of late, become something of an obsession. And, in turn, the obsession had prompted some hilarious self-mockery as well as laconic outbursts of theatrical woe that had had the rest of her colleagues convulsed with laughter.
‘You don’t think thirty is too young to be a features editor, do you?’ Penny asked. ‘I mean, it might be my age that—’
‘Your age will have nothing to do with it,’ Monica interrupted. ‘I told you before, it’s your ability that counts.’ A part of her would have liked to go further and remind Penny of the recognition she had achieved on both sides of the Atlantic for some of the intuitive, witty and occasionally highly controversial interviews she had produced for Starke, the fortnightly news/gossip/features magazine that had a circulation of over half a million, but with her own confidence on the rocks she wasn’t in much of a mood to rub her own nose in someone else’s brilliance – especially when that someone was almost ten years her junior. Which just went to show what a nasty, niggardly and sour old spinster she was turning into, she thought glumly; for there was no way in the world that Penny would ever be so churlish or mean-spirited, no matter how down on her own luck she might be. But then, they couldn’t all be Penny Moons, could they? For not everyone had been blessed with such an irresistible and charitable nature and nor was it everyone who had been offered a job in New York after writing an article on Graham Greene’s antipathy towards Americans which, with its beautifully scripted irony, had even had the Americans laughing. Nor could many boast Penny’s gift for knowing all the right buttons to push when it came to interviewing. Everyone, from under-secretaries to undertakers, from prime ministers to pimps or megastars to media moguls, seemed almost eager to confide their secrets in Penny Moon, probably, Monica reflected, because of Penny Moon’s unique and enviable knack of making them forget they were being interviewed. Monica knew that Penny attributed her remarkable talent to the lack of excitement and adventure in her own life, insisting she got her thrills and spills vicariously, through her interviewees. But that was a load of old hogwash, if Monica’d ever heard any, for if she had just a fraction of Penny Moon’s social life she’d be actively fighting off the social diarists, as Penny’s was the phone that never stopped ringing, Penny’s was the liveliness and wit that everyone wanted at their table, or their ball, or their opening night, just like Penny’s was the ear that was always willing to listen. And, Monica guessed, it was Penny’s popularity in London that had been behind her reason for turning down Vanity Fair. Everyone knew how much Penny adored London – and who could blame her when she seemed to have the whole damned town at her feet? Besides, there wasn’t a Sylvia Starke in New York and mentors like that didn’t come along with the no. 14 bus, did they?
‘Do you mind?’ Penny said, picking up the headset of her Walkman. ‘It’s an interview I did weeks ago now and I’ve got to have it written up by the end of the day.’
Monica waved a hand for her to continue. It was quite typical of Penny to cut blithely through the London traffic with a Walkman plugged into her ears without any regard for danger.
It was true to say that were Penny and Linda Kidman competing for an appearance on the front cover of Starke, then Linda would win hands down, but Penny was not without her physical attributes either. She wasn’t particularly tall – about five foot four, Monica reckoned – neither was she particularly slim – she enjoyed her food and wine too much to be that – but she was curvaceous rather than overweight. Even so, Monica couldn’t help hoping that Penny had at least as many dimples in her thighs as she had in her cheeks; it seemed only fair. She was a natural blonde with a thick, glossy bob that either swung around her collar or, as now, was tumbling heedlessly out of an elastic band. Her eyes were as blue as a midsummer sky and as sunny, her cheeks were silky smooth and permanently pink, and her mouth, whilst not large, was most definitely verging upon it and often looked, Monica thought bitchily, as though she had just given someone the blow job of his life. Her smile was as infectious as her humour and her ubiquitous air of recklessness and chaos was, if anything, what would lose her the job of features editor. For, intellect and ability aside, Penny was impulsive, hectic and impossibly emotional. And, if there were any justice in this world, that fall she had been riding for these past two years must surely be just around the corner.
They were by now crawling past Peter Jones in the drizzle and as Penny removed her headphones she was muttering palatable profanities at a cab driver who was studiously ignoring her as she tried to edge her way in front of him. Winning the battle and wincing at the deafening blast of his horn, she gave him a jaunty little wave and plunged into the bedlam heading towards Eaton Square.
‘Did you read that piece in the Spectator about Lord Lucan?’ Penny asked, as they approached Lower Belgrave Street, where the dastardly deed had taken place. ‘Oh shit! I don’t believe it! Is there some kind of contest going on as to which borough can dig up the most roads in rush hour? It’s like bloody open-heart surgery around here. Where shall I drop you, by the way? Will the corner of Grosvenor be OK?’
‘That’ll be great. What time’s your meeting with Sylvia?’
Penny glanced at her watch. ‘Five minutes ago,’ she winced.
‘Will you call me, let me know how it goes?’
‘Sure,’ Penny grinned, ‘if you feel up to dealing with a self-pitying—’
‘No, no, don’t say it,’ Monica cut in. ‘The job’s yours and we both know it. Just call me when it’s confirmed and I’ll grab a cab and come help you celebrate.’
A few minutes later, after abandoning the Mini by an out-of-order parking meter, Penny made a quick dash through the rain and in through the revolving front doors of Starke magazine. Greeting the receptionists and security staff she headed on past them towards the lifts, hoping they wouldn’t notice that she was as nervous as a witch on a stake. She so desperately, desperately, wanted this job. She knew that everyone was rooting for her, that they, like her, didn’t relish the prospect of working under such a coldly efficient fish as Linda Kidman, but what everyone else wanted wouldn’t necessarily hold too much sway with Sylvia – in fact, knowing Sylvia, it wouldn’t hold any sway at all. And maybe the run of luck that had gone on for almost two years now, the virtual Midas touch that could so easily have gone to her head for the recognition it had brought her, was about to do a rainbow on her.
With an unruly shudder of nerves she stepped out of the lift, fighting the lack of self-confidence she tried always to keep carefully hidden. No doubt for the most idiotic of reasons, she was suddenly believing that the decision on her promotion was still in the balance and that it was her appearance here, at the final hurdle, that was going to let her down. She hadn’t done her hair properly, she’d simply pulled a long, shapeless sweater on over a scruffy pair of leggings and her boots were quite shamelessly in need of a clean. Oh God, why did she never think about these things until it was too late?
‘Ah, there you are,’ Rebecca, Sylvia’s secretary, said with a chuckle as Penny came haring across the office, apologizing for being late and inadvertently knocking things off desks as she passed them with her heavy bags.
‘I’ll be right there,’ Penny called, stopping at a secretary’s desk and dumping her Walkman on the top of the in-tray while begging Gemma, the secretary, to give the transcription priority.
‘You can go straight in,’ Rebecca told her when Penny finally presented herself, grinning and breathless.
Penny turned to look at her colleagues who had stopped what they were doing to give her surreptitious winks and discreet fingers-crossed, not wanting to offend Linda, who was successfully feigning nonchalance at her desk over by the window and still awaiting her summons.
Taking a deep breath, Penny treated them all to a comical face, dropped her briefcase and umbrella where she was standing and pushed open Sylvia’s door.
‘Ah, Penny,’ Sylvia smiled, swivelling away from her computer terminal. ‘My, you look flustered. Bad journey in?’
‘You could say that,’ Penny answered, stripping off her fake Barbour and glancing anxiously at the coat stand, where Sylvia’s silk number was hanging.
‘Go ahead,’ Sylvia said, getting up from her desk and walking across the rose-coloured carpet to a tray where fresh coffee was percolating. She was so elegant with her short, silvery hair framing her elfin face, her tall, slender body and exquisitely tailored black suit that Penny could have groaned aloud at her own sartorial fiasco.
‘This is the first time I’ve seen you to congratulate you on the Frederick Lacosta interview,’ Sylvia remarked, her Swiss-French accent as enchanting as the sparkling humour and urbanity in her soft, grey eyes. ‘I know how much you enjoy giving coverage to the oddball characters of the world, though I must confess I found your choice in this instance somewhat startling. But then I had forgotten that sometimes there’s an amusing side to death, which, may I say, you handled with admirable sensitivity. I was afraid, to begin with, that you were about to trawl the depths of sentimentality, but I should have had more faith. It was an excellent piece, Penny, dignified, compassionate, informative and funny – and, no doubt, it will have turned Mr Lacosta’s Knightsbridge funeral parlour into one of the busiest terminals between here and the Elysian Fields. Coffee?’ she added, starting to pour into the exquisite bone-china set her secretary laid out all sparklingly clean and ludicrously dainty each morning.
‘I’ll have six of those,’ Penny said, referring to the oversized thimble Sylvia was holding up as she sank into a deep leather sofa. ‘God, I hate London,’ she sighed, tearing the elastic band from her hair.
Sylvia looked surprised. ‘But I thought it was your great passion,’ she said.
Through the vertical blinds at the vast picture windows Penny could see the familiar glimpses of Victoria’s glistening rooftops and the gloomy oppressiveness of the February sky. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘I just hate the dreary weather – and the traffic.’
‘Mmm,’ Sylvia commented, seeming, somewhat bewilderingly, to approve of this response. ‘Well,’ she went on, sitting on the sofa opposite Penny and crossing her ankles, ‘it could be that the news I have for you is going to come as something of a pleasant surprise, then.’
Penny’s heart skipped. She’d got the job! God only knew what it had to do with the weather, but who the hell cared as long as she’d got it? ‘I won’t let you down,’ she vowed passionately, sitting forward and wanting to squeeze Sylvia with all the might of her gratitude. ‘You won’t regret this decision. I know you’ve had your reservations about my age, I know there’s still a lot for me to learn, but I’ve got what it takes, Sylvia, I just know it.’
Sylvia smiled and looked down at her cup. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you do have what it takes, I won’t argue with that, but your euphoria as well as your promises are a little, how shall we say, premature?’
Penny looked as though she’d been struck. What did she mean, premature? Hadn’t she just said that she’d got the job? Well, OK, not in so many words, but what other good news could there be? There wasn’t anything else she wanted.
‘You’re aware, I’m sure,’ Sylvia went on, smiling into Penny’s watchful eyes, ‘that we have recently acquired Fieldstone Publishing.’
‘I had heard,’ Penny said warily, not knowing anything about Fieldstone other than the fact she’d never even heard of any of their publications.
‘Well,’ Sylvia continued, ‘I’ve decided that I would like you to edit one of the magazines in that group.’
‘Edit? You mean, full-blown editor?’ Penny said cautiously.
‘Yes, full-blown editor. You have just the sort of energy and enterprise needed to get this particular magazine off its knees and back into the marketplace.’
Penny wasn’t thrilled. ‘Which particular magazine are we talking about?’ she asked, feeling a dread of the answer start to burgeon.
‘The Coast,’ Sylvia answered, looking at her through lowered lashes and bracing herself for the response.
‘Oh my God, you’re sending me to Bournemouth!’ Penny cried in horror.
‘No, not Bournemouth,’ Sylvia smiled. ‘The South of France.’
Penny’s mouth dropped open.
‘The Coast is a magazine that caters for the English-speaking community on the French Riviera,’ Sylvia explained.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Penny mumbled, trying not to panic. ‘Are you telling me that you’re sending me to the South of France?’
Sylvia nodded.
‘Oh my God, this is terrible,’ Penny declared, getting to her feet. ‘What did I do?’ she challenged. ‘Why are you banishing me? I thought you were happy with my work?’
‘More than happy,’ Sylvia assured her, ‘which is why I have set you this task. You are quite capable of getting that magazine up and running and turning it into something you are going to be extremely proud of.’
‘But I loathe the South of France!’ Penny exclaimed rashly.
‘Have you ever been?’
‘Of course I have. And I hate it.’
Sylvia was baffled. ‘Most people would jump at the chance to go and live in the South of France,’ she commented.
‘Yes, people who are planning retirement or rip-offs,’ Penny said cuttingly. ‘In other words, vegies and villains. Well, thanks, but no thanks.’
‘The alternative is to carry on here under Linda Kidman,’ Sylvia pointed out.
‘Oh my God,’ Penny groaned, clapping a hand to her head and slumping back on to the sofa.
‘And,’ Sylvia went on, ‘your French, I believe, is virtually fluent.’
‘No!’ Penny lied, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know a word of French except pasta.’
‘That’s Italian,’ Sylvia said, her eyes brimming with laughter.
‘You see,’ Penny cried, throwing up her hands. ‘I can’t speak a word of French.’
‘It says here that you can,’ Sylvia said, opening up Penny’s personnel file, which was lying on the cushion beside her.
‘I lied,’ Penny said, catching a glimpse of her application form.
Laughing, Sylvia said, ‘I might have believed you were it not for the interview you did with Madame Mitterand entirely in French just a few weeks ago.’
Penny looked crestfallen. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she wailed. ‘Why couldn’t you just have made me features editor here?’
‘Because I want you in the South of France. It’ll be good experience for you . . .’
‘Sylvia, we’re talking about a readership of nine geriatrics and a poodle and an exposure of such limited proportions I’ll be one of the geriatrics before I make it.’
Sylvia laughed again. ‘You’re in too much of a hurry, young lady,’ she said. ‘Your time will come, make no mistake about that and if you do turn that magazine into a success then who can say what kind of opportunities will open up for you as a result?’
OK, Penny, she said to herself, straightening up, time to resign. She took a breath, but now that the moment had come the words for some reason wouldn’t. She’d never find another Sylvia and, much as she abhorred the idea of leaving London, to refuse this offer might just turn out to be one of the biggest mistakes of her life. On the other hand, so might accepting it. ‘How long are you intending to send me over there for?’ she asked miserably.
‘A year, maybe two.’
Penny collapsed over her knees in dismay. She was on the point of raising another objection, when Rebecca popped her head round the door.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said, ‘but your sister’s on the phone, Penny. She says she’s been arrested.’
Penny’s arms circled her head as she gave a wretched groan. Well, at least one thing was for sure: today couldn’t get any worse. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked Sylvia, who answered by waving her to the phone.
‘Did she say where she was?’ she asked Rebecca as she crossed the room.
‘In a police station,’ Rebecca answered prosaically.
Penny shot her a look and picked up the phone. ‘Sammy?’ she said.
‘Ah, Pen, there you are,’ came Sammy’s chirpy voice.
‘What have you done to get arrested?’ Penny sighed. ‘If it’s drugs, I’m going to let them hang you.’
‘I haven’t been arrested,’ Sammy giggled. ‘I just said that to make whoever the old sourpuss was go and get you.’
‘Ingenious,’ Penny muttered. ‘So, where are you?’
‘You’ll never guess.’
‘No, you’re right, I won’t.’
‘I’m in Casablanca. You know, that place they made the film about.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of it. Have you figured out how you got there yet?’
‘Somebody brought me here on a private jet. He didn’t own it, or anything, he’s just the pilot. But anyway, it seems like he had to go off again in a bit of a hurry and ended up forgetting about me.’
Refraining from remarking on the pilot’s discerning lapse of memory, Penny said, ‘So how much is it going to cost me to get you home?’
‘Um, I worked it out that if you send me three hundred pounds that should cover my hotel and air fare.’
‘OK, give me the bank details,’ Penny said, too practised in this now to show any horror at the amount.
‘That,’ she said to Sylvia, pointing to the phone as she turned back to the sofa, ‘is one very good reason why I can’t go to the South of France. She’s not safe to be left alone. I mean, look what happens when I’m here. I dread to think what she’d do if I weren’t.’
‘They have telephones in the South of France too,’ Sylvia remarked drily. ‘But why don’t you take her with you?’
‘Take Sammy to the South of France! Are you kidding! She’d have us both arrested before you can say Jacques Médecin.’
Sylvia arched an eyebrow. Médecin, the notorious ex-mayor of Nice, was, if memory served her correctly, still facing charges of corruption, so maybe Penny had a point about villains. Still, it wasn’t a topic she was going to pursue. ‘Take Sammy with you and give her a job,’ she said. ‘It could be just what she needs. Something to concentrate her mind. A bit of responsibility, a pay packet of her own . . .’
‘And whole harbours full of yachts to smuggle herself away on,’ Penny added woefully.
‘Well, think about it,’ Sylvia chuckled as she got to her feet. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a busy day in front of you so take the weekend to think things over and we’ll have a spot of lunch together on Monday when you can give me your final decision.’
‘Do I have any choice?’ Penny enquired.
‘Yes, of course you do,’ Sylvia answered, opening the door. ‘But I think we both already know that you’re not going to take either of the alternatives. Incidently, Rebecca here will give you some back copies of The Coast to look over.’
‘Shit!’ Penny muttered under her breath as Sylvia closed the door behind her.
She was too late to pull a mask over her disappointment which meant that as Linda Kidman sailed past for her session with Sylvia Penny had the joyful experience of being gloated at. Resisting the urge to smack her one, Penny took herself to her desk and sat down heavily.
‘What’s this?’ she snapped, pulling a cardboard box towards her. ‘Oh God,’ she groaned when she saw the range of anti-cellulite creams Claude, the celebrity beautician, had sent her.
‘Pen!’ someone shouted. ‘Yolanda and Maurice want to see you as soon as you’re free. They want to know how the piece on that Italian judge is coming along. I think they’re rather keen to run it before the Sicilians put Whatever-her-name-is in her concrete boots.’
Penny rolled her eyes. Great, just what she needed right now: the editor and news editor ganging up on her for an interview she’d done in Rome five days ago with Carla Landolfi, the Italian judge whose courage and rectitude in the face of repeated Mafia threats begged any number of mythological metaphors. The entire interview was in Italian and she hadn’t even translated it yet. Well, she’d just have to wing it, keep Yolanda and Maurice happy for a couple more days and move like greased lightning all weekend.
‘Anyone seen the photographs I left on my desk?’ she cried, riffling through the chaos. ‘The ones of her Honour?’
‘Frank came up for them earlier,’ Philip Collins, the sub who sat opposite, informed her. ‘He left a note . . .’
‘Where did this come from?’ Penny demanded, picking up a giant hardback book by some obscure writer with an unpronounceable name. The note hooked inside read: ‘Thought this was just up your street. A rampantly political Russian romance. Need the review by the end of next week. Any chance? Maybelle.’
Penny slung it to one side and picked up her phone. ‘Anyone know the number for the art department?’ she yelled.
‘4962,’ Philip answered. ‘So, come on, how did it go in there? Don’t keep us all in suspense.’
Having received an engaged signal, Penny replaced the receiver and heaved her briefcase on to her desk. ‘How are you doing with that transcript, Gemma?’ she called out.
‘Another hour and you should have it,’ the secretary shouted back.
Knowing they were all watching her, Penny looked up at last and, finding Philip’s curious round eyes and fluffy chin in her direct line of vision, she felt a surprising flood of affection for him. He was an ablutophobe who blithely stank out their corner, irritated her to the point of violence and frequently had her reaching jibberingly for the bottle by lunchtime. But suddenly today she loved him, adored him, wanted to sit opposite him for the rest of her days and inhale the glorious odour of his unwashed body. ‘If I told you I’d got the job it would make me one of Congreve’s first magnitude,’ she answered dolefully.
‘You’re obfuscating, Penny,’ he sweetly reprimanded.
‘No, I didn’t get the bloody job!’ she seethed. ‘And, what’s more, I’m leaving.’
A general murmur of surprise and dismay reverberated around the office. Having Linda Kidman as the boss was bad enough, but without Penny there the place was going to be about as much fun as a German resurgence of patriotism.
‘You didn’t really give your notice in?’ Karen Armstrong, one of the assistants, asked incredulously.
Penny shook her head. ‘I’m being banished to the fucking French Riviera,’ she said wretchedly.
The others exchanged puzzled glances, unable to fathom why Penny should find that such an odious prospect, especially when they learned that Penny was to be given her own magazine.
‘Because,’ she explained, ‘all my contacts are here, all my friends are here, I love London, I love my life and I don’t have the remotest desire to end it.’ What she didn’t add, for modesty forbade, was how ridiculously proud and excited she had been to read about herself in The Times just last week when a journalist she didn’t even know had advised Lynn Barber and Zoë Heller to sharpen up their acts because ‘Penny Moon is fast becoming the most widely read and respected interviewer in the country’. How could Sylvia do this to her? It was like asking a bride on the eve of her wedding to exchange the man of her dreams for a deaf-mute dwarf with the life expectancy of Methuselah and the get-up-and-go of a pork chop.
‘You’ll be coming back, won’t you?’ Philip said. ‘I mean, eventually.’
Penny shrugged. ‘Who knows? But even if I do you’ll all have moved on to other things by then and all my contacts will be in Linda frigging Kidman’s black book. It’ll be like starting from scratch all over again.’ Slumping forward she rested her chin despondently in her hands. ‘Plus,’ she added, ‘I don’t know a single, solitary soul down there.’
‘Well, I don’t think you’ll be short of visitors,’ Annie Kaplin, another journalist, grinned, already thinking about her summer holiday.
‘When are you going?’ Karen asked.
‘God knows. I haven’t actually said yes yet. Oh shit, why can’t she send Linda? She’d love it down there on the Riviera, strutting her stuff for the seriously brain dead. And what the hell am I going to look like down there in all that sun? I won’t be able to cover up any of the nasty bits . . . Maybe I’d better keep those cellulite creams and try a bit harder. What the hell’s all that?’ she cried, glaring up at the post boy as he dumped a sack full of mail on the floor beside her.
‘Applications for the Declan Hailey talk on nude art,’ the post boy informed her. ‘I was told to bring them all to you.’
‘You left this in Sylvia’s office,’ Rebecca said, handing Penny the scribbled bank details Sammy had given her.
‘Oh yes, thanks,’ Penny said, taking them. ‘I suppose I’d better do that now or she really will manage to get herself arrested. Anyone fancy the wine bar for lunch? I’m in need of one last binge before I start the next deportation of fat cells.’
Laughing and groaning, they all turned back to their desks. Penny’s diets were as legendary as they were unsuccessful – though at times they were almost as good a source of entertainment as her outrageously chaotic love life.
EARLY THE FOLLOWING afternoon, complete with overnight bag, portable computer and bulging sack of Declan Hailey mail, Penny was unceremoniously deposited by a taxi into the driving rain at the entrance of a secluded and picturesque little harbour just outside Portsmouth. Two neat rows of smart town houses, currently being belaboured by the storm and hazed by low-sailing grey cloud, fringed opposite sides of the harbour, where yachts of all sizes and descriptions bobbed and clanked recklessly on the swelling tide.
As Penny struggled along the narrow towpath with her luggage she was wondering what kind of mood she was going to find Declan in after their phone call the night before when she’d tried to persuade him to come up to London rather than her having to drag all the way to Portsmouth when she was so busy. He’d won the battle, partly because she’d had too much to do to spend the time arguing, but mainly because not having seen him all week she wasn’t about to deprive herself any further of the kind of things they enjoyed most.
After almost a year they were still photographed and written about on a fairly regular basis, though nothing like when they’d first got together. It was Penny’s revelation that the nude portrait which had catapulted Declan into the media spotlight was indeed of the royal personage rumour claimed it to be. Since one of Declan’s trademarks was never quite to reveal the face of his subject – in this instance, the woman concerned was draped languorously across a bed of silk cushions with her face turned shyly into the crook of her arm – no one had been able to say for sure whether or not it really was the mischievous limelight-seeker whose flagrant hedonism was known to provoke many a wince at Her Majesty’s breakfast table. After interviewing Declan Penny had been able to put an end to the speculation with the exclusive that he, in an unguarded moment, had given her. Declan had been furious that she had gone to print with what he called ‘a royal confidence’, and had publicly challenged Penny to print the entire truth of their interview. Penny hadn’t, for two reasons: first because Starke wasn’t the kind of magazine that ran that sort of story; second, because she wasn’t proud of the way she had allowed herself to be so easily – and repeatedly – seduced during the weekend it had taken her to interview him. Instead she had written him an apology which had also reminded him that she hadn’t revealed the fact that he and the married lady concerned had had an affair. Declan had agreed to accept the apology on the condition that she, Penny, sat for him for three whole days the following week at his studio in Portsmouth. As it turned out, they made love for three days, which both had known they would, and ever since then Penny had happily posed for him whenever he asked, but only because of what it led on to, certainly not because she hoped to see the end results on public display – which they never were.
As she approached the last house in the terrace, which masterfully concealed an expansive top-floor studio with a panoramic view of the sea, she was desperately hoping that she wasn’t going to find him in one of his artistic sulks. She needed to talk and, when in spirits, he was the most level-headed adviser she knew, whose logic, though as peculiarly and poetically Irish as his long, jet-black hair and devilish turquoise-blue eyes, always seemed to contain more basic common sense than most would ever credit him for. But when in a sulk he was totally insufferable and best given the kind of berth one would normally reserve for a kamikaze recruiting agent.
Inserting her key in the lock, she pushed open the door and dropped her bags in the hall.
‘Is that you?’ Declan called out as the door slammed behind her.
‘It’s me,’ she called back, looking up through the three levels of wrought-iron staircases. She waited a moment, then started to smile as he came to lean on the banisters and look down at her. His dark hair was tied in a ponytail, his lean, handsome face was smeared with paint and he was badly in need of a shave.
‘Hi,’ she said, thinking that Diane Driscoll, the diarist for one of the seamier tabloids who was more commonly known as the Doyenne of Drivel, was right when she’d written that ‘one look at the artist Declan Hailey is enough to electrify the extremities with the desire to be titillated by his masterful brush’.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Hungry?’
‘Mmm, a bit,’ she answered. ‘You working?’
‘Yeah. Richmond’s here.’
‘Hi, Richmond,’ she shouted.
‘How you doing, Pen?’ the Olympic gold medallist called back.
‘Just fine. I’ll leave you to get on with it,’ she said to Declan. ‘I’ve got a whole stack of things that need finishing by Monday. Did you pick up the papers this morning?’
‘They’re on the table,’ he told her. ‘Got a kiss for your old man?’
Blowing him one, Penny shrugged off her coat, then carried her computer through to the sitting room, where the log fire he’d no doubt built for her was smouldering towards extinction in its black marble niche. The rest of the room was in its normal state of chaos, telling her that he’d had guests the night before and Mrs Pettigrew had once again been too hungover to make an appearance.
Yawning, she pushed her fingers through her hair and started to clear a space for herself on the glass-topped dining table that separated the high-tech kitchen and eclectic bedlam of the sitting room. Then, finding some hot coffee in the percolator, she emptied it into the one remaining clean cup and went to rekindle the fire. Much as she liked Richmond she was hoping he wasn’t planning on staying the entire weekend, which most did when they came to Declan’s, for people were drawn to him as if he was some kind of messiah. But since Richmond lived just a couple of miles down the road she doubted he’d stay long and as Declan knew she wanted to talk he’d have very likely built some time for them into whatever the weekend schedule was. Meanwhile she had the rest of this Italian interview to translate and with the promise of a couple of hours without interruption she’d do well to get down to it.
The first hour went well, Carla Landolfi having had plenty to say that was both revelatory and unflinchingly courageous, but when it came to adding her own comments to the interview Penny found her mind wandering back to Sylvia’s decision to send her to France. Apart from desperately not wanting to go, the thing that was bothering her most about it was why Sylvia had chosen now to send her into exile, when, to be frankly immodest about it, her rising popularity as an interviewer was just what Starke needed and, unless she’d totally misread everything, was projecting her towards the position Sylvia had always intended her to occupy. So to banish her now didn’t make any sense. It was like nurturing a prize-winning rose then snipping off the bud before it had a chance to blossom.
Getting up from her chair Penny wandered back to the fire and stacked a couple more logs. As she watched the flames flare up, she bit down hard on the anger that was growing inside her. Her diary was full for weeks ahead, requests were coming in all the time for her to interview celebrities and statesmen, as well as offers to talk from the normally publicity shy, so why the hell would she want to go to France? She’d almost rather take a job on the Sunday Sport than leave London now. The trouble was, though, she doubted she had it in her to throw everything back in Sylvia’s face by turning her down when Sylvia had done so much for her?
With a quick sigh of impatience she turned to answer the phone. Everything was silent upstairs and, knowing Declan would just let it ring rather than break his muse, she snatched up the receiver and barked, ‘Hello!’
‘Pen? Is that you?’
‘Mally?’ Penny cried, breaking instantly into a smile. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘London!’ Mally yelled ecstatically. ‘We just got in. I called your flat. Peter told me where you were.’
‘How was the tour?’ Penny laughed. ‘I read about it. Seems you were—’
‘Fan-fuckin’-tastic!’ Mally cut in, in a broad Northern accent. ‘But what the hell are you doing in Portsmouth? We’re only here for the weekend.’
‘Then get on a train and come down,’ Penny cried. ‘There’s plenty of room. Declan won’t mind.’
‘What, all of us?’ Mally gasped excitedly. ‘D’you hear that, you pissheads?’ she called over her shoulder. ‘She’s inviting us down there.’
Penny laughed at the bawdy cheer of approval from Mally’s band. ‘Yes, all of you,’ she confirmed. ‘Get on the next train.’
‘Right on, sistuh,’ Mally boomed. ‘Be there as soon as we can,’ and after jotting down the address she rang off.
Still laughing, Penny replaced the receiver and strolled back to her computer. Mally and her rock band were old friends from college days whose rise to fame was beginning to take on meteoric proportions. They’d already had a number one hit and the next was currently zooming up the charts, while their recent tour of the States, from what she had read, had been a total sellout. It would be great to see Mally and the boys, but, damn it, how was she going to get rid of Richmond before they turned up so that she and Declan could talk? She’d told him on the phone about France, but though he hadn’t passed any comment at the time he had seemed as keen to discuss it as she’d expected him to be.
Smiling to herself, she sat back down and rested her chin on her hand. The entire world knew how possessive Declan was of her – his public outbursts of jealousy had on one momentous occasion resulted in him challenging a hapless young hack to pistols at dawn and, on another, to emptying a plate of squid over an MP’s head, in order to, as he’d put it, ‘cool his filthy ardour’, because he’d been gazing a touch too lustfully into Penny’s eyes. There were countless other incidents too, most of which had found their way into one diary column or another and kept the better part of London, if not the nation, highly entertained with the hot-blooded romance that, at the outset, no one had believed would last.
But it had and Penny smiled to herself as she recalled how only last weekend, which they had spent at his studio in London, he had left a message on his answerphone announcing to the world that he couldn’t come to the phone because he was making love to his woman. This was so typically Declan that it had simply made her laugh when she’d found out, and, besides, it was the truth: they’d spent a rare and blissful two days without a single interruption and she could only wish they were similarly occupied right now.
A surprising frisson of excitement suddenly passed through her, but it wasn’t only at the thought of their love-making, she realized, it was also at the idea of the kind of life they would lead if they did go to France. She was in no doubt that if she went Declan would come with her, if for no other reason than on the couple of occasions they had visited the Riviera he’d talked so wistfully of living there, had waxed so lyrical about the quality of the light, that she’d almost felt guilty at the way her job tied her to London. Once she had attempted, half-heartedly it was true, to persuade him to give in to his longing and take a studio in the artist’s village of St. Paul, but the conversation ended pretty quickly as there was no way he was going without her.