Sleeping With Ghosts

Reluctant to confront his disappointment any longer, she made an excuse to terminate the conversation. ‘My other line’s ringing, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.’

She replaced the telephone thinking about Jack McGowan. He was either in love with her or, alternatively, deeply in lust. Not entirely sure of her own feelings, which fluctuated from heady infatuation to irritation at his possessive need to control, she was left uncertain and confused. When she punched out Bob Conran’s telephone number her thoughts were still with Jack. They had met at a cocktail party two years previously when she’d found him overpowering and far too egotistical for her taste. She had refused to have dinner with him, making the excuse that she never went out with married men. Then at a film premiere eighteen months later, she had bumped into him again. She had been with her boss Rod, head of Trident, an independent film company responsible for more than one hundred and sixty hours of television production each year. Rod had given her the low-down on Jack McGowan.

Born in Aberdeen to a Scottish father and English mother. Powerful industrialist. Oil-rig machinery. One of the top five hundred richest men in the country. A true-blue Thatcherite, heavily tipped for a knighthood in 1982 and 1983, when he was pouring money into the Tory party, and had billions of pounds’ worth of export contracts littering his desk. Notoriously ruthless, yet a great philanthropist, and patron of the arts. Several much publicized run-ins with the press, and one particular nasty libel case in the mid-seventies involving insider dealing on the stock market. A brief affair last year with the soprano Anna Cavelli had culminated in the break-up of his twenty-eight-year marriage; although he and his wife had no plans to divorce. He’d had a daughter who’d died of a drugs overdose at twenty-two, and there was an adopted son from his wife’s first marriage.

Jack had made a beeline for Kathryn at the post-screening party, persuading her to leave the teeming milieu, and join him for a quiet supper at Harry’s Bar. She had agreed reluctantly and, to her surprise, she’d had a wonderful evening. Subsequent outings had followed, and Kathryn had been forced to revise her first impressions of Jack McGowan. Though not entirely wrong, they were greatly diluted by her discovery of his ironic sense of humour, and irrepressible charm. She recalled in detail the first time they had made love, the encounter had left her overwhelmed. Formidable he might be to his business opponents, but in bed Jack had proved gentle, and sensitive to her every need.

Bob Conran’s deep voice broke into her thoughts as he answered her call, and instantly she forgot about Jack as she began to discuss the development of the Girls in the Red project. Bob was dashing out to a meeting and could only spare her a few minutes. He suggested lunch the following day. Kathryn consulted her diary, and they agreed to meet at Le Caprice at one. The light on her intercom was flashing as she replaced the telephone. It was her secretary, Sally. ‘Mr Franks wants to see you asap. A word of warning, he’s on the warpath about something.’

Kathryn had a good idea what it was. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sally; I’m on my way.’ She clicked the intercom switch off, and headed for Rod Franks’s office. Kathryn waited on the threshold for a few moments, thinking about her boss. She had known Rod for ten years, and worked for him for six. He was highly talented, hot-tempered, and great at what he did. He had started out at sixteen, as a runner for a small film company, and had come up through the ranks. Ten years before, at thirty-five, Rod and his life-long friend Neville Morgan had started Trident, but Neville had died of Aids two years ago. Rod was a tough bastard, there was no denying that, but Kathryn understood him, at least most of the time. She also respected his enormous talent, and shrewd intellect. He in turn admired her tenacity, her creative flair, and her ability to get things done; but more important, they shared a mutual passion for the business. Both were totally committed to producing good, aspiring constantly to ‘great’ television.

When she entered his spacious office, Rod was next to the window, his back to her. Rod had style, she had to give him that, his office reflected it. Very chic, very minimalist, very nineties. Blond wood-panelled floors, beneath blonder panelled walls. A David Hockney painting and a huge vivid splash of Miró the only colour in the room. Less is more, Rod was fond of saying; if you got it right, as he so often did, she was forced to agree.

On her third footstep he turned, he was dressed in a dark blue lightweight Paul Smith suit and a collarless white cotton shirt. His dark hair was slicked back with gel, it glistened in the overhead spotlight. Wasting no time on pleasantries he said, ‘Did you know that Sue Chandler was pitching our idea, about the black heiress, to Ryan Messum at Fox?’ And when Kathryn nodded, he added, ‘Well why the hell didn’t you tell me? I could have stopped her.’

‘If you recall, Rod, the story was my idea originally. I told her about it the night before she left Trident. I thought she needed a break, after the shabby way you got rid of her.’

‘Look, darling, I’m the one who needs a break around here. Sue screwed up on two major productions. Women.’ He slapped a hand to his forehead, and took a step towards Kathryn. ‘The next time you decide to give away great ideas that, I might add, are already in development, ask me. OK?’

‘OK, Rod, it wasn’t such a great idea anyway. Girls in the Red is far better.’

‘It was so lousy, I heard Messum almost kissed that fucking bitch’s ass when she pitched it to him.’

Kathryn couldn’t help grinning. ‘Can you imagine Ryan Messum kissing anyone’s ass?’

In spite of himself Rod began to smile. ‘No. The only thing Messum would be likely to kiss is his own reflection, or that yappy Jack Russell he takes everywhere with him.’

He sat down behind his desk and indicated a chair opposite. ‘You’re right, Kathy. Girls in the Red is a much better project.’ He was the only person apart from her father who ever called her ‘Kathy’. ‘How’s it coming?’

‘It’s coming; we’re on schedule. Tim got some great footage in Leningrad and Moscow. And I’m having lunch with Bob tomorrow to finalize the script.’

‘Good, tell Bob he owes me lunch, too. In fact he owes me several.’ Rod formed a fist. ‘He’s as tight as a fish’s backside.’

Kathryn winked. ‘Have you tried one lately?’

Rod grinned. ‘Leave my sex life out of this.’ His telephone rang, he picked it up, pressing the hold button, then pointing at her with the same finger. ‘I’m not finished with you yet. Can you dig out your high-heeled sneakers and red dress for a book launch tomorrow night at the Groucho? It’s the new Collins publication by that guy Stuart.’

She knew the book. ‘Beyond Madness, by Nick Stuart?’

‘That’s the one, I optioned it this morning.’

Kathryn stood up. ‘It’s a great book, but I’m not certain it will adapt well.’

Rod pressed the hold button again. ‘Nigel, great to hear from you. Listen, I’ve got an amazing, too-good-to-miss idea for a documentary about the culling of rhinos in Tanzania.’

Kathryn turned to leave.

‘Hold on, Nigel.’ Rod looked at her expectantly.

She nodded her acceptance to the Groucho do, already dreading the noisy, shoulder-to-shoulder, cocktail party in Soho. She was halfway across the office when she heard Rod fling a final remark at her.

‘I want you to meet the author, Kathy. Apparently he’s very tricky, so you need to use every ounce of your irresistible charm.’

Kathryn stopped at the door. ‘If the stories about Nick Stuart are true, I think your charm might work better.’

She could hear Rod chuckling as she left the room.

Kathryn arrived at her flat in Notting Hill at ten past six. She had exactly forty-five minutes, to shower, wash her hair, change and get to Jack McGowan’s house in Hampstead for seven. She decided it wasn’t possible; planning her apology, she listened to her messages on the answering machine.

Bleep: Hi, Kathryn. Steve Fisher here. Thanks for the fax. Rod Franks is obviously as truculent as ever. Good to see that things don’t change. I’ve got some hot-off-the-press gen on your Nazi. Give me a call on 202 657 8826. Ciao.

Bleep: Kathryn, Bob Conran. Sorry but I’ll have to change our lunch date. If you get in before seven call me, if not I’ll speak to you at the office tomorrow morning.

‘Damn you, Bob! You promised to deliver the script.’

Bleep: This is Oliver Grant from Brinkforth and Sons. It’s four-thirty on Thursday 10th June. We have a firm offer on the table for Fallowfields; I would like to discuss it with you, please call at your earliest convenience. There was a short pause then, By the way I have forwarded the mail from Fallowfields to your present address. Bleep.

There was no time to digest this news now and instead Kathryn punched out Steve Fisher’s number in Washington. She got a nasty nasal voice asking if she wanted to leave a message on his voice mail.

‘Steve, it’s Kathryn. It’s six-fifteen London time. I’m racing now, going to a drinks party. I’ll call you when I get home. If I miss you, fax the info to my office asap. Thanks for working on it so quickly. Hope you’re well, and still enjoying life on Capitol Hill.’

She was undressing as she ran upstairs, and within twenty minutes, she had showered and was wearing an ankle-length simple black sheath, with matching high heels; her unwashed hair gelled back from her face.

On the drive out to North London, she planned what she would say to her father on Saturday. The death of her mother, and the unwelcome knowledge about Freda’s past life would have to be addressed. She imagined his reaction: one of initial shock, then suppressed emotion, followed by a complete refusal to discuss it.

When she pulled up in front of Jack McGowan’s house in Hampstead, a quick glance at the car clock told her she was only ten minutes late. Not bad going, she congratulated herself, cutting the ignition and grabbing her jacket from the back seat.

Jack’s housekeeper, Mrs Peacock, opened the door. Kathryn heard a familiar deep voice as soon as she stepped into the hall.

‘I don’t care what Nadia Foreman says; she may be a brilliant lawyer but remember, Paul, she’s not God and we can’t afford any adverse publicity right now. The contract with the Saudis is almost in the bag.’

Kathryn handed her jacket to Mrs Peacock, thinking – as she always did – that anyone less like her name would be hard to find. Mrs Peacock was brown. Everything about her was expressed in varying degrees of the colour. From her mouse brown hair; to her ashen, liver-spotted skin; dull muddy eyes; and muted beige clothes. Kathryn accepted her offer of a drink, choosing a glass of mineral water, and popped her head around the open door to Jack’s study. He was standing next to his desk, one hand holding the telephone, the other writing something on a pad next to it. He had his back to her. She waited for a couple of minutes listening to his steady voice, the soft Scottish intonation still evident in certain words.

‘I don’t give a damn if she likes it or not, she’s got to do it or look for a job elsewhere. There are plenty more budding young lawyers where she came from, Paul, remind her of that. And while you’re at it, remind her of the spin-off and perks this contract will give her, not to mention the existing perks she is currently enjoying with the chief executive.’

Kathryn assumed Jack was talking to Paul Rowland. She had met Paul a couple of times and liked what she had seen. For a chief executive he had an awkward boyish sort of charm, with a shyness that she had found extremely appealing. Not that shy she conceded; he was obviously having an affair with Nadia Foreman. The sultry, aggressive lawyer Nadia, and Paul Rowland, seemed an incongruous couple to her. She hadn’t met Paul’s wife Christine, but Jack had mentioned that she was a bossy overpowering woman. If she found out, she would probably kill him.

Silently Kathryn backed out, almost bumping into the Peacock, who was carrying a tray bearing a Perrier water and a bowl of cashew nuts. With her broad back, the housekeeper held open the door to the drawing room, giving her usual disapproving glare. Kathryn took her drink, and looking directly at Mrs Peacock she began to smile. Why let the old dragon bother me? She was still smiling, when she stepped inside the room.

It was a big square, with high ceilings and huge picture windows front and back. It could have been beautiful, if it wasn’t so cluttered and dark. It had been built in the late eighteen-nineties, when Hampstead was a garden suburb. Jack had bought it in 1978. In her opinion it had been decorated with lots of new money, and bad taste. But then who determined ‘taste’? Kathryn mused. And who was she to be so critical? Rod had once said to her, There’s no such thing as good or bad taste, merely taste – after a particularly scathing comment she had passed on the decor in her father’s house.

Jack’s voice rose, but she could no longer make out what he was saying. A minute later she heard footsteps in the hall followed by, ‘Mrs Peacock, get me a gin and tonic.’

Paul Rowland is getting soft in his old age, Jack was thinking as he stood in front of the large mirror in the hall. If he screwed up on this one, he would have to seriously think about getting rid of him, get in some new blood. He brushed a few imaginary specks of dust from the collar of his dress suit, adjusted his bow tie with fastidious neatness, then cracking his knuckles one by one, in a stage whisper he spoke to his reflection. ‘Not bad for an old boy of almost fifty-eight.’

He thought about Paul again. Jack hoped Paul would pull this deal off and come out smelling of roses. He liked him, and he trusted him. Paul had been with KJM for twenty-four years. He could remember him as a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, making the tea.

Mrs Peacock approached with a beaming smile, breaking his train of thought. He accepted his gin and afforded himself one last glance in the mirror before walking into the drawing room.

Kathryn was standing in front of the window at the south side of the house. From here, she had a view down the deep close-cut lawn. It was bordered by untidy flowerbeds, and ended in a high brick wall, clad with dying ivy. Jack hated gardening. Gardens are a bloody nuisance. They cost a fortune to plant and maintain, and we only get to appreciate them for a few days a year. She had heard his opinion several times. It was raining hard, small puddles were beginning to form on the uneven surface of the circular paved terrace. She watched the water bounce off the top of the white wrought-iron table they had eaten off in last week’s sunshine. It looked desolate now.

Hearing the chink of ice in Jack’s glass, she turned to greet him. ‘Hi, Jack, old Peacock let me in.’ She pulled a long face. ‘I’m convinced that old bitch hates me. I’m sure she’s in love with you, and after you and your wife split up she was convinced she’d get you.’

Jack looked genuinely surprised. ‘You’re not serious are you? Peacock in love, it’s ridiculous!’

Not wanting to discuss the widowed housekeeper any longer, Kathryn said, ‘Why not? You’re a very attractive man.’

Also eager to change the subject, he beamed, his cosmetically altered smile flashing white and even. Standing very close to her, he murmured, ‘You look beautiful, Kathryn.’

Aware of his alert, aquamarine eyes wandering admiringly over her statuesque body, warming to his admiration, she moved deliberately to expose one long leg from inside her dress. It was slit to mid-thigh.

He liked the way her dark honey hair, slicked back from her face, accentuated her strong jaw and high cheekbones. She was wearing a pair of diamond drop earrings he had bought her for her thirty-fourth birthday the previous month. Bending forward to plant a kiss, he felt her perfume fill his nostrils. It was a new fragrance, sweeter than the musk-based one she usually wore. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

‘New perfume?’

‘Mm, you like?’ She held out a bare arm.

‘Not sure yet.’ He kissed the inside of her wrist. ‘It might grow on me.’ He straightened up then looking at her closely said, ‘You’re a little pale tonight, Kathryn, are you all right?’

Unable to tell him the real reason, she used an excuse. ‘I’m fine, just working too hard I suppose.’ In fact she had spent the entire day debating with herself whether or not to tell Jack about Klaus Von Trellenberg. This evening on her way to his house she had finally decided not to. The more she talked about it, the more real it would become; far better to pretend it had never happened. No one else could connect her to Trellenberg. Yet in her own mind she could not erase the reoccurring image of her grandfather dressed in SS uniform. She wondered with dread if it would always be there.

‘You could do with a holiday,’ Jack was saying, but Kathryn was staring into space, a faraway expression on her face. ‘Kathryn, did you hear me?’ He clicked his fingers in front of her glazed eyes.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, Jack, did you say something?’

‘I said you need a rest, a holiday.’

‘Try telling Rod Franks that!’

Jack made no comment, and went on as if she hadn’t spoken. It was a habit she was positive he was unaware of, but that did not stop her irritation.

‘I’ve got to go to Singapore in a few weeks’ time … Why don’t I extend my stay and we’ll do a bit of island-hopping: Phuket, Ko Samui, Bali. Only yesterday I heard about a wonderful tented hotel, somewhere in Indonesia. How about it?’ Jack urged, taking a sip of gin and tonic.

‘I’m not sure if I can get the time off work. We’re just about to start a new series for Channel Four, and you know what a stickler Rod is …’

‘Tell Rod you need a break. I’ll buy you your own bloody production company if he sacks you.’

There was no doubt in Kathryn’s mind that Jack meant what he said. If she didn’t stop him, he would be buying her expensive gifts constantly. Gently she said, ‘That’s not the answer, Jack; you can’t go through life buying everything and everybody.’

‘Why not? It’s worked so far!’ He lifted his glass. His pupils were like tiny black icebergs, gleaming over the rim. He winked and grinned.

She inclined her head a little, a soft blush colouring her skin. Under the sophisticated façade Kathryn wore so easily, there was a fragile vulnerability. Jack found it highly provocative, and would have liked to make love to her there and then. His mind ran riot with erotic imaginings in which her long dress bunched up around her waist, and one full breast lay exposed – his tongue tracing the nipple, erect and puckered; her naked backside, rounded and hard, pressed against the rain-spattered window. He felt an erection stirring, and marvelled afresh at how Kathryn had managed to revitalize his flagging libido. Nothing like a surge of testosterone to make a man feel good, he thought with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

‘What are you thinking, Jack? All of a sudden you look very pleased with yourself.’

‘I was thinking how lucky I am to have a woman like you, and how easy it would be for that same woman to make an old man very happy. Two weeks in the Far East, not too much to ask is it?’

‘No, Jack, it’s not too much to ask, and it’s a lovely thought. I know I would have a wonderful time, and you would spoil me rotten, but not right now. I’ve got a lot on at the moment. Later in the year perhaps.’

Shrewdly Jack detected that her voice held no promise, yet it did not deter him from saying, ‘I could never spoil you enough, Kathryn, well certainly not sufficiently to make you rotten. The offer is open, think about it; I won’t be asking anyone else.’

‘OK, Jack, thanks.’

‘Talking about asking someone else, have you spoken to your father about this weekend?’

Reluctantly she lied. ‘Yes I have, he can’t get down to London until Saturday. He’s been working with a doctor from America who’s developed a cancer vaccine. The doctor is over here from California and my father has to entertain him.’ With pangs of regret and resentment, Kathryn thought back to all the times she had needed her father and he had been too busy working to be there for her. ‘His work is very important, all consuming you might say.’

Jack detected the bitterness in this last sentence, and felt a surge of sympathy. He had enjoyed a rare closeness with his own father, and had looked forward to a loving intimate relationship with his only daughter. It still hurt like hell to think about Laraine. Jack stared hard at Kathryn but it was his daughter’s face he saw. She was laughing, she had laughed a lot as a child and he missed that more than anything else. She had worn her hair swept back in a long ponytail from her petite pretty face. Yes, she had been pretty and he wanted to remember her like that; not the way she’d looked at the end. Had she lived she would have been two years younger than Kathryn was now. How could Richard de Moubray neglect his beautiful daughter? Jack surmised that the man was not only a fool, but also a bloody selfish one.

‘I’m sorry about the wedding, Jack.’

His face fell. ‘I’m sorry too.’

Feeling guilty, and slightly rattled, she gave his arm a pinch. ‘Come on, cheer up, there’ll be other weekends.’

Jack did not reply but she noticed a subtle change in his body language; he stiffened and his free hand clenched tight.

Kathryn felt bad about lying to him, and even more so about not wanting to spend the weekend with him. Jack was so good to her, too good; his doting indulgence she sometimes found claustrophobic.

‘Listen, Jack, I’ve said I’m sorry. Let’s not make a big deal of this. I’m sure you’ll have a better time than me anyway. I’ve got to listen to that dreadful Emily all evening. Believe me it’s a fate worse than death.’ She decided to make amends by saying, ‘How about you come over to my place for brunch on Sunday? Scrambled eggs and salmon; you can bring the champagne?’

This suggestion seemed to cheer him up, it produced a smile at least. ‘I’d love to. I’ll need cheering up after the Foster-Ward wedding. I’ll drive back to London first thing Sunday morning.’

She stepped up to him, playfully pinching his arm. ‘That’s settled then, and now don’t you think we should go … The Buchanans’ party’s going to be over before we get there.’

The envelope from Brinkforths was the first thing Kathryn saw when she padded downstairs the following morning. It contained four letters, and a compliment slip. There was a reply to an application her mother had made about an advanced floristry course, plus an electricity bill, and a telephone bill. She scanned the list of charges, astonished by three overseas calls amounting to over three hundred and fifty pounds. Kathryn was certain British Telecom must have made a mistake: Freda had hardly ever used the phone, she’d had very few people to call. She made a mental note to call BT when she got to the office.

The last letter was addressed to ‘FREDA’ in capital letters with no surname. The big looped scrawl almost filled the entire front of the small blue envelope, and part of the address had been spelt incorrectly. Tearing it open, Kathryn felt her heart miss a beat when she saw that it was written in German. Struggling with her schoolgirl grasp of the language, she began to read.

My dearest child,

I cannot begin to express how much your letter has meant to me. After all these years, to know you are alive has brought great joy and a sense of purpose that I believed was lost from my life. I can’t tell you how many hours I have spent looking at your photographs. It fills me with … Kathryn could not read the next few words and made a mental note to buy a German dictionary, but she surprised herself by translating the next paragraph easily … How I wish things could have been different, Freda, but we are all mere victims of fate. Mine dictated by circumstances and history, as you know only too well. I lost faith with that madman who wasted so many lives and brought our beloved country to her knees.