The Honey Trap

‘I must.’

She watched him square his shoulders and march back to the VIP area. I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Angel Blackthorne. I just bloody well hope you do.

Chapter 8

Okay, top marks for speed, Angel thought as she felt someone slip onto the stool next to her a few minutes later. But when she swung round she found it was only Leo, looking sheepish.

She should have known his temper by now. A quick flare-up, a five-minute sulk and then he’d be back to his usual self, all schoolboy charm and wearing his best hangdog expression.

‘I’m a twat,’ he said by way of an apology.

She glared at him. He’d get no disagreement from her, not unless he could do better than that.

‘I spose I should realise by now you’re only looking out for me.’ He scuffed his foot against the polished-steel crossrail of the barstool. ‘But it just makes it so difficult when I know you and Em are constantly fidgeting about, watching and fretting like – well, like you’re my mums or something.’

He raised his eyes to hers and searched them keenly. ‘Look, Angel, I know when we were together I let you down time and again, and put you through hell besides. I know it was me and only me who ruined whatever chance we had to make it work as a couple. It means a lot that you forgave me. I can be a moody sod, but I want you to know I won’t throw away what we have now. You’re my best friend and this time I promise I will fight to keep you.’

Angel blinked, touched and surprised by the rare display of affection. ‘Soppy git,’ she said. He wrinkled his nose as she ruffled the rough fuzz of black hair. ‘I thought you’d have realised it by now. You don’t get rid of me that easily.’

He looked down at his feet, suddenly bashful. ‘Alright, Ginge. You don’t have to show me up in front of all the top totty in this place. I’m losing vital macho points here.’

‘It is about time we both got back on that particular horse,’ she said, smiling. ‘The dating one, I mean. Not any other horse you might have in mind. Not that I really want to know, but how long has it been for you anyway?’

‘Oh, nine months or so, give or take a few millennia. But who’s counting, really? I’ve decided to become a tantric hippy sex celibate, actually, like Sting or one of those guys. I could live to be a hundred and thirty-five.’

‘It’ll certainly feel like that long anyway,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Come on, mate, spill. You know all about my disaster of a love life, just like every other reader of the bloody Investigator. Don’t you have any hot prospects on the horizon?’

‘Just one.’ His glance drifted to the floor and Angel bit her tongue, wishing she could take back the teasing question. For some reason she was suddenly afraid to hear the answer.

Leo looked up and his gaze, full of feeling, met hers. He couldn’t… not after they’d worked so hard to get to where they were now. Could he?

‘It’s Emily,’ he confided. Angel experienced a wave of relief she couldn’t even have begun to explain.

So that was it. Her two best friends…

‘You must’ve noticed me and Em getting closer, spending more time just the two of us. But every time it gets to the point where I feel like she might care about me as more than just a friend, she pushes me away. Then the next thing I hear she’s dating some bellend and we’re back at Mate Zero.’

Angel felt a pang of guilt. She actually hadn’t noticed, although the whole thing must have been unfolding right in front of her for months. But she’d been so tied up in her own affairs – the internship, the honey trap and its fallout – she hadn’t had a thought to spare for anyone’s complicated love life except her own.

‘Well, you know how she’s been since Peter and the way that ended.’ Angel reached out to give his back a comforting rub. ‘And you know what she used to be like before. Dating and sex she has no problem with, but when it comes to getting close, learning to trust someone…’

‘I know, I know. But I’m hitting a brick wall here, Ginge. I really don’t know where to go next.’ He sighed, vengefully tearing an unfortunate beer mat straight down the middle. ‘So how about you? Any irons in the fire I should know about?’

‘Nah. My ex was a lot to live up to.’ She grinned, perfectly comfortable with him again now the awkward moment had passed. ‘To be honest, Seb was my first since, well, whenever it was you and me broke up…’

‘Seriously?’ His dark eyes widened in shock. ‘And I thought I had it bad. You need to get yourself out there, woman. At this rate, Mad Cat Lady status beckons before you hit thirty.’

‘Not sure that process hasn’t already started, to be honest.’

Leo shook his head with mock solemnity. ‘Poor Wilchester. I never realised he’d had such big shoes to fill that night. No wonder he looks so miserable. You know what they say: once you’ve had Leo, you never – er, something that rhymes with Leo which basically means I’m great in bed.’

‘They don’t say that.’

‘Well, no, they don’t say that. Not as such.’

A low ‘hem’ at her elbow forced Angel to look around. Seb’s PR guy, looking sulky and belligerent, was trying to attract her attention. She wondered how long he’d been standing there, eavesdropping on their conversation.

‘Yes?’

‘Against my advice, Mr Wilchester has agreed to give an interview to the Investigator,’ he stated formally, refusing to make eye contact while he handed back her press pass. Angel saw Leo raise a quizzical eyebrow and she gave her head a slight shake to let him know she’d explain later.

‘My colleague will join us, of course?’

PR Guy eyed Leo with sneering dislike. ‘That was not part of the agreement. Look, darling, you’ve got ten minutes with my client, not a minute more. So I suggest you grab whatever it is you need and come with me.’

What she felt like she needed if she was going anywhere with this guy was a high-powered taser and a clear shot at his groin, but nevertheless she stood up to follow as he turned back towards the club’s VIP area. She made an apologetic face to Leo, snatched her bag and left him looking puzzled by the bar.

‘The rules will be as follows,’ PR Guy continued as she trailed after him through the dimly lit club, illuminated only by the blue LED strips embedded into the floor and bar. ‘No personal questions about my client’s home life, marriage, childhood, ex-partners, sexual preferences, family or future plans. No implications about my client’s lifestyle, nor nuanced inferences about his private life from the answers he does choose to provide. If Mr Wilchester is made to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed by any questions put to him, the interview will be terminated immediately. If I feel the questions put to Mr Wilchester will be likely to cause him future embarrassment, the interview will be terminated immediately. If –’

‘So am I interviewing him or you?’ Angel interrupted, narrowing her eyes. ‘If you’re expecting me to write some promotional puff piece for Tigerblaze Studios you can forget it. I’m not doing your job for you, mate.’

PR Guy turned to face her, glowing with resentment. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. This is a film premiere. Your questions will relate to my client’s work and the film you have just seen. Or this interview can and will be shut down.’

‘Fine,’ she snapped back. ‘Suits me. It’s his work that interests me, not his private life. Enthralling though I’m sure it is.’

They continued in sullen silence until they reached the VIP lounge. A plaited cord, rich electric blue like everything else in the place, barred their entrance. PR Guy unhooked it at one end and ushered her through, flashing some sort of ID at the burly bouncer stationed just inside.

The reality of what she was doing hit Angel with a solid drop-kick to the abdomen when she spotted Seb in a private booth, lounging in the corner of a round, white-leather sofa. He was drinking a mini milk bottle of champagne and chatting to the lead actor from The Milkman Cometh with a smile that didn’t extend to his eyes. She was relieved to see Carole Beaumont wasn’t with him.

Too late to back out now…

She took a few hesitant steps towards his table, but stopped dead in her tracks when he turned and caught sight of her. His eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared, his sculpted lips setting in a thin line. There it was, the very expression she’d been dreading: disdain, hard and unforgiving. She dug her heels into the thin black carpet, willed her posture into erect dignity, but he refused to withdraw his stare.

She could feel the PR man’s eyes burning into her from behind too, wondering what she was waiting for now she’d finally got the coup to end all coups; an exclusive audience with publicity-shunning Sebastian Wilchester. Forcing her lips into a polite smile, she pushed herself forward and into a seat at the other side of his table.

‘Thanks, George, good job with everything tonight,’ Seb said to the young actor, ignoring her. ‘You’d better go find your mum before she starts worrying. Catch up in a bit. Just have to do a quick press thing before I can socialise.’ He jerked his head in her direction.

‘You’re a martyr to it, aren’t you, Seb? Okay, see you in a little while then.’ George nodded to Angel and the PR man as he stood up to leave.

Interview! Shit! She really hadn’t thought this far ahead. Here was Seb, eyes thrusting a thousand knives in her direction, and the Tigerblaze PR manager ready to shut her down the instant she went off message, and she hadn’t thought up a single question. All she wanted to do was get whatever closure she could by offering an apology, congratulate Seb on the film and go, never to darken his red carpet again. But she could hardly do that with PR Guy breathing down her neck.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she mumbled, trying not to wilt under Seb’s cool, appraising gaze.

She took out her dictaphone and placed it on the table. ‘You don’t mind…?’

‘Not at all,’ he answered, with flesh-freezing good manners and just a touch of sarcasm. ‘Always committed to helping the Investigator get its facts straight.’

The last time she’d been this close to him, his tawny eyes had been soft and heavy with post-orgasmic warmth. Now, it was obvious they could hardly stand the sight of her. Why the hell had he agreed to this? Did he just want to make her feel uncomfortable? Some sort of petty revenge?

She fumbled with the dictaphone, pressing the button to record, and pulled out her notebook.

‘You’re going to make notes and record as well?’ the PR man asked. He glanced over her shoulder, frowning when he caught sight of the indecipherable squiggles of her shorthand. ‘I’m surprised you still need to learn that, with all this technology working for you.’

‘Yep. Never know when the recording might fail.’ She looked up at him. ‘Anyway, I wanted to learn it. Keeps what ought to be private, private.’

‘It’s fine, Kev. I’m sure she’ll give us a fair write-up,’ Seb said in a calm tone. ‘She certainly looks like she has – integrity.’

There was no doubting the perfectly timed pause, the charming, chilling tone, or the killing expression hanging on his features. Cool, solid dislike oozed from every syllable.

In the dim light she squinted at the shorthand notes she’d made during the film earlier; little more than a list of actors’ names. It was enough to be bluffing along with, anyway.

‘Why the genre change, Mr Wilchester?’ she shot out, looking down at her notepad as if the questions were right there in front of her. ‘Bit of a jump, isn’t it, from British Gangster – sorry, ‘East End Noir’ I think you call it – to black comedy?’

His face remained impassive, but she thought from the flicker in his eyes she detected a glimmer of disappointment. Not a new question then. Her ‘gutsy girl reporter’ routine might have carried her through in the 1930s, but it seemed to be falling a bit flat right now. So long, Lois Lane, and thanks for nothing.

‘I pioneered East End Noir, Miss Blackthorne, although I wasn’t the one to name it. My style of direction, and to some extent my writing, were heavily shaped by Film Noir influences. When, at the age of barely twenty, I first started experimenting in film, it was only natural they would dictate my interpretation of that most British of genres, the London gangster movie. My first film, Unreal City, drew on the stylistic framing I so admired in the work of John Huston, for example.’ His lips curled into something like a sneer. ‘But of course, I’m sure you noticed that.’

She pinkened and jutted out her chin. He was mocking her; patronising her. Did he know she hadn’t seen any of his films before tonight, or was this his way of showing her that airhead little slappers on tabloid papers had no place interviewing filmmakers of his calibre?

‘The genre jump was, in fact, a perfectly natural one,’ he continued. ‘In Milkman, I take elements of Noir and mingle them with the traditional British farce; again, I hope, creating something that is almost a genre unto itself – dark, thrilling and funny all at once. How far I have been successful is for the public to decide, but for myself, and for the cast and crew, I must say we have been very proud of the result.’

A genre unto itself? Okay, it was true, but still… pretentious bastard.

‘Your work has often been compared to that of Orson Welles.’ She made an attempt to match her tone to his, hoping she was making a fair performance of reading out pre-scripted questions from the pad in front of her. And there it was again, the faint flicker that told her these questions were distinctly passé to him. Seb still looked angry, but just as mortifying to her professional pride was that he looked bored. She shuffled in her seat, swallowing hard, calculating her next move.

‘Your work has often been compared to that of Orson Welles,’ she repeated, meeting his gaze. ‘Which, given the similarity in your backgrounds, is perhaps inevitable. But your latest venture seems to have been more heavily influenced by fifties-era Billy Wilder, with perhaps a smidge of Robert Hamer thrown in for good measure. What would you say to those who might suggest your work is not only influenced by these directors, but to a great extent derivative?’

She faced off against him, blazing defiance, feeling Kev’s frown through the hairs on the back of her neck. It was a bold gambit, but it worked. Seb’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, his anger tempered with a new and healthy dose of respect.

‘I’m flattered, Miss Blackthorne,’ he said, inclining his head towards her. ‘We all want to be like our heroes, and I’m certainly no different. You have coupled my name with two of the men in this business I admire more than many others, and for that, I thank you. If my work is, as you say I’m likely to be accused of, ‘derivative’ – well, if it can bring even a tenth of the pleasure I’ve experienced while watching Sunset Boulevard or Kind Hearts and Coronets to my audiences then my time won’t have been wasted.’

The men in this business. His words annoyed her, bringing back the vivid memory of Carole Beaumont in The Milkman Cometh: that stellar performance and perfect comic timing.

‘You talk of men, and those are certainly two of the greats,’ she went on, all caution now gone. It was amazing how appearing nude on the front page of a national newspaper could break down your inhibitions in social situations. ‘But there’s a great woman in the equation here too: your wife and leading lady, Ms Beaumont.’

His face hardened and she felt Kev take a step towards her, ready to shut down the interview if he felt she was veering in any way towards an invasive personal question. She gritted her teeth and looked down again at the notepad.

‘Carole Beaumont, who I think we’ve seen tonight is a true comic talent. Can you tell me how you came to build up this rapport you seem to have together as director and actor?’

It was a weak question and she knew it, but she was clutching at straws now, hanging on as best she could. She wished Kev would go away for just five minutes so she could extricate herself from the whole charade.

She could feel the bitterness emanating from Seb when he answered, hating her for bringing up Carole’s name and reminding him of their shared betrayal.

‘Carole is my wife, yes, and we have had a long – by showbusiness standards at least – and successful marriage.’ He glared at her, almost daring her to object. ‘But she’s more than that. Carole is my oldest and closest friend. It’s easy to build up a rapport, as you call it – or as I like to think of it, an empathy, an affinity – after twenty-four years in each other’s company.’

She had to try hard to stop herself flinching, or bursting into tears, or laughter, in the angry beam of his gaze. She thought of her oldest friends, Leo and Emily, and the affinity she had with them. There was a difference though, she remembered, thinking of the dark circles around Carole Beaumont’s eyes. She would never do anything to hurt those closest to her.

Angel felt a surge of resentment towards this man, this arrogant man, who seemed to manipulate the life and emotions of the woman he loved as casually as if she were a character in one of his films. She fixed him with a steely gaze while she framed her next question.

‘Are you a fraud, Mr Wilchester? A pale imitation of the filmmakers whose work you so admire?’

‘That’s enough!’ the PR manager exploded behind her. ‘I told you, if this interview got out of hand it would be shut down –’

‘It’s okay, Kev,’ Seb said, adopting a pacifying tone much less formal and polished than the one he’d used so far. ‘She’s right to go hard on me. That’s her job. Not everything in PR’s about product placement and arse-kissing, however much your guys would like it to be. Just let me answer the question.’

He turned back to Angel and his expression seemed – but perhaps she was imagining it – ever so slightly softer than before.

‘No, Miss Blackthorne. I don’t think I’m a fraud.’ He paused for a moment and drained the last sip of his champagne, apparently savouring the flavour while his eyes met hers across the table. ‘If you’re asking do I have influences, then the answer is yes, very significant ones, and I encourage them to flow into my work as much as I can. TS Eliot, the poet, said ‘good writers borrow, great writers steal’. Or your readers might understand it better as that hackneyed phrase, ‘nothing new under the sun’. I suppose what I’m trying to say is yes, my work borrows – and steals – and yes, it’s still original, at least as long as it elicits a new emotion, creates a new sensation. All art is imitation, Miss Blackthorne. But some is, excuse me, bloody good imitation. Perhaps my work does extricate those elements it most admires in the work of others, hacks them up and monster-like assembles them again into something new. Then, to carry the metaphor to its logical conclusion, it gives them life through fresh direction and great performances by the cream of our acting talent. But without praising myself unduly, I’d say that’s no bad thing.’

He leaned back with a self-satisfied half-smile. His smug expression irritated her, though she couldn’t disagree with anything he’d said. She scribbled away, gibberish symbols meaning nothing, just to give her hands something to occupy them.

‘But you don’t have a drink, Miss Blackthorne,’ Seb said in the same calm, self-assured tone.

‘I don’t. But there’s really no need –’

He looked up at Kev. The PR man was still standing behind Angel, sullen-browed and resentful. ‘Kev, any chance you could pop over to the champagne bar and get a couple of glasses? Or milk bottles or whatever?’

Kev remained the same scowling, immovable pillar of pinstripe suit and Brylcreem. ‘You don’t pay me to be your drinks boy, Seb.’

‘No, I pay you to represent me in a good light to the public. And right now you’re making me look like an inconsiderate pillock in front of this young lady. Look, go on. It’ll only take five minutes.’

The PR man still held his position, looking stubborn and sulky. Seb flung him an impatient glance.

‘Please, Kev. As a favour. You can get yourself one while you’re there, eh?’

‘Fine,’ Kev growled. ‘This once, then. But watch what you say while I’m gone, can you? This is the bloody Investigator we’re talking about, don’t forget.’ He dragged himself away towards the VIP lounge bar, keeping his suspicious gaze on Angel to the last.

She squirmed in her chair. It was clear Seb wanted the PR man out of the way, and she wondered helplessly what was coming now.

As soon as Kev was out of earshot, the director’s eyes narrowed and he leaned over the table to take hold of her wrist in his powerful fingers. The polite, polished veneer of the professional film director dropped to reveal the Seb she knew, the one she’d met that night at the hotel, and he was seething. She noticed he was now wearing a gold wedding band on his third finger. The metal felt hot and hard against her skin.

‘For Christ’s sake, Angel, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you know you nearly ruined everything?’

‘I nearly ruined everything?’ Angel said in a furious whisper, trying to pull her wrist away from the uncomfortable grip of his fingers. ‘Perhaps if you’d been so concerned about your wife and your bloody marriage that night, you would have remembered to keep it in your pants! No one made you cheat, Seb. You did that all on your own, and with very little persuasion, I might add.’

‘That’s not what I meant!’ he almost yelled in a voice strangled with fury.

He looked around to see if anyone had heard, lowering his voice when he spoke again. ‘That’s not what I – listen, I had a great time with you that night. And contrary to what you or your editor might think, I don’t make a habit of picking up girls in bars. Then when I saw the story I had to assume you were a private investigator, or worse, a hooker, paid to set me up. It made me sick to my stomach to think we… God! Now I find you’re what, a professional reporter? Seriously, who does that to someone? What the hell is wrong with you?’

‘Look, I’m just an intern, alright?’ she muttered, looking down at her feet. ‘Just a crappy intern. It wasn’t like I was supposed to –’

‘Supposed to what? Ruin my life? Destroy my reputation, my peace of mind, my marriage? Supposed to what, Angel?’

‘Supposed to sleep with you, Seb, okay?’ she blurted out in a choked voice, feeling the briny sting of tears.

His eyes widened when he saw the tears, then narrowed in anger.

‘Hey. Stop it. Look, go to the toilets if you need to and get yourself sorted. This is a public place and you’re making us conspicuous.’ His mouth twisted in derision. ‘And I presume you wouldn’t want another paper to get that exclusive.’

Shooting him a look, she dragged back the salty drops with an effort. He was right. This wouldn’t do, not here.

‘Okay, so I was sent by my editor to honey trap you, I think that’s pretty plain at this point. But I was only supposed to get you up to the hotel room, get one compromising shot and come away. The rest – well, you know the rest. I didn’t know we were still being filmed. You saw me block the camera with that towel. And for what it’s worth, I apologise, to you and your wife. I don’t know what made me do it. I’m a sizzling mess of a human person and just like you I ballsed things up, for all three of us but especially for her. And you can bet I’ll beat myself up about it every day of my life from now on. But if you want to know whether I regret the time we spent together, then I don’t know how to answer you.’

Seb loosened his grip on her wrist and just stared at her. His expression was unreadable, his face unflinching. She glared back, trying and failing to make her face as emotionless as his.

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Her voice cracked as he continued to stare at her in total silence. ‘It doesn’t fix things but it’s all I’ve got, Seb. I’m sorry. And for what it’s worth, I thought The Milkman Cometh was a masterpiece. Original, compelling, unbelievably tight. Wilder would have been proud to call it his.’