Acquired Tastes (40 page)

'You came,' he said lamely, as they stood in front of him.

Alicia held out the videotape. Vijay stared at it for a moment, his hands still in his pockets, then he looked up, a mute appeal in his eyes. But he saw no mercy in the hazel green eyes that gazed back into his, only implacable determination. He reluctantly took his right hand out of his pocket and held it out.

'Have you got us tickets for the show?' demanded Alicia, as Vijay tucked the tape inside his shirt.

Vijay nodded. 'But it was much more difficult than I expected. All the spare tickets and even some of the allotted ones have been given to some journalists who've turned up, something to do with Gabriella.'

If he had hoped to deter Alicia, he was wrong. A look almost bordering on ecstasy crossed her face. She grabbed Vijay's arm, her fingers digging into his flesh.

'Journalists!' she declared, 'it couldn’t be better. Now you will do what we agreed, won't you? You promise?'

Vijay nodded reluctantly, rubbing his arm where Alicia’s fingers had left deep welts. Then he dug into his shirt pocket and took out the two tickets he had begged from Heather.

'The audience will be allowed in after the rehearsal at about 12.15. You will be careful, won't you? If Vanessa sees you she might guess something is up.'

In answer, Alicia and Jeremy donned wrap-around sunglasses and baseball caps. Vijay grinned despite himself, and then turned their caps around so that the peaks faced backwards.

'That's the way to wear them,' he said.

Jeremy grasped Vijay's hand. 'Good luck, old man,' he said warmly, 'we're depending on you.'

Then, much to Vijay’s surprise, Alicia threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. 'I think you're being very brave. Thank you.'

Suffused with a warm glow and feeling much more resolute, if not brave, Vijay sprinted back into the building. He had a dangerous mission, but he didn't intend to let them down. He would make his move after the rehearsal was over, which should be in about half an hour.

Philip mopped his face with his handkerchief, straightened his tie, and then took several deep breaths to steady himself. There was no need to panic, the rehearsal could have been worse.

Fergus had fallen over twice, but anyone unfamiliar with a studio could trip over a camera cable, while lots of people got so nervous before a performance that they threw up. When he had been producing arts programmes for the BBC, he interviewed several leading actors who said it happened to them all the time. At least Fergus had thrown up in a corner where nobody could see and not over a vital part of the set. The assistant floor manager had been a bit upset, but luckily she had a spare pair of shoes. Anyway, it wasn't like the old days, they weren't going out live, just in front of an audience which now consisted mainly of tabloid journalists.

Philip's heart did a funny little somersault. He took another tablet.

'You can come in now, darling,' Gabriella's voice bade him.

He smoothed his hair and opened her dressing-room door.

'What do you think?' she asked, holding out her arms and executing a stately twirl.

Gabriella had changed from her black rehearsal clothes into a peacock blue, shot silk tunic and voluminous harem pants. Her hair had been swept up into a turban of embroidered blue and gold silk, and around her neck she wore a many layered oriental gold necklace.

Philip stared. He had never seen her looking so beautiful.

'Well, say something, darling. I thought a touch of the Kama Sutra would be appropriate. You don't think I've gone over the top, do you?' Gabriella asked, slipping an egg-sized lapis lazuli ring on to her finger.

'You look absolutely ravishing,' Philip managed at last.

Gabriella rewarded him with a radiant smile. 'Let's go and face the vultures who want to pick over my bones. I intend to show them there's plenty of life in me yet.'

Philip held out his arm, and Gabriella slipped her hand through, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

'Lead on, dear friend, I'm as ready as I'll ever be.'

Philip brushed away another tear and attempted to compose his face in the semblance of an answering smile, but it curdled on his lips as an anguished bellow came from the next dressing room. It sounded like the death agonies of a large animal, but the string of curses which followed were distinctly human.

Philip gripped Gabriella's arm tightly and propelled her along the corridor like a man possessed. Whatever was happening in the other dressing room, he didn't want to know.

Behind them, Fergus gasped for breath as Vanessa let him up from the basin of cold water in which she had been holding him face-down.

'Damn it, woman, you could drown a man like that,' he said, trying to catch his breath.

'Don't tempt me,' warned Vanessa, and twisted her fingers in his hair.

Fergus winced. 'I'm sober, I promise you, there's no need for any more water.'

Vanessa reluctantly released her hold and let Fergus straighten up. She thrust a towel at him and he slumped into a chair and dried his face. He winced again as he touched the large purple bruise that was beginning to form near his eye.

'What is it with you women?
You
try to drown me and that other harridan nearly took out my eye. I think I need to see a doctor.'

Vanessa unsympathetically twisted his face towards her so she could take a look at him.

'You need nothing of the sort. It's only a little bruise. I'll go and get the make-up girl. A dab of foundation should do the trick.'

Vanessa turned to go. Fergus reached out and caught her arm.

'Don't take this the wrong way, but I need a drink.'

Vanessa peeled his fingers from her arm. 'No way,' she said firmly.

'I need a whisky or I can't go on,' pleaded Fergus hoarsely.

Vanessa looked at him. His eyes were like two black holes and his normally florid complexion was white. One small whisky would either kill or cure him. Either way, she'd won.

'All right,' she relented, 'I'll see if there is anything left in hospitality. But don't move from this room. I'm going to send the make-up girl in, you look bloody awful.'

Fergus winced again as Vanessa slammed the door behind her. He mopped his face with the towel, but this time he was damp with cold sweat rather than cold water. Someone should have warned him about the studio lights. How was he to know they would have that effect on half a bottle of wine and a few double whiskies? And that wallop across his face from that woman had probably given him concussion, which was why he had double vision and had tripped over. He could probably sue her for assault with a deadly weapon. He groaned and closed his eyes. The room had started to do an Irish jig.

Mrs Proudfoot hooked her deadly weapon firmly over her arm and looked around. 'Well, Sir Norman, what are we going to do?'

They were standing in the centre of the hospitality room which was now empty of journalists. It was littered with bottles, plastic cups and half-eaten sandwiches studded with stubbed out cigarettes.

But Sir Norman was oblivious to the debris around him. He had eyes only for Mrs Proudfoot. Never had he seen such a magnificent woman. She was indeed an Amazon warrior.

'Mrs Proudfoot…Mildred. I just feel I ought to say how much I admired the way you handled the situation out there, it was truly splendid. I would of course have been happy to defend your honour, but I realise that you are a woman with true British fighting spirit.'

Mrs Proudfoot inclined her head and smiled graciously. But Basil Grimshaw, whose movements had been becoming increasingly more agitated, suddenly spoke. 'Although I recognise the grievous nature of the provocation, I do feel that it behoves those of us in a position of influence to act in perhaps a less precipitous manner. After all, the Good Book says that when provoked, we should turn the other cheek…' He stopped as the door burst open and Vanessa strode into the room.

'Look here,' Sir Norman advanced self-importantly towards her. 'This just isn't good enough, young woman. Some flibbertigibbet of a young secretary abandoned us here hours ago. I want to know what's going on. I'll have you know that neither I nor my colleagues appreciate being treated in this off-hand manner.'

'It doesn't surprise me in the least, Sir Norman,' said Mrs Proudfoot. 'Not after that display of lewd drunkenness we experienced downstairs in reception. Just look at this room,' she made a sweeping gesture, 'it looks as if an orgy has taken place.'

'I'm afraid we had some tabloid journalists in here, and they're not house-trained yet,' said Vanessa as she checked discarded whisky bottles to see if any remained. Fergus was her priority. Philip would have to deal with these people. It had been his idea to invite them.

'Desperate are you, my dear?' asked Mrs Proudfoot witheringly.

'One of our guests needs a drink for medicinal purposes,' Vanessa said, holding another bottle up to the light. It had a few mouthfuls left. She checked a plastic cup for cigarette butts and poured the remaining whisky into it.

'I'll send someone down to sort you out in a moment,' she said as she left the room cup in hand, closing the door on their continued protests.

When she got back to his dressing room, Fergus was staring belligerently into the mirror as a make-up girl dusted his face with a large powder puff. He cheered up at the sight of the whisky.

'Like water to a dying man,' he said, gulping it down.

'More like water to a drowning man,' Vanessa retorted and glanced at her watch. It was nearly time for the recording to begin. She pointed a long menacing finger at Fergus.

'Don't move from this room until the floor manager comes to collect you.' She hurried out.

Minutes later, Vanessa pushed her way through the heavy doors into the gallery, which had now taken on the hushed tense atmosphere of a recording. Hugo and Rosie were looking at the bank of monitors and checking the last minute preparations on the studio floor, occasionally murmuring instructions into the microphones which connected them to the studio and to all the other control centres in the building. Beside them, a vision mixer was making amendments to her script.

Vanessa sat down beside Philip and watched the monitors for a moment or two. Then she touched his arm.

'By the way, Philip darling, what were you planning to do with those dreadful committee people?'

Philip clapped his hand to his head, 'Oh my god, I forgot all about them. Where are they?'

'In hospitality and not in a very congenial mood.'

Philip leant forward. 'Rosie dear, can you organise someone to bring them up here at once, please?'

Rosie issued the request through her microphone.

Philip cleared his throat. 'Before they arrive, I'd like to say something to you all.' He stood up and straightened his jacket.

Hugo looked irritated at this interruption, but sat back and crossed his arms. Rosie turned around in her chair.

Philip clasped his hands together. 'I like to think of my production team as a family, and that like a family, we work together, laugh together and sometimes cry together. If we argue, it is only because we want the best for the show. I'd like to say that I think you have all done a wonderful job so far, and that as a family, we must pull together this afternoon. Gabriella has given me her assurance that she will go out there and give them hell, and I know we will all be rooting for her.' His voice shook and he paused.

Rosie reached out and squeezed his hand. Philip gave her a wan smile.

'It's at times like this that I know I work in the best industry in the world, because I know we all care about each other. We're a team, so let's show those people out there what we can do.'

He sat down and loudly blew his nose.

Moments later, Sir Norman Fluck, Mrs Proudfoot and Basil Grimshaw were ushered in.

Philip tucked his handkerchief into his pocket and leapt to his feet again.

'Welcome, welcome,' he said with enforced cheerfulness. 'Let me introduce you to my production team: this is Hugo, my immensely talented director, Rosie my right hand and indispensable production assistant, Caroline our vision mixer for today, and the driving force behind the show, Miss Vanessa Swift.'

With a curt nod of acknowledgement, Sir Norman advanced on Philip, a thunderous look on his face, but with a surprisingly nimble manoeuvre, Mrs Proudfoot stepped in front of him.

'Mr Pryce, I'd like to say that never, in all my life have I been so insulted as I was…'

Hugo leant back in his seat and interrupted her. 'I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to take your seats and not to speak from now on as we're ready to record.'

'We'll have plenty of time to talk afterwards,' whispered Philip as they all sat down. 'But I am afraid that rather like the captain of a ship, Hugo has the power of life and death over us in here and if we speak once the recording begins, he'll make us walk the plank.'

'As far as I'm concerned, this is a
sinking
ship, Mr Pryce,' Mrs Proudfoot hissed. 'Not only was I attacked by some bearded sex maniac in your lobby, but while I was waiting in your so-called hospitality room, I discovered that your programme is to be presented by a pervert.'

She brandished a copy of the
World on Sunday
at Philip. 'It's an absolute disgrace, an affront to all right-minded people. You can't possibly go ahead with this
woman
on the show.'

'Live and let live, Mrs Proudfoot,' whispered Grimshaw leaning forward. 'The good Lord taught us to be tolerant of sinners. This poor woman is obviously a tormented soul.'

'Rubbish,' snapped Sir Norman loudly, and then remembered himself. 'It isn't a question of tolerance, Reverend Grimshaw, but a question of public morals. The church must take a stand on such issues.'

'Sir Norman is right. This isn't a question of sin but of perversion and unnatural practices. I demand you put a halt to this travesty right now, Mr Pryce,' Mrs Proudfoot demanded her voice rising.

Hugo leant back in his chair. 'If you must have an ecclesiastical debate, can you please leave the room until after the recording.'