Veil of Darkness (35 page)

‘Did you? Did you really?’ asks Rory with smooth sarcasm and not a note of the sympathy this wretched creature seems to expect.

‘I expected more support from you,’ says Bernadette curiously.

‘I went with you to the BBC,’ he says coldly. ‘To my shame. We even had a meal out afterwards.’

And Bernadette suddenly bursts out, ‘But you didn’t enjoy being with me, did you? And you didn’t bother to pretend you did.’

What’s this? Hang on? Don’t say this is personal. Millions of dollars boiled down to a mishmash of girlish pride. Her face is that of a stupid child who has been refused a toy.

‘What did you expect me to do?’

She sits in the chair opposite his and drops her hands in her lap. Her eyes close and remain closed. There are smears of last night’s purple make-up on her eyelids. ‘You all went on somewhere afterwards—don’t try to tell me you didn’t—you all went on to somebody’s house and you didn’t think to ask me. I had to come back here. There’s always this door and I can’t get through.’

‘Bernie, you would have been bored stiff.’

‘But I wasn’t even asked.’

Rory’s last thread of control snaps. His face is as stiff as a death mask. ‘So it’s this, a sense of vengeance, that has prompted you to confess tonight. To get back at me, personally, and the perceived snub to your own self-importance, otherwise you would have gone on quite happily with this monstrous deception.’

Bernadette’s sobs drive him to distraction. She hides her face in her hands. ‘I thought you cared about me.’

‘Damn you!
Damn you
! Did I ever say or do anything to lead you to think that?’

‘You said I was beautiful. You said I had wonderful talent. You said I would be a household name, that
Magdalene
was the most moving book you had ever read.’

‘But it’s my job to say these things…’

‘I felt important…’ she gasps, forcing her voice with immense effort.

‘You silly little fool.’ |

‘You made Dominic look simple.’

‘Ah, I see, how very ironic, so I am to blame for his departure.’ This is getting ridiculous. Rory steadies his voice and breathes in deeply. ‘Have you any awareness at all of the consequences of your behaviour? Did it ever occur to you that you might finish us, and our business?’

‘
You
?’

‘Coburn and Watts. Let alone the effect this is going to have on all those publishers, TV and film companies who have paid you so much money.’

‘But they don’t have to know.’ She is sobbing openly now. ‘This can be our secret.’

‘Of course they all have to know.’ Rory is totally bewildered. This child-woman has no standards, no values, no morality—something Rory finds puzzling. ‘We can’t go on with this now that I know. Good God, I have my integrity. The truth could come out at any time. Whoever wrote the damn thing is going to come forward one day, believe me.’

‘It was Kirsty’s idea, not mine, I swear to you.’

‘OK. OK.’ They can’t go forward until she calms down. Rory holds both hands up to act as imaginary buffers. Perhaps Bentley will be back by the time he gets home. Rory imagines the hellish row that is bound to follow and flinches. ‘So why did Kirsty get you to act as the author?’

‘Because she was terrified of publicity. This violent madman was after her and all she wanted was peace and quiet and a few thousand quid to help her out. Nobody imagined
Magdalene
would cause such a fuss, and I seemed like the obvious choice.’

‘Lapping up publicity as you do?’

Bernie sniffs, her sobs becoming quieter due to sheer exhaustion. Her response comes slowly and miserably. ‘Yes, I did. But it’s different now.’

‘You’re telling me it’s different.’ They cannot go ahead with this, it’s all over. The writs for plagiarism that they would face would bankrupt not just himself, but everyone who ever touched
Magdalene
. The costs and damages would hit the roof, probably break world records.

And here was he, London’s most prestigious agent, thinking he was on to a winner. Extraordinary how Bernie, with her pert provocativeness, fooled them all—Candice, Clementine and himself, never mind the press and the literary establishment. Rory gives her a long, hard look; the kid is quite an actress.

By now it’s gone three in the morning and Mrs Parfait, having heard goings-on from below, pops up in her rollers and manly plaid dressing gown to ask if there is anything they want. From her closed expression she suspects she has dropped in on some hanky panky—the young Miss Kavanagh in tears, Mr Coburn drawn and white. From what she has gathered so far from Miss Kavanagh’s behaviour—dancing alone in front of the mirror, filling the road outside with her decibels and drinking her fill at the bar—she thinks Mr Coburn might have bitten off more than he can chew this time. She descends to her garage home again and nudges Mr Parfait awake with the gossip.

But Mr Parfait dozes on. What the folks upstairs get up to is none of his damn business.

‘So where do we go from here?’ Rory asks eventually, too depressed for the energy of anger.

‘I suppose I’ll have to disappear. Perhaps you can find the original author.’

Oh Jesus Christ. Wouldn’t that give the literary world something to split their sides over? He can hear them now, ‘What’s this then, Rory? A new quiz game? Pick your author?’ And Bentley is not renowned for his loyalty to losers. Success is what turns Bentley on—success and power.

‘Can this one manage to write a letter without a thesaurus?’

‘Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.’

‘I hear there’s a horse down the road swears he’s written a book.’

Rory sits with his head right back, easing his taut neck muscles. ‘That is out of the question.’

‘Of course, I could keep pretending if I was given more help,’ lisps Bernie.

Rory manages to lift his head and look his lost prodigy in the eyes, such curious, devious eyes, the eyes of a mischievous faerie.

‘Explain,’ he says, wearily.

‘Well, I might be able to struggle on and carry it off if you helped me. It was a very old book, the author is probably dead…’

This is one manipulative woman. Don’t say she thinks he will carry on the scam. Don’t say she’s that ignorant. ‘Explain,’ he orders again.

‘I’d have to be with you,’ Bernadette goes on, lowering those smudgy eyelids, and the end of her tongue curls and briefly touches her upper lip. ‘You’d have to be near me all the time.’

‘Oh yes, yes, of course. I see. Just in case you dropped a clanger, got caught off balance on the phone, or were suddenly tempted to destroy me.’ He rises from his chair in anger and hangs over hers, fists pressing on the arms, and his body threatens her curled-up space. ‘You brainless little twat.’ His voice rises. ‘And how the hell do you imagine I could trust you for one second? One wrong move and I’d be straight in the shit.’

‘No, no,’ cries Bernie, ‘I’d never do that. I would never let you down. I swear.’

‘I expect you told that to Dominic, and God knows how many others. What do you want, Bernie? Men chained to your wrist like dogs? And how do you imagine I’d feel? Don’t you think I would despise you more than I already do?’

‘You don’t despise me, Rory.’

But Rory gives a contemptuous laugh. ‘You don’t despise me, that’s the trouble. You’re driven by some twisted obsession, some screwball afraid to grow up. Don’t try to deny it, because it’s there for any cretin to see in your eyes; it’s sickening, fawning stuff, the way you gaze up at me like some beaten puppy, and you’ve not stopped flirting since I came in.’

‘Who the sodding hell d’you think you are?’ Bernadette pushes him off in humiliation and fury. ‘How dare you say that, you pompous bastard! You cocky sod, with your daft airs and graces.’

Rory stands by the fireplace calmly, smiling at the result of his challenge. ‘I don’t think any arrangement between us would last very long, Bernadette, do you?’

‘Have it your way then,’ she says, her face still flaming with mortification, her secret so obviously out. She has been exposed, helpless and out of control, swamped by violent emotions, humiliating and weak. ‘Go public then. Tell everyone. Let them laugh in your face. It’s no skin off my nose. Admit you’ve been conned by an Irish barmaid with only art and RE GCSEs.’

‘Quite frankly,’ says Rory, smiling sadly, ‘I don’t know what to do. But what you’re suggesting is ludicrous.’

Extraordinary. She seems to think he’s changing his mind. ‘I’d never let you down, I swear.’ Her stare is rapt and helpless. ‘What I feel for you is so strong, Rory. For the first time in my life I’m in love. Don’t make fun of me just because you’re clever.’

‘But, Bernadette, hold on, get real. I don’t feel the slightest thing for you, I never have and never will. All I feel right now is disgust.’

‘But that might change.’

‘For Christ’s sake, what books do you read?’

‘I don’t read books, only magazines.’ She tosses the hair from her face, shaking her head so the long swinging mass of it springs and bobs behind her. Still playing games.

‘What? You have quite seriously never read one book in your life?’

‘Only Roddy Doyle in English.’

He looks at Bernadette with curious speculation. He sighs. ‘I’m tired. I’ve had enough, I’m going home.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

She gives a gentle sigh and lowers her lashes. She still doesn’t get it. ‘Will you ring me tomorrow?’

‘I expect I’ll have to.’

‘Will you think about what I’ve said?’

‘I’m going to have to think about everything.’

And she stands gazing wistfully after him.

Why did she do it? Why did she self-destruct like that?

‘Follow your dreams and aspirations, never deny your emotions,’ Kirsty said when they last spoke. But Kirsty meant her to hang on to Rory. Rory and Bernie together would make a remarkable team, another bonus for
Magdalene
. Nothing else seems to count with Kirsty.

‘Who dares wins. Nothing is impossible.’ And her old friend, misled by Bernie’s romantic misconceptions, sounded so positive. Her words had had a profound effect, but if Kirsty finds out she’s blown it…

But she can’t blame this on Kirsty. Bernadette falls into bed and buries her face in the pillow. How she longs to follow him out, beg him to look at her, touch her and kiss her. She is engulfed by the clean, vigorous male smell of his body, the sheen across his white teeth, even the texture of his skin, which rouses a sudden, unbearable longing to touch it with her fingertips. His domination of her is so complete that she has only one wish, to please Rory in any way she can and gain his forgiveness and approval. Just the tone of his voice seems to stroke her arms, her back, her breasts, making her grow warm and luxurious. Even when she fails to understand what he means, she longs for him to go on speaking. Please him enough, push him enough, and he will give her what she so desperately desires.

But what fatal damage has she done, driven to this self-abasing confession by her own egotistical needs? She really believed she could blackmail Rory, force him to need her as desperately as she needs him. Tie him to her by deceit if necessary. Magdalene, like Kirsty, would stop at nothing to have her way. But what will happen to the book now if Rory decides to opt out? He can’t be allowed to—
he can’t!
He must feel something for her, surely it is not possible to love so fiercely without getting some of it back? She will never be able to face Kirsty or Avril. And she lied and told them she was engaged, beguiled into thinking she was jumping the gun by the odd day or two. Had she misread him so completely? What will happen to the money she is already so busily spending, and why couldn’t she have thought this through instead of acting on furious impulse?

He said he would ring her tomorrow, didn’t he? Well, maybe that is his way of leaving his options open.

He’ll be back, she assures herself, and when he’s ready she will be waiting.

Bentley is still not back when Rory arrives home, defeated.

It’s too late for sleep, and anyway, sleep is out of the question.

He broods on alone in his study, dazed in the silence, well into the dawn.

He faces a life of mockery, pity from some, open gratification from others, a hard slog to win back a reputation that has taken him a lifetime to build. It will probably be impossible for him ever to rise to the heights he is used to, to regain the respect he now takes for granted, to repeat the successes he has achieved. And Bentley will doubtless consider him finished. And all because of some ignorant barmaid who obviously obsesses over every man she meets.

You win some, you lose some.

Why can’t he just shrug his shoulders and square them to the burden of life?

Perhaps he could if it wasn’t for Bentley and his dark and reckless needs.

But the black mood grabs hold of him and Rory opens his desk drawer and brings out a bottle of barbiturates, which he’d removed from some suicidal author only weeks before. Slowly he crosses the room and picks up a full bottle of brandy. Ironically, the first proper proof of
Magdalene
lies proudly before him on his desk. He sits in the chair in front of it, leaning forward, both arms extended, fingers clasped. He does not sway or moan. Sometimes a shiver runs through him. Soon he will be done for ever with this crazy world.

C
ANDICE LOVE IS MORTIFIED.

Rory Coburn, a broken man, attempted suicide last week.

He did, however, have the strength of mind to leave her a note before he finished his pills. She would have been happier not to have read it. She will have to go job-seeking soon, and when they hear who she is they will laugh. Perhaps she could be a librarian, or a teacher; change careers, change hairstyles.

Tragic. Because Candice is a good agent and her skills would be wasted.

Still smarting from the ignominious discovery, and keeping her head well down for the moment, most days Candice still sits in a high, plastic, air-conditioned cubicle going through a big, fat slush pile, hanging on at the office till the shit hits the fan. Several of the manuscripts, dog-eared and smeared by their travels, she recognizes as those she has rejected in the past.