The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [32]
Dee broke into a run. ″Mike!″ she yelled happily.
II
JAMES WHITEWOOD PARKED HIS Volvo in the narrow Islington street and killed the engine. He put a fresh packet of Players and a box of matches in one pocket, and a new notebook and two ballpoint pens in the other. He felt the familiar tension: would she be in a good mood? Would she say something quotable? His ulcer jabbed him, and he cursed. He had done literally hundreds of star interviews: this one would be no different.
He locked his car and knocked on Samantha Winacre′s door. A plump blonde girl answered.
″James Whitewood, Evening Star.″
″Please come in.″
He followed her into the hall. ″What′s your name?″
″Anita. I just work here.″
″Nice to meet you, Anita.″ He smiled pleasantly. It was always useful to be on good terms with someone in a star′s entourage.
She led him downstairs to the basement. ″Mr. Whitewood, from the Star.″
″Hello, Jimmy!″ Samantha was curled up on a Habitat sofa, wearing jeans and a shirt. Her feet were bare. Cleo Laine sang out of the freestanding Bang & Olufsen stereo speakers opposite her.
″Sammy.″ He crossed the room and shook her hand.
″Sit down, be comfortable. What goes on on Fleet Street?″
He dropped a newspaper in her lap before sitting in an easy chair. ″The big story of the day is that Lord Cardwell is selling his art collection. Now you know why we call it the silly season.″ He had a South London accent.
Anita said: ″Would you like a drink, Mr. Whitewood?″
He looked up at her. ″I wouldn′t mind a glass of milk.″ He patted his stomach.
Anita went out. Samantha said: ″Is that ulcer still with you?″
″It′s like inflation. These days, you can only hope to make it ease off a little.″ He gave a high-pitched laugh. ″Mind if I smoke?″
He studied her as he opened the cigarette packet. She had always been thin, but now her face had a drawn look. Her eyes seemed huge, and the effect had not been achieved with makeup. She hugged herself with one arm and smoked with the other. As he watched, she crushed a stub in the full ashtray beside her and immediately lit a fresh cigarette.
Anita brought his glass of milk. ″A drink, Sammy?″
″Please.″
Jimmy glanced at his watch: it was 12:30 P.M. He looked askance at the size of the vodka and tonic Anita poured.
He said: ″Tell me, how is life in the film world?″
″I′m thinking of leaving it.″ She took the glass from Anita, and the maid left the room.
″Good God.″ Jimmy took out his notebook and uncapped a pen. ″Why?″
″There′s not a lot to say, really. I feel films have given me all they can. The work bores me, and the end result seems so trivial.″
″Is there any one particular thing which has triggered this off?″
She smiled. ″You ask good questions, Jimmy.″
He looked up expectantly, and saw that she was smiling, not at him, but at the doorway. He turned, and saw a big man in jeans and a check shirt entering the room. The man nodded at Jimmy and sat beside Samantha.
She said: ″Jimmy, I want you to meet Tom Copper, the man who has changed my life.″
Joe Davies pressed the winder of his Quantum wristwatch and looked at the luminous red figures which flickered alight on its black face: 0955. It was a good time to ring a London evening newspaper.
He picked up the phone and dialed. After a long wait for the newspaper′s switchboard, he asked for James Whitewood.
″Morning, Jim—Joe Davies.″
″A filthy morning, Joe. What load of old rubbish are you peddling today?″
Joe could visualize the bad teeth exposed in the grin on the writer′s face: mock-hostile banter was the game the two of them played to disguise the fact that each did his best to use the other. ″Nothing very interesting,″ Joe said. ″A starlet landing a small part, is all. Just Leila D′Abo topping the bill at the London Palladium.″
″That played-out old cow? When′s it coming off, Joe?″
Joe grinned, knowing he had won the game this time. ″October 21, for one night.″
″Got it. By then she will just about be finished with that second-rate film she′s making at—where is it? Ealing Studios?″
″Hollywood.″
″Yes. Now, who else is