‘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