Tall and patrician, with silver-white hair, Hugo Armstrong was a distinguished actor and occasional director, a man of considerable clout in the theatrical world.
Suzy gave a distracted nod. ‘I interviewed him for an article about stage trends in the nineties a month or so before his son disappeared, and we’ve kept in touch. Piers may not want to relive his experiences,’ she went on, doggedly pushing out another impediment.
‘Since his return a hundred and one reporters must have asked him about them, and he’s always obliged,’ Randolph retorted.
‘But he hasn’t been interviewed in depth, for a book.’
‘Everyone else who’s been approached has jumped at the chance of question-and-answer sessions with a pretty girl like you and, particularly as a one-time colleague, Armstrong will too,’ the editorial director asserted.
Suzy started to object, decided otherwise, and returned to her prawn and mango salad.
Randolph had already demolished his first course, and as she ate he poured himself a second glass of wine and subjected her to a covert scrutiny. His reference to her as ‘pretty’ had been a calculated ploy to cajole, yet he had been speaking the truth. With huge sapphire eyes, fine bone-structure and a soft, full mouth, the youngest writer on Kingdom’s list was quite a beauty. She also possessed a natural sexuality which, although she seemed unaware of it, had ensured that when they had walked into the restaurant every male had turned to drool over her—and to envy him. Were they under the impression that this slender creature in the pink linen suit and with her wheat-blonde tresses caught up in a sleek chignon might be his mistress? he wondered. Randolph sneaked a glance at the surrounding tables. It was flattering to think so. He hoped so. A wistful hand checked over his carefully cross-combed bald patch. If only he were twenty years younger, twenty-eight pounds lighter, and still in possession of a full head of hair.
‘As you’ll probably be aware, after the airport press conference Armstrong was whisked straight off to the Margaux Clinic for a thorough medical overhaul,’ Randolph continued, topping up his glass. ‘Yesterday I telephoned the clinic and although I was unable to speak to the chappie in person, the reply came back that he’s willing to see you.’
Suzy’s blue eyes opened wide. ‘You’ve made an appointment?’ she said, in horror.
‘For later this afternoon,’ came the smiling confirmation.
‘But—but Piers is still recovering,’ she protested.
‘Maybe, yet he’s agreed to a visit. So you can pop along when we’ve finished lunch and set up a series of meetings.’
Suzy felt at once knocked askew and annoyed. Renewing contact with Piers Armstrong had never featured in her scheme of things and she resented the editorial director’s taking it upon himself to organise so high-handedly without consulting her.
‘I have an appointment for later this afternoon,’ she said.
Randolph tweaked at the white damask napkin which covered his lap. The girl’s beauty came accompanied by a full complement of brains, so why couldn’t she see that, whatever the hassle, the insertion of the war correspondent into her book was entirely to her advantage? Why wasn’t she grabbing this chance to dramatically boost her sales—and Kingdom’s profits—with both hands? A swift untasted drink was quaffed from his glass. He had sat down at the table in the expectation of wining and dining a biddable young companion who would hang on his every word, and he did not appreciate becoming embroiled in an argument which was threatening to ruin his digestion.
‘What time is your appointment, and where?’ he demanded, sounding like an irked schoolmaster.
‘Four-thirty, in Fulham.’
‘I’ve fixed for you to be at the clinic some time after three o’clock,’ he said, as a waiter removed their empty plates and replaced them with boeuf en crôute à la reine Marie for him and lemon sole for his guest. ‘It can be no more than a ten-minute taxi ride from here, so you have ample opportunity to call in and speak to Armstrong first.’
Suzy frowned. ‘Even so—’
‘The deadline for your manuscript may have been extended by eight weeks, but time is of the essence,’ he snapped.
Suzy helped herself to mange-touts from a dish which the waiter had proffered. It was clear that her host’s patience was fast running out and if she continued to protest she would not only sour their lunch date, but could place any future goodwill at risk—which would be short-sighted and counter-productive. Kingdom were a major company in the publishing world, and it would be foolish to offend them.
‘I’ll see Piers Armstrong today,’ she said resignedly.
Randolph beamed. ‘That’s a good girl,’ he said, and, after reaching across to give her hand another pat, he contentedly devoted himself to his fillet in its filo pastry case.
* * *
As directed, Suzy took the lift to the third floor and turned right on to a broad pastel-walled corridor. She checked her watch. Having secured her agreement to visit the private hospital, Randolph Gardener had proceeded to spend the rest of the meal chatting amiably and volubly, and—perhaps due to an over-indulgent intake of wine—had seemed immune to how the afternoon had begun to tick away. In the end, she had been forced to make her apologies and leave him still savouring a liqueur. On emerging on to the street, she had taken ages to find a taxi, and then the vehicle had travelled barely a mile before becoming snarled up in a traffic jam. So now time really was of the essence.
Still, her visit would not take long, Suzy comforted herself, as she kept track of the numbers on the pale oak doors. She was only here to pacify Randolph and go through the motions. Lacklustre motions. Her request for interviews would be so apathetic that Piers Armstrong would be certain to demur; at which point she would be out of the clinic—fast. A line etched itself between her brows. It was possible that this distaste for a collaboration could be two-sided and the ex-hostage might harbour misgivings of his own—but if that was the case, it would make securing his refusal so much easier.
Piers must have been surprised to be told that Suzy Collier required an audience, she reflected, standing aside to allow a porter with a trolley pass by. Though it would not have thrown him, and his equilibrium would not have been shattered. Randolph’s request might have made it annoyingly apparent that the war correspondent still possessed the power to unsettle her, but she would have been dismissed as no more than a blip in his sexual history long ago. Indeed, he had probably forgotten all about her.
Suzy’s heels rapped out a brisk staccato on the tiled floor. If Piers Armstrong had wiped her from his memory, she had not spent the past few years thinking about him—no, sirree! On the dénouement of their liaison, the ‘career woman’ button had been determinedly pushed, and the responsibilities and pressures which had resulted had left her little time to brood. Those responsibilities and pressures had also made her grow up. The girl who had once been far too gullible, far too naïve—as brutally demonstrated by her brush with the journalist—had matured into a poised and aware young woman. A young woman who was now nobody’s fool.
Suzy’s march came to a halt. Here was the specified room. She neatened the line of her cropped jacket and smoothed the high-waisted skirt over her hips. Opening her clutch bag, she found a mirror and tidied her hair. A slick of rosy lipstick was applied. She stared at her reflection. Don’t look so frightened, so tense, so agitated! she instructed herself. He can’t hurt you now.
Raising a hand, she rapped on the door.
‘Come in,’ said a deep melodious voice which, even after all this time, seemed woefully familiar.
Her stomach churned and she felt a strong impulse to turn tail and run. What was she doing here? Suzy wondered. Why had she allowed herself to be steamrollered into calling on Piers Armstrong? She should have vetoed the suggestion of adding a section on him point-blank. She ought to have insisted that, as it had been accepted and fulfilled the terms of the contract,