Sleeping With Ghosts. Lynne Pemberton

was left uncertain and confused. When she punched out Bob Conran’s telephone number her thoughts were still with Jack. They had met at a cocktail party two years previously when she’d found him overpowering and far too egotistical for her taste. She had refused to have dinner with him, making the excuse that she never went out with married men. Then at a film premiere eighteen months later, she had bumped into him again. She had been with her boss Rod, head of Trident, an independent film company responsible for more than one hundred and sixty hours of television production each year. Rod had given her the low-down on Jack McGowan.

      Born in Aberdeen to a Scottish father and English mother. Powerful industrialist. Oil-rig machinery. One of the top five hundred richest men in the country. A true-blue Thatcherite, heavily tipped for a knighthood in 1982 and 1983, when he was pouring money into the Tory party, and had billions of pounds’ worth of export contracts littering his desk. Notoriously ruthless, yet a great philanthropist, and patron of the arts. Several much publicized run-ins with the press, and one particular nasty libel case in the mid-seventies involving insider dealing on the stock market. A brief affair last year with the soprano Anna Cavelli had culminated in the break-up of his twenty-eight-year marriage; although he and his wife had no plans to divorce. He’d had a daughter who’d died of a drugs overdose at twenty-two, and there was an adopted son from his wife’s first marriage.

      Jack had made a beeline for Kathryn at the post-screening party, persuading her to leave the teeming milieu, and join him for a quiet supper at Harry’s Bar. She had agreed reluctantly and, to her surprise, she’d had a wonderful evening. Subsequent outings had followed, and Kathryn had been forced to revise her first impressions of Jack McGowan. Though not entirely wrong, they were greatly diluted by her discovery of his ironic sense of humour, and irrepressible charm. She recalled in detail the first time they had made love, the encounter had left her overwhelmed. Formidable he might be to his business opponents, but in bed Jack had proved gentle, and sensitive to her every need.

      Bob Conran’s deep voice broke into her thoughts as he answered her call, and instantly she forgot about Jack as she began to discuss the development of the Girls in the Red project. Bob was dashing out to a meeting and could only spare her a few minutes. He suggested lunch the following day. Kathryn consulted her diary, and they agreed to meet at Le Caprice at one. The light on her intercom was flashing as she replaced the telephone. It was her secretary, Sally. ‘Mr Franks wants to see you asap. A word of warning, he’s on the warpath about something.’

      Kathryn had a good idea what it was. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sally; I’m on my way.’ She clicked the intercom switch off, and headed for Rod Franks’s office. Kathryn waited on the threshold for a few moments, thinking about her boss. She had known Rod for ten years, and worked for him for six. He was highly talented, hot-tempered, and great at what he did. He had started out at sixteen, as a runner for a small film company, and had come up through the ranks. Ten years before, at thirty-five, Rod and his life-long friend Neville Morgan had started Trident, but Neville had died of Aids two years ago. Rod was a tough bastard, there was no denying that, but Kathryn understood him, at least most of the time. She also respected his enormous talent, and shrewd intellect. He in turn admired her tenacity, her creative flair, and her ability to get things done; but more important, they shared a mutual passion for the business. Both were totally committed to producing good, aspiring constantly to ‘great’ television.

      When she entered his spacious office, Rod was next to the window, his back to her. Rod had style, she had to give him that, his office reflected it. Very chic, very minimalist, very nineties. Blond wood-panelled floors, beneath blonder panelled walls. A David Hockney painting and a huge vivid splash of Miró the only colour in the room. Less is more, Rod was fond of saying; if you got it right, as he so often did, she was forced to agree.

      On her third footstep he turned, he was dressed in a dark blue lightweight Paul Smith suit and a collarless white cotton shirt. His dark hair was slicked back with gel, it glistened in the overhead spotlight. Wasting no time on pleasantries he said, ‘Did you know that Sue Chandler was pitching our idea, about the black heiress, to Ryan Messum at Fox?’ And when Kathryn nodded, he added, ‘Well why the hell didn’t you tell me? I could have stopped her.’

      ‘If you recall, Rod, the story was my idea originally. I told her about it the night before she left Trident. I thought she needed a break, after the shabby way you got rid of her.’

      ‘Look, darling, I’m the one who needs a break around here. Sue screwed up on two major productions. Women.’ He slapped a hand to his forehead, and took a step towards Kathryn. ‘The next time you decide to give away great ideas that, I might add, are already in development, ask me. OK?’

      ‘OK, Rod, it wasn’t such a great idea anyway. Girls in the Red is far better.’

      ‘It was so lousy, I heard Messum almost kissed that fucking bitch’s ass when she pitched it to him.’

      Kathryn couldn’t help grinning. ‘Can you imagine Ryan Messum kissing anyone’s ass?’

      In spite of himself Rod began to smile. ‘No. The only thing Messum would be likely to kiss is his own reflection, or that yappy Jack Russell he takes everywhere with him.’

      He sat down behind his desk and indicated a chair opposite. ‘You’re right, Kathy. Girls in the Red is a much better project.’ He was the only person apart from her father who ever called her ‘Kathy’. ‘How’s it coming?’

      ‘It’s coming; we’re on schedule. Tim got some great footage in Leningrad and Moscow. And I’m having lunch with Bob tomorrow to finalize the script.’

      ‘Good, tell Bob he owes me lunch, too. In fact he owes me several.’ Rod formed a fist. ‘He’s as tight as a fish’s backside.’

      Kathryn winked. ‘Have you tried one lately?’

      Rod grinned. ‘Leave my sex life out of this.’ His telephone rang, he picked it up, pressing the hold button, then pointing at her with the same finger. ‘I’m not finished with you yet. Can you dig out your high-heeled sneakers and red dress for a book launch tomorrow night at the Groucho? It’s the new Collins publication by that guy Stuart.’

      She knew the book. ‘Beyond Madness, by Nick Stuart?’

      ‘That’s the one, I optioned it this morning.’

      Kathryn stood up. ‘It’s a great book, but I’m not certain it will adapt well.’

      Rod pressed the hold button again. ‘Nigel, great to hear from you. Listen, I’ve got an amazing, too-good-to-miss idea for a documentary about the culling of rhinos in Tanzania.’

      Kathryn turned to leave.

      ‘Hold on, Nigel.’ Rod looked at her expectantly.

      She nodded her acceptance to the Groucho do, already dreading the noisy, shoulder-to-shoulder, cocktail party in Soho. She was halfway across the office when she heard Rod fling a final remark at her.

      ‘I want you to meet the author, Kathy. Apparently he’s very tricky, so you need to use every ounce of your irresistible charm.’

      Kathryn stopped at the door. ‘If the stories about Nick Stuart are true, I think your charm might work better.’

      She could hear Rod chuckling as she left the room.

      Kathryn arrived at her flat in Notting Hill at ten past six. She had exactly forty-five minutes, to shower, wash her hair, change and get to Jack McGowan’s house in Hampstead for seven. She decided it wasn’t possible; planning her apology, she listened to her messages on the answering machine.

      Bleep: Hi, Kathryn. Steve Fisher here. Thanks for the fax. Rod Franks is obviously as truculent as ever. Good to see that things don’t change. I’ve got some hot-off-the-press gen on your Nazi. Give me a call on 202 657 8826. Ciao.

      Bleep: Kathryn, Bob Conran. Sorry but I’ll have to change our lunch date. If you get in before seven call me, if not I’ll speak to you at the office tomorrow morning.

      ‘Damn