Starburst (14 page)

“Maybe,” Rene replied solemnly, wondering how Andrea had the ability to distort her marketing jargon to such an extent as to describe this subterranean torture chamber as being “intimate.” Picking up her handbag from the table, she got slowly to her feet and made her way towards the door.

“It’s a bit of a pity, though,” Andrea said, turning off the other light and plunging the place into coal-mine darkness.

Rene stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s a pity?” she asked.

“That you felt it didn’t go too well tonight,” Andrea said brightly as she pulled the door to the theatre closed. She edged her way past Rene and began climbing the stairs. “There was a reviewer from Radio Scotland in the audience.” She turned and gave Rene a thin smile. “Never mind, he might not bother saying anything about it at all.”

Rene kept staring up the stairwell long after Andrea’s tight little bottom had disappeared from view, and then, putting a steadying hand on the chrome banister rail, she lowered herself slowly onto the bottom step, clutched her handbag to her chest, and burst into tears.

H
arry Wills sat at a small metal table in front of the Costa coffee stall in Edinburgh Airport, toying with a small cup of espresso, as he kept an eye on the two photographers who stood chatting together at the entrance through which the recent arrivals on the British Airways flight from London flooded into the baggage reclaim area. He saw them separate, their movements suddenly becoming more animated, and when a series of blinding flashes went off, Harry got to his feet, draining his coffee, and began to make his way towards them. The two photographers were now moving backwards away from the entrance, focusing their lenses on a tall bespectacled man in a navy blue raincoat who accompanied a young dark-haired girl with a violin case in her hand. The man paid little attention to the photographers as he approached the cluster of uniformed drivers. He spoke to one, who immediately lowered the sign he had been holding up, and guided them with outstretched hand over to the luggage carousel that had just begun to move.

As the two photographers hurried away towards the terminal exit, their assignments successfully completed, Harry pushed his bulky figure through the mass of people gathering around the carousel and approached the man from behind.

“Monsieur Dessuin, Mademoiselle Pascal, welcome to Edinburgh.”

The man turned round, a questioning frown creasing his high angular forehead, and slowly put out a hand to the one that Harry offered in greeting. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure if we have—”

“Harry Wills,
The Sunday Times Scotland
.”

“Ah, of course,” Albert Dessuin murmured, giving Harry’s hand a single shake, his face registering no sign of pleasure at meeting the journalist.

“I thought I’d come along today just to introduce myself in person. We’ve spoken often enough with each other on the telephone.” Harry switched his attention to the young girl who stood watching the luggage go past on the carousel. “However, I haven’t had the pleasure of speaking to you before, mademoiselle.”

“Mr. Wills,” Albert Dessuin cut in, “we arrived early this morning in London after an all-night flight from New York, and after a long delay at Heathrow we have now made it here to Edinburgh. Tonight we have to attend a reception that will no doubt drain us of all our energies, and tomorrow Mademoiselle Pascal will have to have recovered sufficiently to start rehearsing for a concert the following evening in your Usher Hall. I would suggest, therefore, that this is the wrong time and the wrong place to try for an interview.”

“Of course, I understand that. I was just hoping to fix—”

“I seem to remember also, Mr. Wills,” Dessuin continued, clicking his fingers at the driver and pointing to a large brown suitcase on the carousel, “that it was only a few months ago that I gave over a great deal of time for an interview with you. I would not think, so soon afterwards, there would be much I could add to that.”

Harry Wills took in a deep breath before clearing his throat noisily in an attempt to cover for the anger he felt at the man’s measured hostility. Then, on an impulse, he decided to go for broke. “Monsieur Dessuin, what I really want to do is to write a story from Madamoiselle Pascal’s point of view. I want to write about her influences, about her background, about her interests…and about being Angélique Pascal. She is becoming one of the most famous violinists in the world and everyone, including the young people, want to know about her.” Harry turned to Angélique, who, having just pointed out another suitcase to the driver, now stood watching the journalist with a look of silent intent. “Madamoiselle Pascal, would there be any time over this next week when you would be willing to do an interview with me?”

“Mr. Wills,” Albert Dessuin exclaimed irately as he grabbed the full luggage trolley from the driver, “over the years you have continually tried my patience and now I will not take it anymore.” He put a hand against Angélique’s back. “From now on, I will not consider one further interview with you, and please remember in future that it was your own dogged stupidity that led to this.”

Harry Wills stood watching as the driver hurriedly escorted his charges towards the terminal exit, Albert Dessuin guiding Angélique Pascal almost forcefully with a hand on her arm. Letting out a derisory grunt, Harry scratched hard at the back of his head and then ambled off to get his car.

As the Renault Espace came onto the Western Approach Road, Angélique broke the silence that had existed since leaving the airport twenty minutes before. “Albert?” she said, as she stared out of the window at the traffic that sped past.

“Oui?”
Dessuin replied, without looking up from his copy of
Le Monde
.

“I want to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Tonight at the reception, I want you to allow me a little space.”

Dessuin glanced across at her. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just let me move around by myself.”

“Do I not always allow you to do that?”

Angélique let out a quiet laugh. “No, Albert, you do not.” She turned and fixed him with a smile. “I know you have my best interests at heart, but sometimes you can be quite…suffocating.”

Dessuin shrugged his shoulders. “It may seem that way to you at times, but it is my job to protect you and I know that Madame Lafitte would—”

“Please, Albert,” Angélique interjected, “don’t bring Madame Laffite into this. You are always using her name like…some kind of blackmail.”

Dessuin shook his head, and with a huffy expression on his face turned back to read his newspaper.

Angélique leaned across to him. “So will you give me a bit of freedom tonight? I’m not going to run away from you.”

Dessuin lifted a hand dismissively. “Do as you please, but no talking to
journalistes, tu comprends?
”

“Oui, bien sûr.”

In the office of the International Festival, Tess Goodwin ended her telephone call and once more ran through her checklist for the reception scheduled that night in the Sheraton Grand. The hotel’s events manager had confirmed that the function room had been set up as Tess had requested, and all arrangements for the finger buffet and wine had been put in place. The public relations agency who were helping her out during the festival had already hung the two large photographic posters of the Italian baritone, Giuseppe Montarino, and the young French violinist, Angélique Pascal, in whose joint honours the reception was being held. Now all that was left for her to do was to make a few courtesy calls to those sponsors of International events who had been remiss in replying to the invitation. As she stretched out a hand for the telephone, she saw the director’s intercom light flash a split second before it began to ring. She picked up the receiver, noticing the outside call he kept on hold.

“Yes, Alasdair?”

“Are we all set for tonight, Tess?”

“Yes, everything’s ready. I’m just about to call up some of those sponsors.”

“Okay, but before you do that, I’ve got an old friend of yours on the line. He wants to have a word with you.”

“Who is it?” But the director had already put down his receiver and Tess addressed the question to the person who wished to speak to her.

“What do you mean, ‘who is it?’” a male voice replied with a laugh. “Did your boss not tell you?”

Tess felt her face flush with panic, recognizing immediately the smooth-spoken voice with its precise foreign accent. It was one she had hoped never to hear again.

“Is that you, Peter?”

“Of course it’s me. I’m sure you did not really need to ask.”

“Why are you wanting to speak to me?”

“Why not? Alasdair is not the only one in the International office with whom I share some pretty wonderful memories.”

Tess closed her eyes tight, feeling the skin on her back tingle with nervous apprehension. “Listen, Peter, I think—”

“So, how is everything going? I wondered if you would still be working in the office?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” Tess heard Peter Hansen sigh. “Listen, I thought it would be a good time to make amends for the way I behaved towards you at the end of the festival last year. It was just that things got a little bit difficult back in Copenhagen. I thought if we could meet up—”

“What do you mean? Where are you?”

“Here in Edinburgh. I came over for the festival…and to see you, of course.”

Tess gave a short cry of disbelief. “
What?
Are you being serious?”

“Never more so.”

Tess shook her head at the sheer gall of the man. “Peter, I really am too busy to meet up. For a start, I’ve got a reception tonight, and anyway, the last thing I really want—”

“In that case, I could be round in your office in five minutes. It would be good to see Alasdair as well.”

“You will do no such thing,” Tess exclaimed, knowing only too well the director’s intuitive nature would pick up on her uneasy vibes.

“Then where shall we meet?”

Tess pressed a hand to her forehead. “I really do have a lot of work to do, Peter.”

“Okay, then. Why not invite me to the reception tonight?”

“No!” She bit hard on her bottom lip, realizing he was leaving her with little alternative other than to meet up with him there and then. “Right, where are you?”

“About two hundred yards away. There is a church on the right-hand side of the High Street. I am standing on the steps.”

“Give me five minutes then, but I warn you, I haven’t got long.”

“I’ll be looking out for you—and, Tess?”

“What?”

“I’m longing to see you again.”

By the time Tess had made arrangements to cover for her short absence from the office fifteen minutes had elapsed before she reached the small paved square where the church was situated. Peter Hansen was instantly recognizable in the crowd. Tall, lean, with a shock of Viking-blond hair that curled against the collar of his dark green jacket, he possessed an almost visible aura of self-admiration. As soon as he caught sight of her, he lifted his hand in a brief wave, pushing himself away from the stone pillar against which he had been leaning at the entrance to the church. He descended the steps and threaded his way through the melee of pedestrians and street entertainers towards her, and as he approached he held out his arms, enveloping her in a hug and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

“Tess, it is so good to see you.” He pushed her away from him, resting his hands on her shoulders. “My word, you look fantastic. Life is good for you, yes?”

Tess gave him a brief smile. “Yes, it is. Never been better.”

He put an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, let’s go and get a cup of coffee.”

Tess pulled herself away from his hold. “I said five minutes, Peter, and that’s all I’m going to give you.”

“I think we can down a cup of coffee in that time,” he said, already starting to make his way across the High Street to a small café outside which a few metal tables and chairs took up half the width of the pavement. Tess stood her ground for a moment, and then, with a resigned shake of her head, followed on after him.

Having ordered up a cappuccino for Tess and a herbal tea for himself, Peter leaned his elbows on the table and smiled affectionately at her, accentuating his annoyingly good looks, although Tess was pleased to see that a few age lines now creased his tanned face. When she met his gaze with an ice-cold stare, he reached across the table to place his hand on hers, but she avoided the contact by sitting back in her chair and folding her arms.

“I think you are still very angry with me,” he said with a quiet laugh.

“I was, but I really haven’t dwelt on it too much.”

He nodded his head slowly. “Listen, it was wrong of me to leave last year without talking to you. I had to get back to Copenhagen pretty urgently.”

“So your note said.”

“It was just that my wife…well…she had not been in very good spirits…”

“I hope she’s better now.”

Peter paused for a moment, eyeing Tess, unsettled by her quick-fire remarks. “Yes, thank you, she is. But what I really wanted to—”

“Why was it you never answered your phone?” Tess asked, leaning forward on the table and glaring at him with intensity. “I called enough times.”

Peter held out his hands apologetically. “I had no alternative, believe me. My wife is very…untrusting of me…”

“With every reason, too,” Tess interjected sharply.

Peter twisted his mouth to the side. “My word, you are being quite sharp today.”

“What are you doing back here, Peter?”

The question once more disarmed him momentarily. “I have come for the festival, but more to see you. I cannot tell you how much I have missed you. I don’t think a day has passed when I have not thought of you.”

Tess nodded. “Right, so let me get this straight. You just want to take up where we left off.”

“Of course not. That would be asking a great deal of you, but maybe I thought we could meet for dinner and remember the good times…because they were good times, Tess. You know it as well as me.”

Tess choked back a laugh. “To be quite honest, I hadn’t given them another thought. And I’ll tell you why, Peter. You see, I’m not free now, for you or anyone else, because I’m married.”

Peter shrugged. “I know all that. Alasdair told me on the telephone. You married Allan, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And if I remember right, you had been going out with him ever since we first became…involved.”

Tess bit at the side of her mouth. “So?”

“So, if that is the case, nothing really has changed. A very innocent dinner, that is all I am asking. What difference would that make to your relationship with him?”

“Every difference.”

“But there’s no reason for him ever to know. You could simply treat it as part of your routine entertainment at the festival.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee. “To make it legitimate, maybe I could speak with Alasdair.”