Starburst (39 page)

Dessuin lowered his face and his body suddenly heaved with sobs. “I’m so sorry, Angélique,” he cried. “I’m so sorry.”

Putting a hand on either side of his face, Angélique lifted it up and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Will you go?”

Dessuin bit hard at his bottom lip to control himself. “I would do anything for you.”

“I know you would.” She pressed his face between her hands. “You are not a bad man, Albert. You must take courage and start on a new life without me.”

Harry Wills slipped the mobile back into his pocket. “I’ll take him back.”

“What d’you mean?” Jamie asked. “To Paris?”

Harry nodded. “I feel responsible for tonight, so it’s the least I can do. Anyway, I’m not quite so forgiving as Angélique, and I’ll not rest easy until I’ve seen this chap out of the country. I’ll have him stay with me tonight so as I can keep an eye on him and then we’ll get the first flight out tomorrow.” He gripped Dessuin firmly by the arm. “Come on, let’s make a move.”

“Harry?”

The reporter turned round to Jamie. “Yes?”

“Could you give me a call tomorrow before you leave? There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

Harry nodded. “Sure.” He shot them a smile. “I’d get to bed, you lot. I think you’ve all had enough excitement for one night.”

Having watched Harry guide Albert Dessuin down the street and round the corner, Jamie leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, and took in a couple of deep breaths. “Angélique, would you head back to the flat with Rene?”

“Why? What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Just recover for a moment. T.K. and I will be along soon.”

Angélique took the comedienne by the arm and they walked off slowly down the street.

“Hell, I didn’t want to let on,” he said to T.K. once they were out of earshot, “but that bloody man’s really managed to hurt me.”

“D’ye need a hand?” T.K. asked.

“No, just give me a minute.” He looked up at T.K. “Can I ask you something?”

“Whit?”

“Have we met before…I mean, before you came round to the flat with Gavin Mackintosh?”

T.K. grinned at him. “Aye, we coulda done.”

“Where?”

“I think it wis you I bumped intae roond the corner there. Ye were carrying somethin’ in yer hand and ye drapped it.”

Jamie nodded slowly as the mental picture of the paint cans rolling off the side of the pavement came to mind. “Of course. That was it. You went haring up London Street.”

T.K. laughed. “Aye, I thocht someone wis efter me.”

Jamie scrutinized him. “It wouldn’t have had anything to do with a stolen video camera from the coffee shop, would it?”

T.K. scratched at the back of his head. “Aye, well, sort of.”

Jamie had a sudden fit of coughing and he gripped the side of his ribcage in agony.

“Whit’s the matter?” T.K. asked. “Are ye all right?”

Jamie lifted his head. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’m just laughing and it bloody hurts.”

“Whit’s so funny?”

“Nothing, really,” he said, pushing himself upright and giving T.K. a thump on the shoulder, “only that both you and I have damned good reasons not to set foot inside that coffee shop ever again.” He began to walk slowly down the street. “I could kill for a pint of beer. What about you?”

T.K. smiled to himself and then hurried to catch up with Jamie. “Aye, why not?”

Jamie felt the relieving effects of the two power-plus painkillers, swallowed with the aid of a large malt whisky, drift over his body like healing hands as he lay in the darkness of his room. He was only a moment away from deep, restful unconsciousness when it happened, so he could not tell whether it was an incipient dream of unrequited desire rather than sublime reality. It started with a beam of light falling across his face for a brief second before darkness enveloped him once more. A sliver of cold air hit him as the duvet was lifted away and he felt the mattress sink to the pressure of another person and the form of a female body melt its contours into the arch of his back. He lay there without moving, sensing every part of her on him, the push of her breasts and the squeeze of her stomach against his spine. He smiled to himself in total contentment and then turned to face the truth.

“Hi,” Angélique whispered.

“Hi,” he replied, leaning up on an elbow and reaching out a hand to the silk-soft skin of her face.

“Did you know it was me?”

Jamie grinned into the darkness. “Well, as much as I like her, I was hoping it wasn’t Rene.”

Angélique muffled a laugh into the duvet. “How is your head feeling?”

“Throbbing.”

“And your body?”

“Aching.”

“Shall I make you feel better?”

“How do you plan to do that?”

He sensed Angélique raise her head from the pillow and then felt the pressure of her lips against his mouth. “I don’t think you really need to ask,” she breathed out.

G
avin Mackintosh sat in the Hub Café toying with his empty coffee cup as he watched the group of Japanese tourists at the next table sifting through the pile of festival leaflets they had laid out before them and discussing with incomprehensible excitement their viewing plan for the day.

“Gavin?”

He turned to find the young woman whom he had first seen talking with Angélique at the welcoming reception at the Sheraton Grand. He stood and offered a hand. “Tess, how good to meet you at last.” He pulled out a chair for her at the table and sat down next to her. “I just felt I should come to see you in person to say how grateful I am for all your help during the past week. The confidence and support you have shown towards Angélique has been invaluable to us all.” Gavin stopped talking when a waiter came and hovered beside him. “What can I get you?”

“A cappuccino, please.”

Gavin ordered two cappuccinos and then leaned forward on the table. “No doubt you’ve been in touch with Angélique?”

Tess nodded. “I had a long chat with her this morning. It seems all your fears over Dessuin were well justified.”

“They were, and I think we were very lucky it didn’t all turn out a great deal worse than it actually did.”

“How’s Jamie? I hear Dessuin gave him quite a beating.”

Gavin smiled at her. “He’s a tough lad. He’ll make a speedy recovery.”

“And Angélique?”

“Despite what happened, she seems a very different person this morning. I think a whole weight has lifted off her shoulders with the departure of Dessuin.”

Tess raised her eyebrows. “I can well believe that, and I—” She stopped when the waiter approached their table and placed the two cups of cappuccino in front of them. She waited for him to leave before continuing. “I’m just so glad it’s all over for her.”

Gavin took a sip from his cup. “She’s ready to play again, you know.”

“Yes, she told me. I’m going to see Alasdair Dreyfuss this afternoon and break the news to him. It’s going to be tricky to arrange it all, but there’s no doubt he’s going to be over the moon.”

“What will you say to him?”

“Just that Angélique’s hand has healed much faster than was expected, and she’s decided to return here from France so that she can at least fulfil a small part of her commitment.”

Gavin nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right to keep it quite simple.”

Tess blew out a breath. “I have to. One way and another, I’ve been keeping too many secrets back from Alasdair this year. Anyway, once we’ve rescheduled one of the concerts, I’ll get Sarah Atkinson, my boss, to arrange rehearsals for her. And then we can publicize it.”

Gavin drained his cup of coffee. “I’m sure it will be a sell-out within hours of you doing that.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, I really must fly,” he said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.” He took out a five-pound note from his wallet and placed it on the table. “It’s been good meeting you properly, Tess.”

They stood and shook hands. “And you too, Gavin. I know how much you’ve done for Angélique.”

“For me, it’s been nothing but a pleasure.” He held on to her hand, laying his other one across it. “Actually, Tess, there is one other thing. Would you be able to reserve two tickets for me for this concert before the word gets out?”

Tess laughed. “Consider it done,” she said, “and seeing you’ve paid for the coffee, I think we can put them on the house.”

J
amie and T.K. stood up from the kitchen table as the tweed-suited doctor walked into the room, unhooking his stethoscope from around his neck and slipping it into the leather case he was carrying.

“How is he?” Jamie asked.

The doctor gazed seriously at them both over the top of his spectacles. “Rest, and plenty of it. That’s all he needs.” He put his bag down on the table. “I really am of the opinion that it was pretty unwise of Mr. Hartson to take on this film job of his, especially in light of the fact that he’s not been used to doing such work for the past twenty years or so.”

“Whit’s the matter wi’ him?” T.K. asked, a worried frown on his face.

“Mr. Hartson, I’m afraid, has quite a serious heart problem. He has been taking all the correct medication, which has worked well in controlling his condition up until now, but the extra physical effort and the undoubted mental strain of making this film has certainly exacerbated it.”

“Are ye saying he’s gotta stop makin’ the film?” T.K. exclaimed in disbelief.

“I don’t think whatever I have to suggest will stop him from doing that. The making of this particular film obviously means a great deal to him, but nevertheless, my advice would be that he should take a couple of days off, just so he can recharge his batteries a bit.” He pulled back a tweedy sleeve and glanced at his watch. “Now, I must be getting off,” he said, picking up his bag. “I was given rather short shrift by my receptionist this morning for taking on a house call.” He studied Jamie’s face. “You look as if you’ve been in the wars, lad. That’s a nasty-looking bruise on your cheek.”

Jamie smiled at the old man. “I’m fine, honestly.”

“Right, well, in that case, all I’d advise you to do is to take a couple of Arnica pills.”

“I’ll get some. Thanks.”

While Jamie showed the doctor out of the flat, T.K. walked along the hall and gently pushed open the door to his and Leonard’s bedroom. The old cameraman was sitting fully dressed on the edge of his bed, leaning over with effort to tie up his shoelaces.

“Whit are ye daen’, Leonard?” T.K. asked as he entered the room.

Leonard looked up. “Oh, hullo, T.K.”

“Ah said whit are ye daen’?”

“Getting ready to go out, of course.”

“But, Leonard, the doctor said—”

The cameraman cut him short with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh, the doctor says! I know exactly what I can do and what I can’t. I’ve had this condition for the best part of five years, T.K., and I know exactly what my limitations are.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Anyway, we simply cannot afford the time for me to be languishing in my bed,” he said as he approached his assistant, giving him a light pat on the arm, “so let’s get on with the work.”

As the cameraman opened the door of the bedroom, T.K. did not move, but stood scratching at his forehead with a worried expression on his face. “Leonard?”

“Yes?”

“This is no’ a good idea.”

Leonard turned and smiled reassuringly at the boy. “I really am all right, T.K. Anyway, I decided myself last night that, due to present circumstances, I should try to take things a little easier, and for that reason, my plan for today is that you should take over the role of camera operator.”

For a moment, T.K. stared open-mouthed at Leonard, not quite believing what he had just heard. “D’ye mean that?”

“Well, I’ve thrown you in at the deep end all the way through this shoot, so I don’t see why we should stop now. It’ll mean I can concentrate on the lighting.”

“In that case, what are we waiting for?” T.K. said excitedly as he bounded towards the door.

As his young assistant left the room and headed off down the corridor, Leonard shook his head. “I think it was for you, my boy.” He laughed, closing the door behind him.

The lights shimmered and flared on the garishly bright silk kimonos of the Japanese performers as they dipped and turned and rolled with liquid precision through the ancient ritual of their dance. The shadows cast out by their bodies crossed over and merged together on the stage, arms and hands weaving like the high branches of a tree caught in the wind. The dancers, however, were not Leonard’s focus of attention. He sat in the canvas-backed chair watching every move that T.K. made with the camera as he followed the action exactly as he had been directed. From what he witnessed, there was no doubt in Leonard’s mind that the boy had the knack, using the top of his right arm to operate the panning handle of the tripod so that he could release his right hand to operate the automatic zoom. At every moment that Leonard thought the camera should pan or tilt, T.K. would carry it out, moving smoothly through the syncopated motions of the six dancers.

Oh, to be able to get the chance to live my life again, Leonard thought to himself as he slipped a hand inside his jacket to press against the pain that was once more building in his side. Why did I ever conceive the idea of giving up this kind of work? It was always my passion, my calling in life. Why did I allow myself to be cast out into the wilderness for all those years, to turn my back on so many potential opportunities to make films such as this? Yes, it had come about eventually, but only through a quirk of fate, and maybe, in the end, it was all going to be too late.

He took a neatly folded handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket and dabbed at his watering eyes as he turned his attention to the lighting stage. He smiled sadly to himself as he glanced from one light to the other, following their perfectly balanced beams down onto the dancers on the stage. Maybe Nick Springer was right. Maybe now he should start admitting to himself that he was, indeed, still one of the best directors of photography in the business.

“Shall ah stop rolling, Leonard?” T.K. asked, taking his eye away from the viewfinder of the camera.

“Are you quite happy with it?”

“Ah think so.”

“Good lad. In that case, cut it.”