please.”
Val raised a surprised eyebrow at this change to my usual order of a glass of Merlot but then gave an almost imperceptible nod, perhaps in acknowledgement of the wisdom of my choice. I would need all my wits about me dealing with Mr Ferrari.
"We don't see you in here very often, Mr Ferrari," I said.
"I don't often get into the city centre. Is this a favourite watering hole for you?"
"Me? Oh I'm a habitué," I laughed.
"So what were you doing out at the studios, Verity?"
Is that what he's after, I wondered? Is he going to start pumping me for information? Well, two can play at that game.
"I interviewed Candida Clark for a magazine article about Jaynee Johnson."
I caught a momentary flash in his eyes. Anger? Fear, perhaps? Hard to tell but this was getting more interesting by the moment.
"Really? Which magazine?"
The question was casually put, but again I became wary.
"I'm freelance. There are lots of magazines interested in JayJay right now."
"Of course. She will be a sad, sad loss," he said, echoing Candida's false sentiments word for word. And with the same amount of conviction. This man was not mourning the death of his co-star.
"It must be awful for you. So distressing," I sounded suitably sympathetic.
"Indeed. I shall miss her so much."
Yeah! Like you'll miss a hole in the head, I thought.
"What will happen now?"
"That rather depends on the studio." He shrugged.
"Will the show continue? It's very popular, I've heard."
His eyebrows shot up. "You've heard? You mean you don't watch the show?"
Heaven forfend! I'd rather have my teeth drilled than watch a bunch of talentless twerps prancing around in the name of entertainment.
"I'm usually busy on a Saturday," I said with total dishonesty. "Hadn't you nearly finished the run, though?
"Yes, it's an eighteen week season and we had three more programmes to record. I've suggested Kaylee Blake would make an excellent replacement. Should the studio heads decide they want the show to continue, of course."
Of course. And your career too, I thought nastily.
"Greg! Darling!"
A woman's high pitched shriek shattered my eardrums.
"Hello, Babs."
He turned towards the newcomer and I slipped from my stool.
"I've got to go. Nice meeting you, Greg."
"Wait."
He laid a hand on my arm, bedroom eyes gazing into mine.
"Dinner next week?"
"Oh!" Surprised at his quick work, I agreed. It fitted in nicely with my plans, too. "Yes. OK."
"Great. Next Tuesday?"
I nodded.
"I'll meet you here, say seven thirty? We'll go next door, shall we?"
"Sounds good to me." I never refused dinner at Chez Jacques - especially if someone else was paying. "See you then."
I left them to it, turning and blowing a kiss to Valentino as I passed.
My flat in Sutton Harcourt occupied the ground floor of what had been a substantial two-storey brick cottage. It had once possessed a large garden but during the last property boom the land had been bought by an enterprising builder who'd thrown up a couple of boxes, called them 'bijou residences' and sold them for a fortune. Instead of sitting outside in the evening and admiring trim lawns and flower filled borders, I had four slabs and the side of a house to look at.
I finished wiping the last of my supper pots, stacking them away in the few cupboards that made up my fitted kitchen, and poured myself a glass of wine. It was nearly nine o'clock and, if I couldn't sit out in a garden then I would have to make do with the lounge. I was half way there, wine in hand, when the doorbell rang. I sighed and carried my glass back to the kitchen. The original front door now served the flat upstairs while I made do with the back door re-sited to the side wall when the cottage was divided.
"Hello, Miss Long. I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
"Not at all. Come in, and please call me Verity. I was just about to have some wine," I waved the glass in my hand, "would you like one?"
Holly Danvers refused but asked for a soft drink.
"Do you like Youth
Val raised a surprised eyebrow at this change to my usual order of a glass of Merlot but then gave an almost imperceptible nod, perhaps in acknowledgement of the wisdom of my choice. I would need all my wits about me dealing with Mr Ferrari.
"We don't see you in here very often, Mr Ferrari," I said.
"I don't often get into the city centre. Is this a favourite watering hole for you?"
"Me? Oh I'm a habitué," I laughed.
"So what were you doing out at the studios, Verity?"
Is that what he's after, I wondered? Is he going to start pumping me for information? Well, two can play at that game.
"I interviewed Candida Clark for a magazine article about Jaynee Johnson."
I caught a momentary flash in his eyes. Anger? Fear, perhaps? Hard to tell but this was getting more interesting by the moment.
"Really? Which magazine?"
The question was casually put, but again I became wary.
"I'm freelance. There are lots of magazines interested in JayJay right now."
"Of course. She will be a sad, sad loss," he said, echoing Candida's false sentiments word for word. And with the same amount of conviction. This man was not mourning the death of his co-star.
"It must be awful for you. So distressing," I sounded suitably sympathetic.
"Indeed. I shall miss her so much."
Yeah! Like you'll miss a hole in the head, I thought.
"What will happen now?"
"That rather depends on the studio." He shrugged.
"Will the show continue? It's very popular, I've heard."
His eyebrows shot up. "You've heard? You mean you don't watch the show?"
Heaven forfend! I'd rather have my teeth drilled than watch a bunch of talentless twerps prancing around in the name of entertainment.
"I'm usually busy on a Saturday," I said with total dishonesty. "Hadn't you nearly finished the run, though?
"Yes, it's an eighteen week season and we had three more programmes to record. I've suggested Kaylee Blake would make an excellent replacement. Should the studio heads decide they want the show to continue, of course."
Of course. And your career too, I thought nastily.
"Greg! Darling!"
A woman's high pitched shriek shattered my eardrums.
"Hello, Babs."
He turned towards the newcomer and I slipped from my stool.
"I've got to go. Nice meeting you, Greg."
"Wait."
He laid a hand on my arm, bedroom eyes gazing into mine.
"Dinner next week?"
"Oh!" Surprised at his quick work, I agreed. It fitted in nicely with my plans, too. "Yes. OK."
"Great. Next Tuesday?"
I nodded.
"I'll meet you here, say seven thirty? We'll go next door, shall we?"
"Sounds good to me." I never refused dinner at Chez Jacques - especially if someone else was paying. "See you then."
I left them to it, turning and blowing a kiss to Valentino as I passed.
My flat in Sutton Harcourt occupied the ground floor of what had been a substantial two-storey brick cottage. It had once possessed a large garden but during the last property boom the land had been bought by an enterprising builder who'd thrown up a couple of boxes, called them 'bijou residences' and sold them for a fortune. Instead of sitting outside in the evening and admiring trim lawns and flower filled borders, I had four slabs and the side of a house to look at.
I finished wiping the last of my supper pots, stacking them away in the few cupboards that made up my fitted kitchen, and poured myself a glass of wine. It was nearly nine o'clock and, if I couldn't sit out in a garden then I would have to make do with the lounge. I was half way there, wine in hand, when the doorbell rang. I sighed and carried my glass back to the kitchen. The original front door now served the flat upstairs while I made do with the back door re-sited to the side wall when the cottage was divided.
"Hello, Miss Long. I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
"Not at all. Come in, and please call me Verity. I was just about to have some wine," I waved the glass in my hand, "would you like one?"
Holly Danvers refused but asked for a soft drink.
"Do you like Youth
Similar Books
