“You wouldn’t be trying to divert me, would you?”
Catriona laughed. “No. But if you’re still fixated on the profit motive and you think that Penny dead is an appealing moneymaker, you really would be better employed talking to Baz. Penny’s royalty is ten percent, so my cut is around one and a half percent of the retail price. Monarch Press, on the other hand, are picking up between ten and forty percent on every book sold. As they say on your side of the Atlantic, go figure.”
Lindsay stood up. She wasn’t entirely convinced she’d got everything out of Catriona Polson that there was to be had, but she didn’t have the right questions to elicit more. Perhaps after she’d spoken to Baz Burton, she’d have more ammunition to fire at the agent. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll talk to her. Now, wasn’t that painless?”
“Painless but not a terribly productive use of my time,” Catriona said dismissively, leading Lindsay out of the room and down the corridor. “I’m bound to say, I hope your client is paying you up front. I suspect she may end up wasting all her available cash on defense lawyers. I think you’re backing the wrong horse, Ms. Gordon. Always a mistake to let sentiment stand in the way of reality, however unpalatable that may be.”
For once, Lindsay refused to let herself be wound up. She contented herself with, “As Arnie says, hasta la vista, baby.” On her way out of the front door, she took out the card she’d put in her shirt pocket earlier. It was about ten years old, but that didn’t matter. She flicked it across the desk to the receptionist. “Have a nice day, cher,” she said in her best Bayou accent. She didn’t wait to register the response to a card that read, “Lindsay Gordon, Staff Reporter, Daily Nation.”
Chapter 5
When she left Catriona Polson’s office Lindsay felt a strange sense of dislocation, a combination of sleep deprivation and an awareness that there had been changes in the street ambience of Soho in the six years she’d been away. Seedy sex tourism had given way to café bars with fashion victims spilling out on to pavement tables, braying loudly. Surely, Lindsay thought, there couldn’t be that many jobs for film critics? What she needed was a space to call her own, somewhere she could spread her things around her and feel grounded. Meredith had offered her the second bedroom in her apartment, but Lindsay didn’t want to be constantly bound to Penny’s death.
She found a phone box near Tottenham Court Road, checked her personal organizer and punched in a local number. “Watergaw Films, how can I help you?” she heard in a bright Scottish accent.
“I’d like to speak to Helen Christie,” Lindsay said. “The name’s Lindsay Gordon.”
“One moment please.” Then what sounded like Eine kleine Nachtmusik played on penny whistles. Lindsay gritted her teeth and waited. It would be worth the assault on her eardrums if this call gave her what she needed, and she didn’t anticipate denial. Helen had lived with Sophie for years, but she’d been Lindsay’s friend long before that. The two women had linked up years before at Oxford, the only two working-class women in their college’s annual intake. The recognition had been instant, forging an immediate friendship that time, distance and lovers had never threatened. They had discovered their common sexuality in tandem, been paralytically drunk and terminally hung over together, wept over broken hearts and celebrated famous victories by each other’s side. No matter how long the gap between their encounters, Lindsay and Helen invariably fell straight back into the easy camaraderie that had marked their relationship right from the beginning.