Chapters (49)
- Cover
- Table of Contents
- Also by Graham Hurley
- LIMELIGHT
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- AFTERWARDS
‘Money, I suspect. He’s generous that way. Poor bugger’s on his uppers. Christianne was the one who kept the show on the bloody road and now she’s gone. Terrible business. Frightful shame.’
‘You think …’ I’m frowning now. ‘Think he might have done something silly?’
‘Like Chris, you mean? More than possible. In fact, likely, I’d say. Chap like that, he’d take himself off, find somewhere nice and quiet. Shotgun, probably. Time will tell.’ He plucks at the crease in his trousers. ‘And you, my dear? What’s your take on this sorry little saga?’
‘I have no take.’ I nod at the script. ‘We thesps live in a world of our own.’
‘Really?’ He looks affronted. ‘And that’s the best you can do?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’
I manage to get him out of the house shortly afterwards. He lingers in the hall for a moment or two and wonders whether I’d like to join him for dinner. He says he’s staying at his club, The Reform, wonderful grub, much-envied cellar. I’d be more than welcome. When I turn the invitation down, he looks disappointed.
‘Better offer?’
‘Not at all.’ I nod back towards the lounge. ‘I’m planning a quiet evening in.’
He’s gone moments later, and I linger at the window, watching him clamber into a sleek-looking Mercedes in the visitors’ section at the far end of the car park. Acting teaches you a great deal about the way people behave, those little giveaway signs when they’re faking it, pretending to be someone or something they’re not, and the performance I’ve just witnessed is a perfect example. If Nathan Kline wants to play the bluff country misogynist, awkward, clumsy, then he should have spent a little longer practising the role. He’s a bright man, and probably a bully, and I suspect he has friends in high places. So why did he take the trouble to track me down? And play the provincial buffoon he so patently isn’t?
To this, I have no answer. I circle the flat for a minute or two, touching this, adjusting that, a routine I developed in the darkest days after the collapse of my marriage. This is my fortress, I tell myself, this is the little tiny patch of west London real estate that I’ve truly earned. Kline’s visit has been an intrusion, no question, but my job now is to put it out of my mind and pretend it never happened.
And yet. And yet …