Chapter 9 #4
She would have to sort herself out once she was married to Will anyway, she thought complacently.
Of course he knew that she had the odd toot when she was out – he wasn’t completely naive – but he had no idea how much she counted on it just to keep going and to combat boredom.
It wasn’t that she felt she had anything to be ashamed of – it wasn’t as if she had a serious problem – but she knew Will was capable of making her feel like a complete skank even for the pathetic amount she used.
He was such an old woman about drugs. She often marvelled at how he managed to survive in the music business with an attitude like that.
If he knew how much she used, Will would make it into a big deal, and it wasn’t a big deal.
It was precisely because it wasn’t a problem that she could keep doing it.
Coke was the only thing she did regularly – and only the very best stuff.
It went with the life she led. When she gave up the life, she would give up the coke. Easy.
When she had showered and changed, she made a quick call to her agent and cancelled her engagements for the week.
Eleanor was clearly pissed off, but that was her problem, Tina thought haughtily – let her earn her percentage for once.
She spent a long time styling her hair and making up her face, using every trick she knew to eradicate the ravages of too much alcohol and cocaine, and too many late nights.
When she was finished, she stood back and surveyed the results with a satisfied smile.
She was stunning – glowing, youthful and radiant. She smirked at herself in the mirror.
Kate O’Neill is toast, she thought.
* * *
Tina was essentially a pack animal, and over the next few days various members of her inner circle turned up at the house.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t mean extra work for you,’ Will told Kate, as more and more people appeared. ‘They’re all models – they don’t eat.’
Kate was shocked but relieved to discover he wasn’t exaggerating. Tina and her cronies survived on a diet of alcohol, cigarettes and coffee – combined, of course, with plenty of the ‘supplements’ that you couldn’t pick up in Boots.
Kate detested having Tina around. She felt like a particularly clumsy elephant in her presence, and Will no longer had time to hang out with her. He was at Tina’s beck and call, dancing attendance on her and her friends, and she missed him so acutely that it shocked her.
But, she told herself sternly, it was just the reality check she needed.
How could she have thought that Will might be interested in her when he had someone so impossibly glamorous and beautiful and…
thin? Okay, so Tina was possibly the most boring woman on the planet and had virtually no sense of humour and a habit for Class As but that sort of thing never seemed to bother men.
Kate felt like Jane Eyre after Blanche Ingram turned up to stay at Thornfield, forcing herself to face up to reality, however painful it was.
She tried to ignore the little voice in her head that kept reminding her Jane was the one Mr Rochester had really loved all along.
* * *
Kate wasn’t the only one who was less than happy with the new arrivals at the villa.
Will had thought that having Tina around would take his mind off Kate, but instead he found himself resenting the intrusion, and Tina’s petulant diva behaviour only made him yearn more for Kate.
He wanted everything to go back to the way it was.
He wanted to have dinner with Kate and the band in the evenings, instead of being whisked off to some fashionable club or restaurant in Florence to party with the ‘beautiful people’.
He was increasingly irritated by Tina’s moodiness and neurosis.
He didn’t like the people she surrounded herself with, or the influence they had on her.
She hadn’t always been so superficial and mercenary, but her friends brought out the worst in her, and he didn’t like the person she had become.
He detested her constant publicity-seeking, and he loathed her drug-taking – she seemed to think he had no idea she did it and he hated that.
How could she take him for such an idiot?
If Tina stopped to think about it, she would realise she wasn’t happy with him either.
But she didn’t: image was everything, and they looked too good on paper for her to admit that the reality was less than idyllic.
For his part, he found keeping up the pretence exhausting, and it would be a huge relief to put an end to it.
But there was the charade of her birthday to get through first. He owed her that.
By the end of the week, he was so fed up that he jumped at the chance to fly to Rome to meet some Italian record-company executives rather than spend time with her.
Tellingly, she seemed quite happy to see him go, once he’d promised he’d be back in time on Saturday to accompany her and her friends to the 2Tone concert at the Mandela Forum.
He didn’t flatter himself that it was his company she craved: she wanted the access-all-areas privileges he brought and the opportunity for backstage schmoozing.
If he had cared about her more, he might have felt hurt.
* * *
Will had left his new car at the airport, and when he arrived back the following morning, he went for a long, leisurely drive, relishing the solitude, finally arriving back at the villa at around five.
Turning into the long driveway, he noticed a crowd of people in the grounds, close to the door.
As he drew closer, he realised, with a sinking feeling, that it was a gaggle of reporters and photographers, tooled up with microphones, cameras and recording equipment.
They had been waiting somewhat desultorily but on spying Will’s car, they roused themselves and got ready to spring into action, primed to ambush him as soon as he got out.
‘Bugger!’ Will cursed. What had Owen been up to now?
he wondered, slowing down as he approached the house to buy himself time.
It must be pretty serious, he thought, as he scanned the cluster of reporters, recognising some faces – hacks from English and Irish tabloids.
There were some unfamiliar ones too and, worryingly, some more weighty journalists.
A couple were even shouldering TV cameras.
These weren’t just paparazzi hoping to get a shot of Tina having a bad-hair day or looking too bony in a bikini.
Obviously some story had broken at home and, whatever it was, it must be big.
Why the hell hadn’t he been warned? Where the fuck was Louise?
Where was Martina or Karen or Anne-Marie – or any of the army of publicists, press agents and PR people to whom they paid a small fortune to keep on top of things like this?
He couldn’t believe someone hadn’t called to give him a heads-up.
Angrily, he pulled his mobile out of his jacket pocket and saw it was switched off. ‘Fuck!’ He was angry with himself now. He’d forgotten to switch it on again after getting off the plane.
Stalling for time, he turned it on while he made a meal of parking the car.
He waited what seemed like an age for it to register and the display to light up.
As soon as it did, it started beeping message alerts.
Will’s heart sank as the incoming texts and voicemail messages racked up.
People had been trying to reach him all day, which added to his sense of foreboding.
There were countless messages from Louise, Tina, Phoenix – even Grace and Lorcan. What the hell was going on?
Reluctant to face the mob without some clue as to what it was all about, he looked at a couple of text messages from Louise, but they just asked him to get in contact as soon as possible.
Feeling guilty now that he had been tooling around the Tuscan countryside, leaving everyone to deal with God knew what, he just wanted to get into the house and make sure that everyone was all right.
But first he had to run the press gauntlet.
The journalists were beginning to crowd around the car.
Knowing he didn’t have much time, he listened to the most recent voice message.
It was Louise, sounding uncharacteristically panicked: ‘Will, I’ve been trying to reach you all day.
Tina can’t get you either. Please call me as soon as you get this message, or ring someone at the house.
’ There was a pause, as if she had been about to say something else but had decided against it.
‘Well, ring me back as soon as you can,’ she continued.
Again she hesitated. ‘I’ll probably fly out this evening.
Okay, bye,’ she said, sounding worried, and was gone.
‘Shit!’ Will cursed, throwing the phone onto the passenger seat.
He’d just have to wing it with the press – pretend he knew what this was about and ‘no comment’ his way to the door, get inside and find out what the hell had happened.
Then he would get down to the serious business of throttling Owen.
No doubt it was something to do with him.
Bracing himself, he assumed a calm, deadpan expression and opened the door. As soon as he stepped out, journalists were swarming around him, shoving microphones in his face. Photographers called his name and reporters shouted questions.
‘I have nothing to say,’ he said stoically, not even listening to the barrage of questions.
Trying to look all-knowing but resolutely tight-lipped, he moved towards the house, his progress impeded by the throng.
Amid the cacophony of shouted questions, it was difficult to make out what anyone was saying, but he became aware that their questions had nothing to do with Owen or any of the band.
They were asking him about his father. What had the old goat been up to now?
‘When did you last speak to your father, Will?’
‘Had you seen Sir Philip recently?’
‘Is it true you hadn’t spoken to him in more than ten years?’
‘Had there been any reconciliation between you?’
‘No comment,’ he repeated, moving forward doggedly. He was almost there.
‘Will,’ a voice called from behind him, ‘had you spoken to your father before he died?’
Will froze, unable to move or speak. His legs felt as if they were going to give way. Then he spun around in the direction of the voice, his mouth dry. He found himself confronting a middle-aged man with thinning, greasy hair and watery, reptilian eyes.
‘What?’ His mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. He tried again. ‘What?’ he breathed, his voice a barely audible whisper.
‘Had you spoken to your father before he died?’ the man repeated, in a London accent.
‘Died?’ Will croaked, blinking uncomprehendingly.
‘Yes, had there been any reconciliation—’ On seeing Will’s face, the man stopped short. His face changed, realisation dawning. ‘You didn’t know?’ he asked, unable to conceal the gleam of triumph in his eyes at the shock in Will’s face.
Will just looked at him blankly while cameras whirred and clicked.
‘Sir Philip passed away last night,’ the reporter said piously. ‘It was a heart attack, very sudden.’ His reverential tone was belied by the excitement in his face. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.’
No, you’re not, Will thought, longing to smash his smug face in. You’re not sorry at all. You’re fucking delighted. He had to clench his fists to stop himself lashing out.
‘He was a great man, Sir Philip,’ the reporter said solemnly. ‘A great loss to us all.’
As if you knew him. As if anything he did meant fuck to you. Name one of his plays, you fucking Neanderthal!
The rest of the gaggle of reporters, who had fallen silent during this exchange, sprang into action once more, all shouting questions at once.
Had Will really not known about his father’s death until this moment?
Was he in touch with Antonia Bell? Had he spoken to Sir Philip before he died?
How did he feel? How did he feel? How did he feel?
Somehow Will turned on his heel and walked purposefully towards the house, the newsmen tripping over each other as they struggled to keep up with his long stride.
Head down, shoulders hunched, his mouth shut in a grim line, Will ignored the questions, refusing to look into the cameras thrust in his face.
He just had to hold it together until he got inside.
He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking down in front of them.
When he got to the other side of the door, he could howl and scream and go to pieces.
He just had to keep it together for another couple of steps.