Chapter 25
Helen signed the final paper with a flourish. She looked up at Brad and the young solicitor, her cheeks glowing with excitement.
‘Well, there we are, Miss McCarthy. Just the money transfer from your bank to complete, which I can arrange this afternoon, and fifty per cent of the issued share capital of Metropolitan Records is yours. Congratulations.’
Helen smiled at the solicitor. ‘Thank you, Mr Brierley.’
‘Yes, congratulations, Helen.’ Brad added his felicitations in a perfunctory manner. Helen understood how he must feel. She stood up and held out her hand to Richard Brierley. ‘Thanks for all your help.’
‘Any time, Miss McCarthy.’
‘Goodbye.’ Brad stood up and followed Helen out of the office, down the stairs and out into the bright sunshine of Holborn.
‘Drink to celebrate?’ she suggested.
‘Er, would you mind if I didn’t? I’m meeting Freddy at five to run through the new contract. It’s four now and I have some calls to make back at the office.’
‘I understand. Then I think I’ll make my first executive decision and take the rest of the afternoon off.’
‘You deserve it, Helen.’ Brad hailed a taxi. It stopped and he opened the door. As he was about to climb in, he turned back. ‘Thanks – for everything.’
Helen nodded. Brad gave a tight smile and the taxi set off along Holborn.
Just before eight that evening, Helen walked into Kettner’s.
Her hair was freshly washed and styled, and she was wearing a new green mini-dress from Biba.
While she waited for Tony to arrive, she ordered some champagne, then took a notepad out of her new briefcase and began to write herself a task list for tomorrow.
Nick Rogers, the accountant whom Brad had recommended, was starting at Metropolitan.
At eleven, the two of them had an appointment with the Inland Revenue to discuss the outstanding tax bill.
Afterwards, they were meeting Brad for lunch to go through the cash-flow situation for the next six months.
Now she was responsible for the business, she would run a tight ship.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled up at the waiter as he placed the champagne in an ice bucket by her table.
‘You’re welcome, madam. Shall I pour?’
Helen looked at her watch. Tony was fifteen minutes late.
‘Why not?’
When the waiter had left her table, Helen lifted the glass of sparkling liquid to her lips. ‘Here’s to you, Helen, and your future,’ she whispered to herself. She put the glass down and began to write further notes to herself.
BETTER UNDERSTAND MUSIC SCENE. This heading was vitally important.
Until she knew more about the industry and its ways, Helen knew she was working at a disadvantage.
It was impossible for her to have an informed financial opinion if she didn’t know the first thing about what sold and what didn’t. Brad would always have the upper hand.
Check out up-and-coming bands. Buy top twenty singles and record player, she scribbled underneath the main heading.
Read twelve months’ back issues of Melody Maker . . .
Forty-five minutes, six sheets of paper and half a bottle of champagne later, there was still no sign of Tony.
Helen stood up and asked to be directed to a public telephone. She dialled Tony’s number. The telephone rang but there was no reply. Maybe he’d just been delayed and was on his way.
Half an hour later it was obvious Tony wasn’t coming. Helen ordered herself a large salad and munched her way through it, unsure of what to do. She tried ringing his flat another four times, but there was still no answer.
Finally, Helen paid the bill and walked outside. She wondered if he’d forgotten, but thought it unlikely. Feeling deflated, cross, and more than a little worried, Helen hailed a taxi. The black cab took her down The Mall and through Chelsea on its way to Wimbledon.
‘Can you stop here for a moment?’ The car drew to a halt. ‘Wait here, will you? I’ll only be a moment.’
‘Righto, miss,’ the cabbie replied.
Helen climbed out onto the pavement and walked back three houses to Tony’s basement flat. Nervously, she tiptoed down the steps, dreading the thought that his ‘other woman’ might be there and that was why she’d been stood up.
She knocked three times. At the third knock, there was a light click, and the door opened of its own accord. There was no one behind it. Clearly, it had not been shut properly.
Gingerly, she pushed it open. The flat was in darkness.
‘Hello? Tony, it’s me, Helen.’
There was no reply.
‘Tony?’
She searched along the corridor wall for a light switch and pressed it.
‘Damn.’ The bulb had gone.
Helen felt her way along the wall until she arrived at the sitting room door.
‘Tony? Are you here?’
Thankfully the light was functioning, and the sitting room was illuminated brightly when she pressed the switch.
It was also empty.
Helen walked through the room to the kitchen.
The tiny room was in a horrible mess, and there was a funny smell coming from the cooker.
She peered into the saucepan on top of the hob and jumped back in disgust, putting her hand over her mouth as she gagged.
Whatever meat had been in the pan had turned to a squirming mass of maggots. She stood panting in the sitting room.
‘Tony?’
She shivered. He obviously wasn’t at home. From the state of the kitchen, she suspected he hadn’t been around for the past few days. Quickly, she checked the bedroom. The bed was made and the room neat. She returned to the sitting room and searched for a pen and paper in Tony’s bureau drawer.
Thurs night.
Tony,
Where did you get to? Came looking for you. Give the new director of Metropolitan Records a call.
Love,
Helen
She left the note on the coffee table, and leaving the front door exactly as she found it, ran up the steps to her waiting taxi.
The flat was in silence again, apart from the drip of the tap in the bathroom. The water in the bath, once a bright red pool, had turned a deep copper colour. In the midst of the water, his hand still clutching a bar of soap, lay Tony Bryant. He stared, unseeing, up at the ceiling.