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Authors: Anthony Eglin
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as a result of the practice run. They also discussed the question of Kingston’s car, which was parked at Henley Air. If the next shoot were within a few days, he would leave it there. If not, he told Chris he would try to bribe Andrew with a nice lunch, to drive Kingston to Oxford to pick it up. Before parting company it was left that the minute Chris got back to Oxford, he would have his people check the schedule for the next few days and let Kingston know when they could go up again to resume videotaping.
Kingston turned on a light in the living room, put down his leather bag containing the tape and the laptop, and rewound the answerphone tape. He played back the messages while he poured his drink: two fingers of malt whisky (never measured) and an equal amount of Malvern water. The first two messages were of no importance. The third was from Martin Davis at New Eden. Typical of him, the message was brief: “It’s Martin, Lawrence—Milly gave me your message. What a nasty mess. Glad you’re all in one piece, though. Give me a call on my mobile when you feel up to it. Here’s the number.” Kingston jotted it down. He was about to reach for the phone when he paused, looking at his watch. It was by no means too late to call Martin back but he decided he’d had enough Q&A for one day.
Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant Kingston would have to wait until Monday before he could review the footage. First thing in the morning, he would call Transmedia, New Eden’s post-production studio, to book an appointment, with any luck, for Monday. Being Saturday, though, he doubted they’d be open.
Kingston had a full weekend coming up. Saturday, he had tickets for a symphony concert at Barbican Hall and Sunday was also spoken for, with lunch in Hampstead with a bohemian artist friend, Henrietta, followed by a visit to the Tate Modern to view an exhibition of naturalistic and abstract paintings by Kandinsky. He had accepted the “date” reluctantly, knowing that he would be subject to Henrietta’s brazen amorous overtures, added to which, modernist painting, in particular, was hardly his cuppa. However, Hussy Henrietta—as he called her—was not one to take “no” easily.
Kingston flicked on the television and reached for his whisky.
The bedroom was already awash with light when Kingston awoke on Monday morning. No sooner than his toes touched the carpet, the phone started ringing in the living room. Grabbing his robe, putting it on as he loped down the hall, he managed to get to the phone just before the answerphone kicked in.
“Lawrence Kingston?” a man’s voice inquired.
“This is he,” Kingston mumbled, running a hand through his tangled hair.
“My name’s Patrick, I work for Martin Davis at New Eden.”
“Oh, yes, good morning.”
“Milly’s out sick and Martin wanted to know if you shot any footage on Friday. If you did, he’d like to take a look at it—mainly for quality.”
Kingston thought for a moment. Hadn’t he told Milly that they got at least twenty minutes of good footage of the two gardens? Now he couldn’t be sure. From what he was hearing, he hadn’t, or why would they be calling? “We did, yes, about twenty minutes, I would guess,” he replied. “Tell Martin I’ll be taking a look at it at Transmedia, in Hammersmith, hopefully later this morning, if they can squeak me in—then I’ll send it over. We’re going to reschedule the rest of the shoot, in the next couple of days, while this good weather is still around.”
“Excellent.”
Kingston paused expecting him to go on but he said no more.
“Well, then—Patrick—as soon as I know when that is, I’ll let him know.”
“Thank you Mr. Kingston. I’ll pass the message on.” Then he hung up.
Not yet fully awake, Kingston thought nothing more of the call. He fetched The Times from the front doorstep, returned to the kitchen, and plugged in the electric kettle. Tea was always the first order of the day,
Kingston turned on a light in the living room, put down his leather bag containing the tape and the laptop, and rewound the answerphone tape. He played back the messages while he poured his drink: two fingers of malt whisky (never measured) and an equal amount of Malvern water. The first two messages were of no importance. The third was from Martin Davis at New Eden. Typical of him, the message was brief: “It’s Martin, Lawrence—Milly gave me your message. What a nasty mess. Glad you’re all in one piece, though. Give me a call on my mobile when you feel up to it. Here’s the number.” Kingston jotted it down. He was about to reach for the phone when he paused, looking at his watch. It was by no means too late to call Martin back but he decided he’d had enough Q&A for one day.
Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant Kingston would have to wait until Monday before he could review the footage. First thing in the morning, he would call Transmedia, New Eden’s post-production studio, to book an appointment, with any luck, for Monday. Being Saturday, though, he doubted they’d be open.
Kingston had a full weekend coming up. Saturday, he had tickets for a symphony concert at Barbican Hall and Sunday was also spoken for, with lunch in Hampstead with a bohemian artist friend, Henrietta, followed by a visit to the Tate Modern to view an exhibition of naturalistic and abstract paintings by Kandinsky. He had accepted the “date” reluctantly, knowing that he would be subject to Henrietta’s brazen amorous overtures, added to which, modernist painting, in particular, was hardly his cuppa. However, Hussy Henrietta—as he called her—was not one to take “no” easily.
Kingston flicked on the television and reached for his whisky.
The bedroom was already awash with light when Kingston awoke on Monday morning. No sooner than his toes touched the carpet, the phone started ringing in the living room. Grabbing his robe, putting it on as he loped down the hall, he managed to get to the phone just before the answerphone kicked in.
“Lawrence Kingston?” a man’s voice inquired.
“This is he,” Kingston mumbled, running a hand through his tangled hair.
“My name’s Patrick, I work for Martin Davis at New Eden.”
“Oh, yes, good morning.”
“Milly’s out sick and Martin wanted to know if you shot any footage on Friday. If you did, he’d like to take a look at it—mainly for quality.”
Kingston thought for a moment. Hadn’t he told Milly that they got at least twenty minutes of good footage of the two gardens? Now he couldn’t be sure. From what he was hearing, he hadn’t, or why would they be calling? “We did, yes, about twenty minutes, I would guess,” he replied. “Tell Martin I’ll be taking a look at it at Transmedia, in Hammersmith, hopefully later this morning, if they can squeak me in—then I’ll send it over. We’re going to reschedule the rest of the shoot, in the next couple of days, while this good weather is still around.”
“Excellent.”
Kingston paused expecting him to go on but he said no more.
“Well, then—Patrick—as soon as I know when that is, I’ll let him know.”
“Thank you Mr. Kingston. I’ll pass the message on.” Then he hung up.
Not yet fully awake, Kingston thought nothing more of the call. He fetched The Times from the front doorstep, returned to the kitchen, and plugged in the electric kettle. Tea was always the first order of the day,
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