Dad. I could see you were feeling hassled. It’s just that he’s been through stuff he could never talk about and now he’s in London everything matters to him. All at once.’
Mabbut turned back to the café. Through the windows Shiraj caught his glance, smiled uncertainly then looked away.
‘I guess he could use the spare room. And . . . well, we’ll take it from there,’ said Mabbut, giving Jay a kiss.
As he crossed the road, he saw her skipping back into the café.
By the time he got back to Reserton Road it was late afternoon. That dark hour for any writer. He checked the cricket. No play, rain. There was a message on the answerphone which he could listen to either straight away or after an hour’s writing. He listened to it straight away. It was his soon-to-be-ex-wife. She and Rex would bedining at ‘a little bistro he knows’ in Chelsea. She pleaded with Mabbut to come and ‘just say hello’. In disgust, Mabbut switched off the message.
The phone rang again, almost immediately, but it wasn’t Krystyna.
‘OK, dear boy. This is what’s happening. I’ve told Urgent about your worries about deadlines and the novel and how much it means to you, and instead of just telling us to piss off, which they were entirely within their rights to do, they are prepared to discuss these concerns with you.’
‘Silla.’
‘Just hear me out. Ron Latham has agreed to meet up tonight at his office.’
‘Silla.’
‘Go through all your misgivings one by one and he will give you absolute reassurances on all the points that concern you. I’ll be there too and hopefully we can put your troubled mind at rest.’
Mabbut felt assailed and confused. After the oddly disquieting chat with young Shiraj he wanted time and space to think. The last thing he needed was a return to Urgent’s bleak and spiritless office and the hard sell from Latham and Silla.
‘He’ll meet us at seven thirty. OK?’
Mabbut took a deep breath.
‘No, Silla. It’s not OK.’
‘What d’you mean? We let this whole thing drop? We watch while someone else gets the commission? This could be our last chance.’
Mabbut switched the phone to his other hand. His parents smiled at him from the sideboard. A perfect storm of options was swirling about him, and he had to take one of them. Fast.
‘Tell him I’ve got something more important to do.’
Silla’s voice rose. ‘More important ? How’s that going to go down? “I’m sorry, Mr CEO of major publishing company, but the author of The Official History of Sullom Voe ’s got something more important to do!”’
Mabbut cleared his throat.
‘It happens to be true. It’s a very important dinner.’
‘Dare I ask? Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama?’
‘With my wife, if you must ask.’
He put down the phone and after a long, deep breath, rewound the answerphone and wrote down an address.
NINE
I t was certainly more than a bistro. So discreetly appointed was it that he’d walked past three times, thinking it some kind of electrical substation. There was no sign, but incised into a smoked-glass strip beside the hammered metal door were the almost indecipherable words ‘Atelier Gaston Quartz’. The door required two hands to prise it open. As it swung to, Mabbut found himself running a gauntlet of mirrored glass leading to yet another door. He was preparing himself to heave this open when it slid to one side with a hiss. He found himself in a carefully dimmed steel cave in which were set some twenty tables, black glass on silver chrome, only one of which was occupied. Krystyna was sitting with her back to him, so it was her companion whose eye he caught first. A tallish, disappointingly good-looking older man with a high colour. Flecks of white hair, streamlined at the temples, and a well-fed frame tucked neatly into a three-piece suit. It crossed Mabbut’s mind that this might have been what Krystyna’s father looked like.
Krystyna appeared strained, but seemed to be
Mabbut turned back to the café. Through the windows Shiraj caught his glance, smiled uncertainly then looked away.
‘I guess he could use the spare room. And . . . well, we’ll take it from there,’ said Mabbut, giving Jay a kiss.
As he crossed the road, he saw her skipping back into the café.
By the time he got back to Reserton Road it was late afternoon. That dark hour for any writer. He checked the cricket. No play, rain. There was a message on the answerphone which he could listen to either straight away or after an hour’s writing. He listened to it straight away. It was his soon-to-be-ex-wife. She and Rex would bedining at ‘a little bistro he knows’ in Chelsea. She pleaded with Mabbut to come and ‘just say hello’. In disgust, Mabbut switched off the message.
The phone rang again, almost immediately, but it wasn’t Krystyna.
‘OK, dear boy. This is what’s happening. I’ve told Urgent about your worries about deadlines and the novel and how much it means to you, and instead of just telling us to piss off, which they were entirely within their rights to do, they are prepared to discuss these concerns with you.’
‘Silla.’
‘Just hear me out. Ron Latham has agreed to meet up tonight at his office.’
‘Silla.’
‘Go through all your misgivings one by one and he will give you absolute reassurances on all the points that concern you. I’ll be there too and hopefully we can put your troubled mind at rest.’
Mabbut felt assailed and confused. After the oddly disquieting chat with young Shiraj he wanted time and space to think. The last thing he needed was a return to Urgent’s bleak and spiritless office and the hard sell from Latham and Silla.
‘He’ll meet us at seven thirty. OK?’
Mabbut took a deep breath.
‘No, Silla. It’s not OK.’
‘What d’you mean? We let this whole thing drop? We watch while someone else gets the commission? This could be our last chance.’
Mabbut switched the phone to his other hand. His parents smiled at him from the sideboard. A perfect storm of options was swirling about him, and he had to take one of them. Fast.
‘Tell him I’ve got something more important to do.’
Silla’s voice rose. ‘More important ? How’s that going to go down? “I’m sorry, Mr CEO of major publishing company, but the author of The Official History of Sullom Voe ’s got something more important to do!”’
Mabbut cleared his throat.
‘It happens to be true. It’s a very important dinner.’
‘Dare I ask? Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama?’
‘With my wife, if you must ask.’
He put down the phone and after a long, deep breath, rewound the answerphone and wrote down an address.
NINE
I t was certainly more than a bistro. So discreetly appointed was it that he’d walked past three times, thinking it some kind of electrical substation. There was no sign, but incised into a smoked-glass strip beside the hammered metal door were the almost indecipherable words ‘Atelier Gaston Quartz’. The door required two hands to prise it open. As it swung to, Mabbut found himself running a gauntlet of mirrored glass leading to yet another door. He was preparing himself to heave this open when it slid to one side with a hiss. He found himself in a carefully dimmed steel cave in which were set some twenty tables, black glass on silver chrome, only one of which was occupied. Krystyna was sitting with her back to him, so it was her companion whose eye he caught first. A tallish, disappointingly good-looking older man with a high colour. Flecks of white hair, streamlined at the temples, and a well-fed frame tucked neatly into a three-piece suit. It crossed Mabbut’s mind that this might have been what Krystyna’s father looked like.
Krystyna appeared strained, but seemed to be
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