The Shooting in the Shop

Seven

Carole was suddenly aware of a loud, cultured voice saying, “Ah, well, that’s something Elton John would have thrown a real tantrum about. Though fortunately, when I was working with him, he was in one of his calmer phases.”

She didn’t need telling that the speaker was Ricky Le Bonnier, but serendipitously Jude was passing and effected the introduction. Smiling, he took her hand in both of his and said, “Carole, such a pleasure to meet you.”

He certainly had charm – or even what someone less hidebound than Carole might have called ‘charisma’. Ricky Le Bonnier was tall, quite bulky above the waist, with grey, thinning hair hanging long to about jaw level. His glasses had narrow rectangular lenses set in frames whose designer appeared to have been influenced by the technology of the Eiffel Tower. He wore cherry-coloured corduroy trousers and a fuzzy cardigan with an abstract pattern of blues and greys.

Although he was in the centre of a small audience, Ricky Le Bonnier appeared to have brought two women with him, but neither was his wife Lola. The first was elderly, ensconced so deeply in one of Jude’s heavily draped armchairs that Carole had to bend double to talk to her. She was introduced as Flora, Ricky’s mother, and the expression of adoration that she fixed on her son might well have explained his robust self-esteem.

Although she had claimed to have no knowledge of the name, Carole recognized the woman instantly. Every period television drama of the previous decade seemed to have featured Flora Le Bonnier, usually as the proud head of some patrician family. And before that she had had a long career in British films. But it looked as though her acting days might now be over. She was thin, probably quite tall if she stood up, with a beaky nose and white hair expertly fluffed out by an expensive stylist. Her hands were curved rigidly inwards, the finger joints knobbly with arthritis. Propped against the armchair were the two sticks that, presumably, she needed for walking.

The other woman, perhaps in her late twenties, was introduced to Carole as Polly, Ricky’s daughter – though clearly not from his current marriage. Nor did she actually look very like him. Polly was thin, dark and wiry, attractive in a daunting, don’t-mess-with-me manner. She wore tight black jeans and a sweater which emphasized her trim figure. Her hands were fiddling restlessly with a mobile in a fluorescent pink phone sock. Polly’s dark eyes darted around the room, looking for someone else she knew, someone who might give her the excuse to move away from her current conversational group.

Carole told Ricky that she’d met Lola in the shop.

“Ah yes,” he said. “Gallimaufry, the great Le Bonnier indulgence.”

“Lost cause more likely,” snapped Flora. If Carole hadn’t recognized the face, she could not have failed to recognize the voice. Husky, finely modulated, marinated in centuries of aristocratic history.

“That remains to be seen,” said her son easily. “As we know from all the doom merchants in the media, England’s high streets are suffering in the current economic climate, and there will inevitably be some casualties.”

“I wouldn’t know. I never read newspapers,” was his mother’s rather grand response. “They are full of inaccuracies and libel. Which is why I have made it a rule throughout my professional life never to speak to the press.”

“All right, Mother, we all know you don’t read the papers. But you watch television and listen to the radio. You can’t pretend that you don’t know things are tough on the high street.”

“Very well. And I also know that first to the wall will be mimsy-pimsy shops which sell over-priced rubbish for people with more money than sense.”

Carole was glad to meet someone whose opinions of Gallimaufry coincided so exactly with her own (even though she had ended up buying a glittery boa and a Glow-in-the-dark Computer Angel there), but she was more interested in the subtext of the old woman’s words. The impression came across that not only did Flora Le Bonnier disapprove of the shop, but she hadn’t much time for its owner either. Ricky’s mother was not a fan of his most recent marriage.

Carole’s mind went back to the moment in Gallimaufry when Jude had issued the invitation to her open house. Lola had suggested that Ricky’s mum might look after the children while she and Ricky came to Woodside Cottage. In the event, it appeared that Lola herself had been left holding the babies. And somehow Carole couldn’t imagine her using the expression ‘Ricky’s mum’ in Flora Le Bonnier’s rather daunting presence.

“Oh, come on, Grandma,” said Polly, “give the place a chance. It’s hardly been open three months. Lola’s worked bloody hard on it and we should all give her as much support as we can.”

Carole was surprised to hear this expression of solidarity. According to hallowed fairytale stereotypes, Polly should resent her stepmother, but that appeared not to be the case. Maybe the two young women were near enough in age to bond as girlfriends.

Ricky Le Bonnier evidently considered that he had been silent too long. “I think, next to putting your own money into a musical or opening a restaurant, going into the retail business must be one of the riskiest investments out there. But as you say, Polly, if anyone can make a go of it, Lola can.”

This prompted a barely disguised snort from Flora, as her son continued, “Mind you, it can work for the lucky few. I knew Gordon and Anita Roddick when they started up Body Shop – not far away from here, the first store was in Brighton – and, God, I wish I’d got in on the ground floor of that. Some of their franchisees have just minted it over the years.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Ricky, because you’ve done very well yourself. You’ve made your money through the music business,” said his mother, as though this was an article of faith.

“Oh yes, I’m not complaining. Mind you, the people who really clean up there – apart from the artistes, of course – always end up being the middlemen, the lawyers, the accountants. At the more creative end of the spectrum, the producers and so on are usually the ones who miss out. Very few creatives are also good businessmen.”

He favoured Carole with a big, confidential smile. He had that ability, shared by many professional charmers, of being able to make the person they’re looking at feel for that moment that there’s no one else in the room. “My background’s as a record producer. Worked with a lot of big names in the past…Led Zeppelin, Procol Harum, Jethro Tull. My name was never in the foreground, but, to give them their due, a lot of the artistes always make a point of recognizing my contribution…you know, when they’re interviewed, that kind of stuff.”

Still rather sensitive about her own retired status, Carole asked, “And are you still working?”

He chuckled and made a broad gesture to his womenfolk, whose message seemed to be, “Isn’t it amazing that people still have to ask questions like that about Ricky Le Bonnier?”

“Carole,” he said gently, “I’m the kind of guy who’s never not working. I’m always switched on. I don’t do downtime. So, yes, in answer to your question, I am still working.”

“Still in the music business?”

“You betcha. They say it’s all changed, and certainly it isn’t the same world I grew up in. God, we knew how to enjoy our work in those days. We knew how to lunch. We knew how to have a proper all-nighter in the studio with a few bottles and, er, other stimulants, to aid the creative process. Today’s Perrier-sipping wimps in the music industry couldn’t keep up with the pace we used to live at. But, hell, it worked! The stuff that came out of those studio sessions was pure gold. Now the accountants have moved in – as they have in most of the creative industries – but they still have to turn to me for help when they get stuck. Oh, yes, the skills of Ricky Le Bonnier remain very much in demand.”

“So when did you last actually produce a record?” asked Polly coolly.

For the first time Ricky looked slightly thrown by the question. His daughter, it seemed, had the ability to get under his skin. For the first time Carole was aware of considerable tension between them.

“It’s not actually to produce the record, Polly love, that they look to me for these days. I work more in an advisory capacity. I allow them to pick my brains when they need a bit of expertise – not to mention experience.”

“And do they pay you for your ‘expertise – not to mention experience’?” There was no doubt now that Polly Le Bonnier was deliberately needling her father.

He looked down at his mother with the same expression he’d used when Carole had asked whether he was still working. He sighed and addressed his daughter. “Look, love, you should know by now that your daddy just attracts money. He doesn’t have to go out of his way to find it. He works hard for it, certainly, but your daddy is a money magnet.”

“And a babe magnet?” There wasn’t much affection in Polly’s tone.

Her father looked down to Flora in her armchair and shrugged helplessly. She smiled up at him lovingly as he said, “Guilty as charged.”

Polly’s snort was very similar to the one recently emitted by her grandmother. Then the girl looked at her watch. “Can we get back soon? You know I’ve got to catch the seven-thirty-two train back to London this evening and I haven’t seen much of the little ones.”

Ricky’s hands rose in a placatory gesture. “Just a few more people I want to see. I haven’t spoken to the lovely Jude properly yet.” And he drifted off. Flora was also lifting herself out of her armchair with the help of her sticks, saying she needed ‘the little girls’ room’. Carole noticed how little movement she had in her clawlike hands; she couldn’t grip the sticks, only push them into the right position to support herself.

Left alone with Polly, she asked, “When you mentioned ‘the little ones’…?”

“Lola’s two. Mabel and Henry.”

“Your stepsister and stepbrother?”

“Yes, though it’s more like I’m their aunt, really, given the age difference.” Polly seemed noticeably to have relaxed now her father was not beside her. “But I don’t get a chance to see much of them…” she looked again with irritation at her watch “…and, quite honestly, I’d rather be with Mabel and Henry at this moment than at a drinks party full of people I don’t know.” Realizing how ungracious this must have sounded, she was quick to apologize.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Carole. “I’m not much of a one for parties myself. It’s just that I live next door, so I know Jude and…” She shrugged.

“Bit of a life force, isn’t she?”

Carole had never put it into words before, but of course, yes, that was exactly what Jude was; a ‘bit of a life force’. With inevitable and dispiriting logic, Carole wondered what, by comparison, that made her. She didn’t pursue the thought.

“So you’re not spending Christmas down here, Polly?”

“No, I’ll be at my boyfriend’s parents’. They live in Gloucestershire.”

“Oh. Very beautiful county,” said Carole with all the fatuity of small talk. “Or, at least, bits of it are.”

“The bit where they live certainly is. Near the Slad Valley. Laurie Lee country. No, we’ll have a few days down there, living in the lap of luxury, miles away from the real world, and then we’ll have to come back to the harsh reality of making a living.”

“And how do you do that? I mean, what do you do?”

Polly Le Bonnier wrinkled up her prominent nose. “I’m an actor.”

“Like your grandmother.”

“Yes. Or rather, not like my grandmother. Anyway, she isn’t really my grandmother.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not Ricky’s real daughter. I’m his stepdaughter. He married my mother.”

“Ah, and is she still – ?”

But Polly clearly didn’t want to talk about her mother. She moved brusquely on. “No, I’m not like my grandmother. She was successful. I may have a famous name – which arguably isn’t mine by right, anyway – but I’m only an actor when somebody will employ me. The rest of the time I’m an occasional barmaid or waitress.” She sounded rueful rather than dispirited about her situation.

“Ah. Well, maybe things’ll pick up for you next year.”

“Maybe.” Polly didn’t sound like she’d put a very large bet on the possibility.

“And your boyfriend…Is he also…?” Rather proudly Carole remembered a phrase Gaby had used when speaking of the clients at the theatrical agency where she used to work. “Is he also ‘in the business’?”

“Yes. To some extent. But Piers is a comedy writer too, so he’s not so dependent on the acting as I am. Mind you, that may change.”

“What do you mean?”

Polly opened her hands in a gesture of self-deprecation. “Just that I’m having a go at writing something.”

“A comedy script?”

“No, no, it’s more…” She seemed embarrassed to be talking about her writing. “It’s a book, I suppose. Well, it is a book, yes.”

“Have you finished it?”

“A couple of times.” Carole looked at her curiously, so the girl explained, “I mean I’ve got to the end a couple of times. I’ve finished two drafts.”

“Have you shown it to anyone?”

“To Piers. He says he thinks it’s terrific. But then he would say that, wouldn’t he? Mind you, unwilling as ever to give me unqualified praise, he says he doesn’t think it’d have much chance of getting published. But I’ve also shown the manuscript to a friend who works in a literary agency. She was quite flattering about it, though I’m not sure…Oh, I’ll finish another draft – which I nearly have done – then see what happens. And in the meantime keep looking for acting work.”

“Well, I wish you a lot of luck with the book.”

“Thank you.”

“Is it fact or fiction?”

Polly responded with a wry smile. “Bit of each, perhaps.”

“Ah. Contemporary setting?”

“No, I suppose I’d have to say it’s historical. About the past, anyway, and about how people reinvent their pasts. Most of us do that to some extent.”

“Do we?” Carole thought about whether she’d ever done it, and decided that yes, she had. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I don’t have to look far for people who’ve reinvented their past,” said Polly.

“Are you talking about your father?”

“Him, and others.” She gave a sardonic grin. “Anyway, I’m getting quite intrigued by history, you know. Digging back into the mix of truth and fantasy, finding out where things went wrong.”

“Went wrong for you, do you mean?”

“Good heavens no.” The girl laughed at the idea, then wryness returned to her voice as she went on, “I know where things went wrong for me.”

She didn’t let the thought linger or leave time for a supplementary question. “So maybe the book will make my fortune, change my life around. Huh, I should be so lucky. Anyway, for the time being, Piers is the only writer in our household. He’s starting to do quite well,” the girl said wistfully. “He’s had a few credits on television sketch shows. You may have seen the name Piers Duncton scrolling down at the end. And now a television sitcom of his looks like it might get commissioned. You know, he’s got very good contacts. He was in the Footlights at Cambridge, and that kind of network counts for a lot in show business.”

Carole made a possible connection. “So when he was at Cambridge, did he know Lola?”

Polly nodded. “Yes, they were in revues and things together. Did the Edinburgh Fringe, all that stuff.”

“Did you meet Piers through her?”

The girl shook her head. “Other way round. I’d met Piers before he went to Cambridge. In the National Youth Theatre. And somehow our relationship survived the three years he was up there.” She made it sound as if the process hadn’t all been plain sailing. “So I met all his Footlights mates, including Lola.”

“And was it through you that your father – or, rather, your stepfather – met Lola? You introduced them?”

Polly twisted her lips into an expression of mock ruefulness as she echoed her father’s words of a few moments before. “Guilty as charged.”