The Account. Roderick Mann
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three.’
‘What?’
‘Look for yourself.’
Emma put the paper in front of Julia, open at a picture of the Queen and a man identified in the caption as Sir Miles Cartland leaving the hotel. In the background stood Moscato. The headline ran: Cosy lunch for two at the Burlington. The story accompanying the picture listed what the Queen had eaten for lunch and noted: Afterwards Her Majesty sent her compliments to the chef, Gustave Plesset.
Julia groaned. ‘How did they get this? Moscato must have seen the photographer.’
‘Of course.’
‘You think he did this?’
‘Or his protegée, Miss Ricci?’
‘Whoever it was is a damn fool,’ Julia said. ‘The Queen won’t come here again.’
‘Maybe Mr Moscato thinks it was worth it,’ Emma said. ‘Something for his scrapbook.’
While Emma went out to get sandwiches Julia tried to concentrate on a profile she was updating about the Sultan. Her thoughts kept wandering. She found it hard to believe that Moscato would have been so stupid as to ignore the Palace ruling that the Queen’s private lunches were to be treated as exactly that – private. And yet …
At that moment the phone rang.
‘Hello again, Miss Lang.’ It was Jill Bannister on the line. ‘Mr Brand was wondering if you would care to see the new Pinter play, which opens tonight? He has two tickets.’
Julia hesitated. Clearly someone else had let Brand down. ‘I realize it’s short notice,’ Jill Bannister continued, ‘but Mr Brand only returned from Rome an hour ago. I was able to get two cancellations.’
‘He gets around, your boss,’ Julia said.
‘Yes, he does.’
Julia had not spoken to Michael since their disastrous dinner and was in no mood to spend the evening alone. ‘I’d be delighted,’ she said.
‘He’ll pick you up at 7.30 for the eight o’clock curtain.’
‘I’m at 208 –’ Julia began.
‘We have the address,’ Jill Bannister said. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
As they entered the theatre lobby, crowded with people, some elegantly dressed, some in jeans and sweaters, Brand appeared tense. When a dark-haired young man nodded to him and said, ‘Good evening, Mr Brand,’ he affected not to notice. Then, as they walked towards the stalls entrance, a photographer who had overheard the exchange approached. ‘This way, Mr Brand,’ he called, raising his camera.
Brand quickly turned his back, steering Julia past the usher taking the tickets. She saw the photographer frown – hadn’t she seen him somewhere? – before turning his attention elsewhere.
‘I’m sorry,’ Brand said, as they made their way to their seats. ‘I don’t like to be photographed.’
Julia said nothing. It was not, she guessed, that he minded being photographed. He didn’t want to be photographed with her! In case his wife saw the picture? What was wrong with taking a friend to a first night? It wasn’t as if they were seen entering a backstreet hotel.
At the interval, a champagne cocktail and a tonic water awaited them at the bar – arranged beforehand, obviously.
‘Enjoying it?’ Brand asked, as they moved to a quiet corner.
‘Very much,’ she said, deciding to put the incident with the photographer from her mind. So he didn’t want his picture taken? So what?
‘Writes good dialogue, Pinter,’ Brand said.
‘So they say. I’ve never met anyone who actually talks like that.’
‘The pauses, you mean? Most people don’t pause when they’re talking, do they? They shoot off at tangents. It’s interesting replaying a conversation on tape, as I have to sometimes.’
When they left the theatre, Brand’s Daimler was waiting outside with Parsons, his elderly driver, at the wheel. By the time they reached Mayfair, Brand and Julia were laughing together. The car pulled up in Berkeley Square beside a small canopy.
They descended the steep steps to Annabel’s. Brand seemed to be well known there, and nods and smiles greeted them as they proceeded along the hall towards the restaurant. The maitre d’ welcomed them effusively before leading them to a table against the wall. It was still fairly early. The club was not even half full. Brand ordered drinks. ‘I’m sorry the evening got off to a bad start,’ he said.
Julia shrugged. ‘I understand. You’re a married man.’
‘That’s not it.’ Brand seemed surprised that she had stated it so bluntly. ‘My wife knows I have a social life here. It’s just … well, I have a great antipathy towards the Press. Photographers in particular.’
‘They’re just doing their job,’ Julia said.
‘They must do it without my help.’ Their drinks arrived. Brand held up his glass and touched it lightly against hers. ‘Look,’ he said, turning to face her, ‘you don’t understand and I can’t expect you to. It isn’t that I didn’t want to be photographed with you. Dammit, you’re a beautiful woman, Julia; there isn’t a man on this planet who wouldn’t want to be pictured beside you. I just don’t want to be photographed, period.’ He looked into his drink. ‘I’m known to be a wealthy man. And the only way I can have any kind of a private life is for people not to know what I look like. Then I can’t be pestered. As it is, we get a hundred begging letters a week. Everyone wants something from me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I took it personally.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘It has absolutely nothing to do with you.’
Julia shook her head. ‘We’ve already had several enquiries about you from newspapers.’
‘Were you able to stall them?’
‘I said you weren’t registered, which is true.’
‘If you have any problems refer them to my office in Grosvenor Square.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what they want? To sit down with me and waste hours of my time asking what it feels like to be wealthy. Either that or it’s financial editors wanting me to forecast the market. I haven’t got time for any of that nonsense. I work a long day. For me time is money.’
The club was beginning to fill up. When the waiter came over with the menus they both ordered the rack of lamb. From the wine list Brand selected a bottle of ‘66 Mouton-Rothschild.
Julia was still puzzled. ‘If you never give interviews and don’t have your picture taken, how did that photographer know who you were?’
‘He didn’t until that fellow called out to me.’
‘There must be some photos of you about?’
‘Not many. Paris-Match once staked me out in New York and Acapulco. Acapulco was no problem. I use a helicopter when I’m there; land right on the roof of my house. In New York I leave through the underground garage.’
‘They never got the picture?’
‘All they got was a picture of the car leaving the garage.’
‘It doesn’t sound too much fun, being you.’
‘It has its moments.’
Julia glanced around the room. In one corner an elderly Englishman was pressing champagne on a young, heavily made-up woman, who was giggling. Suddenly