Finally he turned. ‘I may be many things, Jack, and my God you rarely let me forget them, but I’m not some sort of cheap gossip.’
‘I know, Bebe. I know.’ I sighed and thrust my hands deep into my trouser pockets.
‘Boring you, am I?’
‘You know you’re not, Bebe. It’s just that I’ve explained myself so many times, and said sorry so many times I don’t know what else to say. Nothing makes a fucking difference.’ Bebe winced at my swearing. I always enjoyed his offended response. ‘Anyone would think we’re an old married couple.’
‘No wife would put up with your…nonsense.’ His voice trailed off into silence.
‘Right.’
We both watched the traffic for a while, neither speaking.
‘I’m sorry, Jack, that was thoughtless of me. Sometimes I just forget what happened to Caroline. I didn’t know you back then and I just don’t realise what I’m saying. Still, it was very thoughtless and I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right, Bebe. You shouldn’t have said that and I shouldn’t have asked you to do that thing with Driesler.’
‘No, you shouldn’t.’ Peace was declared.
As usual Bebe changed the subject. ‘You know, Jack, you have an unhealthy obsession with Driesler.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘There’s no perhaps about it. Look, forget him—don’t let him get to you this way. The man is a lone voice and his attacks won’t hurt you if you just ignore the fellow. He’ll be forgotten within a week. You see if he isn’t.’
I laughed at Bebe, something he rarely appreciated except at the most opportune moment. ‘Come on, Bebe, you don’t really believe that, do you? I certainly don’t and I’m bloody sure good old Frank Driesler doesn’t either.’
‘Try and forget him, Jack. You’re right, he’s wrong. Simple.’
‘Such faith, my friend, such faith.’
‘Deserved.’
‘And how do you suggest I take my mind off him?’
‘I don’t know, take up fishing or origami, or…go shopping and spend some money, but just stop beating yourself up about him.’
‘What about drink, girls and drugs? That might help me forget him.’
‘I was thinking about something that might not mess your life up and give you some hope.’
Our car pulled up to the Dorchester. There were a good hundred people around the hotel entrance. Most were just ordinary folk, there for a glimpse of me or maybe an autograph, but there were some photographers and reporters who stepped forward and raised their cameras and tape recorders, ready for instant action.
I turned to Bebe. ‘You’re right—I’ll cast Frank Driesler from my thoughts. I’m right and he’s wrong and I apologise again for suggesting that you…’
‘I’d rather forget about it now, apology accepted, let’s say no more. Now, let’s go forth, and remember, no comment on this. We’re not at an approved question session, so nothing has been through the boys.’ He winked at me, leant over and held the door shut until the driver rounded my side of the car and opened it.
‘My lips are sealed,’ I smiled, ‘no need to worry. I know the drill.’ As I uncoiled from the back seat of the Mercedes, camera flashes lit the darkness, catching me for a split second, painting my face white and hair grey. These would be good pictures for the morning papers—good pictures of my new grunge image. The last company polling had revealed a dip in the past six months in the youth groups. My jeans and baggy sweater, and the new messed hair that cost a fortune to perfect, would be across the inside pages of all the tabloids in the morning, helping improve my ratings with the young.
The rain was a mere drizzle now, just enough to dampen but not flatten my hair. I paused to sign four or five autographs and turned to a new battery of photographers.
‘Jack, Jack.’ Two reporters broke from behind the photographers, both flashing hand-held recorders in my direction as though offering prizes. ‘Jack, just a couple of questions, please.’
‘Come on, chaps, you know the rules,’ said Bebe from his customary position just behind my left shoulder.
‘Sure,’ I said to the reporters. Bebe closed in on me, grabbed my elbow and attempted to guide me toward the open hotel door. He knew Taikon strictly prohibited any comments by me unless made at a press conference where my appearance was the product of hours of preparation. Much like a presidential TV debate, questions were anticipated and answers formulated by a select group of advisers. All I did was remember the script. Saying anything impromptu in a situation like this would be taken badly by the company executives, and Bebe would be held to account. I know he apologised, but he really shouldn’t have made that comment about Caroline.
‘What’s your response to Frank Driesler’s recent comments, Jack?’
‘Much the same as I felt about his old ones.’ I saw the look of surprise on the journalists’ faces. They knew how choreographed I was; suddenly they sensed a story and moved closer. Bebe’s grip tightened and I felt his spindly fingers dig into the flesh of my arm. He was pushing toward the door with his body now, but I resisted and held firm. ‘In fact he doesn’t seem to have anything new to say, but I guess that’s what you get when you only have one idea.’ I sensed the crowd around heave closer as other journalists closed in on this unexpected bonus.
One reporter took a more decisive step and blocked my route to the hotel door. ‘How do you feel about these attacks, Mr Mitchell? Driesler seems to be getting personal.’ Even before I answered I saw a disturbance in the crowd closest to the hotel door as minders from inside, now aware of what was happening, came forward to pull me away from the reporters. My actions had taken them by surprise. They should have been outside waiting for me, but because I never stopped they had become lazy. Great security. Imagine if the man in front of me was a madman with a gun. Bebe was pushing again and so I was jammed up tight to the reporter. I leaned toward his tape recorder.
‘I’ll tell you how I feel.’ Suddenly Bebe was using all his strength and for a moment I thought he might move me. ‘I want Driesler to put up or shut up. It’s easy for him to sit there and crap on about how he’s got this marvellously different way of doing science and it shows I’m wrong, but where’s the proof of what he’s saying? Well, I’m sick of waiting, sick of his stalling and promises to reveal all when the time is right. Come on, Frank, put whatever it is on the table and open it to peer review. Let’s see what you’re talking about. Until then I suggest you shut up.’
Hands on my shoulder from the rescue party pulled me roughly toward the door. A cacophony of questions followed me. The reporters, their appetites whetted, wanted more. I knew they would. Once in Chicago eight months ago I’d made a comment on my way into the theatre for a show. Like piranhas sensing meat, the rest were around instantly, hoping to feed on the comment and wanting more. I didn’t give them any more, just like this time; I enjoyed the tease, the moment of chaos when the controls around me slipped for an instant. Taikon’s response after Chicago was to tighten security around my public movements and then leak to the press that there had been threats to my life. Recently, though, as I’d been a good boy and there were no actual threats to my life, the added protection had started to relax. Now I’d taken my chance and Bebe would pay. He really didn’t deserve the shit coming his way, considering all he did for me in clearing up what went on behind closed doors. And there was no doubt he would shoulder the responsibility if something went wrong. Taikon might know about the parties and the drink and the drugs and the girls; they might accept it as the cost to keep me happy. However, Bebe was their insurance and we all knew if anything went public then the blame would go his way, leaving the company squeaky clean and us down the proverbial river without anything remotely resembling a paddle. Oh, what the fuck. There has to be some risk: where’s the fun without risk?