He was gearing himself up to face Yves when the phone in front of him rang. He put down his credit card, moved the framed Mr Pink photograph to one side and answered. It was Kika. Yves was on the other line.
‘You must be psychic,’ said Guy, trying to inject his voice with warmth and enthusiasm. ‘I was about to call you.’
‘Really?’ said Yves.
‘I just wanted to talk to you about PEBA. We’re feeling really psyched up about it here.’
‘That’s great, Guy. I’d expect nothing less. I wanted to talk to you about that too. I have good news.’
‘What?’ He thought he might have misheard. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. I’m going to come to Brussels. I’ve pulled a few strings and organized a dinner tonight. Just a small thing, but I think it will help our case.’
Our case, thought Guy. Our case?
‘The two of us, plus Director Becker, the Director-Designate of PEBA and the Chair of the SIS Liaison Committee. Everyone very much likes what they hear, and these people want to meet you before the formal pitch tomorrow.’
Guy was genuinely shaken. ‘Yves, that’s amazing. That’s — that’s wonderful! So they’re really on side, then?’
‘On side? Oh, yes, on side. They are very enthusiastic, yes. Monika Becker the most, I think. She is very big on presentation issues.’
Yves gave him the details of the meeting and warned him to leave plenty of time for the journey. There were travel disruptions all across Europe. Guy, still not quite believing the turn the conversation had taken, told him with genuine feeling that he was looking forward to seeing him. He put the phone down and punched the air.
Gabriella lay on her stomach on the bed, listening to Rajiv Rana dressing. As he pulled up his trousers, he muttered to himself in Hindi, his belt buckle clattering as he fastened it. She did not turn over to watch him. At the door he stopped and said, in the tone of someone leaving a business meeting, ‘No doubt I will see you in the morning.’ She did not reply.
She lay still for a long time. Then, feeling cold, she crawled under the covers. She must have slept because when she next opened her eyes the alarm clock read 1:08 a.m., and the noise from the bar had stopped. She switched off the bedside light and rolled on to her side. Out in the corridor there was a muffled thump and the sound of people arguing. She could not hear what they were saying, but had the idea one of them was Rajiv.
Under her window a woman laughed. She thought about Rajiv and Guy and other men, things they had said or given to her, things they had wanted her to do. So many exchanges. Such complexity. Tomorrow she would ring her office and tell them she was coming back. It would be a waste of time for her to stay
In the morning she cleared her things off the bathroom shelf, packed her case and went down to the dining room, where she took a table on her own by the window. She was sawing at a segment of grapefruit when she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the hotel. A minute or two later Vivek rushed in and asked whether anyone had seen Iqbal. Soon crew members were rushing around, making phone calls to each other and generally behaving as if the sky were about to fall on their heads. Leela’s mother had arrived.
Gaby pushed the grapefruit aside and went to reception to take a look at the woman who could cause such panic. The small curio-cluttered space was crowded with people, so the first thing she saw was the luggage, a six-foot Vuitton pyramid whose base was an enormous steamer trunk and pinnacle a tiny vanity case. Its owner was in her fifties, quite tall, and had probably once been beautiful, but surgery had pulled her face into a taut mask, accessorized with tattooed eyebrows and an incongruous retroussé nose. Her long black hair was streaked with red, and she was dressed, as far as Gaby could see, as a teenage drag queen, in shiny snakeskin-effect jeans and a tiny t-shirt with the word Angel picked out in sequins across the front. As she received Iqbal’s fulsome salaams, she smiled theatrically The effect was vampiric, debauched.
To everyone’s astonishment, just as Iqbal was embarking on a pompous speech of welcome, Leela Zahir came scampering down the stairs.
‘Ma!’
It was a great entrance. Dressed in an electric-blue salwar-kameez, she was virtually unrecognizable as the despondent chain-smoker whom Gaby had seen wandering by the lake. This morning she looked like a film star, all hair and chiffon and perfect understated beauty At first the crew appeared stunned, uncertain, but, as their heroine rushed into her mother’s arms, they erupted into spontaneous applause. They would be able to start work again! The film would be completed!
Gaby watched the two women perform their reunion for the crowd, Iqbal rubbing his hands, Rocky Prasad and his DP hugging like schoolboys whose team just scored the winning run. Leela was clinging to her mother’s neck, nuzzling her like a child.
‘Ma, you look so tired. Was it a dreadful journey?’
‘Beti, I can’t even tell you.’ Mrs Zahir raised her voice a little, so everyone was included. She stroked Leela’s cheek, her unnaturally smooth face registering a certain strained intensity which might have been the remains of a tender expression. ‘Things are terrible. Even in first class it is terrible. Arré! When you make a complaint all they will say is so sorry this is down, that and the other is down. Shocking how we all rely on these computers. Really.’
‘Oh, Mummy.’
‘But you have been ill. They have been phoning me with tales about biting insects, losing voice, all sorts.’
‘I was feeling so sick, Mummy But when I heard you were coming I got much better. I will be able to shoot now you are here.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘Madam, I too am rejoicing,’ said Iqbal, rolling his eyes and holding up his palms to the heavens.
‘Iqbal-saab, could you do something about these bags?’
‘Of course, of course.’
Rajiv Rana sauntered downstairs, wearing tight jeans and a denim shirt, unbuttoned to display his depilated chest.
‘Ah, didi! You are a healer! It’s miraculous what an effect your presence has on the young.’
He embraced Mrs Zahir like an old friend, making no eye contact with Gaby, who watched with distaste as the other woman simpered, brushing his collar with her fingers. It occurred to her that perhaps they had been lovers. The idea disgusted her.
‘Rajiv-bhai,’ purred Mrs Zahir, ‘you look as good as ever.’
He laughed expansively. ‘Now that you are here, Faiza, we will be able to work.’
‘That’s excellent news for all concerned. Now perhaps someone will show me to my room?’
Mrs Zahir decided she was displeased by the hotel. Its location was remote. The bellboys who were making faces at one another as they struggled upstairs with her cases were neither handsome nor well groomed. Even the clutter of memorabilia failed to charm her, but then old-fashioned things rarely did.
Her room, with its uneven boards and floral wallpaper, was barely habitable. There was a large wooden-framed bed and old pictures of men in skirts and hairy cows and such like on the walls. More dusty nonsense. A friend had recently recommended a Vastu practitioner to her, a good-looking Hindu boy who also worked as an astrologer. He was American-educated, bang up to date, and had recently been matching her biorhythms to the rhythms of the universe, one by one. It was very soothing. She decided to phone him for advice. Perhaps the room should be cleared for the duration of her stay Perhaps even painted.
Annoyingly Mr Vastu was not answering his phone. So Mrs Zahir changed out of her travel clothes and ordered some tea. Outside, engines were revving as cars and vans ferried the crew round the loch to the castle. Some flunkey knocked on her door to tell her that her daughter was ready to go to the set. She sent a message that she would follow on later. She needed to lie down and compose herself. She needed to think.