What They Do in the Dark - By Amanda Coe Page 0,58

in your position who’s really concerned about these things. Hand on heart, it’s something I’ve thought about a lot, but also hand on heart, I’ve got to tell you that she’s not one of those kiddies who’s forced into it – I wouldn’t be looking after her if she was, couldn’t live with myself. But it’s good to know that if she does go to the States, she’ll have someone apart from me looking out for her.’

Quentin actually laughed at this, an unpleasant, gentle little chuckle which took him by surprise.

‘Do you know Hugh Calder?’

Where was this going? He felt uneasy.

‘Of course. Best in the business, Hugh.’

‘Do you think he’s a nice guy?’

Frank stopped doodling, banjaxed. Never for long, though.

‘What can I tell you? The man’s charm itself. You’ve met him …’

Now he thought he heard a sigh down the line. He amended his approach.

‘I don’t know about nice, but he’s a true gent. Tough, mind – well, you have to be, don’t you? He wouldn’t be doing what he’s doing if he was a pushover, but, let’s say, honourable.’

That was over-egging it a bit, but you never knew what got back to people. He could hear Quentin breathing, as though she had come up a flight of stairs.

‘Is he into women?’

Crikey. What had he heard? This and that, nothing to frighten the horses. He’d certainly never gleaned an atom of queerness around him. The breathing continued, awaiting his answer. If he hadn’t known better, Frank would have believed that Quentin really was ringing him from what was for her the middle of the night, wanting him to keep her company. He got those calls from clients every so often, the ones he had to give his home number, although of course it was the line in the office; he wasn’t mad. It still drove Lol to distraction, that interruption to sleep so Frank, dressing-gowned, could coax them through when they told him they’d taken pills, or wept for their marriages, or more usually their careers. In his experience, the pill-takers weren’t repeat callers, and he didn’t resent a genuine emergency, but the ramblers, the lost souls who wanted hand-holding in the sozzled small hours, they were a piece of work. And this woman wasn’t even a client. Besides, he had a meeting with bigwigs from Anglia at two. Is he into women, indeed.

‘As far as I know,’ he said maliciously, and started to wind up the call. He thanked Quentin again for her concern over Lallie, emphasizing its rarity and re-emphasizing their common values, lauded her non-existent non-brainwave about Lallie taking a holiday, and finessed the ending by pressing her to suggest a time when the studio might want Lallie to fly over. October, she proffered. Such provisional motes were all Frank needed to accrete the solid pearls of business: the next time they spoke, he would tell her that October was OK for Katrina and Lallie, and they’d be going ahead with booking tickets, unless the studio preferred to arrange it? With any luck this would be a conversation he’d have with Quentin’s assistant, who more likely than not would oblige, already presuming October to be a done deal. And by then it more or less would be – Quentin’s seniors would hear that Lallie was coming over, their minds would be concentrated on her as their lead and they’d want to make it work, bar her not delivering the goods. It took a stronger soul than this girl evidently was to face Frank Denny down.

‘Call me any time,’ he signed off. His tea was by now just on the wrong side of warm, so he asked Veronica to bring him another cup and warned her about further calls from Quentin. If she called again today, he was right, and she was a nutter. If it was tomorrow, she still probably was. By Friday, he’d be prepared to talk to her again. It was no skin off his nose. There he was with the nose again. Of course the Yanks were superb at all that malarkey – none better. That was another conversation to have with Katrina; Frank made a note.

PAULINE WAS SUPPOSED to fill in a form. In fact, her mum was supposed to fill in a form, but even if she hadn’t been in Leeds, Pauline couldn’t imagine approaching Joanne with the daunting sheaf of printed pages the hard-eyed woman had given her after she left the classroom. She’d tried to explain that her mum was