Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,32
before the fire brigade had arrived. She took the bait.
‘Wow!’ she said. ‘Then, yes, please, we would love to have an interview with Mr Moreton.’ An exclusive with a witness to the biggest national news story of the hour was like manna from heaven for a local newspaper.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘How about at the Hay Net Restaurant at ten thirty this morning?’
‘Hasn’t that restaurant been closed down?’ she said.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘it hasn’t.’
‘Right.’ She sounded a little unsure. ‘Will it be safe?’
I stifled my irritation and assured her it would.
‘And one more thing,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget to bring a photographer.’
‘Why do I need a photographer?’ she asked.
I thought about saying to her: so she could rephotograph the restaurant sign, this time with ‘OPEN FOR WONDERFUL FOOD’ stuck across it. Instead I said, ‘I am sure that Mr Moreton would be happy for you to photograph his injuries from the bombing.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘OK. Tell him someone will be at his restaurant at ten thirty.’
‘But, won’t it be you?’ I asked.
‘No, I doubt it,’ she said. ‘I’ll send one of the reporting staff.’
‘I do think that Mr Moreton would only be interested in speaking with the news editor,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure that he would only speak to the most important person in the newsroom.’
‘Oh,’ she said again. ‘Do you think so? Well, I might just be able to do this one myself.’ Flattery, I thought, could get you everywhere. ‘OK,’ she said, decisively. ‘Tell Mr Moreton I will be there myself at ten thirty.’
I promised her that I would do just that, and hung up, smiling.
Next I called Mark. I knew he was always at his desk by seven thirty each morning, and sometimes he was still there at eleven at night. To my knowledge, he survived on a maximum of six hours’ sleep a night. All his waking hours he devoted to making money and I was under no illusions that his plan to bring me to London would include him getting even richer. I was not saying that I wouldn’t get richer too, just that I knew that Mark wouldn’t be contemplating the move out of feelings of altruism or philanthropy. He had pound and dollar signs in his eyes and he would have already calculated the potential profit in his head.
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Come to dinner instead. You choose where, I’ll pay.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘How about the OXO Tower?’ I had always liked their food.
‘Fine. I’ll make the reservation. Eight o’clock suit?’
I mentally calculated train times. ‘Make it eight thirty.’
‘Fine,’ he said again. ‘Eight thirty on Friday at the OXO.’
He hung up and I lay back on the bed thinking about what the future might bring. How ambitious was I? What did I want from my life?
I would be thirty-two in November. Seven years ago I had been the youngest chef ever to be awarded a Michelin star but, by now, there were two younger than me, each with two stars. I was no longer seen by the media as the bright young thing of whom much was expected, I was more the established chef who was now thought to be making his fortune. The truth was that I was doing all right, but the Hay Net was both too small and too provincial to be a serious cash generator. Whereas, nationally, I was only a minor celebrity chef, at the local level I was well known and admired, at least I was before last Friday, and I enjoyed it. Did I want to give that up to seek fame and fortune in London? What else in my life was important?
I had always wanted a family, to have children of my own. In that respect, so far, I had been a singular failure, literally. A few relationships with girls had come and gone. Mostly gone. Restaurant work is never very conducive to interactions of a sexual nature. The hours are antisocial by their very design: having dinner out is other people’s social activity. Exhausting evenings and late nights are not ideal preparations for lovemaking and I could remember more than a few occasions when I had been so tired that I had simply gone to sleep in the middle of the act, something not greatly appreciated by the other party.
However, being alone was not something that kept me awake at night worrying. I was not actively searching for a partner, I never had, but, if an opportunity arose, I would take it.