Wild Horses - By Dick Francis Page 0,27

headed, “Hot from the Stars”. Nash and I are going to the sports. I’ll have my mobile. Take Prozak.’

Howard Tyler’s phone rang and rang in his room, unanswered.

I showered in record time, put on steward-lunching clothes and went down to ask questions of the helpful soul behind the reception desk.

‘Mr Tyler isn’t here,’ she confirmed. ‘He left.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘he picked up a newspaper from the desk here and went into the dining-room to have breakfast, as he always does. It’s so nice to have him here, and Mr Rourke too, we can hardly believe it…. So Mr Tyler hurried out of the dining-room five minutes later – he didn’t eat his breakfast – he went upstairs and came down with his suitcase and said he didn’t know when he’d come back.’ She looked worried. ‘I didn’t ask him for payment. I hope I haven’t done wrong, but I understood everything should be charged to the film company.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ I reassured her. ‘Did Mr Tyler say where he was going?’

He hadn’t, of course. He’d been in a great hurry. The receptionist had asked him if he’d felt ill, but he hadn’t answered. He’d taken the newspaper with him, but the staff had had another copy. They had all read the column. She’d thought it best to show it to Mr Rourke. Her virtuousness nearly choked her.

‘What will happen, do you think?’ Nash asked, ready for the races, listening to a repeat from the receptionist.

‘Short-term, we’ve got Howard off our backs.’

We went out to the Rolls and along to where the helicopter waited.

‘I’ll sue the bastard,’ Nash said furiously, strapping himself in, ‘saying I rue my involvement!’

‘Did you?’

‘Did I what?’

‘Say it.’

‘Shit, Thomas. I said I was sorry not to be staying home with my wife. And that was on day one. I don’t in the least regret it now.’

‘She could have come with you.’

He shrugged. We both knew why his wife had stayed at home: her insecurity in a four-months pregnancy with complications. She’d been annoyed with him for agreeing to Newmarket. He’d made too public an apology.

‘As for all that trash I was supposed to say about you personally…’

‘Howard put his own words into your mouth,’ I said. ‘Forget it.’

The helicopter lifted off from the Newmarket grass and swung round north-west.

However glibly I might say ‘forget it’, I had uncomfortable suspicions that the parent movie company, our source of finance, would come thundering down like a posse to lynch me from the nearest crossbeam. Any bad odour clinging to their investment called for dismissals to exorcise it. O’Hara might have to dump me: might even want to.

Bye-bye career, I thought. It had been great while it lasted. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

Smart move on Howard’s part to decamp out of reach of my fists. I could have killed him. I sat quietly in the helicopter looking out at Lincolnshire passing beneath and felt queasy from the turmoil in my gut.

I accepted that in general the most disliked person in the making of any film was the director. The director required people to do things they considered unnecessary/ridiculous/wrong. Directors (a) demanded too much from actors and (b) ignored their well-thought-out interpretations. Directors were never satisfied, wasted time on detail, worked everyone to death, ignored injured feelings, made no allowance for technical difficulties, expected the impossible, screamed at people.

I accepted also on the other hand that a director needed an overall vision of the work in progress, even if details got changed en route. A director had to fight to bring that vision to revelatory life. Excessive sympathy and tolerance on the set were unproductive, vacillating decisions wasted money and inconsistency left an enterprise rudderless. A successful movie was a tight ship.

It was more in my nature to be a persuader than an ogre, but sometimes, as with Howard, when persuasion failed to work, the ogre surfaced. I knew, too, that it was what O’Hara expected and in fact required of me. Use your power, he’d said.

Now everyone working on the film would read the piece in the Drumbeat. Half of Newmarket also. Even if O’Hara left me in charge, my job would be difficult to impossible, all my authority gone. If I had to, I would fight to get that back.

The helicopter landed near the Doncaster winning post, where a senior official was waiting to give Nash a suitable greeting and to lead him to the mandarins. The minute I followed him onto the grass