Wild Horses - By Dick Francis Page 0,50

Norway. This was to be a dream: did one ever hear whole orchestras in dreams?

Fulfilled in all sorts of ways, the three of us were driven back to Newmarket where everyday reality returned to the hotel lobby in the unwelcome shape of our author, Howard Tyler.

Howard was not repentant but incensed. The round glasses flashed as if with their own anger. The prissy little mouth puckered with injured feelings of injustice. Howard the great writer could produce temper tantrums like a toddler.

Moncrieff, at the sight of him, evaporated into the woodwork. Ziggy, communing only with himself, loped off on foot towards the Heath and horses. Howard stood in my path, flushed with grievance.

‘O’Hara says the company will sue me for breach of contract!’ he complained. ‘It’s not fair.’

I said reasonably, ‘But you did breach your contract.’

‘No, I didn’t!’

‘Where did the Drumbeat get its opinions from?’

Howard opened his baby lips and closed them again.

‘Your contract,’ I reminded him, ‘forbids you to talk about the film to outsiders. I did warn you.’

‘But O’Hara can’t sue me!’

I sighed. ‘You signed with a major business corporation, not personally with O’Hara. The corporation has lawyers with flints for souls whose job it is to recover for the company any money they can squeeze from the most minor breaches of contract. They are not kind compassionate fellows who will pat you forgivingly on the back. They can imagine damages you never thought of. You opened your undisciplined mouth to some avidly listening ear, and whether you’ve done any real box-office damage or not, they’re going to act as if you’ve cost the company millions, and they’ll try to recover every penny they are contracted to pay you, and if you’re really unlucky, more.’

It seemed finally to get through to him that his gripe would prove expensive.

‘Then do something,’ he insisted. ‘Tell them no harm was done’.

‘You as near as dammit cost me not just this job but any work in the future.’

‘All I said was…’ his voice died.

‘All you said was that I was a tyrannical buffoon wasting the film company’s money.’

‘Well… I didn’t mean it.’

‘That’s almost worse.’

‘Yes… but… you’ve mangled my book. And as an author I have moral rights.’ The air of triumph accompanying these last words made my next statement sound perhaps more brutal than I would have let it if he’d shown the slightest regret.

With vanishing patience I said, ‘Moral rights give an author the right to object to derogatory alterations being made to his work. Moral rights can be waived, and invariably this waiver is included in agreements between screenplay writers and film production companies. Often the screenplay writer is given the right to remove his name from the credits if he hates the film enough, but in your case, Howard, it’s your name they’re specifically paying for, and you waived that right also.’

Stunned, he asked, ‘How do you know?’

‘I was given a sight of your contract. I had to know where we each stood.’

‘When?’ he demanded. ‘When did you see it?’

‘Before I signed a contract myself.’

‘You mean… weeks ago?’

‘Three months or more.’

He began to look bewildered. ‘Then… what can I do?’

‘Pray,’ I said dryly. ‘But for a start, you can say who you talked to. You can say how you got in touch with the writer of “Hot from the Stars”. Who did you reach?’

‘But I…’ He seemed not far from tears. ‘I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t tell the Drumbeat. I didn’t.’

‘Who, then?’

‘Well, just a friend.’

‘A friend? And the friend told the Drumbeat?’

He said miserably, ‘I suppose so.’

We had been standing all this time in the lobby with Monday morning coming and going around us. I waved him now towards the lounge area and found a pair of convenient armchairs.

‘I want some coffee,’ he said, looking round for a waiter.

‘Have some later, I haven’t got time. Who did you talk to?’

‘I don’t think I should say.’

I felt like shaking him. ‘Howard, I’ll throw you to the corporation wolves. And besides that, I’ll sue you personally for defamation.’

‘She said questions weren’t libellous.’

‘She, whoever she is, got it at least half wrong. I don’t want to waste time and energy suing you, Howard, but if you don’t cough up some answers pronto you’ll get a writ in tomorrow’s mail.’ I took a breath, ‘So, who is she?’

After a long pause in which I hoped he faced a few realities, he said, ‘Alison Visborough.’

‘Who?’

‘Alison Vis –’

‘Yes, yes,’ I interrupted. ‘I thought her name was Audrey.’

‘That’s her mother.’

I shook my head to clear