Wild Horses - By Dick Francis Page 0,79

O’Hara’s production department had spent the whole day itemising such things as food, transport, pay for stable-lads, lipsticks and light bulbs.

We sat round the dining table in O’Hara’s suite, I having made a detour to my own rooms to exchange my windproof jacket for a shirt and sweater. Robbie had stuck only a light dressing over the mended damage. I still felt a shade trembly, but apparently nothing showed. I concentrated on justifying Ziggy’s fare and expenses in Norway, while sipping mineral water and longing for brandy.

‘Wild horses!’ the mogul exclaimed in near-outrage to O’Hara. ‘You surely didn’t sanction bringing horses all the way from Norway! They’re not in the script.’

‘They’re in the hanged woman’s fantasy,’ O’Hara explained flatly. ‘Her dream life is what the company thought best about the plot, and what you expect on the screen. Viking horses hold glamour for publicity, and will earn more than they cost.’

O’Hara’s clout silenced the mogul, who scowled but seemed to realise that if he antagonised his high-grade producer beyond bearing, he would lose him and scupper the whole investment. In any event, he moderated his aggressive approach and nodded through the bonus for the winning jockey with barely a grimace.

The accounts audited, he wanted to discuss Howard.

I didn’t.

O’Hara didn’t.

Howard proving to be usefully out of the hotel, the subject died. I excused myself on the grounds of the regular evening meeting with Moncrieff, and the mogul said in parting that he trusted we would have no further ‘incidents’, and announced that he would be watching the action the next morning.

‘Sure,’ O’Hara agreed easily, hardly blinking. ‘The schedule calls for dialogue and close-ups, and several establishing shots of people walking in and out of the weighing-room at Huntingdon racecourse. No crowd scenes, though, they’re in the can. No jockeys, they’ve finished also. The horses will be shipped back here tomorrow afternoon. Thanks to fine weather and Thomas’s good management, we’ll be through with the racetrack scenes a day early.’

The mogul looked as if he’d bitten a wasp. I wondered, as I left, just what would make him happy.

The Moncrieff session swelled with the arrival of both Nash and Silva, each wanting to continue with the private rehearsals. Nash had brought his script. Silva wore no lipstick and a feminist expression. I wondered what she and O’Hara were like together in bed, a speculation that didn’t advance my work any, but couldn’t be helped.

We went through the scenes. Moncrieff and Nash discussed lighting. Silva thrust forward her divine jaw and to her pleasure Moncrieff assessed her facial bones in terms of planes and shadows.

I drank brandy and painkillers with dedication: possibly medicinally a bad combination, but a great distancer from tribulation. When everyone left I went to bed half-sitting up, and stayed awake through a lot of o’clocks, throbbing and thinking and deciding that in the near future I would stand with my back to a wall at all times.

O’Hara woke me from a troubled sleep by phoning at seven-thirty. Late.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Lousy.’

‘It’s raining.’

‘Is it?’ I yawned. ‘That’s good.’

‘Moncrieff phoned the weather people. It should be dry this afternoon. So we could watch all the Huntingdon rushes this morning, when the van comes from London.’

‘Yes… I thought the mogul couldn’t be bothered.’

‘He’s going to London himself. He’s not keen on waiting for Huntingdon this afternoon. He told me everything seems to be going all right with the movie now, and he’ll report back to that effect.’

‘Jeez.’

O’Hara chuckled. ‘He thought you were businesslike. That’s his highest word of praise. He says I can go back to LA.’

‘Oh.’ I was surprised by the strength of my dismay. ‘And are you going?’

‘It’s your movie,’ he said.

I said, ‘Stay.’

After a pause he said, ‘If I go, it shows you’re totally in command.’ Another pause. ‘Think it over. We’ll decide after the dailies. See you at eleven o clock in the screening room. Will you be fit enough?’

‘Yes.’

‘I sure as hell wouldn’t be,’ he said, and disconnected.

By nine I’d decided against the great British breakfast and had located Wrigley’s garage on a town road map: by nine-fifteen my driver had found it in reality. There was a canopy over the petrol pumps: shelter from rain.

Bill Robinson had long hair, a couple of pimples, a strong East Anglian accent, a short black leather jacket covered in gold studs and a belt of heavy tools strung round his small hips. He took in the fact that I had a chauffeur and offered opportunist respect.

‘Wha’ can I