At the moment, however, there was no sign of the American.
‘Do you get invited to many dos like this?’ Kelly asked him, looking around at the array of talent in the room.
Blake had been seeing her for just over a week now, driving back and forth to Oxford, staying at her flat most nights and returning to his home to work during the day. When he’d told her about the invitation, initially she’d been apprehensive but now, as she scanned the other guests, she did not regret her decision to accompany him.
There aren’t many dos like this,’ he told her, looking around, wondering where
Mathias had disappeared to.
The psychic arrived as if on cue, emerging from the club cloakroom like something from a Bram Stoker novel. He wore a black three-piece suit and white shirt, a black bow-tie at his throat. Cufflinks bearing large diamonds sparkled in the light like millions of insect eyes. The psychic was introduced to Sir George Howe and his group. All eyes turned towards the little tableau and the previously subdued conversation seemed to drop to a hush. It was as if a powerful magnet had been brought into the room, drawing everything to it.
‘He looks very imposing in the flesh,’ said Kelly, almost in awe. ‘I’ve only ever seen him in photographs.’
Blake didn’t answer her. His eye had been caught by more belated movement from the direction of the cloakroom as a late-comer arrived.
‘Christ,’ murmured the writer, nudging Kelly. ‘Look.’
He nodded in the appropriate direction and she managed to tear her gaze from Mathias.
The late-comer slipped into the room and over to the group surrounding the psychic. Kelly looked at him and then at Blake.
‘What’s he doing here?’ she said, in bewilderment.
Dr Stephen Vernon ran a nervous hand through his hair and sidled up beside Sir George Howe.
Blake and Kelly watched as the Institute Director was introduced. Words were exchanged but, no matter how hard she tried, Kelly could not hear what was being said. Gradually, the babble of conversation began to fill the room again.
Kelly hesitated, watching Vernon as he stood listening to the psychic.
‘Kelly,’ Blake said, forcefully, gripping her arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get another drink.’
Aimost reluctantly, she followed him to the bar where Jim O’Neil now sat, perched on one of the tall stools. He was still listening to one of the girls but his interest seemed to have waned. As Blake and Kelly approached he ran an appreciative eye over Kelly whose full breasts were prominent due to the plunging neckline of her dress. A tiny gold crucifix hung invitingly between them. O’Neii smiled at her aiid Kelly returned the gesture.
‘Hello,’ said O’Neil, nodding at them both but keeping his eyes on Kelly.
The writer turned and smiled, shaking the other man’s outstretched hand.
Introductions were swiftly made. O’Neil took Kelly’s hand and kissed it delicately.
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Blake.
‘Make it a pint of bitter will you,’ the singer asked. ‘I’m sick of these bleeding cocktails.’ He pushed the glass away from him.
The barman gave him a disdainful look, watching as the other man downed half of the foaming pint.
‘Christ, that’s better,’ he said.
Kelly caught the sound of a cockney accent in his voice.
‘No gig tonight?’ Blake asked.
O’Neil shook his head.
‘The rest of the band have got the night off,’ he said, scratching bristles on his chin which looked as if you could strike a match on them. ‘My manager said I ought to come here. God knows why.’ He supped some more of his pint. “I’m surprised they invited me in the first place. I mean, they never play any of my fucking records on Radio One.’ He chuckled.
Kelly pulled Blake’s arm and nodded in the direction of a nearby table. The two of them said they’d speak to O’Neil again later then left him at the bar ordering another pint.
The writer was in the process of pulling out a chair for Kelly when he saw Mathias and his little entourage approaching. The psychic smiied broadly when he saw Blake. Kelly turned and found herself looking straight at Dr Vernon.
They exchanged awkward glances then Kelly looked at Mathias who was already
shaking hands with Blake.
‘It’s good to see you again, David,’ said the American. “How’s the book coming along?’
‘I’m getting there,’ the writer said. ‘You look well, Jonathan.’
i see there are no need for introductions where you two are concerned,’ said Sir George Howe, smiling.
‘We’re not exactly strangers,’ Mathias told him. Then he looked at Kelly. ‘But I don’t know you. And I feel that I should.”
The psychic smiled and Kelly saw a glint in his eye.
She introduced herself then stepped back, one eye on Vernon, as Sir George completed the introductions.
Blake shook hands with Gerald Braddock, wincing slightly as he felt the pudgy clamminess of the politician’s hand.
Then came Vernon.
‘This is Dr Stephen Vernon, an old friend of mine, he …’
‘We’ve met,’ Blake told Sir George. ‘How are you, Dr Vernon?’
‘I’m very well,’ said the older man. He looked at Kelly. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here tonight, Kelly.’
She didn’t answer.
‘Well, it seems as if everyone knows everyone else,’ said Sir George, aware of the iciness in the air. His stilted laugh died away rapidly.
‘How long are you here for, Jonathan?’ Blake asked the psychic.
‘Three or four days. Long enough to do the show with Mr Carr, and a couple of newspaper interviews, radio pieces. You know the kind of thing,’ Mathias told him.
‘I saw in the paper that you were coming to England,’ Blake said. ‘When are you doing the TV show?’
it’s being broadcast the day after tomorrow,’ Roger Carr said, stepping forward. ‘You should watch it, Mr Blake, I mean you deal in the same kind of tricks don’t you? Only you write about them instead.’ The interviewer smiled.
Blake returned the smile.
‘You know, Mr Carr, there’s something I’ve never been able to figure out about you,’ the writer said. ‘You’re either stupid, in which case I’m sorry for you, or you’re pig-ignorant. But I haven’t been able to figure out which it is yet.’
Carr shot him an angry glance and opened his mouth to speak but, before he could, all eyes turned in the direction of the cloakroom.
There was an unholy din coming from there, a cacophony of shouts through which the high-pitched voice of a woman could be heard.
Seconds later, a figure dressed in a grey coat, spattered with rain, burst into the peaceful confines of the Waterloo Club. Her hair was wind-blown, her make-up streaked by the
rain. She stood panting in the doorway, her eyes fixed on Mathias.
‘My God,’ muttered Sir George. Then, to a green-coated doorman who had tried to stop the woman entering:
‘Could you please eject this lady.’
‘No,’ Mathias said, raising a hand. ‘Leave her.’
‘David, who is she?’ asked Kelly, noticing the look of recognition on Blake’s face as he gazed at the woman.
Toni Landers,’ he said. ‘She’s an actress.’ But the woman whom he had met in New York had been a radiant, sensuous creature. The woman who now stood in the doorway was pale and unkempt, her features haggard. She looked as though she’d aged ten years.
‘Do you know this woman?’ asked Sir George, looking first at Toni, then at Mathias who had not taken his eyes from her.
“Yes, I know her,’ the psychic said.
‘Could someone explain what the hell is going on?’ Sir George demanded.
‘Jonathan, I have to speak to you,’ Toni said, her voice cracking. She leant against the bar for support.