There were about a hundred people in the room, their numbers doubled by the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The cast hadn’t arrived yet – it was a tradition that they would come in late – but the entire production team was here, along with the actors I had noticed at the theatre. They were chatting to my sister, who seemed to know them well.
Meanwhile, Ahmet and Maureen had moved further into the room and were talking to a nervous-looking man – tall and slender, wearing a suit. I wasn’t sure why he was nervous. Perhaps he was one of our backers. I remembered him because he had been sitting exactly behind me during the play and I’d noticed him as I sat down. He hadn’t been looking too happy then either. I took a sip of the sparkling wine I had been given. It was too sweet for my taste, but at least it was cold. I was beginning to think that maybe I wouldn’t stay here long. I was walking distance from my flat in Clerkenwell. I’d go home with my family and celebrate there.
But then the cast arrived: Tirian, Jordan and Sky, all three of them smartly dressed, smiling and confident, Sky in a pink puffball dress, Tirian wearing what looked like a very expensive black leather bomber jacket. Their appearance brought the party to life. Suddenly the crowd became more relaxed and cheerful. The music rose in volume and everyone had to talk more loudly to make themselves heard. More silver platters of food came out of the kitchen. Even the waiters picked up their pace.
And that was when I saw something so extraordinary that I had to look twice, and even then I didn’t quite believe it and had to look again.
The Sunday Times critic, Harriet Throsby, had come through the front door of the restaurant, accompanied by a younger woman who might have been her assistant or perhaps her daughter. What was going on? Had she decided to go for a Turkish meal after the play and wandered in without realising that this was where the party was taking place? No. As I watched, she helped herself to a glass of wine, sniffing the contents disapprovingly. The younger woman didn’t look happy to be here and Harriet muttered a few words into her ear. Ahmet had seen them both. He went over to them and bowed, gesturing towards the food. They were expected. They had been invited.
But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Critics never attended first-night parties. It was completely inappropriate and might even be seen as unethical. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking, coming here. Could it be that she was a friend of one of the actors? That was extremely unlikely, given what Ewan had told me, and anyway, it would still have been wrong. Her job was to go home and write whatever she was going to write. She wasn’t part of the production and for all Ahmet’s smiles, she couldn’t be welcome here – particularly if she hadn’t liked the play.
I watched Ahmet leaning towards her, speaking earnestly. It was impossible to hear what he was saying with all the noise. For her part, Harriet was already bored and looking past him. I saw her eyes settle on the man Ahmet had just been talking to – the thin man in the suit. Brushing past Ahmet, she went over to him, smiling as if he was an old friend. The thin man stared at her, appalled. Harriet said something and he replied. Again, the words were lost in the crowd.
As the two of them continued their conversation, I pushed my way through about a dozen people and found Ewan, who was standing next to Tirian Kirke and Sky Palmer. ‘Have you seen?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘Harriet Throsby!’
Ewan grimaced. ‘Didn’t Ahmet warn you she’d be here?’ he said. ‘She always comes to first-night parties. She expects to be invited … in fact, she insists upon it. Whatever you do, don’t ask her about the play – and I mean the writing, the performances, the scenery … anything. Just don’t go there. She won’t tell you what she thinks. She never does.’
‘Then why is she here?’ Tirian asked. He was as surprised as I was.
‘God knows. It doesn’t make any difference to what she’s going to write, but I think it gives her a sense of power. She knows we’re all scared of her.’
‘I’m not scared of her,’ Tirian said.
‘Then she’s probably never given you a bad review.’
Tirian thought for a moment. ‘I haven’t done much theatre – and I don’t care what she thinks. I’ve already got my next job and there’s nothing she can say that can change that.’
‘Tenet,’ Sky said.
‘Yes. We’re going to be shooting in Paris. I’ve never been to France, so I can’t wait. And we might be going to Denmark and Italy too.’
‘Who are you playing?’ I asked.
‘A spy. The character doesn’t have a name. In fact, he doesn’t even have a character. They sent me the script last week and the truth is, it’s completely insane. There are bullets that travel backwards in time, something called the Algorithm that’s going to either destroy the world or save it – I don’t know – and doors between dimensions. It’s total nonsense. Christopher Nolan may be a big-shot director, but he’s got his head right up his arse. Not that I care. Eleven weeks shooting. A ton of money. And I go to France.’
‘Shh … !’ Sky warned.
It was too late. Harriet Throsby had made her way over to us and had heard what he was saying. It certainly wasn’t the best way Tirian could have described his big breakthrough, and he was startled when he saw her standing behind him. She glanced at him and I saw a spark of malevolence in her eyes. Tirian twisted away awkwardly.
‘Good evening, Harriet,’ Ewan said, with no enthusiasm.
The Sunday Times critic stopped and examined us, measuring us up as if she was intending to review the party as well as the play. For the first time, I was able to examine her properly.
She was not large but she certainly had presence, expensively dressed in a cut-off jacket with a faux-fur collar and pearls. She was wearing horn-rimmed glasses that might have been deliberately chosen to make her look antagonistic, and she had a bulky black leather handbag – big enough to hold a laptop – looped over her arm. Her hair was obviously dyed, which was odd because it was an unpleasant colour, somewhere between brown and ginger. She had cut it short with a fringe, like a flapper girl from the twenties, which was exactly what she wasn’t. It didn’t suit her at all. I guessed she was about fifty. Her skin was pale and her make-up – the rouge, the lipstick, the eyeshadow – was so pronounced that it concealed her face rather than highlighted it. She could have been wearing a mask.
The girl who had arrived with her had followed her across and I decided that I was right and that she must be Harriet’s daughter. She also had short hair, the same eyes and turned-up nose, although in almost every other respect the two women could not have been more different. She looked downtrodden, miserable. She had deliberately chosen to dress down for the occasion with a denim jacket and a loose-fitting T-shirt printed with a photograph of Kristen Stewart in her role as the star of Twilight. Nor did she make any attempt to connect with the people in the room. Everything about her appearance and her manner suggested an archetypal stroppy teenager, dominated by a mother she didn’t like. The trouble was, she was actually quite a bit older, probably in her early twenties.
‘How nice to see you, Ewan,’ Harriet said brightly and even in that greeting and the cold smile that accompanied it, I got a sense of the game she was playing. She was enjoying herself, watching us squirm. I thought there was an American twang to her voice, but maybe it was just her extreme self-confidence, the way she targeted her words. ‘How have you been keeping?’
‘I’m very well, thank you, Harriet,’ Ewan said, his eyes blinking more rapidly than ever.