Fatal Act by Leigh Russell Page B

ago. A motorbike revved past on its way up the street and he missed what his uncle said next.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Can I take you out for dinner?’
    ‘That would be great.’
    T hey met at Garfunkel’s in Tottenham Court Road. It wasn’t very smart, but it was convenient. When Darius had asked him to suggest somewhere, Zak hadn’t been able to think of anywhere else on the spur of the moment. It was just five minutes’ walk from the college, and a safe choice as he didn’t know his uncle. All the same, he was disappointed when his uncle agreed. But if the restaurant was second rate, the meeting wasn’t. Zak recognised his uncle straight away. It came as a shock, because they were so alike, with identical straight black hair, dark eyes and olive skin, the same neat square chin and small mouth, and a similar lithe physique, like a Mediterranean James Bond. It was like looking at himself in twenty years’ time, with short hair.
    Z ak was fond of his father, and grateful for his generosity, but Piers liked to talk, and he only had one subject: himself. Darius asked about Zak and seemed genuinely interested in hearing all about his nephew.
    ‘I think what I’d really like to do, eventually, is direct,’ he heard himself say, emboldened by his uncle’s attention, and the wine that his uncle kept pouring.
    ‘Then I’m sure that’s what you’ll do,’ Darius said easily. ‘You’re clearly a very gifted young man. I can see that, and I’ve only just met you.’
    Zak grinned. He was rather drunk, and his uncle’s faith in him made him feel light headed. He wondered what he might achieve, if only his father would show the same confidence in his talent, but his father was always wrapped up in his own affairs. Zak felt an instant rapport with his uncle. After they parted, he found himself wondering if his mother had been anything like her brother.
    T he next time they met, Darius took him to a Turkish restaurant near Oxford Circus. They sat in a dimly lit corner of the large room and ate mezze and mixed grilled meats with salad. Zak drank far too much. He felt as though he had known his uncle all his life. He didn’t mean to complain about his father, but Darius was so easy to talk to, he couldn’t stop himself.
    ‘It’s not that he doesn’t support me,’ he qualified his grousing. ‘I mean, he pays for me to be here, the rent and the fees and all that, so obviously he supports me. And he pays me a monthly allowance on top of all that.’
    Darius nodded his approval. ‘And so he should. You’ve got to eat.’
    ‘But he makes me feel –’
    He struggled to find the right word. Darius waited patiently.
    ‘He makes me feel inferior.’
    ‘Inferior?’
    ‘Do you know what he said to me once? He said that when he was my age he was working on professional shows, and he learned his trade in the real world. It wasn’t an accusation, or anything like that, but –’
    ‘How insensitive.’
    ‘He’s not mean, or anything. It’s just that he only ever thinks about himself.’
    T hey ate in silence for a moment.
    ‘Didn’t you know my father? I mean, when they were married, when my mother was alive.’
    ‘I met him, yes. He works in theatre, doesn’t he?’
    ‘Yes, and sometimes TV. He’s a casting director.’
    ‘Is he? I remembered he was involved in the industry somehow.’
    ‘He’s Piers Trevelyan.’
    ‘Yes, I know his name. I just couldn’t remember what he did.’
    Zak was surprised. He thought everyone had heard of his father.
    ‘He’s very well known.’
    ‘Oh, is he?’
    Darius was offhand, clearly more interested in Zak than his father. Zak drained his glass of wine, feeling more and more relaxed and somehow optimistic. Darius was right. His father was insensitive. He wasn’t that famous either, he just told everyone he was, and Zak had believed him.
    Z ak talked happily about his own work, his successes and disappointments, and his vision for the production he was currently designing,