Hotel. Todd Llewelyn was waiting in the lounge bar, stationed on a chintz sofa in the big bay window. He was wearing light grey trousers and a cream linen jacket and she recognised the Garrick Club tie at once, thinking how well it sat against the pale pink shirt.
He got up at once, nodding at Robbie Cunningham, offering his hand to Molly.
‘Todd Llewelyn,’ he murmured. ‘May I say how sorry I am.’
Molly thanked him for the thought, loosening the scarfat her neck while he summoned a waiter for her coat. Llewelyn looked older than she’d expected, his skin a little slack around the jaw line, his face pouched beneath the eyes. She’d seen him a hundred times on television, mainly because of Giles’s interest in current affairs, and she was surprised how tense he seemed to be. She smiled, wanting somehow to put him at ease. If anyone should be nervous, she told herself, it should be me.
They stayed in the bar for twenty minutes or so. Robbie organised the drinks and she joined Llewelyn on the sofa. On the journey over from Thorpe-le-Soken, Robbie had already explained about the Angolan trip, extending the Director’s invitation for her to fly out at the charity’s expense. Molly, astonished, had reminded him of their conversation only days earlier. Then, Terra Sancta had ruled out any such visit. So what had changed? The question seemed to have embarrassed Robbie. He’d talked vaguely about a film project, and said that Todd Llewelyn would be involved, but it was plain that he hadn’t wanted to take the conversation any further. Now – her thoughts a little more collected – she put the question again. This time, to Todd Llewelyn.
‘Robbie tells me you’re interested in going out to Angola. Some kind of film,’ she said carefully. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
Llewelyn was nursing a gin and tonic. He cleared his throat, leaning forward, using the low, urgent, almost confessional tone that had become his onscreen trademark.
‘It’s a question of focus,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in documentaries all my life. They only work well when you have a story to tell, an important story …’ He looked down at his drink. ‘James died trying to do his bit for Africa. I think that’s an important story. And I think you’re the person to tell it.’
‘Me?’ Molly blinked. Robbie hadn’t gone this far. Anything like.
‘Yes,’ Llewelyn nodded, ‘you. If anyone on this earth knows a son, it has to be his mother. Who better to tell James’s story?’
‘But why? Why James? Why me?’
‘Because he tried,’ Llewelyn said gently. ‘Because he did his best. And because, in the end, it cost him his life.’
Molly looked at him, transfixed. For a moment or two he’d become the face on the screen again: the carefully sweptback hair, the steely glint in the eyes, the look of total probity. A sharp prosecution barrister, Giles had called him, with the weekly benefit of a very good brief.
‘Robbie tells me you’re keen to get out there,’ he was saying.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Then this might be the best way of achieving that. Angola’s at war, as you know. Going by yourself, or even with your husband, wouldn’t be easy.’
‘My husband can’t come,’ Molly said at once.
‘Oh?’
‘No, he’s very busy just now. He’s got one or two …’ She shrugged, not wanting to go any further.
Llewelyn was watching her carefully now, newly alert.
‘What does your husband do?’
‘He works at … ah … Lloyd’s …’
‘Broker?’
‘Underwriter …’ She paused. ‘It’s pretty tough at the moment. You probably know more about all that than I do. So …’ she shrugged again, ‘Angola’s out of the question. He just couldn’t afford the time.’
Llewelyn watched her for a moment, then glanced at his watch. A waiter appeared with three menus, handing them round. Llewelyn left his unopened. For the first time, Molly noticed the copy of the
Financial Times
lying on the sofa beside
He got up at once, nodding at Robbie Cunningham, offering his hand to Molly.
‘Todd Llewelyn,’ he murmured. ‘May I say how sorry I am.’
Molly thanked him for the thought, loosening the scarfat her neck while he summoned a waiter for her coat. Llewelyn looked older than she’d expected, his skin a little slack around the jaw line, his face pouched beneath the eyes. She’d seen him a hundred times on television, mainly because of Giles’s interest in current affairs, and she was surprised how tense he seemed to be. She smiled, wanting somehow to put him at ease. If anyone should be nervous, she told herself, it should be me.
They stayed in the bar for twenty minutes or so. Robbie organised the drinks and she joined Llewelyn on the sofa. On the journey over from Thorpe-le-Soken, Robbie had already explained about the Angolan trip, extending the Director’s invitation for her to fly out at the charity’s expense. Molly, astonished, had reminded him of their conversation only days earlier. Then, Terra Sancta had ruled out any such visit. So what had changed? The question seemed to have embarrassed Robbie. He’d talked vaguely about a film project, and said that Todd Llewelyn would be involved, but it was plain that he hadn’t wanted to take the conversation any further. Now – her thoughts a little more collected – she put the question again. This time, to Todd Llewelyn.
‘Robbie tells me you’re interested in going out to Angola. Some kind of film,’ she said carefully. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
Llewelyn was nursing a gin and tonic. He cleared his throat, leaning forward, using the low, urgent, almost confessional tone that had become his onscreen trademark.
‘It’s a question of focus,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in documentaries all my life. They only work well when you have a story to tell, an important story …’ He looked down at his drink. ‘James died trying to do his bit for Africa. I think that’s an important story. And I think you’re the person to tell it.’
‘Me?’ Molly blinked. Robbie hadn’t gone this far. Anything like.
‘Yes,’ Llewelyn nodded, ‘you. If anyone on this earth knows a son, it has to be his mother. Who better to tell James’s story?’
‘But why? Why James? Why me?’
‘Because he tried,’ Llewelyn said gently. ‘Because he did his best. And because, in the end, it cost him his life.’
Molly looked at him, transfixed. For a moment or two he’d become the face on the screen again: the carefully sweptback hair, the steely glint in the eyes, the look of total probity. A sharp prosecution barrister, Giles had called him, with the weekly benefit of a very good brief.
‘Robbie tells me you’re keen to get out there,’ he was saying.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Then this might be the best way of achieving that. Angola’s at war, as you know. Going by yourself, or even with your husband, wouldn’t be easy.’
‘My husband can’t come,’ Molly said at once.
‘Oh?’
‘No, he’s very busy just now. He’s got one or two …’ She shrugged, not wanting to go any further.
Llewelyn was watching her carefully now, newly alert.
‘What does your husband do?’
‘He works at … ah … Lloyd’s …’
‘Broker?’
‘Underwriter …’ She paused. ‘It’s pretty tough at the moment. You probably know more about all that than I do. So …’ she shrugged again, ‘Angola’s out of the question. He just couldn’t afford the time.’
Llewelyn watched her for a moment, then glanced at his watch. A waiter appeared with three menus, handing them round. Llewelyn left his unopened. For the first time, Molly noticed the copy of the
Financial Times
lying on the sofa beside
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