yeah, it’d be entirely workmanlike, and perfectly acceptable at seven p.m. on Channel Five. This is peak-hour Channel 4 and requires viscera. Sorry, pal, it still leaves me half a dozen good thrusts short of a decent climax.’ Antony Largo looked up at Jane and winked. ‘My apologies, hen.’
Jane grinned. Antony Largo leaned back and poured himself some coffee. With a name like that, you expected Armani and suave; what you got were faded old denims and this honed Glasgow scepticism. He was about thirty-five, and wiry, with oiled black hair. He had one ear-stud and a hard, blue-grey stubble. He looked like one of those guys who stayed fit without jogging and never put on weight – an honorary life member of the gymnasium of the street.
‘Antony.’ Ben laughed again, his anxiety lines deepening. ‘Why do you always, always start off by talking everything down?’
‘This is not tactics , pal.’ Antony leaned forward, shaking his head slowly. ‘Way back, when there was advertising coming out the networks’ ears, money falling from the sky, we just fenced around a bit, for appearances’ sake. But that was then, this is now – Independent TV drama belly-up and barely twitching.’
‘Yes, but drama- documentary —’
‘... Is the new drama, yeah. Doco is the new drama. But a doco with no contemporary propulsion, no plot line? OK. See it from my angle. I walk in there and I go, This is about where the Sherlock Holmes guy got his idea for The Hound of the Baskervilles , but hey, it’s not what you think . And they’re going, Why would we think anything? Why would we give a fart?’
‘Because...’ Ben looked up and saw Jane, who realized she must be standing there, blatantly listening, maybe with her head on one side and her mouth slightly open. She turned away and started rearranging things on her tray. ‘Thank you very much, Jane,’ Ben said, meaning Piss off . His laughter had gone tepid.
‘Sorry.’ Jane gave him an uncomfortable smile and slalomed away between tables that didn’t match. At one time, there would have been a single banqueting job down the middle of the room; now the small separate tables looked mean and utility, kind of cafeteria. Symptomatic of what was wrong with this place.
She didn’t hear Ben explaining to Antony how he thought the TV people could be made to care. Which would have been interesting.
Passing the foot of the main stairs, Jane could hear the bagpipe wheeze of Amber vacuuming up there – staying well out of it. Natalie was bustling in from the lobby, long legs in tight black jeans, red leather coat over her arm.
‘That the TV guy’s car, Jane? The old Lexus?’
‘Probably.’ Jane glanced over her shoulder. ‘Ben’s struggling. I don’t think he’s even got round to telling the guy there’s not going to be a Holmes conference.’
‘Oh.’
‘Essentially, they’re talking at cross purposes.’ Jane put down her tray on the second step; the upstairs vacuuming droned on, suggesting it was OK to talk. She brought her voice down. ‘Ben’s flogging his Hound line and this Largo’s trying to convey that he’s only interested in Ben’s struggle to revive Stanner.’
When she’d first gone in, with the fruit juice, Ben had been saying how well they were doing. He said he’d altered some bookings to keep the hotel empty so he’d have time to show Largo around. The guy would have had to be blind to fall for that. Where was all the staff, for instance?
‘The hotel trade looks like a pushover till you’re in it,’ Natalie said soberly. ‘I’ll be surprised if they can afford to heat this place through the winter.’
‘It’s that bad?’
Natalie waggled her fingers, suggesting borderline wonky. ‘When you’re full up in summer it feels like the escalator’s never going to stop. In winter, the outgoings mount up. They’ve got three women in Kington on standby for that conference who won’t be happy to stand by in the future.’
Ben ought to
Jane grinned. Antony Largo leaned back and poured himself some coffee. With a name like that, you expected Armani and suave; what you got were faded old denims and this honed Glasgow scepticism. He was about thirty-five, and wiry, with oiled black hair. He had one ear-stud and a hard, blue-grey stubble. He looked like one of those guys who stayed fit without jogging and never put on weight – an honorary life member of the gymnasium of the street.
‘Antony.’ Ben laughed again, his anxiety lines deepening. ‘Why do you always, always start off by talking everything down?’
‘This is not tactics , pal.’ Antony leaned forward, shaking his head slowly. ‘Way back, when there was advertising coming out the networks’ ears, money falling from the sky, we just fenced around a bit, for appearances’ sake. But that was then, this is now – Independent TV drama belly-up and barely twitching.’
‘Yes, but drama- documentary —’
‘... Is the new drama, yeah. Doco is the new drama. But a doco with no contemporary propulsion, no plot line? OK. See it from my angle. I walk in there and I go, This is about where the Sherlock Holmes guy got his idea for The Hound of the Baskervilles , but hey, it’s not what you think . And they’re going, Why would we think anything? Why would we give a fart?’
‘Because...’ Ben looked up and saw Jane, who realized she must be standing there, blatantly listening, maybe with her head on one side and her mouth slightly open. She turned away and started rearranging things on her tray. ‘Thank you very much, Jane,’ Ben said, meaning Piss off . His laughter had gone tepid.
‘Sorry.’ Jane gave him an uncomfortable smile and slalomed away between tables that didn’t match. At one time, there would have been a single banqueting job down the middle of the room; now the small separate tables looked mean and utility, kind of cafeteria. Symptomatic of what was wrong with this place.
She didn’t hear Ben explaining to Antony how he thought the TV people could be made to care. Which would have been interesting.
Passing the foot of the main stairs, Jane could hear the bagpipe wheeze of Amber vacuuming up there – staying well out of it. Natalie was bustling in from the lobby, long legs in tight black jeans, red leather coat over her arm.
‘That the TV guy’s car, Jane? The old Lexus?’
‘Probably.’ Jane glanced over her shoulder. ‘Ben’s struggling. I don’t think he’s even got round to telling the guy there’s not going to be a Holmes conference.’
‘Oh.’
‘Essentially, they’re talking at cross purposes.’ Jane put down her tray on the second step; the upstairs vacuuming droned on, suggesting it was OK to talk. She brought her voice down. ‘Ben’s flogging his Hound line and this Largo’s trying to convey that he’s only interested in Ben’s struggle to revive Stanner.’
When she’d first gone in, with the fruit juice, Ben had been saying how well they were doing. He said he’d altered some bookings to keep the hotel empty so he’d have time to show Largo around. The guy would have had to be blind to fall for that. Where was all the staff, for instance?
‘The hotel trade looks like a pushover till you’re in it,’ Natalie said soberly. ‘I’ll be surprised if they can afford to heat this place through the winter.’
‘It’s that bad?’
Natalie waggled her fingers, suggesting borderline wonky. ‘When you’re full up in summer it feels like the escalator’s never going to stop. In winter, the outgoings mount up. They’ve got three women in Kington on standby for that conference who won’t be happy to stand by in the future.’
Ben ought to
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