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.
‘What a delightful idea to have a party in a Turkish restaurant, although I have to say I’m not a big fan of foreign food. Olivia and I had half an hour in the Savoy. Excellent cocktails, although those big hotels don’t exactly light my fire. And they’re shockingly expensive too.’ She changed the subject without pausing. ‘I hear Sheffield have their new artistic director. I thought you might have been in the running.’
‘No. I wasn’t interested.’
‘Really? You do surprise me. So, you’re trying your hand at comedy thrillers. Very hard to get right. I saw … who was it? … in Deathtrap a few years ago. Simon Russell Beale, of course! I never forget a face! I thought he was excellent, although the play had rather dated. Ira Levin. I used to like his novels. As a matter of fact, I recently read one of yours.’ It took me a moment to realise that Harriet was now addressing me. She had a strange way of avoiding my eye while she spoke, looking over my shoulder as if hoping someone more interesting had come into the room.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I’ve always been a fan of crime fiction. I used to write about crime. Non-fiction. I didn’t find it entirely satisfying, though. Criminals are so boring. Not all of them – but most of them. What was the one I read? I can’t remember now. But Olivia used to read your books too. Didn’t you, dear!’
‘Alex Rider.’ The girl looked embarrassed.
‘You used to like them. They were stories about a young assassin.’
‘He’s not really an assassin,’ I said. ‘He’s a spy.’
‘He did kill people,’ Olivia contradicted me.
Her mother leered at me. ‘And now you’re writing for the theatre.’
‘Yes.’ I couldn’t stop myself. ‘Did you enjoy the play?’ Ewan glared at me. Tirian and Sky looked embarrassed. It was the one thing I’d been told not to do but I’d gone ahead and done it.
Harriet ignored me. It was as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘So, you’ve been cast in a big film,’ she said. Now she was talking to Tirian. ‘Personally, I have to say that I think it’s a shame, all our young talent going over the Atlantic.’
‘I’m only crossing the Channel,’ Tirian replied. ‘We’re shooting in Paris.’
‘You know what I mean, dear. I suppose the Americans pay so much better, but what does that do for our own theatre and television?’ Again, that malicious gleam.
There was an uncomfortable silence. None of us wanted to talk to Harriet Throsby. I think we were all hoping she’d go away.
Sky broke the silence. ‘It’s nice to see you, Olivia,’ she said.
‘Oh. Hello, Sky.’
‘Do you two know each other?’ Harriet asked.
Olivia said nothing, so Sky explained. ‘We met at the first-night party for The Crucible at the Barbican. I played Mercy Lewis.’
‘Yes. I remember you.’
‘You didn’t like the production.’
Harriet shrugged. ‘It had its moments. Unfortunately, as I recall, they were too few and far between.’ She turned back to me, although once again her eyes refused to meet mine, as if she was trying to remind me that I meant nothing to her. ‘I’m glad I spotted you. What a lovely party! So unusual to have it Turkish-themed. Come on, Olivia. Our car’s waiting for us …’