Death Actually Read online

  “It was the funeral director who caught him, wasn’t it?” said Maggie.

  “You’re right. It was. Apologies, and also for the other morning, if you really think it was me.”

  “Of course it was you. Elka recognised your car. Do you think I–”

  The door into the living room swung shut behind him.

  “The cheek. You know it was him,” said Maggie.

  Elka looked at her. “You know you’re blushing. I haven’t seen you look so uncomfortable in such a long time. And telling that huge Betty fib. I bet if we opened the back door we would hear her roaring with laughter from the cemetery. Wait till I tell her how red you’ve gone. Don’t worry, I’m sure he didn’t notice.”

  “Oh hardie har har!” Maggie pointed at the last pile of dirty glasses and platters on the bench. “We’d better get these done.”

  “I wish Betty was here,” said Elka. “She would know exactly what to say.”

  “Nothing happened. Leave it alone.”

  Elka found two clean glasses and splashed some pinot noir into them before raising her glass. “To Betty.”

  “To Betty,” Maggie replied. They emptied their glasses and Elka poured again.

  Chapter Ten

  Tim James pulled his lips out from his gums and peered at the reflection in the mirror. Earlier he’d seen his reflection in a window and noticed his smile looked toothier than usual. This wasn’t good. His smile was part of the Tim James brand, and its perfection could not be marred by any hint of receding gums. He didn’t want to wake up one morning to find the jackals in the gutter press had started focusing on the faults in his appearance and worse, were linking them to his age. Action heroes didn’t get old and they most certainly didn’t have receding gums. Apart from Liam Neeson, and he was more of an action-dad than an actual hero.

  Looking this way and that he reassured himself his teeth were fine and there was nothing to worry about. They were even and very white; his gums were where they should be and his smile was undimmed. It must have been a trick of the light. He did a quick inventory of his skin, eyes and hair, nose and jawline to ready himself for his waiting make-up artist. Everything checked out. He ran his face through a gamut of expressions, from thoughtful to uncontrolled laughter. At the same time he hummed through several octaves, focusing on the base notes. He studied his face and body thoughtfully in the mirror as a craftsman would check his tools before a job. Putting his shoulders back, he straightened his light blue cashmere sweater, turned on his heels and, swinging the door back with a flourish, made his entrance.

  The others in the living room looked slightly startled, but recovered quickly and hurried to his side. His personal make-up team was set up and waiting for him. Jonathon Bramble, New Zealand’s ageing prime time TV host, was already seated in front of a pop-up mirror, tissues sprouting from his shirt collar. Tim walked across the room, his hand outstretched, his smile aimed at the man who was about to interview him.

  “Jonathon, I presume, he said. “They tell me you’re ‘the man’ in this country.”

  Jonathon Bramble turned awkwardly in his chair and shook the outstretched hand firmly, unwilling to be the first to let go. They eyeballed each other and after a few seconds of sizing each other up, released simultaneously.

  Tim sat down in the vacant chair, staring into the mirror while Gwen, tucked tissues into his sweater. Jonathon was having mascara applied and was therefore at a disadvantage, a fact not lost on Tim.

  “So what’s the plan, my man?” he asked heartily, reaching over and planting a hearty slap on Jonathon’s shoulder.

  As a result of the sudden jolt, Jonathon copped a streak of waterproof mascara just below one eye. It proved difficult to remove, and left a dark shadow that couldn’t be evened out by his make-up. (Later that night Jonathon’s greatest fan, his mother would turn to one of the residents in her rest home to say how tired her son was looking. Interestingly, she would also comment on how toothy Tim James was nowadays.)

  “Got the questions, Jonathon?” asked Tim, making sure his PR team had briefed this guy properly.

  “I have them right here, Mr James.”

  “None of this Mr James stuff, Jonathon. Call me Tim. Has someone offered y’all a drink, something to eat maybe? I hear you guys have travelled all the way from Auckland just to interview me. Well folks, I am honoured.”

  Tim nodded to each individual in the room, causing them all to stop what they were doing, make eye contact and nod back. There was a small round of soft applause, led by one of Tim’s people.

  “Matt, have you looked after these good people?”

  “Certainly have Mr James – I mean, Tim”, replied a tall man in his early fifties, stepping from the shadows to beside the star’s chair.

  Tim crooked his finger and Matt bent down as Tim turned away from Jonathon, who was picking the tissues out of his collar. “Just make damn sure the film picks up the bill for anything they order and it doesn’t come back to me,” he muttered quietly.

  Looking nonchalant, Jonathon tried to hear what was being said, but couldn’t. He bent forward to look at his reflection, and didn’t particularly like what he saw. Despite the best efforts of a skilled make-up artist, he still looked old and, dammit, disreputable. His skin was coarse and his nose bulbous. His hair was dyed and looked it, and his teeth, in comparison to the row of Hollywood pearls beside him, were uneven in both form and colour. Damn the fags, he thought, flicking his tongue across his top teeth, as if this would remove the nicotine and coffee stains with one swipe. Wishing he could nip out now for a quick cigarette to calm his nerves, he instead went to his seat for a lighting check and took the opportunity to read over the questions Tim’s people had kindly provided for him.

  Jonathon had been the host of a prime time news show for nearly ten years. But his format was tired and his once solid fan base amongst big-spending high-living baby boomers was being eroded by the offerings on other channels. Not to mention the Devil’s spawn – Netflix. Viewers were ditching his programme in their droves, instead binge-watching Downton Abbey, or worse, Game of Thrones. When even his own mother had said she was hooked on Narcos and didn’t bother with the news now, he knew his days were numbered.

  “It’s not the competition that’s taking you out, Jonathon old boy,” his agent had said. “The women’s mags are the real culprits. Next time you decide to cheat on your wife, please don’t do it in a public car park and don’t do it with your wife’s little sister. You’re lucky your father-in-law has enough money to keep most of it out of the press.”

  However, enough had been leaked by a freelance blogger for management to put him on notice. His agent had read him the letter this morning, while he was in the business lounge at the airport. He had a week before his contract was reviewed. A week to prove to management and the viewers he still had what it takes.

  He took his notes out of his pocket and went over them again. The old lady had provided the sort of stuff that only comes along once in a career, but he needed to play it just right if it was going to save him.

  He peeled his shirt away from his skin, praying the sweat wouldn’t seep through and form dark patches on his suit. Commandeering a box of tissues, he sidled over to a quiet corner and dabbed his forehead to stop his make-up from running into his eyes. Slow yourbreathing, he told himself, practise mindfulness. He could hear his counsellor’s voice. Focus,Jonathon. Think about the view. Look at the mountains and the lake. Breathe, breathe. Find your inner peace.

  “I know it’s hot in here, Jonathon,” said Tim loudly behind him. “I told the crew you wouldn’t mind if I put the heating up. Having just come from summer, I need to keep the temperature high so I can acclimatise slowly to your winter. Love the heat, hate the cold.”

  “No problem,” replied Jonathon, looking around for more tissues.

  “The questions we gave you. Standard stuff. The interview won’t take long. My team has regular focus groups finding out what my fans want to know. These
questions give them enough to keep them happy but keep them wanting more – that’s the golden rule in show business, ain’t it?”

  Jonathon nodded his agreement. The interview was to take place in front of the windows. The lighting would be tricky, but the cameraman had assured him it was possible. It had to be. One of his sponsors was the Tourism Board. Tim James sitting in front of the mountains and lake was pure gold to them, and he needed to keep every one of his advertisers happy. After tonight, he hoped they would be deliriously, six-figure-contract-for-ten-years happy.

  Ten minutes and several retouches later, Jonathon’s make-up had finally succumbed to his anxiety and slid off his face onto his collar. He found a private area behind the lights and quickly changed into a fresh shirt. He had to get control of himself. Tucking his shirt in, he looked up to find the crew waiting.

  Tim was ready and making small talk with the cameraman. “In your own time, Jonathon,” he called out cheerily to the amusement of the whole room.

  Jonathon clenched his jaws only to feel a filling loosen in a lower back molar. Great, he thought to himself. Another dental bill from that robber on Queen Street. Dammit,the bloody station can pay for it. Work injury. His tongue was drawn irresistibly to the sharp surface of his tooth, as he took his place in the opposite chair.

  “When you’re ready, Mr James, Jonathon,” said his director from behind the lights.

  Jonathon removed his tongue from the side of his mouth and flashed his best smile at the star sitting comfortably across from him. For the first five minutes, he stuck to the list of patsy questions he had been given by Matt. Tim was happy to tell him, modestly, that he was the star of the seven highest-grossing movies of all time. Yes, he had broken his leg at least three times doing his own stunts. And the Oscar had been a fantastic surprise because the other nominees were so much more talented than he was.

  Outside the sun was setting, so they took a short break as the cameraman adjusted the lighting. Tim relaxed, and reached over to pat Jonathon’s leg and tell him how well he was doing. He got Gwen to give his face a quick dusting and they were good to go.

  Jonathon opened with a photo of Tim, his wife Jenny, and their twelve-week old son, Isaac. Tim effused his love for this miracle child who he missed more than anything, but then, looking away from Jonathon and directly into the camera, he told New Zealand how he had made a commitment to a friend and that he was a man of his word. As much as he missed his family, he had to come to this wunnerful country, to make this movie. Kiwis were such wunnerful people and one day they would return as a family.

  Tourism board – tick.

  “Yes,” said Tim, suddenly turning his full and glittering attention back to Jonathon. “I’m in your beautiful country for a week then I’m back to the States to film the fourth movie in the ‘Possible Harm’ series. The movie I’m doing here, Breakneck, is a favour for an old buddy. He assures me his son knows what he’s doing.”

  In answer to Jonathon’s next question, Tim employed his quiet prudent voice. “My company owns the most successful series of action movies ever made. And yes, that does make me a very wealthy man. But I like to think I do good with that money. Possible Harm Ltd employs more than three hundred people in the States. In our overseas locations I donate to local charities. But I don’t think it’s right to talk about this in public. I prefer to do this work in private. I do it because it is the right thing to do and not for the publicity.” Tim was now looking deeply into Jonathon’s eyes, knowing his intensity would be captured by the camera focusing on him from behind his host.

  Jonathon shifted in his chair. He took a long slow breath and, feeling calmer than he had all day, asked his next question – one of his own. “You have wanted to be a movie star since you were six years old, when your father abandoned you and your mother and ran off with another … person. Is that correct? How did that feel? Do you think being abandoned is the driving force behind your need to make your audience love you?”

  Tim’s smile froze on his face. His eyes flicked to Matt, standing off to the side, but Matt looked just as shocked as Tim. No one around them moved, the room was deadly quiet apart from the flames flickering in the fireplace.

  Tim looked down, then turning to one side looked up at Jonathon, smiling. He cleared his throat, and in those few seconds Jonathon guessed he was considering whether to get up and walk out, or to just ignore the question and its unsavoury implications. Jonathon breathed a sigh of relief as Tim opted to answer the question

  “You have done your research,” he said slowly. “Yes, my father left us when I was six for another ‘person’ …” Before Jonathon could capitalise further, Tim went on, “And out of respect for my mother’s feelings, I believe I should say no more on that subject,Jonathon?”

  “Quite,” replied Jonathon, willing himself not to grin triumphantly. Suddenly he wasn’t sweating any more, he was even enjoying himself. He waited an extra beat before asking his next question, enjoying the change in the balance of power in the room.

  “Is it true you didn’t invite your mother to your wedding, and that she has never met your wife, the mother of her only grandson?”

  He knew Tim must be seething, but again the movie star smiled. It was too late now for him to get up and leave. He watched as Tim adopted a tortured look, evidently going for the pity angle. Jonathan suspected that later, he’d have Matt’s guts on a plate.

  “Yes, it is true,” said Tim, his voice laden with sadness. “My mother and I are estranged, as you must know. She has chosen to pursue her own interests. There is nothing I can add, other than that her actions are deeply painful to me and my wife, Jenny.”

  Jonathon contemplated how long it would take for the footage to go global, after the interview aired in an hour. He felt like leaping onto his chair and jumping all over it, punching the air with victory, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t finished with Tim James.

  “Your mother tells a different story, Mr James. I spoke to her this afternoon, and she tells me that after she brought you up and helped you to become the actor you dreamed of being, you cut her off without a penny. At the age of sixty-six, your mother is still waiting tables in San Diego, working mainly for tips. I have a clip I can roll for you.”

  Tim had had enough. Unhooking the microphone from his ear, he stood up, towering over Jonathon who was lamely holding an iPad out to him.

  “I think you’ve taken enough of my time, don’t you, Mr Bramble?” he said. “I’d heard Kiwis were polite and showed visitors due respect, but obviously this is not true in every case. I’m sure many of your countrymen and women will be very disappointed about the intrusive questions you have asked me today. Now you must excuse me.” Tim stepped awkwardly over several cables until he was out of shot, leaving his microphone dangling on the arm of the chair. This was his living room, his suite, and the only available refuge was his bathroom on the other side of the massive fireplace. He slammed the door, but then had to stay there and wait for them to pack up and go. He heard Matt demand the footage from Bramble, along with the words breach of contract, but as Tim expected, no quarter was given, and certainly no film. He could only imagine how delighted the little TV troll was with himself.

  As he sat on the laundry basket Tim thought about how pleased his mother would be with the interview. He could hear her laughing when the segment went to air and then laughing again every time she played it back for her own amusement and that of her fucking friends. Damn the woman. There was no way in hell he’d ever give her one cent of his hard-earned money now. She could and would die poor!

  Once the door to the suite had shut behind the last techie, Matt knew what was coming. He poured himself a large whisky from the bar and gulped it in one swig, before knocking quietly on the bathroom door to indicate the all clear.

  Tim emerged, every fibre of his body tense with fury.

  Matt stood stony faced as the star vented his rage at the interview, at the interviewer, and finally at Matt for allowing it to happen. Ne
xt he started on the bloody country for being so small that everyone would see the clip on the evening news, and then ended with a bitter rant about his mother, the bitch who would never, ever go away.

  Matt heard but didn’t listen. He was used to the ravings of his boss, and had learned long ago to show no emotion at all. He didn’t want to incite the man who paid the mortgage on his second home in Mexico. His boss was mean, and everyone knew it. But it was his job to make sure no one who knew the truth actually talked about it.

  The Bramble bastard had gone rogue. He’d ignored every briefing, in his vainglorious attempt to promote himself and his goddamned show.

  Matt looked past Tim out the window, taking note of the approaching darkness and watching snow start to fall. It was beautiful in the world outside this room. He stood still until Tim stopped venting and then excused himself, leaving the miserable bastard alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Elka was busy. Too busy to meet Maggie for their morning walk, and far too busy to take time to relax and relieve the slow build in pressure she’d been feeling since booking her operation for the following week. She’d been awake most of the night, tossing and turning, unable to stop her mind running through various disaster scenarios, until she eventually drifted off just before her alarm woke her.

  It was a grumpy start to the day, and thankfully everyone was waiting for her when she arrived. She was not in the mood to repeat instructions to latecomers.

  Filming on Breakneck was beginning, and the logistics of getting food for ninety people to the Dart River valley, up to two hours’ drive away at the head of the lake, while still maintaining high standards in the restaurant, was stretching the resources of all concerned.

  She still had no idea if Kate would agree to run the restaurant while she was in Dunedin. But if not Kate, then who? Her staff were good but needed direction. And what if there were complications and she had to stay away longer than she anticipated? The downside of being a hands-on boss, she thought, as she ticked off the next job on the long list of things to do. Kate just has to agree, she thought. And if she doesn’t then I’ll deal with that tomorrow.