CHAPTER SEVEN
Over the next three months, shockwaves from Jester’s sudden, unexpected implosion reverberated through the music industry. Although Ivan and Jack’s inner circle had known for some time that all was not well between them, to the business at large it was a shock to learn just how bitter and toxic their relationship had become.
More shocking still was how quickly, and catastrophically, Jack Messenger’s career nosedived. Jack had started this war but, for reasons nobody fully understood – perhaps out of some misplaced sense of gentlemanly conduct – he seemed intent on walking onto the battlefield unarmed and undefended. Ivan Charles was not so naïve. From day one he saw the break-up of the Jester partnership for what it was – a fight to the death – and set about annihilating his former partner. Without hesitation he called every one of Jack’s acts, offering them vast financial inducements to remain with Jester, as well as slathering on the charm. Jack was a brilliant manager, but he had never understood as Ivan did the cavernous depths of insecurity that fuelled most artists. Ivan validated and praised and gushed and ego-massaged until his jaw ached. Jack couldn’t bring himself to do it, and it was a reticence that cost him dearly. While Jack adopted a ‘business-as-usual’ approach up in Beverly Glen, Ivan spent entire days on the phone, like Jerry Maguire, relentlessly lobbying and cajoling for business. He flew to Paris to schmooze The Blitz and to New York to sign a new deal with Jason Kray, a young man Jack had been grooming to become the next Michael Bublé. He relentlessly leaned on all his contacts in the press, making sure that Kendall’s face was everywhere and that her picture never appeared without Jester’s name being mentioned. Meanwhile, as final preparations began for the launch of Talent Quest, Ivan’s own face and name began to become well known, at least in England. ITV and the production company, House of Cards, set up an endless stream of interviews for Ivan. He made sure to talk about Jester and his famous acts in all of them. If the show was a success, and especially if it was syndicated globally, the new Jester would be clinging firmly to its coat-tails.
For Catriona Charles it was a period of mixed emotions. On the one hand she was delighted for Ivan, of course. She hadn’t seen him this energized since Jester’s early days. In the first week or two after Jack left, Ivan had been terribly anxious, but the business now seemed to be going from strength to strength. Kendall Bryce, who had always struck Catriona as a sweet girl, not to mention incredibly beautiful and talented, was an almost overnight sensation. Bursting onto the British pop scene like a supernova, with her debut British single going straight in at number three and advertisers clamouring to work with her, Kendall had put Ivan firmly and instantly on the map as a pop manager. Much as Catriona loved Ned Williams and Ivan’s other, classical acts, she could see that managing Kendall had catapulted her husband into a bigger, infinitely more glamorous world. It wasn’t a world that particularly appealed to Catriona. But Ivan loved it, and she was thrilled to see him so happy.
But there was a price to pay for Ivan’s success. Despite his expressed desire to spend more time at home, and especially to focus on Hector, Ivan was travelling almost constantly. Catriona didn’t think she had ever known him work so hard. If he wasn’t at the TV studios, rehearsing – the pilot of Talent Quest was going out live, to an estimated audience of twelve million – he was promoting the show, or locked in a recording studio with Kendall, or flitting around the globe signing more and more acts to the ‘new’ Jester. In the last month alone, he’d had to double the size of Jester’s London workforce and move offices to an ugly but much larger space in Hammersmith, just to keep pace with demand. Meanwhile the demands of his family took second place, and Catriona found herself effectively a single parent. She tried not to mind for herself. Things would calm down with Ivan’s work eventually. But she did feel sorry for the children, especially Hector, whose behaviour was on a downward slide again and who clearly resented his father’s long absences.
And finally there was Jack. Though she did her best to hide it from Ivan, Catriona couldn’t help but feel guilty about her old friend, especially as all of Ivan’s current success seemed to have been bought at poor Jack’s expense.
‘It’s not my fault if his clients don’t have confidence in him,’ Ivan protested. ‘I’m not putting a gun to anyone’s head.’
‘But you are undercutting him,’ Catriona pointed out meekly.
‘I’m offering a competitive rate, darling. There’s nothing to stop Jack doing the same.’
All of which might be true. But it still made Catriona feel uncomfortable, watching Kendall Bryce on television telling interviewers how much she owed to Ivan and how happy she was in England. It was only back in the summer that Jack had cornered Catriona at Ivan’s party and asked her to keep an eye on Kendall. How could he see Kendall’s defection as anything other than a betrayal?
A week before Christmas, Catriona sat at the kitchen table at The Rookery, mindlessly peeling potatoes. Tonight at seven o’clock the first Talent Quest was finally going to air. Ivan was up in London, the show was going out live; though Catriona had offered to go with him, he preferred to do it alone.
‘I’m so bloody nervous as it is, I’ll fall to pieces completely if I know you’re there,’ he told her this morning. Standing in the bathroom, his face seaweed green, the poor thing looked as if he were off to face a firing squad. ‘Is this hair dye too obvious? I feel like the roots are almost orange.’
‘It’s fine darling, very natural,’ lied Catriona. Ever since he’d turned forty, Ivan had started obsessing about the signs of ageing, from the grey streaks at his temples to the faint fan of lines etched at the corners of his eyes. Since he’d been offered the television job, his anxiety about his looks had got exponentially worse. Catriona couldn’t understand it. In her eyes, Ivan was much more handsome now than he had been in his twenties. She was the one who was going to seed. But like all her husband’s foibles, she treated this one with kindness and equanimity, and did her best to bolster his confidence.
In the end, Ivan’s hands were shaking so much that Catriona had had to shave him, otherwise he’d have appeared on screen looking as though he’d just staggered out of Sweeney Todd’s. ‘You and the kids watch it here, and make sure you Sky+ it.’
‘Of course,’ Catriona said loyally. She’d have to ask Rosie to show her how the Sky+ worked again. Last time Ivan had asked her to record Entourage, she’d somehow ended up with six episodes of Ben & Holly instead. ‘Call us as soon as it’s over, won’t you?’
Ivan kissed her on the cheek. ‘I promise.’
That was nine hours ago. It was six o’clock now, an hour till kick-off, and Catriona was starting to feel unpleasantly nervous herself. Outside, the afternoon’s thin dusting of snow had turned into a full dump. Through the kitchen window, Catriona watched the fat, soft flakes fall in silent succession, illuminated by a brightly full winter moon. She loved all the seasons in Swinbrook, but winter was probably her favourite. The crisp blue skies and snowy river bank never failed to lift her spirits, but it was also wonderfully comforting to come in from the cold to The Rookery’s roaring log fires, or to brew up a saucepan of home-made mulled wine on the always hot Aga. Of course, the downside of the cold weather was the irresistible urge to eat biscuits and mince pies and buttery mashed potatoes and all other varieties of warming comfort food. When Ivan was around, Cat made more of an effort to restrain her appetite. But left to her own devices, and particularly when Hector or Rosie were playing her up, she found it nigh on impossible not to go for the extra spoonful of brandy butter. She spent her life wrapped up in baggy sweaters anyway, like Nanook of the North. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to actually see her expanding stomach, or the embarrassing red lines left by the waistband of her favourite elasticated tweed skirt.
Tonight, however, Catriona was too nervous to eat. She was only peeling the stupid potatoes for something to do, and because the alternative was going upstairs to try and reason with a sulky Hector, who was refusing to come and watch his father’s television debut. (‘Why should I care about Dad’s things? He never gives a shit about mine.’) The boy was getting more like a teenager by the day. Or comforting