What Will Survive Page 4

  15 July 1997, 11:59 BST

  LONDON (Reuters)

  Snap: Princess of Wales ‘will not live abroad’

  Kensington Palace has issued a ‘clarification’ of remarks by Diana, Princess of Wales, who is on holiday in the south of France. The Princess has no intention of leaving the UK, said a spokeswoman, claiming that her conversation with photographers yesterday had been misinterpreted.

  She said that the Princess had exchanged ‘jocular’ remarks with the photographers, who spotted her sunbathing of St Tropez on a yacht belonging to the owner of Harrods, Mohammed al-Fayed. The Princess jumped into a motor cruiser and approached the journalists, appealing to them to respect her privacy.

  The conversation was ‘good-natured’, said the spokeswoman, and asked that the Princess be left alone to enjoy the remainder of her holiday. ‘She works very hard during the year, and like anyone else she needs to recharge her batteries,’ the spokeswoman said.

  15 July 1997, 12:17 BST

  LONDON (Reuters)

  Landmine death brings new call for ban

  Campaigners against landmines have renewed their call for a ban after a man died and two people were injured in a blast in Lebanon yesterday. The explosion happened in the south, just outside the area where the Syrian backed terror group Hezbollah is fighting to end the Israeli occupation.

  ‘Landmines are silent killers,’ said Hilary Lukes, a London-based activist who has worked for a ban with Diana, Princess of Wales. ‘They go on doing their lethal work for years after a war finishes, which is why it’s so important to ban them.’

  The nationalities and condition of the survivors of yesterday’s accident are not yet known.

  15 July 1997, 13:27 BST

  LONDON (Reuters)

  Row continues over PM’s Question Time

  The Prime Minister is ‘afraid to face the House of Commons,’ the Leader of the Opposition claimed today, stepping up his attack on the decision to reduce PM’s Question Time to a single weekly session on Wednesdays.

  ‘This government has no respect for Parliament or its traditions,’ he said. ‘The Prime Minister has been in office for less than three months, and he has already shown that his style is presidential and unaccountable.’ In an interview with the BBC’s World At One programme, he went on to accuse the Prime Minister of being ‘frit’.

  15 July 1997, 13:42 BST

  PARIS (Reuters)

  Four arrested in Métro plot

  An elite anti-terrorist squad has arrested four men who are believed to have been planning bomb attacks on the Paris Métro. First reports say bomb-making equipment was found at an apartment in a high-rise block in Aulnay-sous-Bois, in the north-eastern suburbs, which was raided early this morning. The men, all in their early twenties and believed to carry passports from North African countries, put up no resistance when they were surprised by armed police.

  Unofficial sources say they may be connected to the GIA, the Islamic terror group which is suspected of organising a series of terrorist attacks in France, as well as the hijacking of an Air France flight from Algiers in 1994. The GIA has been blamed for thousands of deaths since the government cancelled the result of the general election in Algeria five years ago. A statement is expected later today.

  Actors, Amanda thought, pressing the fast-forward button on her tape recorder. The voices, her own and the Hollywood star’s, turned into a series of high-pitched squeaks, slowing into recognisable speech when she lifted her finger. He was still discussing his latest film, a hostage drama set in an unnamed African state although the production team had never set foot outside the United States, as Amanda had discovered by reading the credits at the end of the preview.

  ‘The special effects may get more spectacular,’ the article on her computer screen began, ‘but does anything really change in Hollywood?’ She went on to point out that the thirty-three-year-old star, currently one of the most highly-paid actors in the world, was doing exactly the same as Johnny Weismuller, the Olympic swimming champion whose Tarzan movies had been filmed in Florida. She had tried several times to ask the actor about cultural imperialism: ‘So do you really, um, think it’s all right to set a film in Africa without going there?’ she heard herself say on the tape, rephrasing an earlier question in response to his uncomprehending look. She scribbled in her notebook as he embarked on the answer she wanted to quote.

  ‘Sure, we all wanted to shoot in Africa. I’m like, what I always aim for is maximum authenticity. But the studio talks to the security guys and they say, hey, this guy’s a big star. This is not me talking, you understand, but if the studio believes there are folks out there... if there are, like, security considerations?’

  Amanda stopped the tape and was typing the quote when her phone rang. She hesitated, not wanting to lose momentum, but the thought that it might be someone from the office made her pick it up. It occurred to her, as she did so, that she really must get one of those phones that showed the caller’s number.

  ‘Mandy?’

  Her heart sank as she recognised the voice of her ex. ‘Patrick, I’m in the middle of writing, I can’t talk now.’

  ‘It’s a very quick one — have you heard about the mortgage?’

  She breathed out, trying not to lose her temper. ‘I called the building society last week, it’s all going through —’

  ‘Can’t you hurry it up?’

  ‘I’ve told you, there’s nothing I can do. It takes as long as it takes.’

  ‘Sure there isn’t a problem? With you being freelance, I mean?’

  ‘I spent an hour with the manager and he’s got copies of my accounts. The moment I hear, I’ll let you know, all right?’

  ‘I suppose it’ll have to be.’

  ‘Look, I’ve already said, I’ve got a deadline—’

  ‘No need to lose your rag. Give me a call at the weekend, yeah, let me know how it’s going.’

  He rang off. Amanda leaned against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. She put her hands up to her hair, which she had recently had cut short — too short, she thought, and then remembered how a single conversation with Patrick could drain her confidence. He had left her, after they had lived together for nearly two years, and now he expected her to buy him out of the flat, just like that.

  Amanda took a couple of deep breaths — yoga breaths was how she thought of them, though she hadn’t been to a class for months — and tried to focus on her computer screen. She started typing again, slowly at first, pointing out the irony of a Hollywood studio not daring to film a story about kidnapping in Africa in case the star was kidnapped. Soon she was describing the studio’s PR operation and how, when she was finally ushered into his suite, he gripped one of her hands in both of his and said how glad he was she had come. She had barely turned on her tape recorder when he launched into a ready-made spiel about how thrilled he had been when asked to do the picture, how much he had enjoyed working with the director, the cinematographer — Amanda recalled he had recently played a surprise cameo role in a film by Patrice Leconte — and everybody else from the other actors to the make-up artists.

  Listening to the polished phrases, she realised she was reminded of the Prime Minister, whom she had met during the general election campaign. Of course the Leader of the Opposition, as he then was, was quite a lot smarter, but he too had turned a beam of attention on her as she asked her question — agreed in advance, naturally — at a lunch for women journalists. She had felt like the most important person in the world, then it was someone else’s turn and his attention shifted elsewhere, just as the actor’s did when her thirty minutes were up. She was reaching for the list of subjects that he was not prepared to talk about, faxed to her by the studio before the interview, when the phone rang again. Amanda groaned and answered it.

  ‘Amanda, it’s Simon on the newsdesk. How busy are you today?’

  Not wanting to turn down a commission — thanks to Patrick, she needed every penny she could earn — she responded
cautiously: ‘Quite. I’m doing something for the magazine.’

  ‘Can you put it off? This might be a big one. Remember that profile you did of Aisha Lincoln? Last summer, wasn’t it?’

  Amanda stood up and turned away from her computer. ‘Sure, what’s she done? I heard she was going to be made a UN goodwill ambassador. Mind you, I’ve heard the same rumour about Geri Halliwell.’

  ‘Geri? I didn’t know that.’ He paused. ‘No, Aisha Lincoln’s been in some kind of incident.’

  ‘Incident? What does that mean?’

  ‘Some kind of explosion.’

  ‘An explosion?’ Amanda was alert, the adrenalin beginning to flow. ‘You mean a terrorist thing?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. She’s been travelling round the Middle East and the car she was in seems to have blown up. That’s all we know so far. Dermot’s away so we’re using a Swedish stringer, Ingrid something. The British embassy in Beirut’s saying nothing officially but off the record...’

  ‘God, she’s not dead, is she?’

  ‘No, but I won’t know how bad it is till Ingrid calls from the hospital.’

  Amanda breathed out. ‘Where did you say this happened?’

  ‘Lebanon. There’s a load of junk hanging round after the civil war, apparently. Ingrid says people, you know, shepherds or — or whatever, are always stepping on shells and landmines.’ Simon had been the paper’s New York correspondent before he was summoned back to London as news editor, and his chief interests were footballers, pop stars and gossip. ‘Somebody’s done a report on it, which I’m getting.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure it’s her?’

  ‘The British ambassador’s going to make a statement this afternoon. She wouldn’t be doing that for your average tourist, would she? Can you get going on a backgrounder? Don’t worry about Sandra, I’ll talk to her. What were you doing for her?’

  Amanda whipped round, saved the file, pressed a key and watched it disappear from the screen. ‘Nothing that can’t wait. Some showbiz thing.’

  ‘Oh yeah, she mentioned it at conference. Say a thousand words, unless I tell you otherwise. Want me to fax you the agency stuff and cuttings?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Oh, Fiona’s telling me something, hang on...’ His voice faded. ‘Wow, this is fantastic, has Mark seen it? Thanks, Fi. Amanda? There’s a piece in Hello! about this trip she was on. Do you want me to send it as well?’

  ‘Course. You’ve got my fax number?’

  ‘Yeah. Anything else you need?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Call me when you hear anything.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Amanda gathered up her tape recorder, interview notes and faxes and put them on a shelf in the alcove next to her desk. Taking down a file marked 1996, she sorted through it until Aisha Lincoln’s face stared up at her from a transparent wallet. It was an arresting face, even under its plastic cover: the skin pale and almost unlined, the eyes intense, black with pinpoints of light, under high arched eyebrows. Even though Aisha’s dark hair was caught up at the back of her head, a mass of strands had escaped and curved like a sculpture around her head. As Amanda drew the article from its wallet, a piece of paper fell to the floor, and she stooped to retrieve it. Now she remembered: Aisha had sent her a letter after the feature appeared, on thin blue paper with her address — Cranbrook Lawns, Cranbrook, Somerset — in neat handwriting at the top. It was a thank-you note, saying she had enjoyed reading Amanda’s article and wished other journalists took her work in developing countries as seriously. Aisha’s husband, Tim, had said something similar when she took Amanda upstairs to her office.

  ‘This is where my husband works,’ she had remarked quietly, pointing to a closed door on the first-floor landing. It seemed he had heard them for he opened it and stared distractedly, as though two women were the very last thing he had expected to see.

  Aisha said, ‘I told you Amanda was coming today. She’s a journalist.’

  ‘Did you? I forgot.’ He screwed up his face, as if gathering his thoughts from far away, then looked closely at Amanda. ‘Another worshipper at the shrine? Who did you say you write for?’

  Amanda told him, holding out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she added as his features relaxed.

  ‘That’s what I read — if I get round to reading a paper at all, I mean. Too depressing, most of the time. I wish you people weren’t so obsessed with bad news.’

  Amanda said something vague, observing Tim Lincoln minutely in case she wanted to describe him in her article. He was tall and sinewy, with a long bony face and receding sandy hair. His trousers were old and he was wearing a shirt that didn’t match, almost as if he was making some sort of point about his wife’s perfect taste.

  ‘I’ll look out for your byline,’ he said, leaning against the door frame. ‘Isn’t that what you call it? Just don’t make my wife out to be a plaster saint, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m taking Amanda up to my office,’ Aisha responded. ‘Will you join us for lunch?’ She laid a hand lightly on Amanda’s arm, drawing her away.

  ‘Don’t think so, I’ve got to finish those plans.’ He looked at Amanda. ‘Clients always want everything finished yesterday, you know how it is. Nice meeting you — Amanda, did you say?’

  ‘He’s an architect,’ Aisha explained, lowering her voice again as the door closed behind him. ‘His work was — is very original. Ahead of its time, which doesn’t make it easy for him.’

  Amanda had inferred from this that Tim Lincoln was not as successful as he would like to be. Who paid for the house, she wondered, and was Tim one of those men who resented living off his wife’s earnings? She recalled that she had looked for cuttings about his work next time she went into the office, and most of them had been discoloured with age. She had even looked him up in Who’s Who, discovering that he had done nothing of note — no awards, no big projects or none that he had chosen to mention — for at least ten years.

  Amanda returned the letter from Aisha to the file and opened out her own article. It was from the papers Saturday edition, so she had been given plenty of space. As well as the main photograph, which had been taken in Aisha’s office, there was a library picture of her in a dark red dress with a fitted bodice and sarong-style skirt at a show staged in London by a group of young Asian designers. One of them had immediately been employed as an assistant by Asian, the Turkish designer whose lion’s head logo had become well known since he won a major award during London Fashion Week a few years back. Another picture, much smaller, showed Aisha in jeans and an open-necked shirt, sitting cross-legged on the floor of a hut in an unidentified country. She had been photographed in profile, listening as a woman addressed an audience of half a dozen people in Western clothes, all of them concentrating so intently that they seemed unaware of the presence of the camera.

  And now she was in hospital in Lebanon, with God-knew-what in the way of injuries. Amanda did not know much about the Middle East, although she had written a piece about Princess Diana’s campaign for a ban on landmines. She had visited a charity organisation that had been set up in London to clear mines in former war zones and had seen ghastly pictures of amputees in Africa; she had also interviewed one of their volunteers, an ex-army officer who had been injured while clearing mines in — she had to think for a moment — Sri Lanka? No one had shown much interest, he told her wryly, until Princess Di got involved, but this was his fourth interview in ten days.

  Amanda shivered and folded her article, sliding it back into the file so she could no longer see Aisha’s face. Her phone rang again and she hesitated, not knowing whether it was Simon with more news from Lebanon or someone she didn’t have time to talk to. She was relieved when the answering machine cut in and she recognised the voice of the editor of the paper’s Saturday magazine, asking plaintively whether Amanda could file her profile of the actor by Friday morning at the latest. She pulled a face: Aisha Lincoln’s accident might be a very big story indeed, especially if her injuri
es were serious.

  Already a long fax had started to arrive from the newsdesk on her other fine, coiling into a heap on the floor. Tearing it from the fax machine, Amanda scissored it into manageable sections, beginning with the agency copy. As her eyes flicked down the closely-typed columns, she saw that the information coming out of Lebanon was confused, although it appeared that at least one person, a man, had died instantly in the blast. Amanda drew in a sharp breath as it occurred to her for the first time that Aisha might have been travelling with her husband. Was Tim Lincoln injured as well or even dead? She kept reading but the victims had still not been named.

  Amanda scanned the last few sheets, a compilation of recent articles which mentioned Aisha Lincoln, including — by some macabre coincidence — one about cosmetic surgery with the headline: ‘Why I’ll never go under the surgeon’s knife.’ Reaching into the drawer where she kept her old notebooks, her hand slightly unsteady, Amanda quickly found the one she wanted, with Aisha’s name and the date of the interview written on the cover. She always noted down the important parts of her interviews as well as taping them, to save time, and on this occasion Aisha had said lots of things Amanda hadn’t been able to use in her original piece.

  She carried the notebook into the kitchen, reading her notes as she filled the kettle. The first page was made up of observations she had made in her car as soon as she arrived and she skimmed her description of Aisha’s house, with its wide front lawn set behind a low stone wall; Amanda, who was still with Patrick at the time, had thought it was the kind of place she would like to live in one day, especially if they had children. Now she could not hold the picture in her mind for images of — what? Twisted metal, shattered glass, perhaps even an exploding petrol tank — it didn’t bear thinking about. She poured boiling water on to a tea bag and added two teaspoons of sugar, twice the amount she usually took in hot drinks.