Free Carnforth's Creation by Tim Jeal Page B

should be slower, camera three’s two-shot of Sir John Norbury and Professor Dwyer should be tighter. Had he been in charge of a complicated drama in three or four sets, rather than a bread-and-butter ‘chat’ set-up, he would have been less put out when Paul started rhapsodizing about the dimly lit gallery, the banks of monitors, and the air of ‘professional calm’. With six ‘guests’ and no studio audience, Matthew reckoned an intelligent monkey could have done his job. When he heard Paul say he reminded him of Jack Hawkins on the bridge of a battle-cruiser , Matthew asked him and Gemma to wait in his office.
    When he joined them there, Matthew was as usual struck by the casual way in which Paul had taken his change of heart about the film. He had come to discuss schedules, without a care for the possibility that dear old Matty might resent his behaviour. Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to him that once the Hobbema became a row of figures in Bridget’s bank account, she would hold the whip-hand in a wide range of domestic decisions previously shared. Matthew liked the unpretentious flat they lived in; Bridget did not. So if she decided to buy somewhere in a more desirable neighbourhood, what would Matthew be able to do? Yet Paul dismissed the possible stresses caused by his ‘generosity’ as blandly as he side-stepped the film’s most basic problems. What was he doing about finding the songs that would propel Roy to stardom? Why was he making no efforts to replace Roy’s old group? And how did he propose to save the whole project from the cutting-room bin, if Roy didn’t make it? When Matthew came out with this final question, Paul grinned at him.
    ‘Come on, Matty, you knew you’d have to have faith in people.’
    ‘But not blind faith,’ Matthew told him, knowing that he could not let Paul go on supposing that matters would be allowed to drift at whatever speed suited him. Always it came back to control, and which of them should exercise it. ‘I can reduce the risks,’ Matthew announced.
    ‘How?’ demanded Gemma, resting her cowboy-bootedfeet on the edge of his desk. He eyed her briefly. From the moment he had agreed to make the film, he had heard nothing more about her desire for clandestine meetings.
    Matthew shrugged. ‘I could easily cover myself by filming other unknown groups and singers. The shot-gun principle – a dozen pellets stand a better chance of hitting the target than a single bullet.’
    Gemma’s boots flashed floorwards. ‘Where does that leave us?’
    Affecting not to realize how angry she was, Matthew smiled affably. ‘There’ll certainly be other pebbles on the beach … unless Roy brings out a single before we start filming.’
    Paul shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘I thought we were quite clear about starting when he’s unknown. That’s the whole point … to predict his success and then show it happening. Before and after.’
    Matthew pretended to weigh the pros and cons, then said firmly, ‘I’ll put in for three days’ filming before the single comes out.’ He looked up as Gemma came closer, noticing that under her leather waistcoat she was wearing a T-shirt stamped with the photographic imprint of breasts remarkably like those beneath. He laughed reassuringly. ‘If we stay in London, we can do plenty in the time.’
    Paul made a plopping noise with his tongue. ‘Why not come clean? You’re asking for a hit with his first record.’
    ‘Let’s say the prospect of a hit.’
    Entirely committed to getting the better of Paul, Matthew had no intention of carrying out his threat to pull out. Although suspecting that Paul and Gemma were shaken by the time they left, Matthew was sure they would bounce back in a few days, and nonchalantly resume their efforts to nudge him out of the driving seat.
    Less than a week later Paul telephoned to suggest an evening in the cavernous Victorian concert hall at Alexandra Palace. Since the event was billed as The Twenty