Warhol's Prophecy

106

THE EXPLOSION OF white light was almost blinding.

Dozens of flashes went off simultaneously as each car’s doors were opened.

Rob could see hordes of newsmen gathered around the entrance to the Pavilion Hotel. There were also several camera crews from local and national television, and the powerful lights used to illuminate the hotel forecourt added to the general brilliance.

Reporters fought to get close to each car as it pulled up, though only anxious to snatch a few words with the members of Waterhole – should they be the ones to emerge.

Becky watched them jostling for position.

‘What are those people doing, Dad?’ she wanted to know.

‘Their jobs.’ Rob grinned as the procession of cars approaching the hotel continued.

He saw Nicholas Barber clamber from one of those ahead, pausing a moment on the steps to wave theatrically at the half a dozen newsmen who bothered to snap him.

Barber loitered a moment longer, as if determined that all the assembled hacks should get a good look at him. He saw James Marsh walking towards the main entrance and, smiling broadly, stepped towards the factory’s owner to shake his hand.

A good photo opportunity?

More lights. More microphones shoved in his direction. Barber was keen to foster the new government’s belief in its own popularity. It preached constantly of its awareness of public tastes. Prided itself on being comprised of men and women who considered themselves no different from those who had voted them into power.

Rob looked on at this charade with distaste. Watching Barber pose with his arm around Marsh’s shoulder.

Hypocritical bastard!

Two stretch limos were approaching the hotel and the media, almost as one, swung to meet them.

The limos slowed to a crawl, then stopped to disgorge their passengers.

Waterhole and their various partners emerged into the glare of camera flashes and a volley of questions.

‘There they are, Dad,’ said Becky excitedly.

Rob nodded and watched as the band members made their way towards the main entrance.

‘That’s Craig and Simon,’ Becky informed him. ‘They’re brothers.’

Rob watched impassively.

Craig Levine was wearing a battered leather jacket, jeans and a baseball cap. Close behind him, Jenny Kenton adjusted her dark glasses, ran a hand through her hair, and stared unsmilingly at the assembled photographers.

As the other band members made their way towards the entrance, two of them adopted a goose-stepping march.

Becky giggled. Rob shook his head.

‘They’re great, aren’t they, Dad?’ Becky said.

‘If you say so, babe,’ Rob murmured, grinning at her.

He saw Nicholas Barber posing for more photos, this time with both Marsh and the band.

Then they all made their way inside, the photographers still shouting for more pictures.

Rob looked around.

Where the hell was Hailey? Surely she should be here by now?

‘Where’s Mum?’ Becky wanted to know, as if reading his mind.

‘She’ll be here soon.’

I hope.

He noticed that Walker hadn’t arrived yet either.

Rob swung himself out of the car and helped Becky down. Thoughts were tumbling through his mind, some of which he didn’t care for.

Were Hailey and Walker together now? Snatching a moment behind his back?

He tried to drive the thoughts away, but they remained.

‘Mum won’t be long,’ he said, taking Becky’s hand as they made their way towards the main hotel entrance.

As they were climbing the three steps that led into the foyer, one of the photographers called to them – obviously taking no chances. Among this sea of nobodies might be someone important, so best to get everything on film.

They turned round and he took Becky’s photo.

The little girl giggled and pressed her head against Rob’s thigh.

He grinned and ruffled her hair.

‘There you go, babe,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Now you’re famous.’

Behind them the cars continued to arrive.