‘He says he’ll drive me right to the terminal building,’ Harriet said sadly, as she clicked off her phone after yet another weepy goodbye with Freddie, even as her bags were packed and she was about to leave for the airport. Then she plonked down on her futon bed, in that grotty little studio flat she’d been living in back then, utterly wiped out from all the emotional drama. ‘He says he really wants to.’
‘Hey, I’m claiming best friend’s rights here,’ I’d said cheerily, trying to bounce her back into good spirits. ‘I’m the one who gets to do that, remember?’ I was taking no chances, even at this late stage, with passports and visas and antiviral shots all done and dusted. I needed to see Harriet physically walk through the departure gates – I needed to witness it with my own two eyes. Just so I could report back to HQ that all was well and that I’d done exactly what I’d been asked to do. And not least, so I could get paid.
By then, the guilt was crippling. It just seemed like a terrible shame, I remember thinking, piling Harriet’s tatty-looking rucksack into the boot of an airport taxi. Because maybe this pair could have actually gone the distance, I thought, banging the boot of the car shut and going back into Harriet’s flat to hurry her out the door. Maybe, in time, Harriet’s charm and guileless innocence would have won over even an old termagant like Ellen de Courcey. Maybe someone like Harriet, so unmaterialistic and unspoilt, so obviously not out for what she could get, was actually a better bet for the Freddie de Courceys of this world than a lot of the gilt-edged, high-society heiresses who’d essentially been raised to marry someone like him.
Maybe a whole lot of things.
But then I called my thoughts to order. I’d made my deal with the devil and now I just had to live with it.
‘Harriet?’ I called in through the hall door. ‘Taxi’s outside! Come on, what’s keeping you? Hurry up, would you? We need to move or you’ll miss your flight!’
Anyway, I figured, striding back to the cab and strapping myself into the back seat, it was far too late in the day to start developing a conscience now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Meg
Yes, Harriet’s return is posing a major problem, no question. But I’m still a busy woman with other fish to fry and many, many other important projects on the go, all demanding urgent attention.
Plus, I remind myself, as I power down the street, aside from this unfortunate blip, my run of career success seems to be holding. I’ve got lots of happy, satisfied clients, for one thing. Senator Katherine Sisk’s case is shaping up nicely, thanks very much. I’m on my way into her constituency office this morning, as it happens, secure in the knowledge that at least there I can hold my head up high and congratulate myself on a job that should be resolved soon. I’ve been hired to remove a problem person out of the Good Lady Senator’s life, and aren’t I very, very close to doing exactly that? Briskly and efficiently too, long before any media outlet gets wind of it.
I’m actually beginning to make pretty great progress with Denys, too, to remove a colleague from a team he project-manages in work. It’s early days, of course, but I’ve already rushed to reassure Denys that all will be well. That I’m beginning to flex my muscles and am hopeful of having positive news for him very soon. Ditto with Nicole, my puppy-loving new ‘friend’, who’s been seeing someone seriously off limits on the sly, and who I’m being paid handsomely to deal with.
So in spite of Harriet Waters causing major headaches, all in all, I figure, my career is in pretty good shape.
I continue to think that right up until the only phone I have now starts to ring.
I answer immediately.
‘Good morning, am I speaking with Miss Meg Monroe?’
A woman’s voice, crisp and efficient. Not one I’ve ever heard before.
‘Speaking,’ I answer brightly.
‘This is Mrs Ellen de Courcey’s private secretary speaking. Mrs de Courcey has requested a meeting with you, if you would be so kind. This morning, please.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not actually available this morning . . .’ I try to say, but she barrels right over me.
‘Mrs de Courcey is presently at the Marker Hotel in the city centre. She expects to see you within the hour.’
‘But I’m on my way to work . . .’
‘Within the hour, thank you.’
And like that, she’s gone.
Shit, bugger, poo and balls. No prizes for guessing what – or rather who – this is all about. Word has filtered back to her about Harriet being back in town, and now I’m going to be held to account.
I waver on the pavement, the fine art of bilocation ever a dilemma for me. Turn up to work at Katherine Sisk’s office to finish what I’ve started? Or bear in mind that it’s only thanks to the de Courceys that I have a roof over my head and a lengthy list of clients to begin with?
It’s a no-brainer. I’m playing Pip to the mighty Ellen de Courcey’s Magwitch. Like it or not, she’s my benefactress and when she clicks her fingers, I have to come running.
With a sizeable knot in my stomach, I hail a passing taxi, jump in and head straight for the Marker Hotel, which, by the way, is situated on Grand Canal Square, in probably the hippest part of town. It’s a busy, bustling, wide-open space, with a vibrant, sprawling theatre dominating it, surrounded on all sides by coffee shops, vegan-friendly restaurants and even an organic market that caters to the armies of corporate tech workers who populate the multinational companies dotted around the area. Not for nothing is it known as ‘Googleland’.
The Marker is ultra-modern when you get inside, all sharp angles, chrome surfaces, smiley staff and Instagram-ready walls of flowers you can pose for a selfie in front of. I ask for Mrs de Courcey at the hotel’s reception desk and am immediately directed up to the hotel spa, which is on the top floor, right beside an outdoor rooftop lounge area. I notice a few lucky guests are already sitting out there, enjoying an early-morning coffee and the luxury of an old-fashioned newspaper in the warm summer sunshine.
Lucky them, I think, as my heart starts to palpitate and tiny beads of worry-sweat break out on my forehead. My hands are clammy, my breath is only coming in jagged bursts, and all I can think is – fight your corner here. Defend yourself. It’s hardly my fault that Harriet came back, now is it? I can only do what I can do – and I am doing my best here.
I head straight for the spa, where I’m greeted by a stunningly attractive therapist in a neat pinafore that blends in beautifully with the decor.
‘Oh yes,’ she says, when I tell her who I’m here to see. ‘You must be Meg Monroe? We’ve been expecting you. Let me show you where to go.’
She guides me straight to a private room at the very end of a long, soothingly dark corridor, raps gently at the door, listens out for a muffled response, then ushers me inside with a big bright smile, closing the door firmly behind.
So I’m trapped now, with no escape. It’s dark in here, windowless and small, and the only light is from the dozens of twinkly scented candles that are dotted around the therapy room. Low, soothing music plays pan pipes, but try as I might to tune into them, they’re certainly not having a relaxing effect on me.
And there she is, the mighty Ellen de Courcey herself, lying prostrate on a therapy bed, covered in towels from head to foot like an Egyptian mummy, with gloopy green paste on her face and two wobbly cucumber slices on her eyes. Odd thing though, instead of looking vulnerable as anyone else would if you found them lying semi-naked on a bed, Mrs de Courcey seems to be as much in command of the room as ever.
‘What’s that? Who’s there?’ she demands in that whisper of a voice.
‘It’s Meg Monroe,’ I say, willing myself to stand tall and not be intimidated. And for the love of God, to stop sweating.
Gotta fight my corner. Gotta defend my case here.
‘Then come closer, where I can see you,’ she orders, sitting up now and slowly peeling the cucumber off her eyes.
A long pause as her eyes re
adjust to the gloom.
‘You must forgive my appearance, Miss Monroe,’ she eventually says, with a downward wave at the pile of towels that envelop her. ‘My husband and I are hosting a political fundraising event this Friday, quite a large gathering too, and this is the only time I have to prepare. I must look my best, you know.’
Her wheelchair lies empty beside her and there’s a spare seat, but I’m categorically not asked to sit down.
I take the bull by the horns.
‘Mrs de Courcey, I can guess what this is all about, and I’d just like to reassure you—’
‘Oh, but I’ve had all the reassurances that I can stomach from you, Miss Monroe,’ she says waspishly. ‘A year ago now, you took great pains to reassure me that my “people problem”, as you chose to put it, had been fixed. That a certain undesirable had been removed from my grandson’s life. And, most importantly of all, that she was gone for good. “You won’t be troubled by this person again” – they were your exact words. I remember it distinctly – you spoke with such brazen confidence. Yet now, I find the situation quite altered. I heard it from Freddie himself. Only yesterday. Oh, it was Harriet this and Harriet that – she’s all he can talk about. He’s even insisting that . . . this person come with him to the fundraiser.’
‘Yes, I’m fully up to speed—’ I try to say, but am again interrupted.
‘Miss Monroe,’ she says, glaring coldly across the room at me. But even in the dim light, I can see the sharpness in her eyes. ‘I am most seriously displeased. I hardly need to remind you that you owe me a great personal debt?’
‘Yes, I’m well aware of that . . .’
‘Not only for the lifestyle you’re presently enjoying, but also for most, if not all, of the clients you’re currently working with?’
‘Of course . . .’
‘You do realise that all it takes is a single phone call from me, and you would, quite literally, forfeit most of that client list overnight?’
I nod curtly. Course I bloody realise it, and frankly, I could do without the low-level threats, thanks all the same.
‘Then you can guess the rest,’ she says breathily. ‘Should you wish to retain that client list, I suggest you readdress my problem yet again. Properly, this time. If you really do have the name and reputation of “The Fixer”, then you’d better fix this for me, as a matter of urgency. Before this weekend, it goes without saying.’
‘But you have to realise, Mrs de Courcey,’ I try to say, determined to speak up for myself, ‘that Harriet’s coming back was as much a surprise to me as it was to you. It’s just not going to be possible for me to airbrush her away again in a matter of days . . . these things take time!’
‘That will be all, thank you,’ Mrs de Courcey says, lying back down again, and putting the cucumber back over her eyes, our interview clearly over.
The door opens without me going near it and there’s that smiley therapist, just waiting there, clearly having tuned in from the other side of the door.
‘Oh, and one last thing,’ Ellen de Courcey says, raising a single index finger just as I’m beating a retreat. ‘You are enjoying your present living arrangements, are you not?’
‘Yes,’ I answer truthfully, ‘yes, I am.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a shame if anything were to alter that cosy arrangement?’
The door shuts behind me. And that’s it.
So now it’s Wednesday, and I’ve just been handed a deadline of mere days in which to achieve the bloody impossible.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Meg
I’m striding through Grand Canal Square, my mind in panic mode, as the phone rings.
‘Where are you?’ a man’s voice says.
‘Excuse me, who is this?’
‘It’s Billy.’
‘Who?’ I repeat, momentarily caught off guard.
‘Jesus, Meg, Billy Kingston, who you work with,’ he sighs. ‘Katherine Sisk’s director of elections? Hello? We work together? We were out at PrimeNews just last night? Surely you can’t have forgotten?’
‘Oh, right,’ I say, shaking my head, ‘yes, that Billy. Of course.’
‘So why aren’t you at work? Remember work? Remember, the election that’s happening in less than a week’s time? Need I remind you? You’re late, and Jess is out doing media all day with Katherine. I’ve got a meeting with them shortly and it’s all hands to the pump here. So where the hell are you?’
‘I was unavoidably detained,’ I say, thinking on my feet. ‘But I promise I’m on my way . . .’
Then another call comes through on my phone.
‘I’ll call you back, OK?’
‘I’d be far happier if I just saw you walking through the door,’ Billy says. ‘If it’s not too much to ask that you do your job? And another thing, just while I have you—’
‘What?’ I ask impatiently, as a third call comes through on my phone.
‘How did you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘Everything you told me about myself last night? Jeez, you even knew that I was just back from holidays and that I’d been south of the equator,’ he adds, sounding mystified. ‘Are you some kind of part-time psychic, or something?’
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ I say, clicking off Billy and going straight onto the call that was waiting.
‘Meg?’ says another man’s voice, deep, gruff and to the point. ‘It’s Denys here. We spoke a few days ago, remember?’
‘Yes,’ I say brightly. ‘I was just about to contact you, actually. I’ve been doing a considerable amount of online searching this end and I’m very hopeful that . . .’
‘I’m calling the whole thing off,’ says Denys, as curtly as that.
‘Excuse me?’
I have to turn into a doorway to make sure I’m hearing this right.
‘You heard me. It’s over. I know we arranged to meet later today, but now I’m cancelling.’
‘You’re cancelling . . .’ I splutter, lost for words for once in my life. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘Because I changed my mind. That’s why. I’m entitled to change my mind, aren’t I?’
I take a second to think. Focus. Clarify my thoughts. Not panic.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ I say coolly, ‘but if there’s anything I can do to turn this around, I’d love to know. I’ve already started to do a lot of preliminary work on your behalf, you know. If there’s a problem, then I’d appreciate you telling me.’
‘Right then,’ Denys sighs deeply. ‘You seem like a very professional person, so here it is, for what it’s worth.’
I steel myself.
‘As you know,’ he says, ‘your “services”, shall we say, came very highly recommended. I won’t say from whom, but let’s just say I first heard about you from a friend of a friend of an old family friend. And I’ve just had a message from that particular person giving me some updates that they thought I should be aware of. Very timely too, I’d have said. Particularly before I hand over any money to you. Wouldn’t you say?’
I stay nice and calm. I’ve dealt with wobbly clients before, and have found that a quick tongue and persuasive manner will always win the day.
‘If I can just interject . . .’ I try to say, but Denys is already ending the call.
‘Gotta go. Best of luck in your . . . well, let’s just say in your endeavours.’
And like that, he’s gone.
Ellen de Courcey. This can only be Ellen de Courcey’s doing, flexing her muscles and letting me know exactly what happens to people who cross her. So in the short space of time since I left the Marker Hotel, who else has she got to?
I call Katherine Sisk, currently my biggest client, but, of course, she’s out doing media and there’s no response.
And my day only gets worse. I arrive at Katherine’s office, but everyone’s out and I’ve got the whole place to myself. Getting panicky, I try Katherine’s private number, the one only her immedi
ate family and a handful of trusted confidants have, myself included. Again, no response.
Shit, shit, shit . . .
OK, so now I knuckle down to do some serious damage limitation. With no one to breathe down my neck, I text yet another high-profile client and tell her I can slip away to meet her at lunchtime, at our usual place. No choice in the matter, I’ve gotta keep this one sweet. She’s back immediately to confirm.
So at 1 p.m. I make a dash for it while I can.
Caffeine & Co. is jammed and it’s tough finding a table, with the lunchtime rush out in force. I do my usual brisk, quick scan around the place, eyes peeled for my client, but there’s no sign of her.
None at all.
I check everywhere. Upstairs and downstairs, just to make sure the lady in question isn’t sitting shyly in a little corner of the basement, tucked away where no one can see her, ever anxious to be discreet. This particular client is ultra-cautious and always picks this little coffee shop, as it’s well away from her local neighbourhood and therefore there’s minimal chance of her being spotted.
Well, she’s barely even twenty minutes late, I try to console myself, but even as I perch down onto a tiny bockety table for two, there’s a cold clutch of fear starting to grip me right in the chest.
I text her yet again – no response. Try calling, but the call is clicked off almost instantaneously.
Fuck. I can take a pretty accurate guess as to exactly what’s going on here. This client is never late – ever. Has someone got to her, in the last hour? Is this actually possible, I think, beginning to get panicky, as the minutes tick on . . . am I really being unceremoniously stood up?
Nor do I have to dig too deep to guess at the reason why. It’s yet another clear warning shot from Mrs de Courcey. You owe your whole livelihood to me, and look! Here’s how easily it can be taken away from you, the old she-devil might as well be saying.
And still no word back from Katherine Sisk. Nada, not a sausage. Do I still have a job there or not? Who knows?
The Fixer Page 17