The Fixer

by Claudia Carroll

  Shit, shit, shit. Of course I know all about this fundraiser, I know exactly when and where it’s happening and more to the point, who’s hosting it. Jess has been banging on about it all bloody day and wondering what she’ll wear, and lamenting the fact that she doesn’t have time to get her hair done.

  I was just quietly hoping I could weasel out of having to be there myself. Mainly because Harriet will be there, hanging out of Freddie for the entire night. Every project I’ve been working on colliding together at one event on one single night. A living nightmare, in other words.

  A quick, fleeting sense of panic hits me and I have to take a gulp of water from the bottle in front of me to catch my breath. Half of me wants to crawl under the desk and ignore the whole lot of them, but that’s not an option. Besides, I’ve never been a coward before in my life and I’m certainly not going to start acting like one now. I’ll face them all and I’ll stand tall. Defence is the best method of attack, after all, isn’t it?

  ‘Sorry to do this to you,’ Katherine adds, lowering her voice, ‘but I just found out Toby Callaghan will be there too, and so it’s a perfect opportunity for you to tie up all loose ends with Jess, so we can nail this. You do follow me?’

  Of course I follow her, what does the woman think I am, stupid? Dispatching Jess off to Brussels to work for Callaghan was my idea in the first place, I want to remind her, but professionalism prevails. It all depends on Callaghan losing the election next Monday, but even I can’t control that one.

  I start to think – fast. Yes, this is a nightmare, but on the other hand, it does give me a chance to make a direct appeal to Ellen de Courcey. Ellen wants Harriet dispatched right away, and I know that’s a physical impossibility. But what’s to stop me pleading with her for more time? To let the dust settle a bit, and maybe even – shock, horror – allow whatever is going on between Freddie and Harriet to just run its course?

  And now Callaghan will be there too, as will Jess, so this is a golden opportunity for me to at least get this one in the bag.

  The only risk I run, given how weird she’s been with me ever since the other night, is Harriet having a go at me in public. It’s risky, very risky. But in my line of work, this is a risk I’ll just have to take.

  ‘Meg?’ Katherine’s voice comes down the phone again. ‘You still there?’

  ‘No need to text me the address,’ I tell her crisply. ‘Give me one hour and I’ll see you there.’

  I’ll have to head home beforehand, of course, to change – and whatever I do end up wearing will have to be very carefully selected.

  Givenchy, I think. A short, black, lacy, sexy killer of a dress.

  Because I have a strong feeling that one way or another, this is going to be a killer of a night.

  Chapter Forty

  Harriet

  7.45 p.m.

  Moments later, Freddie de Courcey is guiding both Harriet and her mum, Carole, through the family ballroom, which is almost like a scene from a movie. Everywhere you look, catering staff are expertly gliding in and out through the mass of guests, filling up champagne glasses, tempting them with tiny, elegant-looking canapés, making sure that everyone’s every need has been catered for, to perfection.

  ‘Freddie!’ Carole says, gaping in awe up at the double-height ceiling, with its elaborate coving and no fewer than four enormous crystal chandeliers, which cast everyone below in the most flattering light imaginable. ‘This really is something extraordinary – the house has to be early eighteenth century, doesn’t it? Not often you see Palladian mansions like this still in the hands of one single family. And kept in such exquisite condition too.’

  ‘Mam is a total sucker for old houses,’ Harriet explains to Freddie. ‘She’s forever going off on tours of stately homes and dragging us all along with her.’

  And your family actually live in one, she could add, but doesn’t.

  ‘And have you seen this art collection?’ Carole says, looking knowledgeably around her. ‘Look, Harriet, two William Blakes – and don’t tell me that’s an actual Turner over there by the fireplace?’

  ‘Golly,’ says Freddie, looking at her, impressed. ‘You really do know your stuff, don’t you? You should be giving tour parties, not me – I’m afraid I’m hopeless. Granny says I wouldn’t know a Doric column from a jar of Bovril.’

  Freddie keeps up the friendly chat and Harriet is wondering where they are headed, although she knows it has to be to meet the famous Ellen de Courcey, that universal hater of anyone who dares to look twice at her precious Freddie.

  Carole shoots her a supportive little half-wink as they move towards the perimeter of the room, which is some achievement, given how packed to the rafters the whole place is.

  Just then, Harriet becomes aware of a knot of guests, all clustered around one VIP guest in particular, who appears to be in a wheelchair. This elderly lady has to be ninety if she’s a day, with bullet-grey hair set in a heavily lacquered ‘do’ exactly the way the Queen wears hers. She is dressed from head to toe in black, and it is as if other guests are lined up to touch the hem of a religious visionary, such is the deferential mood of respect from everyone who’s gathered around to greet her.

  Carole shoots a significant look at Harriet, a look that says so much without saying anything at all.

  So this is her, then, Harriet thinks. The high and mighty Ellen de Courcey, sitting like a queen bee surrounded by drones, and even managing to make a wheelchair seem more like an empress’s throne.

  Funny, Harriet thinks, looking at her from a distance, but in the flesh, Ellen doesn’t really seem like anyone you should be afraid of at all. In fact, barring her expensive clothes and jewellery, there isn’t all that much between Ellen de Courcey and poor, homeless Doris that used to pop in and out of Dead Old Lady Dresses for a cup of tea and a Jaffa Cake and a chat and to get in out of the cold.

  She braces herself, full sure that Freddie is about to bring her over to make the introductions. Instead though, and to her great surprise, Freddie walks right past his grandmother, gently guiding both Harriet and Carole through the throng and into a library, stocked floor to ceiling with books, as far up as the eye can see.

  Mother and daughter exchange a puzzled look. Aren’t we meeting the Granny, Harriet tries to telegraph over to her. But no, it seems not.

  ‘Just in here,’ Freddie says, politely holding the door open for them. ‘Got a bit of a surprise for you.’

  ‘Wow!’ gasps Carole, her eye drawn upwards, where the shelves almost seem to reach for the sky. ‘This is even more impressive than the Long library at Trinity College, if you ask me. Wouldn’t I kill to spend a few days just holed up in here, reading, reading, reading? Sheer bliss, if you ask me.’

  ‘Then by all means, you must,’ says a frail voice from directly behind them. ‘All these old books are just crying out to be read, you know. And I’m afraid there’s no use asking young Freddie there, he only ever came in here as a boy to play hide-and-seek.’

  Harriet and Carole swing around to see an elderly gentleman sitting in a leather wing-back chair, over by the fireplace. He is rake thin and with skin so white, it is almost translucent, as if he hasn’t seen a glimmer of sunshine in decades. He is wearing a plaid dressing gown in a Black Watch tartan and has a walking stick clasped in his hands, with a solid silver head on it. The only clue as to who this could be is his hair, which, barring a few extra grey streaks, is exactly the same shade of coppery red as Freddie’s.

  ‘Harriet? Carole?’ says Freddie, ushering them over to the fireplace. ‘I’d very much like you both to meet my grandfather, Frederick Senior. Who’s got out of bed especially just to come down and say hello to you. Didn’t you, Grandad?’

  They all shake hands warmly as Frederick Senior apologises for not getting up.

  ‘You ladies will forgive an old man like me,’ he says, speaking very slowly and enunciating every single word carefully. ‘I’m afraid the old mobility isn’t what it was, you see. But young Freddie he
re,’ he looks fondly up at his grandson, who stands proudly beside him, ‘absolutely insisted I come downstairs here to greet you. My first time leaving my room in a very long time. How long has it been now, Freddie?’

  ‘Oh golly,’ says Freddie, ‘not since Christmas, I think.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘That’s Christmas about fifteen years ago, Grandad.’

  ‘In that case, it’s an honour to meet you,’ Harriet says, instantly sitting down on the floor beside him, all the better to chat to him properly. ‘We really do appreciate it – don’t we, Mam?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Carole answers simply. ‘And thank you, for all your wonderful hospitality. It’s some party!’

  ‘I understand your father and brothers are here too?’ Frederick Senior says to Harriet. ‘I’ll send my valet to find them right away. You can get out the whiskey for Harriet’s family,’ he calls out to a butler, who seems to manifest from out of thin air. ‘The good stuff.’ Then, turning his full attention back to Harriet, he smiles. ‘You’ve been out in Kenya, my dear,’ he says, in that slow, distinct voice. ‘So my grandson tells me. I was there once, you know, back in my youth. Flew over it in a single-engine Cessna aircraft – managed the entire journey in less than two days. Quite a record for those times.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Harriet smiles up at him. ‘What a life you must have lived.’

  ‘Oh, if you’d seen the aircraft I flew back then, my dear! Barely had two feet of legroom to myself. So many would say not all that different to Connair’s fleet nowadays, really.’

  Harriet laughs and looks up to Freddie, who gives her a supportive little wink.

  ‘I like her,’ Frederick Senior says, turning back to his grandson. ‘She’s got kind eyes. Never underestimate the expression in someone’s eyes. They’re the window to the soul, I’ve so often found.’

  Just then, from directly behind them, there is the sound of the library’s giant double doors being flung open. Harriet automatically turns around, fully expecting to see the twins rolling in, with her dad in tow.

  But it isn’t though. Instead, manoeuvring her wheelchair as if she were gliding on ice, there is Ellen de Courcey, framed in the doorway, taking in the scene with an inscrutable look on her face. It isn’t annoyance, it isn’t coldness, it is something else entirely.

  ‘What, may I ask,’ she says, in a paper-thin voice, ‘is going on in here?’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Meg

  9.15 p.m.

  By the time I arrive at the de Courcey mansion, the party is in full, glorious swing. Everywhere the eye can see, elegantly dressed people sip champagne from crystal flutes, while a whole army of catering staff waltz through the melee loaded down with silver trays of finger food, which looks divine, smells of absolutely nothing and could be made of well-crafted plastic, for all I know.

  I slip in the main hall door, with my eyes peeled for anyone I know, and more importantly, anyone I want to avoid. With Harriet topping that particular list, thanks very much.

  To my amazement, the butler, who has to be one hundred and seven if he’s a day, greets me by name. Even though it’s been well over a year since I last set foot in here, even though I’m only a last-minute addition to the guest list.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Monroe,’ he says politely into my ear, with a tiny, respectful bow. ‘Welcome back. I will inform Mrs de Courcey of your presence here.’

  So the lady of the house can tear strips off you in public, I mentally finish the sentence for him. But just then, there’s an excited tap at my elbow and as I pivot around, there’s Jess, looking flushed and pretty in a strapless black cocktail dress, with the long red hair tumbling freely around her shoulders. Dare I say it, the woman actually looks happy to see me.

  ‘Thought you’d never get here,’ she says, hugging, actually hugging me, shock horror.

  ‘Any sign of Katherine?’ I ask. ‘Or Billy?’

  She links arms with me and excitedly chats, as we weave our way through the crowd inside. ‘Katherine is just about to make her big speech,’ says Jess. ‘She’s right up there – look.’

  I follow her gaze and, sure enough, there’s Katherine with Billy by her side, at the very top of an enormous ballroom, where a lectern and microphone stand have been set up, so all the candidates can address the gathering loud and clear. I glance around, taking everything in, as I always do. Sure enough, there’s Philip Sisk, oiling his way around the perimeter of the floor, schmoozing with an immaculately blow-dried group of older ladies, who are wearing the most eye-watering collection of jewellery I’ve ever set eyes on, and who are all cackling merrily at whatever joke he’s just cracked.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, having to speak up over the noise and the racket. ‘The de Courcey fundraisers certainly give good value for money, don’t they?’

  ‘But Meg, look!’ Jess insists, pulling my attention to the wall at the very back of the room, just behind a grand piano, where a tuxedoed pianist is playing what sounds like a Mozart sonata, even though everyone is ignoring him. And there, deep in chat with his brother and election agent, is Toby Callaghan, Katherine’s main rival for the senate seat and the very man Jess is hoping to get an ‘in’ with.

  You already know him, don’t you?’ she whispers, steering me nearer him. I don’t, as it happens, but I’ve never let a minor thing like that stand in my way. ‘So come on, then!’ says Jess, pulling on my arm. ‘Introduce me – quick, while Katherine is distracted and while I can sell myself to him.’

  So I do.

  ‘Forgive me for interrupting you, Mr Callaghan,’ I say politely, ‘but this is a woman you simply must meet. Please let me introduce Jess Butler, who, as you are probably aware, is the driving force behind Senator Sisk’s stunning media campaign.’

  ‘Have we met before?’ Alphonsus, the brother, says to me, all dandruff and smoked salmon breath, as he takes my hand and shakes it a tad too enthusiastically. ‘Meg, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ooh . . . never mind me,’ I say, deflecting attention and taking my paw right back again, wishing I’d brought hand sanitiser. Eughhh. ‘You see Jess here? She’s who you want at your side in Brussels – believe you me, anyone would be lucky to nab her!’

  ‘Yes, your name has indeed come to my attention,’ Toby Callaghan says to Jess, sweating profusely as he hones in on her.

  Jess takes up the baton beautifully and launches into a great speech about how much she’s always wanted the chance to work in Europe.

  ‘Come with me to the bar,’ says Toby Callaghan, gulping back the last of what looks like a G&T, ‘and we’ll talk some more.’

  I nod encouragingly at her, as if to say, Go on, off you go. Really nail this contact. Brussels, here you come. And off they disappear, talking nineteen to the dozen.

  Katherine is sitting at the podium as the warm-up speeches start, when next thing, out of the corner of my eye, I’m distracted by Billy. He’s striding across the ballroom to where I’m standing, looking . . . well, tense and stressed, as it happens. Because Jess and I were deep in chat with the opposition, no doubt. Not a problem, I’ll charm our way out of it.

  ‘Billy, good evening,’ I smile brightly at him. ‘Loving the suit – Armani, is it? Someone’s being paid well, that’s for sure!’

  ‘Meg,’ he nods curtly at me, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining it or not, but is there a slight frostiness there that was never there before? Weird. I make another stab at small talk.

  ‘Enjoying the evening?’ I ask, with a big, fake smile.

  ‘If it’s OK with you,’ he replies almost rudely, whipping out his phone and barely looking at me, ‘I’d really like to check my emails.’

  Our MC for the night is just introducing Katherine, saying the most glowing things imaginable about her, and so I focus on the podium, giving it my full attention. I’m not quite certain why Billy is being like this, but that’s his problem and not mine. Possibly because he asked me out for a drink and I turned him down flat? Who know
s? Who cares?

  Just then, from directly behind me, there’s a rough tap on my shoulder.

  I turn around sharply and there’s a younger guy staring at me, dressed in an ill-fitting jacket with a T-shirt on underneath it. There’s something familiar about him too, but for the moment, it deserts me.

  ‘You again,’ he says to me. ‘I could say “fancy meeting you here”, but then you did mention that you were campaigning for Senator Sisk earlier, so I guess it stands to reason that you’d be here.’

  The penny finally drops. The gelled hair, carefully shaped into a beach wave, the T-shirt that says, ‘Climate Action Now!’ The same guy who opened the door to me when I called to see Jonny Featherstone-Jones this afternoon.

  ‘You two know each other?’ Billy asks, turning around to join in the conversation.

  ‘Actually,’ says Gel-Head, ‘we only met for the first time this afternoon. When you called to our house, to canvass for Katherine Sisk? My name’s Carl, by the way. Carl James.’

  ‘You were doing door to doors this afternoon?’ Billy says, turning to me, looking confused. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Emm . . . well . . .’ I try to say, but Gel-Head overrides me.

  ‘Actually,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘speaking as a political activist myself, I thought it was a bit weird too. For one thing, once you got inside our house, you never even mentioned the election at all. No fliers, no pamphlets, no election manifesto speech – nothing.’

  ‘So what were you doing there in the first place?’ presses Billy, as I’m stuck in between the two of them, rooted to the floor and desperately trying to come up with a good, stout lie.

  ‘It made no sense to me at all,’ Gel-Head continues, really starting to probe now. ‘In fact, you even claimed you were a playwright and that you had a project in mind for one of my housemates.’