by J B Holman
‘I’ll see you on Friday evening, OK?’ said Foxx, as she left. ‘At 7.00, in the lobby of the hotel. D’you think we can spend some time together?’
She looked at him, shrugged her shoulders and replied,
‘Meh!’
Foxx headed back upstairs. On Storrington’s instructions, he entered an interview room on the third floor. The occupant looked at him with no recognition.
‘These are yours, I believe,’ said Foxx, laying a set of Astra keys on the table.
Realisation dawned.
‘You cock-nosed, dress-wearing, pansy-boy terrorist! I am gonna punch your face so hard, you’ll need an enema to clean your teeth,’ shouted Sam Stone.
‘Before you do,’ said Foxx calmly, ‘d’you want a job? This is an interview room and I’m interviewing you for the position of Senior Field Agent in our Operations Department. You have talents and we could use them to protect the nation, destroy real terrorists and do some good. It’s top class, top secret stuff. It pays ten times what you earned last year and is right up your street - you can punch people and get paid for it.’
A flow of profanity involving donkey’s mating habits, nun’s anatomy and unlawfully intimate acts ensued. But Foxx remained un-punched.
‘So, is that a yes?’
Stone nodded, all charges were dropped and the deal was done.
Hoy lay in bed with his wife.
‘We got him, case closed! That means I get my three months’ maternity leave. And Storrington asked me if I wanted to make the job permanent.’
‘That’s wonderful. I’m very proud of you my little Clouseau. But I think you mean paternity leave. No . . . thinking about it, maybe you’re right!’
Hoy’s thoughts were still at work. ‘I visited the third man, today. He’s out of Intensive Care. He was the only one from Raper’s Hide to survive. He was poisoned, poor guy, but he’ll live. It wasn’t Stone or Foxx, it was Blackheart. He came out of the alley, jabbed him with a syringe and he passed out. It was Foxx he was after.’ Hoy rolled over and kissed his wife. His hearing caught up with his brain. ‘What d’you mean, maternity not paternity?’
‘I think you’ll take very well to motherhood.’
‘Yeah. Me too.’
She stood to attention in her boss’s office.
‘Captain de la Casa. I‘m not disbanding the team. Not yet. Give them two weeks’ leave. And take it yourself.’ He gave a dismissive wave of his hand and continued with his paperwork. He looked up again, she was still standing there.
‘That’s all. Dismissed.’
‘Permission to speak freely, sir.’ Storrington put down the papers and reluctantly looked up.
‘Granted.’
‘Sir, my name is Captain de la Casa, not Maria, when I’m at work.’
‘Noted,’ he said, in his most disinterested voice. ‘Is that it?’
‘No sir, not quite sir, there’s one more thing.’ She took a deep breath as her stance become more commanding. ‘When we were in Cheltenham, you invited me to tea. I would like to decline the offer.’
‘As you please.’
‘I don’t want any different treatment.’
‘You won’t get any.’
‘Really?’ she said, as her posture reflected the hardening of words. ‘I had a very hard time becoming a Captain, harder than any of the boys, like the Army was against me, and then when I am a Captain, I get all the toughest assignments.’
‘Are you complaining?’
‘No, sir. I like the tough ones, but I want to know if you were behind it – pushing me, testing me?’
‘No. The Army did that.’
‘But you chose me for this gig – that was favouritism, right?’
‘Wrong again. You’re fearless and I needed someone I could rely on, I didn’t know who else I could trust. My choice was dictated by the needs of the mission.’ The tension in her stance visibly reduced. She paused, stood at ease and smiled.
‘Good. I only want what I earn.’ She paused. ‘My papers came through,’ her voice lighter now. ‘I’m going to be a Major – did you know that?’ Surprise crept across his face, followed by an evident delight.
‘No, I didn’t. Congratulations.’
‘So instead of tea, would you like to celebrate with me - dinner at my house, in the Peak District, next Thursday. And also breakfast the following Tuesday. It’s a long way from London, so it would be more convenient for you to stay over between Thursday and Tuesday. In my house. With me. For the weekend.’
‘In your house?’
‘Yes, sir. And I would need you to . . . do your duty.’
‘My duty?’
‘What with being away behind enemy lines, well my needs on the home front have not been met - and even when I was home, I had to rely on my own fumbling fingers - what you might call ‘do-it-yourself’ and that never has quite the right result.’
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?
Yes, I am. I need you to get down and dirty, and take a few days off from being Commander Storrington and be my little helper.’
‘Really? And why would I do that?’
‘Because you love me. Don’t you?’ He looked surprised and answered almost indignantly.
‘Of course I love you. I’ve always loved you.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘And what was the last thing my father said to you?’
‘If I don’t come back look after my baby girl’
‘Exactly!’ she said as she sat side-saddle on the corner of his desk. ‘The first twenty years you did well, best second dad ever, but I’ve hardly seen you for the last five. You’ve been very neglectful.’ She was almost chastising him. ‘Have you seen my house? Have you seen the state it’s in?’
‘Yes I have! And that’s my worry!’
‘It’s upside down! Half-built, half-decorated, half-habitable. I’m no good at that kind of thing, but you’re the most practical man I’ve ever met. Come on Pops! Spend next weekend with me - long walks. I’ve got whisky. You can cook. We can do the house together. What d’you say?’
‘Can I call you Maria?’ he said with mocking sarcasm.
‘Of course!’
‘Then pick me up at five.’
‘Permission to hug, sir.’
‘Denied. Get out!’
Foxx had a busy week offending the French. He was a natural and set back the Entente Cordiale many decades.
Julie liaised with the Prime Minister and his wife and saw them safely on the plane. She would visit them in Tonga. She colluded with Hoy and sifted through evidence, helping him make the case and close it. As Storrington’s trusted advisor, she spent time with him going through ‘the list’ and deciding on the best course of action to dissolve the caucus of conspirators that surrounded the coup.
She spent Tuesday in her flat in Cheltenham, collecting clothes, assessing the damage, planning redecoration and collecting some valuables. The flat was only lightly damaged, but she wasn’t sure she could return.
Life had changed so much in a week, to move back into the flat would be to move backwards in her life. That chapter was closed. She loved Duncan, she always would, but she had a life and she had to move forwards. She sat and talked to him. He stood in his picture, smiling.
‘I love you Dunk, but I want to move on. I’ll keep you in my heart, always, but I want your blessing. Is that OK? Speak now, or forever hold your peace.’
Duncan said nothing. He just smiled through the glass.
She smiled back and confided in him.
‘I didn’t think I would ever want to be in a relationship again, but I do. I really do. I miss it. It’s a risk, but I’m going to do it. I’ve been alone for long enough. I need to turn this erotic, erratic friendship into . . . into something more. I don’t know how Foxx will feel about it, probably just make that stupid noise, but it feels right to me, and that’s what I’ll tell him.’
She looked at Duncan’s photo. She looked at Lisa’s next to it. She leant forward
and kissed them both.
‘I love you.’ she said to them, then stared into Duncan’s eyes. ‘I loved you more than anyone and, because your life ended, I thought and felt in every sinew that mine had to end as well, but it doesn’t. You were my strength. When you left, so too did my strength. I gave it away.’
She cast her mind back to Tess and the whole mess of the D’Ubervilles.
A strong woman who recklessly throws away her strength, she is worse than a weak woman who has never had any strength to throw away.
‘I will never be as strong as you or as good as you, but I need to be the best me I can be. I know it’s weird, but I need to do it. It feels right. Bless me, Dunkie, the phoenix is reborn.’
It was Friday evening. The lobby of the Marriot Hotel bustled: people arrived for the weekend, couples arrived for dinner, friends arrived for drinks. Julie ‘the Phoenix’ Connor waited for Foxx. She was nervous. He had often made her nervous, but not like this. This was different. She had words to say; and just saying them seemed so much harder than chasing terrorists, fighting assassins or shooting gangsters. She looked at her watch. He was not here yet.
She looked hot, not flustered hot, but sexy hot. Her hair was coiffed, her face was alive and her life had returned. She was wearing those trousers and it felt good. The clock above the reception desk clicked onto seven. She kept her eyes on the front door, but sign of Foxx there was none.
At that moment, a hand laid itself gently upon her shoulder. She turned. Blackheart! she thought. But it wasn’t. It was Foxx.
She didn’t mean to, but she fell momentarily into his arms. She had missed him more than she thought. She stepped back and looked at the man who’d been her life for a week, in a week that had changed her life. She knew she needed to tell him, but within moments they were talking work, swapping stories of the past few days and sharing the lightly honed highlights of wrapping up the case. She had to tell him how she felt, but heard her mouth say,
‘The evidence is good, but . . .’
‘Shush, don’t you dare!’ he said. ‘The evidence is very nearly perfect.’
‘Yes, but how did she get the souvenirs upstairs? And if she wanted your dad dead, why did Blackheart take him off the plane? And why didn’t anyone check the date that the Risk Assessment was uploaded onto her computer? And how could she afford to pay him? And why did . . .’
‘Really shush!’ he said more emphatically. ‘The evidence is good.’
‘But it’s not perfect.’
‘And we know it never is. We won. They did it. Case closed. End of story.’ He placed his finger gently on her lips to forestall any riposte she might have had. ‘I have something much more exciting to occupy us with.’
Foxx was carrying a bag, which he unzipped slowly.
‘I was wondering, Miss Connor, if you would like to spend a playful weekend with me?’ She peered into the bag. It was full of handcuffs, latex, leather and other accoutrements of sensual domination. She smiled, eyes incredulous.
‘Are you mad?’ she said, looking at him like he was a fool. ‘None of that is going on me!’
‘I thought you liked that sort of thing. You had all kinds of equipment in your flat. The handcuffs you slipped out of?’
‘Yes. Lisa and I went to a fancy dress party. Once. It was just fancy dress. I looked hot. But no, none of that stuff is going anywhere near me, especially when you’re in the room!’
‘OK,’ he said, as he dropped the bag on a passing bell boy’s trolley, telling him, ‘Room 227’.
‘Who’s in room 227?’ asked Julie.
‘No idea. So let’s spend the weekend together, anyway.’
‘Foxx, I would love to.’ This was it, this was the chance to tell him about her love. ‘But I can’t. I’m spending the weekend with someone else, with my . . . with someone special.’
‘What? You told me you didn’t have a boyfriend or a fiancé or a husband.’
‘True, I don’t. We’re more like . . . partners.’
‘Since when? I thought you hated men!’
‘Since Wednesday. Meet Selina.’ The new PM’s new Personal and Private Secretary walked up and gave Julie a big affectionate lip kiss and stood hand in hand like lovers are supposed to.
Foxx smiled a disbelieving smile. He thought about how he and Julie had been together, it made no sense. Then slowly the many times that she’d said she didn’t want a man in her life seeped into his memory; and about how she’d been adamant that on her dream holiday in Tonga she would take a girlfriend not a boyfriend and about the two pictures on her mantel piece – one boy, one girl.
He looked at Selina. It all started to make sense. She was a fine looking woman and very relaxed being so close to Julie. He looked at Serafina Pekkala and saw the happiness on her lips and the glint in her eye. He had to admit to himself, they did make a good couple.
Disbelief turned to approval.
‘So, what are you two doing this weekend?’
‘Oh,’ said Selina, ‘we’re going to a big event, we wouldn’t miss it for anything. We’re there every year. D’you want to come?’
‘Depends on what it is.’
‘It’s the world tournament. I’ve got front row tickets.’
‘OK. What’s the sport, cricket, football, rugby, darts?’
‘No, silly! Bridge!’
Foxx stood and stared. The girls smiled at each other, like a pair of perfectly attuned teenagers. Foxx shook his head, walked away and muttered to himself,
‘Just when you think you know someone!’
The End (nearly)
Epilogue
Weeks had passed. Foxx closed the door on his redecorated, refurnished flat and skipped lightly down the wide circular staircase that led to the lobby and the road. He had shaved, buffed, polished and beautified. He was not one to preen, but had made an exception for today. He was heading out to find Charlie - a surprise visit. He told himself he had made an effort not because he was drawn to her, nor because he was going to see her at work, where the possibility of her being surrounded by an array of attractive models was significant, but because it was the right thing to do when paying respects to a widow in mourning. He stood on the pavement and spoke.
‘Google. Take me to Triple A Portfolio.’
Half an hour later, outside a modern sleek office block, he was doubting the veracity of his electronic Tonto. It was a much too prestigious part of the City. A nameplate on the marble pillars said, Triple A Portfolio, Third Floor. He took the lift, but as soon as the doors opened, he knew for sure he had it wrong. The modern sculpted reception desk had walnut in-lays saying Triple A Portfolio, the glass screen at her back that shielded her from the open-plan office had Triple A Portfolio emblazoned across it, even the carpet had the name woven into it. This was not a cosy, ‘young wives who lunch’ amateur modelling agency, this was a high powered City firm. This was the wrong Triple A.
But he was in now. He approached the receptionist and asked, ‘Is this Triple A Portfolio?’
Rather than look with sarcasm at any of the many indications that it was, she just smiled politely and said, ‘Yes, sir. How can I help you?’
‘Is this, er . . . it’s not a modelling agency, is it?’
‘No, sir, it’s not.’ Then realising it might have been an obscure compliment, she added a slightly awkward, ‘Thank you.’
‘And is there a Charlie Tenby working here?’ he asked, knowing the answer before the question was finished.
‘No, sir, I’m afraid there isn’t.’
‘Thank you. Sorry. Wrong place.’ He turned to walk back towards the lift. As he did, his eye was caught by a woman walking across the open-plan office towards reception. He thought nothing of it. There was a trace of familiar, but no connection made. He pressed the lift button.
‘Eduard.’ He didn’t register the voice behind him. ‘Eduard Foxx.’ He turned and there was Charlie’s sister.
He didn’t even know she had a sister, but the family resemblanc
e was striking. She was shorter, had darker hair clipped back in the austere style of a successful business woman, she wore glasses and had not been blessed with the apparent curves and instant allure of her younger baby sister, but she was definitely family.
‘Hello,’ he said, with a disarming smile. ‘I’m looking for Charlie, Charlie Tenby. Does she work here?’
‘Eduard. You are an idiot.’ She removed her glasses, shook down her hair and Charlie appeared in front of him. The transition left him wrong-footed. ‘Come in. I’ve been expecting you.’ He followed her as she walked across the office in sensible flats. His brain was playing catch-up.
She was a secretary! Charlie Tenby had a proper job. She must know people. Her business suit was elegant and stylish, the movement beneath muted and disguised. This was a different Charlie. She headed for an office with CEO written on it, walked in and closed the door.
‘Welcome. This is my office. Please take a seat. I’ll get my cheque book. That’s why you are here, I suppose?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, like he always did.
He sat, intrigued by his surroundings. The cards on top of her desk said Penelope Clarke, CEO. Charlotte Penelope Clarke was the posh name her mum had given her, as a leg-up in life. It had worked.
‘I thought you did modelling.’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said with that familiar soft-faced Charlie look. ‘Financial modelling. I’m very good at it.’
He stood and looked at the certificates on the wall. She had a first-class honours degree from Cambridge. That was why she’d moved to St Ives from Guildford for three years; it’s only ten miles from Cambridge, thought Foxx. And an MBA from Harvard. ‘I spent a year in Boston’, she had told Julie.
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were smart?’
‘You never asked. I always answer whatever question I’m asked as honestly and truthfully as I can. The first question the DPM asked me was which university I went to, so I told him. The first question you asked me was how many guys I’d slept with. You get what you ask for. Drink?’