A Compromising Position

by Carole Matthews

  She didn’t tell him she knew that two had been stationed outside his office all day. ‘Look – Emily is bearing the brunt of this.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ Declan said. ‘I was so relieved when you called. I knew you’d understand what I’m going through.’

  ‘I’m doing it for Emily,’ Cara told him firmly. ‘She’s in a right royal mess due to you. And I’ve come to you, Declan, because I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘I want you to help me,’ Declan said. ‘How can I put it right, if she won’t even talk to me.’ He closed his eyes like a man in pain. ‘I need to see her, Cara. Sweet Jesus, I need to see her. I need her back.’

  ‘I think the best chance you have of getting her back is to try to sort out this tawdry business.’

  ‘I am,’ he insisted. ‘I am. So help me.’

  ‘You know that she’s lost her job?’ Cara said, savouring the sharp taste of the cold white wine.

  He nodded. ‘After you told me, I rushed out and bought all the papers to read about it,’ he said without irony.

  ‘She hasn’t got any money.’

  ‘I’m a bit strapped myself,’ Declan admitted.

  He looked it, Cara thought. The very picture of poverty, sitting here with his smouldering movie-star looks, kitted out from top-to-toe in designer labels. She could see why Emily was so mad with him. She could also see why Emily was so mad about him. Or had been so mad about him.

  ‘I think you’re very lucky she hasn’t taken a contract out on you.’ Cara smiled in spite of herself. It was very difficult to stay cross with Declan. He must have had charm delivered by the lorryload at regular intervals.

  ‘I feel like I’m going insane.’

  ‘You must have been insane to do what you did.’ Cara looked at him in exasperation. ‘Whatever possessed you?’

  ‘Desperation,’ he said candidly. ‘I was in debt and drowning.’

  ‘And you thought you’d drag Emily down with you?’

  ‘I didn’t mean for it to get out of control like this.’ Declan wrung his hands. ‘I took that damned photo off the Internet the minute Emily told me to.’

  Cara gave him a sideways glance.

  ‘I swear to you, Cara. It was no more than a couple of days.’ Declan cleared his throat. ‘A week at the most. And that was due to technical difficulties.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cara said. ‘The technical difficulty of you remembering you had a conscience.’

  ‘You are looking at a man who has lost everything dear to him.’ Declan spread his hands wide.

  Cara tutted.

  ‘Talk to her. Get her to see me.’

  ‘She needs money, Declan. She needs concrete evidence that you’re going to make this good, not some of that old Irish flannel.’

  ‘I have started a new business, Cara. And it’s doing really well. I’m sure this will save us.’

  ‘What sort of business?’

  Declan hesitated. ‘An art site.’

  ‘Art?’

  ‘Well, sort of arty.’

  ‘Women taking their clothes off in arty ways?’

  ‘Er . . . yes.’

  ‘Declan!’ Cara was outraged. ‘Have you learned nothing?’

  ‘I’ve learned that there’s a lot of money to be made from men who want to look at buck-naked women.’

  ‘You are insufferable!’

  Declan smiled and Cara started to laugh.

  ‘Stay and have dinner with me,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’ve had enough of eating alone.’

  Cara looked round. The place was full of couples, huddling tightly together, laughing, joking, loving. Suddenly, she didn’t want to go back to Emily and her whining or fidget round her big double bed on her own.

  ‘Do they do vegetarian food?’

  ‘Not here.’ Declan picked up her coat. ‘But I know a little place that does.’

  ‘I should get back.’

  ‘Perhaps Emily could do with some space,’ he said.

  Cara wavered.

  ‘I’m thinking of becoming a vegetarian.’

  ‘You liar, Declan O’Donnell!’ she said. ‘And if I didn’t know you better, I’d think that was the most awful chat-up line I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘I love vegetables,’ he insisted. ‘Mange-tout are a particular favourite.’

  ‘Mange-tout, indeed,’ Cara huffed. ‘I’m going to order you a great big plate of them.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ Declan grinned and held out her coat.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  ‘Oh golly gosh!’ Cara plods into the kitchen, huddled in the floaty kaftan thing she uses as her dressing gown, and stares at me with her mouth ajar. As well she might. Last night I went upstairs a natural blonde and, this morning, came down a bottle brunette – which I realise is flying in the face of the normal run of things.

  ‘Do you like it?’ I say, giving a twirl.

  ‘It’s different.’ She steadies herself on the table and sits down.

  I can’t even believe that Cara had a bottle of dark-brown hair dye in her cupboard. She’s never been brunette in her life. Pink, purple and once a very alarming shade of orange, but never anything as drab or ordinary as brunette. I am now officially a deep shade of Chestnut Burst. I think I have a look of Winona Ryder. As a further element to my disguise, I have left my contact lenses soaking in their solution and have opted for my reading glasses.

  ‘You look like a librarian,’ Cara says gingerly.

  ‘And you look like someone very fragile,’ I point out. ‘I heard you come crashing and banging in at some ungodly hour.’

  Cara hangs her head. The psychedelic theme of decoration carries on through to her kitchen. Every ceramic tile is a different colour and she’s painted the chairs and tables in strident shades of purple, turquoise, hot pink and crimson. And she looks like she might be regretting it.

  ‘Did your quick drink with a friend turn into a session?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cara croaks. ‘I’m going to give up alcohol. I think I’m allergic to it.’

  ‘You only get allergic to it after the third bottle, and that’s commonly known as a hangover.’

  ‘You’re a very bad influence on me, Emily Miller.’ Cara starts to shake her head and then realises it’s a bad idea. ‘I never used to drink until you moved in here.’

  ‘Oh yes, you did,’ I protest.

  ‘My body used to be a temple,’ she says. ‘Now it feels like a disused brewery.’

  ‘Here, drink this,’ I say and hand her a cup of tea so strong that you could stand your spoon up in it. And to think that they say tea is no longer a popular drink in Britain. Are they mad? It’s the cure for all ills and is particularly efficacious in the area of excess alcohol.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says and drinks it without complaining. ‘It’s a good job I’m on the late shift today.’ And it is, because it’s nearly lunchtime already.

  My body has soon grown accustomed to its lack of gainful employment and, I have to say, I’m not really missing work at all. I expect I’ll feel differently when pay day rolls round and I don’t get one. I’ve considered taking Declan to court over all this. I probably could sue him, but what would it achieve? Dragging myself through more pain and humiliation and for what? He is as penniless as I am. I take a leisurely sip at my tea and say: ‘Do you think I should sue Declan?’

  ‘That’s a bit hasty,’ Cara says, looking very alarmed.

  ‘Why?’ I say. ‘He’s a bastard and he deserves it.’

  ‘He might be trying to sort this out.’ Cara has her reasonable head on. ‘Why don’t you phone him and see what he says?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think about it, Emily,’ my friend advises. ‘Declan may be suffering as much as you are.’

  ‘And how do you work that out?’ I think the alcohol is fuddling Cara’s brain.

  ‘He has lost the woman he loves,’ she points out in a slightly Mills and Boon voice.

  ‘No,’ I reply tightly. ‘When you lose something, or someone, you
do it by mistake. Declan purposely set out on a course of action that he knew would destroy our relationship.’

  ‘You’re being very hard on him, Emily.’

  ‘I’d like to see you be so forgiving if he’d done the same thing to you,’ I say.

  ‘Ah, but that’s where we differ, Emily,’ Cara says, smiling at me over her Tetley’s. ‘I wouldn’t have been seen dead in a Saucy Santa outfit in the first place.’

  And I can think of nothing to say but ‘Grrrr . . .’

  Cara is giving me a lift to Hampstead Tube station on her way to work. It would be a lot quicker for me to walk rather than endure the traffic, but I’m terrified that I might get set upon by a pack of rabid news hounds.

  We are hovering by the front door and I am curtain-twitching to see how many journalists and photographers are still loitering in Cara’s bushes. There are a fair few, although they have a much more lethargic air about them and are sitting around on the pavement smoking copious ciggies rather than standing huddled together in a tense, tightly coiled bunch clutching notepads or cameras.

  ‘Ready?’ Cara asks.

  ‘Ready,’ I say.

  ‘Where exactly are you going?’ Cara queries, hand poised on the door knob.

  ‘I’m going to see an adviser,’ I say vaguely. ‘To discuss my future.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’

  It might sound like one, but I think she would be less enthusiastic if she knew I’d made an appointment to see publicity guru, Jonathan Gold. I’m not sure I should be doing this myself. Jonathan Gold has a bit of a reputation himself and it’s not always a good one.

  Mr Gold is known for representing women who have affairs with footballers, pop stars and MPs and then decide to kiss-and-tell – for a suitable sum of money. He also deals with disgraced prime-time television entertainers, shoplifting chat-show hosts and the mistresses of people in power who should really know better than get caught with their pants down. Still, what harm can it do? All I’m going to do is find out what he advises for someone in my situation – degraded, destitute and desperate.

  It starts to drizzle and the members of the waiting press pull their collars up round their ears; when the rain gets a little heavier they drift off towards their battered Mondeos and Vauxhall Vectras.

  ‘This is a good time to go,’ Cara says. ‘They might not give chase.’

  I pull on a beanie hat and study myself in the mirror. It isn’t only Chris Evans who looks awful in a beanie hat. I don’t look like myself at all and, in a strange way, I don’t feel like myself. There is still an element of me that refuses to believe all this is happening.

  I look at Cara and steel myself. ‘OK,’ I say and we dash out into the rain.

  We rush down Cara’s path, my friend shielding me and we nearly get to the gate when they spot us and start to run back towards the cottage.

  ‘Come on!’ Cara shouts and we belt off down the road in the direction of her 2CV which is about a million miles away, as she can’t get any nearer to the house because of all the journalists’ cars parked in the way. Despite the fact that they all smoke like troopers, they still seem to be able to run with all the speed and agility of youthful greyhounds and are snapping at our heels as we reach Cara’s car.

  ‘Get in!’ she screeches and we yank the doors open and fall inside, locking them behind us.

  The journalists bang on the roof and on the windows and cameras flash at me as I try to hide my face. We are both breathing heavily, puffing out air like beleaguered steam trains and, as some sort of compensation, the glass starts to mist up, thwarting the photographers.

  Cara starts the engine and we lurch away. As we turn into the traffic, I risk lowering my hands. Half a dozen puffing journalists are pounding down the road after us, but even in Cara’s 2CV we are leaving them behind.

  ‘That was fun,’ I say.

  Cara is white and visibly shaken. ‘Will this never end?’ she spits.

  ‘Still feel that Declan is a caring and deeply misunderstood individual?’ I ask.

  She doesn’t reply, but stares ahead at the cars in front, willing them not to slow down and to keep moving. The journalists are still giving chase and the shouts of ‘Emily! Emily! Emily!’ follow us all the way down the road.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I take the beanie hat off outside the offices of Jonathan Gold with a trembling hand. The great publicity guru’s offices are slap bang in the middle of Oxford Street, although I doubt Mr Gold himself shops here. He looks like a Jermyn Street hand-tailored shirt man from the little I’ve seen of him on the television. It’s stopped raining and I rake my hands through my hair in an effort to coax it back into some sort of style as I push through the heavy revolving doors that take me into a cavernous marble reception area. Two bored-looking security guards man the only desk.

  ‘I’m looking for Jonathan Gold’s office,’ I say, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel.

  One of the guards eyes me suspiciously, clearly trying to decide if I’m the type to have a one-night stand with a famous footballer. ‘Fifth floor,’ he says flatly and I scuttle off to the lift, shooting inside just as the door is closing.

  I’m alone in the lift and grow steadily more anxious as it whisks me silently up to the fifth floor. Normally, I hate the tinny, twinkly music they play in lifts, but hey, you certainly miss it when it’s not there. I can hear the blood rushing through my ears. What I wouldn’t give now for a bit of Gary Barlow.

  To pass the time, I study the list of other companies who reside here. There’s a successful independent film company that even I’ve heard of, a prestigious publisher’s, a firm of management agents and a well-known modelling agency, as well as Mr Gold. The lift stops and pings as the door opens and I step nervously out into carpet three inches deep. I walk along the corridor, conscious that I’m leaving little wet puddles of accumulated raindrops on their Axminster whenever I move.

  A beautiful black and impossibly slender receptionist smiles coolly at me. She really looks as if she’d be more at home one floor down in the modelling agency. Naomi Campbell would be in deep, deep trouble if they signed this girl up. ‘Can I help you?’ she says.

  ‘Yes,’ I want to reply. ‘You are making me feel like a fat, ugly elephant and I wish you’d stop it.’ But I don’t, I mumble that I’m here to see Jonathan Gold and she too looks at me to see if she can assess the nature of my misdemeanour.

  The reception area is plush. I never really knew what that word meant before, but this is it. Plush. A mixture of posh and lush. Jonathan Gold’s reception area is about as plush as it comes. Cream lamps with gold bases adorn copper side tables, giving the room a soft glow. Chestnut-brown leather chairs that shine like polished conkers invite you to linger too long in their arms. I sink into one of them and wonder who else’s bottom has warmed it before me. Which scandal makers? Which fillers of the tabloids?

  ‘Emily?’ A handsome man in his early forties strides across the frothy cappuccino carpet and his highly polished brogues are the same colour as his armchairs. Jonathan Gold is much more beguiling than his television persona portrays. He takes my hand. ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ he says.

  And I wonder if he’s making the obvious joke, until I realise that he has only seen me as a blonde. As well as without my clothes.

  ‘Disguise,’ I say, probably unnecessarily. He is the type of man who is used to clients who need to dodge the press. ‘I’ve two dozen journalists on my doorstep.’

  ‘Good,’ he says and I realise that we are, indeed, seeing this from entirely different perspectives. ‘Come on. Come on,’ he waves me ahead of him. ‘Come through.’

  I enter his inner sanctum and this is double plush. Walls lined with leather-bound books, a yew desk, more leather and probably one of the best views in London. But I’m not invited to look out of the window, instead I’m motioned to a chair near the imposing desk and we take up our places on the respective sides of it. I wish I’
d dressed more smartly. I just threw on some jeans and borrowed one of Cara’s jackets in the vain hope of fooling some of Fleet Street’s best. Oh, naïve and unaccustomed celebrity, thou art a bit of a twit! I look more like Billie Piper than I think is good for someone who wants to present themselves as a respectable pillar of the community. But at least I don’t look like Chris Evans any more.

  Jonathan Gold is the epitome of dandyism. I was right about the hand-tailored shirts and I think his suits are the same. On his wrist is a watch worth enough to settle all my debts and have enough left for a fish and chip supper and a bottle of cheap Chardonnay. My mother always used to say that you could tell rich men by the type of watch and the shoes that they wear. I think Jonathan Gold would fit her criteria.

  There are pictures of celebrities, mainly in compromising positions, all over his walls. Headlines scream of salacious scandal and threatened careers. And I wonder if he keeps them here to remind them of how valuable he is to them.

  ‘Now, Emily,’ Jonathan says, making a steeple of his hands. He stares seriously at me over the top of them. ‘You’ve been having it a bit tough lately.’

  And I’m amazed that tears spring straight to my eyes. I nod wordlessly.

  ‘I can help you,’ he says, passing me a tissue.

  I think I like the sound of this.

  ‘It depends how far you’re prepared to go.’

  I like the sound of this less.

  ‘Let’s get the nasty end of it out of the way,’ Jonathan continues. ‘Normally,’ he says, ‘I charge a retainer of around ten thousand pounds a month.’

  It’s a good job he hasn’t offered me a cup of tea, otherwise I probably would have spat it all over his shag pile.

  ‘Or I can work on a commission basis – which I do for interesting cases.’

  I’m glad he seems to view me as an ‘interesting’ case. In fact, I feel ridiculously grateful that he’s interested in me at all. Is that pathetic? Don’t tell me. I don’t think I want to go there. Suddenly I feel as if I have totally lost my judgement on this subject. I’m acting as if I’m at a job interview rather than a desperate woman who’s trying to do something to rescue her rear end from global ridicule.