by Shari Low
From my new vantage point in hell, I had full view of Gavin again, his hands also restrained, but it was his face that was the biggest shock. I expected fear, confusion and bewilderment, but all I saw were arrogance, hatred and fury, emotions that changed his whole persona from lovable large teddy bear to ‘intimidation with menace’.
‘Guv, got it here,’ came a voice from inside the body of the car. A curly-haired guy in jeans and a black padded jacket emerged and walked towards me. Behind him, Gavin turned his head away, no interest in seeing what had been found. Curly held up Exhibit A for the men with the guns, Gavin’s leather satchel, then tipped it upside down, resulting in a pile of small foil parcels forming on the bonnet. Bloody hell! Where the fuck was Mrs Naismith with that ginger slice?
A hold-all from the boot was next, opened to reveal dozens of freezer bags full of pills and about a hundred more small clear bags of what looked like high-grade oregano. I was, however, fairly sure that my guess was wrong, and we wouldn’t be seeing that stuff on a deep-pan Hawaiian any time soon.
‘Mrs Naismith!!!!!’
No use, I just couldn’t snap out of the dream. Big Scary Man with Gun pulled me by the arm, guided me around to the car that was sitting parallel to the X5, and, pushing my head down so that I wouldn’t bump it on the doorframe, shoved me into the back seat. The good news? I was out of view of the massive crowd that had now gathered on the pavement. The bad news? It gave me a perfect view of the other stuff that the men were fishing out of Gavin’s car. My whole body jumped on the tremble bandwagon as they pulled item after item out of the X5. One crow bar: metal, two foot long. One machete: metal, eighteen inches long, unsheathed. One small dagger: ten inches long, extracted from glove compartment. But the biggest prize came from under Gavin’s seat. One gun, large, no idea what kind.
I swear if they’d found Starsky and Hutch in the boot I wouldn’t have been any more shocked.
As my car pulled away, I watched them bundle Gavin into one of the other vehicles and tried to catch his eye. No use, he didn’t glance in my direction even once.
The rest of the night passed in a surreal daze, until ten long, exhausting and, quite frankly, terrifying hours later, when I once again dialled Stu’s number.
He answered with a groggy voice.
‘Stu, did you die in the night after all?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ he slurred. ‘But I did exceed the recommended dose of cough medicine, so I can’t be sure. Conked out on the couch and…shit, why aren’t you here? Are you okay? Are you outside? Was I so out of it that I didn’t answer the door? Oh crap, Leni, sorry, I’ll come right…’
‘No, it’s okay, I’m not outside,’ I said, relieved that the shock had snapped him out of his drowsiness and he seemed to have recovered full use of his faculties. ‘But I do need you to come and get me, though.’
‘Sure, where are you? At home?’
‘Er, no…’
‘So where are you?’
‘Jail.’
PROGRESS SUMMARY: IT’S IN THE STARS DATING PROJECT
CONCLUDED
LEO Harry Henshall Morbid fascination for simulated violence
SCORPIO Matt Warden Lead singer, lying arse
ARIES Daniel Jones Unlikely to forge career as an assertiveness coach
CAPRICORN Craig Cunningham Relationship therapist, incites violent urges
GEMINI Jon Belmont Definite potential-secret plans to see again
PISCES Nurse Dave Canning Avoid all future dealings with the NHS
AQUARIUS Colin Bilson-Smythe Lawyer, laughs like a food-mixer
CANCER Gregory Smith Shy, sweet man’s man-in all respects
LIBRA Ben Mathers Do you want to see me cry?
VIRGO Kurt Cobb/Cabana Rising star in need of good stylist
SAGITTARIUS Gavin West Honest, guv, I’ve never seen that bag before in my life
EMAIL
To: Trisha; Stu
From: Leni Lomond
Re: If last night’s date had a personal ad, it would read
like…
Butch, square-jawed, man-bag-wearing metrosexual, big on the London club scene, would like to meet female with law degree and a minimum of ten years’ courtroom experience in the defence of drug-dealers. Please apply/post bail to Gavin West, small square cell, c/o the Metropolitan Police before my hearing on Monday morning.
31
Star Maker
‘Noooooooo,’ Trish gasped, then popped another olive in her mouth. ‘So then what happened?’
‘Don’t talk with that in your mouth, you could choke,’ Stu nagged, miraculously recovered from his sore throat from the night before and participating in the most bizarre Sunday-morning conversation we’d ever had.
‘Stu, I know that you say these things from a place of love, but I swear to God, if you warn me about my imminent death one more time, you may never live to imagine another life-threatening illness again. Anyway, go on, Leni–you were a bad haircut away from Prisoner Cell Block H, and then what happened?’
I rearranged my cushion, desperately trying to get comfortable on Stu’s wildly expensive, ivory leather, angular sofa, an experience that was surprisingly reminiscent of the concrete bed I’d been lying on for the last few hours.
Stu lived in a beautiful Georgian two-bedroom mews in Notting Hill, about a five-minute walk from the salon and twenty minutes from my office. The lounge, kitchen and dining area were open-plan, light, and the epitome of understated class: solid oak floorboards (more hygienic, reduces dust, better for allergies and air purity), white walls (nontoxic paint), and pure wool, natural rugs (no chemicals used in the dyeing process).
‘I told them everything I knew about Gavin, showed them the application form that he had sent in to be one of the dates and a pay-slip to prove I worked for Zara. They banged me back up in a cell for another few hours…’
‘Oooh, would you listen to her? One overnight in jail and she’s already picked up the lingo.’
I ignored the heckling from Trish’s corner because I had a sneaking suspicion that she was just a little jealous that for once I’d managed to be the most exciting out of all of us.
‘…until they’d gone through all their surveillance tapes and double-checked that Gavin had never been seen with me before. Turns out the police had been tracking him for weeks because he’s one of the most prolific drug-dealers in the city. He only deals directly with a few of the longstanding clubs that are run by friends, but he has hundreds of pushers working for him and has a crime sheet like War and Peace–the detective’s analogy, not mine. Assault, drugs, theft, and even an attempted murder. Apparently that one was when he was dealing steroids.’
‘The voice! You said he had a really weird voice! Classic “roid user”,’ my medical consultant interjected.
I nodded mournfully. ‘Yep, and the spots. The cop said I should have noticed it straight away. I informed him that since the only drug I’ve ever used is Nurofen for period pain, it was hardly surprising that I wasn’t up on my “How To Spot a Drug User” info.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. As soon as I mentioned periods he went bright red and moved swiftly on to grilling me on everyone we’d met throughout the night.’
‘I went out with a body builder who used steroids once, had a willy the size of my thumb.’
‘Thank you for that highly valuable input,’ Stu dead-panned, ignoring the fact that Trish was giving him a thumbs-up sign, ‘but what I don’t get is this–why did Gavin write in to Zara? I mean, surely a drug-dealer would want to keep a low profile? Why would he even dream about setting himself up on a blind date?’
I sighed wearily and took another sip of the cappuccino that Stu had lovingly prepared using the Dolce Gusto machine that I’d bought him for his birthday.
‘That’s the most depressing bit. If there could be a more depressing bit than going on a date with a potentially murderous drug-dealer, being ambushed by a SWAT team in a crowded city-centre st
reet and being accused of being said drug-dealer’s right-hand henchwoman.’
‘It definitely wasn’t one of your better nights,’ Trish concurred.
‘Both of you need to swear on my life that you won’t repeat this next bit.’
They both crossed their hearts and made something approaching a pledge of allegiance. I decided to overlook that Trish’s fingers were crossed the whole time.
‘One of the nice policemen was talking to me while they arranged my release and he told me that their theory is that he saw it as a way of getting close to Conn. Apparently, rumour has it that Conn’s group spend thousands on cocaine every night, and Gavin has been looking to get into their circle for months, but with no success.’
‘That’s nuts!’ Stu explained. ‘I mean, what are the odds of him even getting picked?’
‘Three thousand, four hundred and thirty-two to one,’ I said, my voice wallowing perilously close to depression, ‘which means I had a three thousand, four hundred and thirty-two to one chance of getting landed with a career criminal, and yet it still happened. How crap is my luck?’
‘Fairly shite,’ Trish agreed. ‘Fuck, so Conn’s a druggie too?’
‘Not necessarily,’ I argued. ‘The policeman just said that some of his group used drugs, and that was the only theory they could come up with to explain Gavin’s behaviour. I don’t think they gave much credibility to the possibility that maybe he was just trying to find a soul mate he could settle down with and live a life of crack-supplying bliss. And Gavin did mention that he wanted to meet Conn, so that does makes sense, if anything makes sense in this fucked-up saga that’s become my life.’
I checked my watch. 9.30 a.m. ‘Is it too early to drink?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ Stu answered, nipping to the kitchen section and returning with three glasses of wine.
‘Have you thought about how you are going to broach this with Conn?’
A ringing noise cut into our conversation and I answered the question while I searched my bag for my mobile.
‘Dunno. The police were going to see him this morning so I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Hello?’
Trish and Stu sat patiently until I clicked the phone shut again.
‘Who was that?’
‘Er…the bridge. He says he’s heard what’s happened and he and Zara are devastated on my behalf. I’ve to take tomorrow morning off…’
‘That is so kind! Just think, if you’d got arrested for murder or been found bludgeoned to death in an alley, they might have given you the whole day off,’ Stu raged.
‘…and then he’s going to pick me up himself at lunchtime and give me a lift to the office.’
‘Well, I hope for your sake the police are wrong about Conn,’ Trish murmured ominously.
‘Why?’
‘Because getting busted with a major drugs player once in a week is unlucky, but twice? Now that’s just careless.’
‘Bread roll?’ the waiter asked, brandishing a trendy steel square with a pyramid of hot, perfectly symmetrical, identical balls of baked dough.
‘No thanks,’ I replied, my face the same colour as his beetroot jacket. I pushed my hair out of my face for the fortieth time in the last five minutes. I knew I should have washed it this morning, but I thought I was going into the office for a few hours and then home for an early night. Instead…
‘Taxi for Lomond,’ Conn had announced in a chipper voice when he’d called to say he’d arrived. ‘I’m sitting outside.’
‘I’ll be right down,’ I’d replied, with just a tremor of uncertainty in my voice. At least, it might have been certainty, but I was prepared to concede that it could also have been the result of the worst hangover in the history of mankind. There were whole tribes in the southern boondocks who feasted day and night on moonshine and who, collectively, couldn’t even begin to match the magnitude of my aching head and bones.
Who the hell had decided it would be a good idea to start drinking at nine thirty in the morning? By the time Grey had come to collect Trish and me, our entire blood supply had been replaced by red wine. When I’d woken up this morning the pain was so sharp that my first thought was that the ceiling had fallen on my head in the night. Then I realised that my neck hurt, my back hurt (damn Stu’s couch!), even my eyebrows hurt.
One large coffee, two large painkillers and the biggest pair of specs I could find later, I was responding to Conn’s breezy announcement. It was only while I was concentrating on not breathing on him, lest the fumes cause asphyxiation and loss of coordination leading to a five-car pile-up, that he’d revealed he was taking me to lunch. A pizza joint I might just about have managed. The local pub would have been almost bearable. A posh restaurant on the thirty-fourth floor of a five-star hotel, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows and a panoramic view of all SW postcodes, was proving more of a challenge, especially since we’d been given a table right at the window and every time I looked down the world swam beneath me.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Diet Coke guy/druggie (depending on who you listened to). I nodded and tried for a smile, which probably came off as more of a crazed grimace. Conn made me tongue-tied at the best of times, but today the combination of his presence, nerves, and a jaw that wouldn’t work had rendered me pretty much mute. He poured some wine into the glass in front of me and I responded in an appropriate manner: by trying not to hurl on the white damask table cover. Why? Why had he brought me here? What was going on? And did the very glamorous middle-aged woman at the next table have to keep running her eyes up and down my jeans and battered Uggs with quite such an expression of disdain? I wanted to scream ‘I didn’t know I was coming here, okay?!!!’ at her, but I decided that I’d had enough drama in the last couple of days without asking for more.
‘I can’t believe what you have been through,’ Conn said, his voice oozing sympathy and concern. In direct contrast to my appearance, he was looking particularly fine today in a deep grey suit that contrasted beautifully with his white shirt and pale silver tie. His jet hair was swept back, and as he spoke his brilliant white teeth danced against that perfect mouth. I congratulated myself on coming up with such a poetic description despite having killed off most of my brain cells by drowning them in red wine.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he continued.
I shook my head.
‘Look, it might help. The police told me you were pretty shaken up, and Zara and I feel terrible that this happened as a result of your job. I hope you know that we would never, ever ask you to do anything that we thought might endanger you.’
I had a sudden flashback to when Conn had spotted Gavin’s application letter and his eyes had definitely registered recognition. So how would he explain that, huh?
‘The strange thing is,’ he said nonchalantly, while buttering his multi-grain roll, ‘I was sure I recognised him when I first saw that application…’
Holy shit! Did he have the same psychic powers as his mother?
Think nice things; think nice, fully clothed things.
‘…and now I know why–I’d obviously seen him out and about in the clubs. Apparently, we frequent many of the same places.’
I nodded again, trying not to look down in case my eyes were drawn to the crowded pavements that were still swirling below me. However, eating gazpacho soup without watching where I was putting the spoon was a direct route to mortifying stains on my white T-shirt.
‘Leni, I want to reassure you that I have never, ever met that man before.’
Aw, bless, he was so sweet when he was being earnest that I almost felt sorry for him, but then I decided that since he was the drop-dead handsome millionaire in the five-thousand-pound suit who’d travelled here today courtesy of Ferrari, I’d save my sympathy for someone who needed it far more: me.
I still couldn’t get the police’s theory out of my head. Whatever Conn did in his spare time was up to him, but if it was indeed his drug use that had landed me on a concrete bed in a nine-by-
six cell, then he’d join hangovers and marines called Ben at the bottom of my popularity scale.
‘I was devastated when the police said that they thought he might be using you as a way of establishing contact with me so that he could sell me drugs…’
Shit, how did he do that? Was my mind bugged?
‘But I promise you, Leni, that was way off the mark. Drugs just aren’t my thing. I mean, do I look like the kind of guy who sticks his money up his nostrils?’
How would I know? What did I know about anything? At the moment I was having trouble distinguishing between left and right. What was my name again? Make. This. Be. Over. Please.
‘It’s the same old story…’
It is?
‘I’m the first to admit that I like to enjoy myself after hours, and yes, some of my friends are wealthy. I guess that makes us targets for anyone looking to make some cash from us. But he was wrong, Leni, and I hope you believe that.’
I nodded again, fully aware that I had morphed into one of those plastic dogs that sit on the parcel shelves of cars driven by old people.
‘I do.’
I absolutely believed him. But then, right at that exhausted, pained, desperate to be out of there moment, I would have believed him if he’d told me he’d won the lottery, run for prime minister, or dressed as a woman while in the privacy of his own home.
An impeccably clad waiter removed our first courses, mine barely touched, Conn’s asparagus-salad plate empty. I was handling this. I was. I could do it. I held my water glass up to my mouth as a decoy so he wouldn’t notice my huge intake of breath.
‘You know, I realised on my way to collect you that you’ve been working for us for months now and I hardly know anything about you. So tell me…tell me something I should know about you.’
Oh, he was good! His eyes were fixed on mine, his expression adorable, his body language open–my Diet Coke man was working his thing. And yes, in my head, that last bit was said in the voice of Tyra Banks. I really needed to lie down.