by Peter Cocks
THIRTY-THREE
I couldn’t believe it when Sophie showed me the invite. First I thought it was for the charity boxing match, but then I realized it was too posh for that: stiff, white card with gold edging:
The Proprietors of OK! magazine request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of Miss Natalie Holmes to Mr Liam Baldwin…
Natalie Holmes was the girl of the moment: singer, model, TV presenter. Liam Baldwin was the Tottenham striker who had just changed hands for millions and was off to Barcelona. It was a marriage made in celebrity heaven.
“I didn’t know you knew Liam Baldwin,” I said to Sophie.
“I don’t really.” She was grinning from ear to ear: she clearly found my wide-eyed, star-struck amazement funny. But the only famous person I’d ever seen was some bloke off X Factor getting into a taxi at Charing Cross. “I was at boarding school with Natalie. Her old man does some business with mine.”
It made sense that they knew each other. Natalie Holmes was similar to Sophie: they both had the same easy charm and classless accent that had made Natalie popular on TV. They were both drop-dead gorgeous.
I wondered what sort of business Natalie’s dad was in. I guessed it wasn’t double glazing. “I can’t believe you never told me,” I said.
“You never asked.” Sophie laughed. “I’m not a name-dropper.”
I looked at the stiff white card again. It was the first time I’d seen our names together: Miss Sophie Kelly and Mr Eddie Savage.
I liked the way they looked, written down. I was just about getting used to my new name, feeling like it belonged to me.
There was a list of conditions: no photos, no phones, no talking to rival publications…
“I’d better get myself a suit.”
“We’ll go on Saturday,” Sophie said, kissing me. “I’ll help you choose.”
After Sophie had gone, I desperately wanted to tell someone. It was six weeks since I had first met her parents, and I was already being welcomed into the bosom of the family. I knew Tony Morris would be pleased with my progress.
I rang him from a callbox at Deptford DLR. I didn’t want to use the mobile and have people listening in while I told him what a clever boy I’d been.
“Where are you calling from?” he asked. Always his first question.
“A payphone,” I said. ”In Deptford.”
“Are you in trouble?” He sounded concerned.
“No. Nothing like that, Tony,” I said, a bit disappointed by his anxiety. “It’s good news. I’ve been invited to a wedding with Sophie Kelly.”
“Where?” Tony asked.
“Down in Sussex somewhere. They’re famous – it’s Natalie Holmes and Liam Baldwin. You know, the footballer. Big posh do … OK! magazine are doing it.”
Tony went quiet on the other end of the line. All I could hear was the rush-hour traffic rumbling behind me.
“Are you effing mad?” he said after a while.
“What?” My excitement began to drain away. ”I thought it would be a good way of getting closer to the family.”
“Yeah, and share it with half the bleeding country.” Tony was beginning to raise his voice. “Imagine when the magazine is in every supermarket in the country and there’s your face in it, prancing around with effing celebrities and the king of crime himself.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I admitted.
“Have you told Ian?”
“No, it’s only just happened. I’m sorry, Tony. I didn’t deliberately get myself into it.”
“All right. I’m sorry for shouting, mate. But listen, you’re going to have to get yourself out of it.”
We drove across Waterloo Bridge into the West End on Saturday morning. Sophie had borrowed her mum’s convertible Beemer and we had the roof down. It was cold but sunny and the London skyline looked crisp and sharp in the bright light, like a backdrop to the opening credits of a film.
I hadn’t said much on the drive up, but the wind rushing by and Mark Ronson’s remixes had made conversation unnecessary. Sophie drove round the south side of Trafalgar Square, right by where Tony had taken me to meet Sandy Napier months back. She parked in a square somewhere off Haymarket and switched off the engine. The electric roof whirred back across, throwing us into shadow.
“What’s up with you then?” she asked, not looking at me.
“Nothing,” I replied.
“Good. So stop looking like a smacked arse and let’s go shopping.”
It was a phrase I could imagine her mum using and it made me smile.
“Sorry,” I said, and squeezed her hand.
We walked along a street full of what you’d call gentlemen’s clothes shops: hats, tweed jackets, smart shirts and suede shoes like Tommy Kelly wore. We looked in a window that displayed shoes of every shape and colour. I caught Sophie looking down at my scuffed Nikes.
“In you go.” She grinned. “We’ll make a gentleman of you yet.”
The shop assistant sounded as posh as the Queen but treated us like we were royalty. Ten minutes later I walked out with a pair of highly polished, handmade black loafers, each in its own cotton bag stuffed with a wooden shoe tree.
“Three hundred quid?” I gasped. I didn’t know shoes could cost that much.
“You get what you pay for,” Sophie said.
“But I can’t pay that,” I pleaded. ”I’ve got just about enough for a suit. I can’t let you buy me shoes.”
“I didn’t,” said Sophie. “They went on Dad’s account. He told me to get you kitted out. He wants you to look right.”
Two handmade shirts and a pair of cashmere socks later, we sat in an Italian café sipping lattes. I was still trying to figure how I was going to get out of this wedding, and it must have shown on my face.
“You’re looking like a smacked arse again,” Sophie said in a sing-song voice.
“I’m sorry, Soph. I just feel out of my depth with this wedding and being bought expensive clothes and everything. I don’t think I should go.”
Sophie’s face dropped. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think I’d feel right there,” I bluffed. “With a load of celebs and people I don’t know, in clothes I don’t own.”
“Don’t be stupid, Eddie.” Sophie had her no-messing look on. “You’ll be with me. They invited you.”
I stared at the froth in the bottom of my cup. I was wriggling on the hook.
“Besides, Mum and Dad are really chuffed you’ve been invited.” Sophie’s tone softened a little. “They’re fed up with taking me to places on my own like Nelly No-Mates, with every bloke frightened of even talking to me. You’re the first one who’s dared come home with me. They like you for it. Dad likes you.”
I felt like I was being made an offer I couldn’t refuse. I looked up at Sophie. She was smiling, but she knew she had me by the short and curlies.
“You wouldn’t want to upset him,” she said. “Would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Right, well that’s sorted.” Sophie stood and collected up the shopping bags. “Let’s go and buy this suit.”
Tony Morris was quiet on the other end of the phone.
“I’m going,” I told him. “I can’t get out of it.”
Silence.
“I promise I’ll keep my nut down, Tony. You wanted me to get close to them, and now I really have.”
Deep breath.
“It’s just that I’ve got so far, they’ll be suspicious if I don’t go. I’ll feel safer if I’m there with them rather than blowing them off. I can avoid the press.”
Tony spoke at last, sounding resigned. “You’d better make sure you do. Or you’re stuffed. We’re stuffed.”
“I promise,” I said. “You won’t be sorry.”
“I’d better not be. One more thing, Eddie…”
“Yes?”
“You’re an obstinate little bastard.”
“Sorry, Tony.”
“Like your brothe
r.”
THIRTY-FOUR
The village was one of those quiet, English picture-postcard places that normally would have been still and sleepy on a warm spring afternoon. But this Saturday it was like the circus had come to town. One or two old women, out walking their dogs or tending their roses, looked disapprovingly at the queue of limos and large black cars that snaked through their village street. Four-by-fours were parked up on the kerb in front of the pub and curious drinkers, smoking outside, craned their necks to see whether anyone famous was behind the tinted windows.
I got out of the Kelly Bentley, Tommy’s everyday motor, and held the door open for Sophie, turning my face away from the couple of paparazzi who had turned up in the hope of catching a sneaky pic. Luckily for me, OK! magazine wasn’t about to let anyone else in on the action and the moment we stepped from the car, a heavy from the mag came over to protect our privacy with a big black umbrella.
All the guests were escorted to the path that led up to the village church and the stately home beyond, where the reception was being held.
We queued while security men checked everyone’s invitations and took away their mobile phones, which were named, bagged and put into a crate. Sophie handed over her iPhone. I gave in mine too, but kept my tiny emergency mobile tucked into my sock.
Just in case I needed my hotline to Tony or Ian Baylis.
In front of us, Tommy and Cheryl seemed to get stuck for a moment as a security guard at the church gate checked for his name on the list.
“You won’t find it on there,” Tommy said, smiling patiently.
The heavy began to flex his muscles beneath his suit. He was shaven-headed and stupid-looking. Dead behind the eyes.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “If your name’s not on the list, you can’t go through.” He continued to look at Tommy, his mouth set in a tough-guy grimace, as if to say there would be no compromising. Whoever you were.
Tommy looked at Cheryl and smiled. “Sorry, darling,” he said. “Looks like we’ll have to go home, doesn’t it?”
I could sense trouble and my guts began to feel watery. People in the line behind us were starting to mutter impatiently. Dave, Tommy’s driver, had been standing by. He stepped up to the security guard.
“It’s Mr Kelly,” he said quietly. “I suggest you tell your boss.”
The security guard looked at Dave, who was a good few centimetres taller than he was. He pulled out his walkie-talkie and muttered something into it. Within seconds, a worried-looking man ran across from the church, tripping over himself, the apologies tumbling from his open mouth.
“Do come through, Mr Kelly,” he spluttered. “Very sorry for the misunderstanding…”
Tommy paused briefly to speak to the security guard, whose face had turned white, draining him of aggression and leaving him looking like the fat bully he was.
“You’ll remember who I am next time, won’t you?” Tommy’s voice was calm and friendly.
“Yes, Mr Kelly. Sorry.”
“And you might try smiling in future.”
Tommy tucked something into the security guard’s breast pocket and escorted Cheryl through the gate. The guard didn’t even look at our invites, and Sophie and I followed her parents up the church path.
Coming out of the church it became clear just how many people had been invited as they spilled onto the lawn outside. The grass led up to a terrace in front of the main house, where waiters in white coats stood with trays of cold champagne. Sophie and I made our way up to the terrace, where she chatted with girls she knew. As she introduced me, they all gave me the same look: a once-over, wondering how I had dared get involved. As I saw the deference ninety per cent of the guests showed to Tommy Kelly, I wondered the same thing myself.
The terrace was crammed with A-, B- and C-list celebs. There was a world-famous singer wearing a white silk suit with medals, his boyfriend dressed in baby blue beside him. TV presenters from reality shows. An actor from EastEnders. There were representatives from most of the current girl bands, looking like their record companies had sent them as diplomatic envoys. They all seemed slightly smaller and better-looking than they did on TV. Then there were footballers, loads of them. Some faces I recognized, others I didn’t know from Adam. Liam Baldwin was a popular boy.
The older generation was mostly represented by couples of Tommy and Cheryl’s vintage: well-preserved, middle-aged types with all-year tans. The women with Botoxed expressions and the men all smoking cigars. Tommy Kelly’s was the biggest.
I was relieved to see that the photographers were only interested in the celebrity faces, and they were all happy to pose for the cameras – another day’s work. As Sophie was dragged to have a group shot taken with the bride and her posse of girlfriends, I sloped off to a shady corner, taking another cheeky glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray on the way.
“Easy does it, sir,” the waiter said. “Need to keep your wits about you.”
I was about to say something clever, but then I recognized the man beneath the moustache. It was Oliver, the bloke I’d seen hanging around Baylis, always watching me.
“What?” I said.
“Just in case,” he said. “Ignore me.”
I did as I was told and sipped my drink, the taste of it dry on my already dry mouth, and went through to where the food was being served.
THIRTY-FIVE
The dinner was top of the range. For starters there was a cold soup that tasted of tomatoes and chilli, which sounds dodgy but tasted great. Then there was sort of thin spaghetti with lobster, followed by slices of roast beef with little Yorkshire puddings, then a fruit salad that tasted like cherry brandy, and chocolate profiteroles. All made by a famous chef who came out and took a bow. There was white wine, red wine and more champagne for the toasts and what have you, and although I only took a few sips of each, I was beginning to feel a bit pissed by the end of it.
The light was fading when everyone drifted away from their tables and out to the marquee. I began to feel a bit more relaxed now the lights were low. Music was playing already and a band was setting up on the stage above the wooden dance floor.
A TV presenter, a lads’ mags regular who had been MC through the speeches, got up and introduced the band. The drummer counted in and the guitars came in with a familiar riff.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC shouted. “Please welcome to the stage … Mrs Liam Baldwin!”
Natalie, still in her wedding dress, took the mic and launched into the song that had been a hit for her the year before.
Everyone cheered and stamped the floor, and people started dancing. Halfway through the song, Natalie made an announcement. People applauded and whooped.
A tall, bearded figure strode on to the stage and picked up a guitar. He strapped it on as if it was a missing part of his body and played a blinding solo that must have lasted five minutes. Everyone in the tent went mad. I could see Tommy Kelly, cigar clamped between his teeth, beaming all over his face and nodding his head like he was approving every note. Sophie nudged me and rolled her eyes.
“He’s his hero,” she shouted into my ear. “Embarrassing, isn’t it? Nat’s dad paid fifty grand to his charity to get him to come and play, just to impress the old man.”
Then I realized who the guitarist was. I remembered his face from the CD shelf at home. He was one of my brother’s heroes too. “The man is a god,” he used to say.
If he could see me now.
After a few more songs, the band took a break and a DJ took over with one of those floor-filling, wedding-party anthems. One that I hate.
I’m not overly keen on dancing, but Sophie grabbed me by the arm and pulled me on to the dance floor. I shuffled around a bit while Sophie strutted and shook her stuff; she loved dancing and she was good.
“Come on,” she said, grinning. I clearly wasn’t showing enough enthusiasm. I took another glug of wine from our table and began to dance.
“Come on, Eileen…”
Sophie t
ook hold of my hand and spun me around towards her and, as she did so, I felt the mobile hidden in my sock slip out. I watched as it went skidding across the dance floor.
I let go of Sophie and scrabbled on my hands and knees between people’s legs, desperately trying to grab it. It hit a chair leg on the edge of the dance floor and, spinning, finally came to rest.
Right at the feet of a waiting bouncer.
I reached out to pick it up, but before I could, the bouncer leant down and closed his meaty fist around it. “No phones and no photos,” he said, shaking his head. “You were meant to hand this in. Who knows what you’ve been doing. Taking pictures? Phoning the papers?”
“I’m a diabetic,” I said. “It’s for emergencies.”
He could tell I was lying. “I’m going to have to confiscate it. Might have to destroy it.”
He wasn’t going to budge. I hadn’t taken any photos, of course, but my calls to Tony and Ian Baylis would be listed on there, along with their numbers and the hotline to Sandy Napier’s department. My heart was thumping and I began to shake, not knowing what to do.
Suddenly the expression on the bouncer’s face changed.
“I’ll look after that,” a familiar voice said from over my shoulder. It was light, almost high-pitched, but the threat was undeniable.
I turned to see Tommy Kelly holding out his hand for the phone. The bouncer nodded and put it into his hand. Then, instead of giving it back to me, Tommy slipped the phone into the pocket of his jacket.
“Bit silly, wasn’t it, Eddie?” he said, and winked.
Then I knew I was as good as dead.
Donnie got the call early evening. He’d had a couple in the pub at lunchtime and nodded off in front of the football when his mobile rang.
The firm’s one.
He gulped down a cup of black instant coffee, lit a fag, then climbed into the Merc. He pulled off the estate, where any car worth over fifty quid was done over every five minutes. But nobody ever touched Donnie Mulvaney’s car.
When he got on to the motorway, he floored it. He picked up Jason on the way, stopping outside his flat to call him on the mobile.