Valentine Present and Other Diabolical Liberties

by Lynda Renham

  Promising young entrepreneur found buried in cement after girlfriend refused to pay East End gangland leaders.

  Oh God, don’t think about that Harriet. Just study your nice little blue folder and get through the weekend with flying colours, take the money and run. Hamilton sent me a fifteen-page folder with all the details of how we supposedly met, how I started my business, my favourite ice cream, favourite colour and how I like my coffee. I’m surprised it didn’t include my inside leg measurement and bra size. Mind you, even I’m not sure what that is anymore since Marcus stuffed me full of silicone enhancers. How women with big breasts cope I shall never know.

  I feel like an actor in Green Card. What if I mess it up, come to think of it, what if Hamilton messes it up? And I can’t begin to tell you the things I read about him. How the other half live, I tell you. He wears only designer underpants it seems, and only briefs. Like I really want to know that. It’s not like I’ll be popping out to buy some over the weekend is it? I doubt he would be happy with Primark’s three pairs for two pounds fifty. He has everything ironed, and I mean everything, from his designer pants to his Marc Jacob socks. I never knew Marc Jacob made socks. He’s an expert skier and accomplished horseman as I am too apparently, a horsewoman that is. Seriously, the closest I have come to a horse is when I ate one in a Findus lasagne. Hamilton was an expert rower at Eton and I, hold your breath, was a champion cyclist at school but after the horrific accident (too awful to talk about) I had to give it up. Thank God for that. I only wear Clinique as my skin is sensitive. My cheap Aldi moisturiser was removed from my handbag by Marcus with such precision you would have thought it was a bomb rather than a jar of face cream. It was replaced with numerous jars and bottles of Clinique products which I have to say I am very much enjoying. Oh well, if I bugger it up then I bugger it up. It’s not like I’m going to see these people again is it? I can’t see them popping round to Marlborough Mansions for a cuppa or dropping their washing off at the laundrette. No, there is very little chance our paths will cross again. They can go off with their jolly hockey sticks and I’ll return to my life of drudgery. I just don’t want to be made a fool of, that’s all. And what if I have to get up all close and personal with Hamilton? No, my relationship with Hamilton will be one of those cold distant types. I’ll have to be one of those cool detached type of chicks. In fact they all look like that, these posh birds don’t they? I mean just look at Posh Becks, she always looks cold and hard. Mind you, she’s from Essex isn’t she? I can’t do any worse than her can I? I realise part of my nausea is down to hunger and I fish out the pack of Jaffa Cakes I had sneaked into my Burberry. Well, there is no way I can get through this without a chocolate fix. I find my mind wander to Brice Edmunds. If only he had asked me to be his soon-to-be fiancée for a weekend, now that would have been a pleasure. I sigh and look down as Glenwood Manor comes into view. It’s huge. Hamilton never said it was a Scottish Downton Abbey. I hope I look okay, I feel like bloody Jacqueline Onassis in my tight-fitting pink suit and pearls. I only need a little pillbox hat and I could easily be mistaken for her. I pop another two Jaffa Cakes into my mouth and gasp when I see there is a welcoming party at the side of the heliport. There’s seven of them. Not seven welcoming parties, obviously, even I know I’m not that grand. Seven people and bloody hell, two of them are wearing kilts, and one is my soon-to-be pretend fiancé and presumably the other is his father. I hope they’re not true Scotsmen. One gust of wind and I would not only see Hamilton’s rope and tackle in all its glory but his father’s too. It would be far too traumatic an experience. This does not bode well. Even my mum would not be impressed with me dating a man in a skirt. I grab the sides of my seat as the helicopter wobbles as it comes into land and the remaining Jaffa Cakes tumble into my lap. Piss it. The sky is full of threatening rain and the helicopter lurches to the side as a rumble of thunder breaks over the noise of the engine. Christ, talk about the trumpets hailing the arrival of the she-devil. As we go lower and the enormity of the estate becomes apparent, I can practically smell the sweetness of money in the air.

  I scramble frantically in my handbag for a tissue to wipe my hands and to check my reflection only to find the sodding clip is stuck. I fiddle desperately with it and my heart pounds with panic. What’s wrong with the bloody thing? It opened fine a few seconds ago.

  ‘Come on, open bugger you,’ I groan, and like magic it does. I spot my phone and see that little red cross in the corner. You know the cross I mean, the one where usually three lovely bars of signal flash at you. One bar would have been awkward but no bars at all is fatal. Buckery fuck, what if the Jacks phone about the meeting? Surely people with bleeding huge estates have mobiles and phone signal by which to use them? The vibrating of the helicopter comes to a stop and there is silence. The waiting party look like they are lined up waiting to be shot. The door slides open and a frowning Hamilton leans in.

  ‘Are you coming out?’ he hisses.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking of taking out an ad in The Times announcing our engagement. Why didn’t you just shout it from the rooftops?’

  ‘Sorry. My mother’s idea, she gets carried away. Are you coming out?’

  I smile, grab my new cashmere shawl and nonchalantly brush Jaffa Cake from my skirt. He offers his hand and I reluctantly place my sticky one in his, and feel my right false boob slip. Christ alive, whatever next.

  ‘Don’t you have phone signal here?’ I whisper.

  ‘Phone signal?’ he repeats, looking at me blankly.

  Christ, don’t tell me he can’t speak English now he’s in Scotland? I hope they don’t speak bleeding Gaelic or something. I’ve got enough problems trying to talk in my new posh accent without an added language on top.

  ‘My mobile doesn’t work,’ I say, cautiously stepping from the helicopter.

  ‘You won’t get anything here unless you’re with Vodafone.’

  He might have told me that before I left. What the hell am I supposed to do now? A few drops of rain splatter onto my new suit and I shiver.

  ‘Harriet,’ gushes a woman who is hurrying towards me. ‘I hope your flight wasn’t too arduous. How are your feet, not too swollen I hope?’

  She makes it sound like I’ve flown from Australia rather than London. Everyone looks down at my feet, which are squashed into the Jimmy Choos that Marcus was insistent I wear.

  ‘You’ve got chocolate all over your face,’ whispers Hamilton harshly, handing me a tissue.

  A sudden gust of wind lifts up his kilt and I get a quick gander of his designer underpants. Thank God that’s all I get a gander of. I dab delicately at my mouth and thank the gods that all eyes are on my feet, and take the opportunity to yank up my right falsie, pinching my own nipple as I do so. Honestly, I should get danger money for doing this. Hamilton leans forward and kisses me softly on the lips. It’s not too bad actually. The breath could have been a bit fresher, but overall it’s bearable. I rather thought it would be like kissing Hannibal Lecter but it wasn’t that bad at all. Not that I know what it’s like to kiss Hannibal Lecter of course.

  ‘I’m Lady Melanie Lancaster, Hamilton’s mother,’ says the gushing woman, hugging me and drowning me in perfume. ‘And this is my husband Sir Sebastian Lancaster.’

  She pulls an older version of Hamilton towards me. He is the other one wearing a kilt and has a tartan cravat held together with a diamond-encrusted tiepin. Before I can stop the bugger he hugs me and pierces my left silicone breast. There is a little pop and I feel my boob deflate and I begin leaking. Christ, all I need is another hug and I’ll be spraying everywhere like a cat on heat. This is unbearably embarrassing, not to mention sticky.

  ‘Ooh, I’m a little chilly,’ I lie, wrapping the cashmere shawl around me.

  ‘Harriet, shall we introduce you to the household staff?’ smiles Hamilton.

  Oh yes please, anything to put off the moment I have to pretend to be an aristocrat’s girlfriend.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, looking at the
four people lined up. I don’t have a clue what you say to household staff. I’ve never met household staff in my life, not unless you count my mum who used to be a cleaner, but that’s sort of different isn’t it?

  ‘This is Cedric, he’s head butler, and basically Cedric is the man. Isn’t that right Cedric?’ laughs Hamilton while giving him a slap on the back.

  Oh good, he isn’t likely to hug me, so hopefully the leakage will stay under control.

  ‘Yes sir,’ responds a dour-faced Cedric. His greying hair is swept back making him look a bit like Trevor Eve and his dark brown eyes study me intently.

  ‘Good afternoon madam.’

  I nod.

  ‘Good afternoon Cedric, it’s nice to meet you,’ I say while my breast shrinks by the second and I get stickier and stickier.

  ‘And this is Emily. She’s the under maid.’

  A young woman in a starched white apron nods at me. She pushes back loose strands of hair which have escaped her neat bun and steps forward.

  ‘Miss Harriet,’ she says with a little curtsy.

  My God, people really do live like this. It’s surreal.

  ‘Hello Emily, nice to meet you too,’ I respond, focusing hard on my speech.

  ‘Emily will be your ladies maid while you’re here,’ adds Lady Lancaster, ‘We couldn’t cope without a ladies maid could we Harriet?’

  Speak for yourself I’m sure.

  ‘Any dress malfunctions just go to Emily, she’s very capable.’

  I hope that includes tit malfunctions.

  ‘This is Mrs Randall, our cook.’

  A stiff-necked woman steps forward and gives a small nod, before saying,

  ‘Good afternoon madam. I hope you have a pleasant stay.’

  ‘And finally, this is Gregory, my valet.’

  Gregory gives a weak smile.

  ‘Then of course there is Pa’s secretary and Lionel …’

  ‘Yes, well let’s not bombard her with too much information. The poor girl looks shattered. A hot bath is what’s needed no doubt. Let’s get you to the house,’ interrupts Sir Sebastian. Well, he seems quite nice even if he did puncture my tit.

  It is a short walk to the manor house. I spot the tennis court and the outdoor swimming pool which is covered with tarpaulin. I’m ushered into the entrance hall of the manor, which is twice the size of my flat, complete with crystal chandelier, bronze statues of Greek gods and a marble staircase, and at the top sitting in a wheelchair, there she is.

  ‘So, she’s arrived,’ she calls in a clipped clear voice.

  ‘Grandmother,’ whispers Hamilton.

  Wonderful. I am about to meet the grandmother while I have one deflated breast, Jaffa Cake stuck to my skirt, sweaty palms and apparently, two swollen feet. However, she shows no sign of leaving the wheelchair for the stairlift.

  ‘Freshen up and do whatever it is you businesswomen do and I’ll meet you at dinner. Lionel, let’s finish our game of gin rummy, and you’d better not beat me again you bugger.’

  I stare bemused as a well-dressed man wheels her away from the stairs. I turn to Hamilton.

  ‘But …’

  ‘Yes, she swears, and it doesn’t go down well at all. Emily, please show Harriet to her room. I’ll send Cedric up with a drink. What would you like?’

  A tankard of red wine would be good.

  ‘A gin and tonic?’ suggests Lady Lancaster.

  Oh jolly dee. Let’s have a tankard of that then.

  ‘We’ve given you your own room Harriet,’ says Melanie softly. ‘Obviously it’s not far from Hamilton’s but well, Margarita is a bit old fashioned …’

  ‘That’s fine isn’t it Harriet, I’ll just sneak to your room under cover of darkness,’ smirks Hamilton.

  Just try it mate. I glance away from him and my eyes land on a portrait of Van Gogh. God, it would have to be the one without his ear wouldn’t it? It’s as if someone is trying to send me a message, like I haven’t got enough to contend with?

  ‘Do you like Van Gogh?’ asks Melanie.

  ‘Not this particular one,’ I say shuddering.

  ‘Yes, pretty awful cutting off your own ear isn’t it?’

  I bet Julian would prefer to cut off his own ear than have the Jacks do it. In fact I imagine he would prefer not to have it removed at all but you know what I mean.

  ‘Ears are funny things aren’t they?’ I say, while Hamilton looks at me like I’ve gone totally insane. ‘What I mean is you don’t think about them much until you’re in danger of losing them.’

  Shut up Harriet for God’s sake.

  ‘Yes, I imagine Van Gogh felt a bit like that,’ she replies, looking confused.

  ‘At least he chose to cut it off,’ I say, willing myself to stop. His mother will think her son is with a raving lunatic in a minute. She wouldn’t be far wrong would she? Only a raving lunatic would do what I’m doing.

  ‘Yes right, a drink then Harriet,’ says Hamilton leading me by the arm to the foot of the stairs.

  God, I so need that tankard of gin.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You have to help me Fi,’ I cry down the phone, ‘or Julian’s toast.’

  I’m lounging on my bed in a soft fluffy dressing gown sipping my gin and tonic. My bedroom has a fantastic view of a loch and some mountains in the distance, and I’ve got a phone in the bedroom and another in the bathroom. How decadent is that? If the Jack thing wasn’t so stressful I could actually enjoy this.

  ‘What are you on about? I thought the reason you were in Scotland playing Lady Muck was so that Julian wouldn’t be toast, or at least earless.’

  God, why does no one understand?

  ‘I need to divert my calls to your phone. There is no signal here and I can’t very well arrange the meet using the landline can I? I’ll look like a gangster’s moll if I start talking pay-offs and where I’ll be leaving the readies,’ I sigh. ‘And besides, I don’t want the Jacks to get this number.’

  God, these silicone breasts are seriously giving me mastitis.

  ‘Honestly, this is getting out of hand,’ I moan. ‘My breasts have deflated thanks to Sir Sebastian’s tiepin and ...’

  ‘Blimey Harriet, what was he doing with his tiepin?’

  ‘He hugged me,’ I explain.

  ‘Must have been some hug.’

  ‘It was. I swear I’ve got mastitis. Well? Can I divert to you or not?’ I ask again, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  She groans.

  ‘I don’t know Harry. I don’t want to get involved with these Jacks. I mean, what if they turn on us. Alistair has enough trouble speaking as it is without having his tongue cut out.’

  ‘You’ve got to help me, Fi. All you have to do is take my calls. When the Jacks phone about the pay-off, just take down the details and call this number. Say you’re my PA, give me the info and it’s done.’

  ‘But I’ve got to talk to them, then they’ll know I exist and …’

  ‘Just say you’re my accountant …’

  ‘What?’ she screams. ‘If they think you’ve got an accountant you’ll never get them off your back, and a monkey will turn into a grubby hand.’

  I choke on my gin and tonic.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Grubby hand, grand, get it? I’ve been doing some research on Google. This East End gangster stuff is fascinating; did you know that East End gangsters don’t kill innocent victims? Of course, I don’t know if Julian is exactly innocent, seeing as he owed them money and all that. Did you know that Reggie Kray …’

  ‘Fiona, what are you now, the new Martina Cole? What are you researching bleeding gangsters for?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbles. ‘Okay, what do I have to do?’

  ‘When they phone, say I am away for the weekend and have no phone signal. For God’s sake don’t say where. Tell them I can make the pay-off when I’m back on Monday; I just need to know where and when.’

  ‘Well …’ she says hesitatingly.

  ‘
Fi, come on,’ I urge, ‘it’s only a bleeding phone call.’

  ‘Okay, but if Alistair gets nailed to the floor, I’m holding you responsible,’ she says threateningly.

  ‘Nailed to the floor, bleeding hell Fi, where did you get that from? Even I know that wasn’t in The Godfather.’

  ‘But it was in The Long Good Friday, and that was British,’ she says, like that explains everything.

  ‘You’ve been Googling too much. You’ll make yourself go blind doing that,’ I say.

  ‘I’m already blind, and it’s masturbating that makes you go blind, not Google.’

  That explains why I’ve got 20/20 vision then.

  ‘Thanks Fi. I appreciate it, and honestly, Alistair won’t get nailed to the floor but if he does I promise to take full responsibility.’

  She laughs.

  ‘Well that’s okay then. Anyway what’s it like up there?’

  ‘Oh, you know, wall to wall luxury, servants waiting on you hand and foot, that kind of thing.’

  ‘No I don’t, but I’m getting a feel, don’t stop.’

  ‘I’ll probably have Evian water coming out of my ears …’

  ‘I’m surprised you can talk about ears.’

  ‘Grand staircases and balconies, gin and tonic on tap, tell me when to stop.’

  ‘You’ll get bored. The grass is always greener on the other side.’

  ‘Well at least there is grass here, there’s sod all at Marlborough Mansions or hadn’t you noticed.’

  ‘I bet they have beautiful horses. I’d love to ride there. Riding here is not the same is it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. You’re probably more cut out for this than I am. Can’t you do it instead of me and then just give me the money?’ I ask, hopefully.

  ‘I’m not that great a friend.’

  ‘No, I thought not,’ I agree.

  She blows a kiss down the phone and hangs up. I sigh with relief. At least I don’t have to worry about the Jacks. I sip my gin and tonic. There is a light tap at the door and Cedric enters.