Do Not Disturb

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Retreating to her office, she barely had time to sit down before she was rudely interrupted.

  “Ah, Petra, there you are. Jolly good.” Anton’s pet PR girl, Saskia, the one person whose presence in the hotel, in fact whose very existence, caused Petra more stress than all the other bullshit put together, had barged in without so much as a “pardon the intrusion.”

  “We’ve got an awful lot to do today, duckie,” she trilled efficiently, “so it’s all hands to the mill. I’ve just had the producer from E! on the line asking about the outdoor lighting. Now where are we with that?”

  Petra’s top lip began to curl upward, like a sliver of dried orange peel.

  There were so many things she hated about Saskia it was hard to focus on any particular one. She was vulgar, overweight, and overbearing. She wore enough cheap perfume to qualify as a biological weapon. Her laugh, forced, loud and braying, was a cross between a witch’s cackle and a particularly insidious car alarm. At this moment, she was wearing a tight, luminous orange T-shirt in a material so shinily synthetic it would melt rather than burn if you put a match to it (which somebody really ought to) and a pair of white shorts that left nothing to the imagination, beneath which she was plainly pantyless. The woman had all the class and style of a mongrel puppy, and yet she projected an innately British air of superiority that gave Petra fantasies about tying her to the back of a pickup truck and driving off at speed. Not since Honor Palmer had she met a woman so sickeningly full of herself, with so little reason to be so.

  But worse than any of this was the way that Saskia had muscled her way in on tomorrow night’s party. Ever since Anton had brought her on board, she’d been acting like the proverbial queen bee, throwing her considerable weight around with Petra’s staff and generally making a royal nuisance of herself.

  Anton denied it, but it was perfectly obvious to Petra that he and Saskia were sleeping together. This in itself didn’t bother her. She’d never been the jealous type. If Anton had so little taste as to find a blowsy little tart like Saskia attractive, more fool him. But the vile creature clearly felt that, as the boss’s lover, she had carte blanche to behave as she pleased and flout Petra’s authority as manager. And that was a problem. A big one. She’d already grabbed a chair and parked herself on the other side of the desk and was reaching over to grab the phone when Petra snapped.

  “Get out of my office!” she commanded, snatching back her telephone. “I’ve told you before, if you need to make calls, you may do so from the business center like everybody else. This is my private office, not some sort of common room. And I am not your duckie.”

  “Anton’s made it very clear he wants us to work together,” pouted Saskia. “We can’t very well do that from separate offices. There’s only thirty-six hours to go now, you know.”

  Petra’s antipathy was heartily reciprocated by Saskia, who considered her rival to be about as sexy as a deep-frozen stick insect and considerably less pleasant company. She couldn’t fathom what Anton saw in her. It must be like sticking your dick into one of those automatic pencil sharpeners.

  “I’m well aware of the time pressure, thank you, Saskia,” said Petra tartly. “I’ve spent the last three months putting this party together. You’ve been here three minutes.”

  She glanced out the window at the hive of activity going on in the grounds. The marquee company had arrived and were busy unloading scaffolding and canvas. The entire Japanese garden was going to be covered by a series of Moroccan tents, turning it into a sort of impromptu souk, although Saskia had put a cat among the pigeons at the last moment by insisting everything be opened up on one side to allow easier access for the TV crews. She’d also demanded glaring spotlights be hung from every conceivable tree, but so far Petra had vetoed this idea on the grounds that it would ruin her carefully planned candlelit effect. It was this battle over lighting that the E! channel had been complaining about again this morning.

  “You’re ridiculous!” snapped Saskia. “If it weren’t for me you’d have had one man and his dog covering your precious party. As it is, our TV coverage is under threat because of your ludicrous candle obsession. Anton gets here tomorrow, and he wants this resolved. Petra! Are you listening to me?”

  But Petra wasn’t. She’d just noticed a familiar figure milling around among the workmen outside.

  “I don’t believe it,” she muttered under her breath. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “Who?” asked Saskia.

  Ignoring her, Petra prized open the window and stuck her head outside. “You’re trespassing!” she yelled.

  Lucas cupped his hand to his ear and shook his head, pretending not to be able to hear her, before turning back to his conversation with the marquee guys.

  “Call security,” Petra barked at Saskia, slamming the window shut and sweeping out the door in a whirlwind of righteous indignation. “I may need help getting rid of him.”

  “Oh, may you,” said Saskia, once she’d gone. “Well that’s tough titties, isn’t it, duckie? Rude bitch. You can whistle for your help.”

  Whoever it was that had gotten the Ice Queen’s knickers in a twist, Saskia felt more inclined to give him a medal than have him thrown off the property. Sinking her ample backside down into Petra’s vacated chair—it was so much more comfortable than her own—she returned to her phone call. Someone had to sweet-talk the E! producers or they’d pull out altogether.

  Outside, Lucas saw Petra goose-stepping furiously across the lawn toward him. Knowing it would infuriate her, he flashed her his most winning smile. In a black wool pencil skirt and matching jacket, she must have been roasting, but she didn’t have so much as a bead of sweat on her forehead to show for it.

  Maybe she didn’t sweat. She probably just leaked antifreeze every now and then.

  “You’re spying.” She looked at him accusingly. Then, turning to the workmen he’d been talking to, demanded: “What did he ask you? If any of you has breathed so much as one word about tomorrow night’s arrangements—”

  “Relax, Pet,” said Lucas, remembering the nickname she’d so despised in college. Judging by the angrily throbbing vein at her temple, she was none too keen on it now, either. “We were only making chitchat. I was about to offer these poor guys something to drink. They tell me they haven’t had a sip of water all day.”

  “That’s because they’re working,” said Petra. “Do any of you have any complaints you’d like to make to me?”

  She glared at them each in turn, daring them to challenge her further. But no one was brave enough, and one by one they all slunk off back to work, leaving Petra and Lucas alone.

  “The next time I catch you spying on this property,” she told him curtly, “I’ll have you arrested. Today I’ll make do with having security throw you out.” She looked over her shoulder for the expected reinforcements, but no one appeared to be coming. Bloody Saskia obviously hadn’t bothered to call.

  “Don’t panic,” said Lucas amiably, sussing out her predicament. “I’ll go quietly. You don’t need your heavies.”

  “So tell me, what brings you to town, Lucas?” asked Petra, trying to regain the upper hand. “Nostalgia? A longing to relive your glory days? How touching.”

  “Hardly,” said Lucas. “I’m here for some meetings about my new Luxe.”

  “Ah, yes, the late, great Luxe America. How’s it going over there? You were going to open by Christmas, weren’t you?” She laughed—a horrible, empty, tinkling sound with nothing but spite behind it. “Can’t see that happening now.”

  Lucas bit his tongue. He’d already gotten what he came for and wasn’t about to indulge her by losing his temper.

  “I won’t keep you.” He smiled. “Shall we say au revoir, then? Until tomorrow night?”

  “What do you mean?” Unusually for her, Petra let her guard down. “You’re not invited tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, but I am,” said Lucas brightly. “Got my invitation three weeks ago. A charming lady by the name o
f Saskia was kind enough to call me in person.” He clapped his hand over his mouth in mock surprise and gasped. “Didn’t Anton tell you?”

  Petra’s lips pursed into a puckered anus of fury. “It must have slipped his mind.”

  “Dear oh dear.” Lucas was starting to enjoy himself. “And to think, you two used to be so close.”

  As soon as he’d gone—for all his bravado, Lucas didn’t relish being manhandled off the grounds by Petra’s security heavies, who were bound to show up eventually—Petra stormed back into her office. Saskia was on the phone, but she reached down and ripped the socket out of the wall, cutting her off midsentence.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” she roared. “Inviting Lucas Ruiz to the party behind my back? And what happened to the fucking security I asked for?”

  “You didn’t say please,” said Saskia, who wasn’t easily intimidated. “And you aren’t my boss, duckie. As for Lucas, it was Anton’s decision to invite him, not mine. He’s invited the Palmer sisters too.”

  “Whaaaaaaaaat?” Petra was apoplectic.

  “I assumed he’d told you,” said Saskia. “But if you and he don’t talk anymore…” She gave a winsome little shrug. “It’s hardly my fault if you’ve grown apart, is it?”

  “Wipe that smug look off your face,” said Petra. “Let’s get one thing straight. I know you’re fucking him, and I really don’t give a shit.”

  Caught off guard, Saskia blushed, her cheeks clashing horribly with her revolting T-shirt.

  “Men like a cheap thrill every once in a while.” Petra looked at her witheringly. “And let’s face it, thrills don’t come any cheaper than you.”

  “You bitch!” gasped Saskia.

  “Go on,” Petra called after her as she gathered up her things and ran out of the office. “Call him. See how much sympathy you get.”

  She wasn’t worried about Anton. Whining women bored him. It wouldn’t be long before he tired of a sniveling lump of lard like Saskia.

  But Lucas was another matter entirely. What was he doing here this morning? He was up to no good, she was sure of it.

  She was also sure that inviting him and Honor tomorrow was a mistake, and not just because Anton had done it behind her back. He wanted to gloat, to rub their noses in his success. Petra, of all people, could understand the impulse. But her gut told her that this time it was a wrong move.

  Keeping one’s enemies close was all very well. But Lucas was getting too close for comfort. Why wasn’t he in Europe, holed up with his lawyers? Something didn’t add up.

  Meanwhile, in London, Sian tried hard to be patient with the moron at the Virgin check-in desk.

  “Look,” she said, willing herself to keep calm as the girl took out a nail file and started ostentatiously fiddling with her cuticles. “Perhaps I haven’t explained the situation properly. I’m a journalist. I have a crucial interview in New York, and I have to make that flight. I’ll pay first class. I’ll pay cash.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a wad of notes and laid them on the counter to emphasize the point. “Can’t you ask anyone if they’d be willing to give up their seat for cash?”

  “Sorr-ay,” said the girl, who clearly wasn’t. “We can’t do that I’m afride.” She had striped blonde hair extensions, a fake tan that made Donatella Versace’s look real, and the sort of whiny, nasal voice that could double as a garage door opener.

  “Why not?” asked Sian. If she didn’t stop filing in the next ten seconds, Sian would be forced to reach over the desk and snap off her hideous French-polished talons one by one.

  The girl gave her a look of infinite boredom.

  “Policy, innit.”

  “I’d like to speak to a manager,” said Sian, ignoring the loud groans and mutterings of “bloody Americans” from the lengthening line of passengers behind her.

  “Fine,” said the moron. “You’ll ’ave to wite. Over there.”

  She pointed to a firmly closed check-in desk with a couple of plastic seats in front of it. Hopelessly, Sian shuffled over and took one of them.

  What a day.

  She’d been up at five this morning putting the final touches to her case against Anton, knowing that the slightest flaw in her evidence could bring the whole story crashing down around her ears. And it wasn’t just her ears anymore. Ben, Lucas, and now Honor Palmer as well were all deeply implicated in what they were about to do. The stakes couldn’t be higher.

  Having caved in to pressure from Ben and Lucas to ditch her trip to Azerbaijan, she’d spent the last three weeks in London trying to pull together information by phone and through face-to-face meetings with the large, disaffected community of Russian émigrés scattered all across the city. In all that time, she’d barely slept, rushing from interview to interview, tracking down ex-girlfriends, classmates, business associates—anyone who might be able to shed more light on the murky depths of Anton’s pre-London life. At night, bone tired, she’d returned to the dingy hotel in Marylebone where she’d been camping out since her fight with Lola and begun the arduous process of editing the new information she’d gleaned. But it had been worth it, worth every grueling, frustrating minute. At least, it would be worth it, if she made this flight. If she didn’t…no, she couldn’t bear to think about it. They had to let her on.

  Pulling out her cell phone, she scrolled down her address book, stopping at Ben’s name and allowing her finger to hover over the “call” button for a few seconds. She’d never have a better reason to call him—he was a personal friend of Richard Branson’s and would undoubtedly be able to pull the necessary strings—but she didn’t make the call. Ever since that night at his apartment, the night Lucas had kissed her and Lola had thrown her out of the apartment, she’d tried to keep her distance. At the time she’d lashed out at Lucas, blaming him for her falling out with Lola as well as for coming between her and Ben. But beneath her veneer of anger, his words kept coming back to her, haunting her far more than his unexpected (and unexpectedly pleasurable) kiss had done. If she really loved Ben, he told her, she wouldn’t ruin things for him and Bianca. She and Ben had never really been right for each other.

  All this time she’d been keeping alive a tiny flame of hope that, even if he did marry Bianca, he would wake up one day and realize that she, Sian, was the one. But Lucas was right. She’d been kidding herself all along. Ben didn’t need her. He needed someone calm and maternal and…all those other things Lucas said.

  She hated him for it, but Lucas had done her a favor and finally woken her up to reality. Ben had been with Bianca for years. He was going to marry her, and soon. Working with him on the story had been wonderful, magical. But it wasn’t reality. She’d been allowing herself to exist in a dream, and now she was going to have to pay the price.

  She was still staring at her cell when it rang, and jumped when she saw the word “Lucas” flash across the screen.

  “That’s serious ESP,” she said. “I was just about to call you.”

  “Is everything OK?” He sounded jumpy. Evidently she wasn’t the only one shitting herself about tomorrow.

  “I have everything we need,” she said. “It’s looking good. But I’m having a teeny little problem getting on the plane.”

  “What sort of problem?” said Lucas. “Can’t you speak to the manager or something?”

  “D’oh!” said Sian sarcastically. “Why didn’t I think of that? I’m at the airport, waiting for her right now, but there’s no sign. And the bimbo airhead at check-in won’t let me on the fucking flight for love nor money.”

  Sian could hear Lucas’s brain ticking into life on the other end of the line. As infuriating as she found him personally, she had to admit he’d been great to work with these last few weeks, pulling the various strands of their plan together with all the authority and cool-headedness of a field marshal.

  “Which airline?” he asked.

  “Virgin.”

  “Have you spoken to Ben?”

  “No,” she said softly.

>   “Well why not?” shouted Lucas.

  “Jeez, because I haven’t, OK?” Sian shouted back. She didn’t need shit on that subject, especially not from him.

  “OK, OK,” said Lucas more gently. “Put me on the line with the check-in girl.”

  “She won’t talk to you,” said Sian. “She’s a bitch and a half.”

  Just at that moment a dour-faced woman in a red Virgin jacket that did her florid complexion no favors at all, and whom Sian took to be the manager, waddled over.

  “Is there a problem, madam?”

  “Yes,” said Sian, thrusting the phone at her. “This gentleman will explain.”

  Lucas couldn’t have any worse luck than she’d been having.

  Thirty minutes later, she was kicking off her shoes in an Upper Class seat, sipping at a much-needed glass of champagne. Lucas’s magic touch with women was apparently just as effective over the phone as it was in person: he’d managed to sweet-talk the battle-ax Virgin supervisor in about ten seconds flat. Not that Sian was complaining. It was nice to have his legendary charm working in her favor for once.

  “Do I have time to make a quick call?” she asked the passing stewardess.

  “Of course,” the girl smiled helpfully. Evidently they reserved their moronic nail filers for the cattle-class check-in desk. “We won’t take off for fifteen minutes.”

  Simon Davis was passing a dull afternoon at his desk at the News of the World, alternately playing solitaire on his computer, picking his nose, and thinking up imaginary offenses for which he could bawl out his reporters, when his direct line rang.

  “What?” he barked, Rottweiler-friendly as ever. Belatedly recognizing Sian’s voice, he added, “Oh, it’s you. Haven’t you been deported yet?”

  But within a minute, his dismissiveness had gone, replaced with rapt attention. Sitting bolt upright, he leaned forward over his paper-strewn desk with the receiver superglued to his ear, waving at everyone around him to be quiet. One thing you could say for Simon: he might be a miserable bastard, but he knew a good scoop when he heard one.