Freya stopped speaking for a three-second beat, to make it abundantly clear she did the insults, not the other way around.
‘… There’s nothing on her IMDb page. So, yeah. Call me if you have anything more, otherwise no go. Ta.’
Click. Brrrr. Delia could pretend that conversation had never happened. However, since she became an involuntary informant, creating more situations that could bite her on the arse was not wise.
Delia rang Kurt and updated him on the troublesome but not unexpected burden of proof.
‘Horseshit. Say they can have a nice exclusive interview, photos and all. Tell them if they want to see the films, they can do a public appeal. See if anyone who bought homemade bongo in the East Midlands in the Noughties would like to come forward. And let us know how that goes for them. Har har.’
Delia rang off, deeply downhearted. She was between a rock and a hard place. As she’d sensed from the start, conveying Kurt’s nonsense to the press was not easy.
A bout of fretful procrastination was necessary before steeling herself to doing humiliating battle with Freya again. Worst of all, she had no one to commiserate with – Steph was out doing her silent sidekick duties with a new Twist & Shout client.
She opened her email and told Peshwari Naan of her woes. It was ripe stuff, but the Naan didn’t colour inside the lines himself.
Tricky. You think they know it’s not true? PN
It’s stranger and more complicit than that: they probably know full well it’s not true. The deal is, we have to give them enough ‘proof’ that they can say they did believe it, if there’s any fall out from it. Plausible deniability. D
Hmmm. Then how about a link to the website for the defunct adult film distributor? PN
That would be good – there is no distributor though, and no website. D
DERK! Keep up. What if there WAS one? Do you see? PN
… Not really? D
I could knock you one up. PN
You can do that?! You’d do that for me? D
Emphatic yes times two. I think I owe you a favour. And as I’m off this week, you’ll have it in no time. PN
Delia was starting to have serious affection for this man-slash-oven-baked flatbread. She and the Naan traded ideas about the site design and she felt as if she was actually doing something creative and useful, however bizarre and twisted it might be.
When Kurt and Steph came back to the office, she said, casually: ‘I’ve got a friend who’s a bit of an IT genius who owes me a favour. He suggested he puts together a landing page for the film distributor for Sophie. What do you think?’
Kurt made a ‘why not’ face. ‘Sounds good. Let’s see what he comes up with.’
A few hours later, Peshwari Naan sent a very humble ‘Is this OK?’ link to a completely plausible, Technicolor tacky, cleverly outmoded and highly detailed fake distributor website, complete with spoofed versions of real films.
Howard’s Ending was Delia’s favourite, but Ed Gets Wood and Schlong Good Friday deserved honourable mentions.
On the list of actresses was one ‘Sophie Sweeney’, her suggested former alter ego. Delia called Kurt over to see it and watched with a strange satisfaction as he did a double take.
‘Shazam. And this is some friend of yours? Does he want a job?’ Delia belatedly realised the cost: Kurt would want the Naan effect again.
As Kurt wandered off, she emailed her effusive thanks, amazement and admiration.
All in an honest day’s work! Or a dishonest one. But, it’s done and hope it helps PN
Delia emailed ‘does this help’ to Freya, who came right back: Thanks for this. We’d like to arrange an interview with Sophie.
Across the room, Kurt was doing overarm bowling gestures.
‘Sophie’s OK to talk about this in an interview?’ Delia said. Kurt wasn’t kidding when he said they’d learn how he worked.
‘She’s an actress,’ Kurt winked.
Delia felt like she needed a shower; but in work rather than moral terms, it was definitely one of those big wins that Emma had been talking about. Even when values had been turned upside down, the instinct to please the person who paid your wages stayed in place.
And maybe as time went on, Delia would be able to shape and handle events so that fake-a-roo web pages weren’t required?
But a couple of hours later, she might’ve known who’d be the day’s Captain Buzzkill – in like a bullet to her Gmail by 5.30 p.m.
Hi Delores!
So here’s a rum thing. I’ve been shooting the shit with my friend Freya over on the Mirror and she tells me about this SLIGHTLY WHIFFY story about an actress who’s suddenly got this new past making blue movies. Imagine my surprise when she mentioned the PR firm behind it! And your name! What a fine accomplishment.
Anyway, like all great predators, my vision is based on movement, and it reminded me that we should meet up. How’s tomorrow?
Adam
Adam. I couldn’t care less what you think. OK, tomorrow, but nowhere central this time, and after 5.30. Delia (that’s ‘Delia’)
The forecast tomorrow is for sunshine. How about Hyde Park, by Speakers’ Corner at six? Adam (that’s ‘Herr Adam’)
In the mellowing heat of the early June evening, low sun filtering through the trees, Delia found the right spot at Hyde Park.
People wearing much less than her rollerbladed past, creating a pleasant breeze. Delia hadn’t quite nailed dressing for London. Everything had to cross longer distances and straddle more occasions; nipping home and coming back out again wasn’t an option.
Delia steam-cooked in her black popper-studded body, which reminded her of her old ballet leotards, floral midi skirt and opaque footless tights.
Ten minutes passed; Adam West was late. She had a ripple of apprehension – was he playing her? She put nothing past him. Then out of the periphery of her vision, she saw him waving at her.
He was in rolled-up pale blue shirtsleeves, buying ice creams from a van.
‘Sorry, I had an urge. Funny Foot?’ he said, holding two Elastoplast-pink lollies, brandishing one at Delia when she reached him.
‘No thanks,’ she said, arms folded.
‘Ah, you miserable sod! It’s going to melt and dribble down my hand now. Who doesn’t like a Funny Foot?’
‘Me.’
‘Liar. You don’t like me, it’s not the Foot’s fault.’
‘I wonder why I don’t have warm feelings towards the man trying to lose me my job,’ Delia said.
‘I’m not!’ Adam said, through his first mouthful of ice cream. ‘I’m endangering you keeping your job as a by-product of getting what I want. Gedditright.’
Delia sighed and then, hating herself for her love of ice cream and dislike of food waste, swiped the lolly from his left hand.
Adam grinned.
‘Let’s do a walk and talk and eat.’
If the ice cream was a device to make her feel even more compromised, it was working. It was difficult for Delia to maintain any sort of hauteur as she gnawed the toes off.
As they entered the park, a group of women with a picnic basket passed them. Delia noticed all eyes move to Adam. Then to her, and back again, trying to figure out why Mr Blond Ambition was with a grumpy-looking busty ginger in leg-shortening hosiery.
‘What have you been doing today then? Apart from basking in the glow of faking Sophie thingy’s porn career? The website was slick work, by the way. I think I’d have enjoyed Piledriving Miss Daisy more than the original.’
‘Are you doing a piece on Sophie? Because you said “no showbiz” when we met. Was that not true?’
‘I’m merely making conversation.’
‘Then I’d rather not discuss it.’
‘I have seen the client list you know, being ultra-Masonic isn’t necessary. Hey, how’s Marvyn Le Roux doing? I loved the plan to make him “bigger than Derren Brown”, haha. Marvyn looks like someone who’d wave a rubber chicken around Longleat Center Parcs.’
/> Marvyn had been Kurt and Steph’s meeting the day before. Steph reported he had a waxed quiff, watery eyes and kept finding coins behind her ear. Kurt wanted him to claim borderline supernatural powers off the back of a few weak parlour tricks.
‘… Squeaky charlatan. Be wary of him and his and you’re back in the room routine. I hear he likes his bananas green.’
Delia frowned. ‘I’m not a green banana. I’m lightly browning, if anything.’
Adam guffawed.
‘I more meant be on your guard in general, as his rep. Did you persuade any casinos to ban him for doing a Rainman routine at a table in the end?’
‘Do I have to tell you, or is this optional too?’
‘Yeah,’ Adam said, producing a paper napkin from his pocket and wiping away melted ice cream from his left hand, ‘I’m not much bothered about Marvyn, per se. I’m sure Kurt wouldn’t be either, if Marvyn wasn’t scion of a Scottish shortbread biscuit fortune.’
Adam handed her a paper napkin and she accepted it, without thanks.
‘Is he?’ Delia said, forgetting she perhaps shouldn’t show she knew less about a client than Adam West. ‘Le Roux isn’t a very Scottish heir name.’
Adam looked at her with pop eyes and burst out laughing.
‘You think Marvyn Le Roux is his REAL name? You do kill me, Dina.’
‘My fucking name is Delia!’
‘Your fucking name. One Funny Foot and you’re anyone’s, eh. Yeah, I think he calculated that saying hoots mon, what you’re about to see will confound your very eyes as Tavish McTartan wasn’t going to have the same effect.’
Despite her anger, Adam’s terrible Scottish accent made this even funnier and Delia broiled and tried not to laugh. This man really did not deserve her laughter.
‘How was I to know it wasn’t his real name?’
‘It’s so obviously a twirly-wurly silly abrakebabra magician name.’
‘I’m not as cynical as you.’
‘Well, working for Spicer, you need to be. Given Marvyn’s a flagrant no-hoper, Kurt will have other uses for him and his money. And I’ll tell you something, Kurt Spicer won’t be his real name either. Kurt Spicer. It hardly has the ring of reality. He’s been through more reinventions than David Bowie, I’m sure.’
Delia threw her lolly stick and napkin into a handy bin and said, ‘Can we speed this up to the part where you ask me something you want to know?’
‘I want you to keep an ear out for any political figures you might be working with. They’re not names currently in your strategy folder. Let me know what’s said.’
‘That’s it?’ Delia said, suspiciously.
‘For now, that’s it.’
She sensed that Adam was stringing this out to torment her.
‘Apart from one other thing.’
Delia’s shoulders sagged.
They’d done a small circuit, bringing them back towards the street again. Adam turned to face her.
‘The stunt with Sophie. That sort of thing works once, twice, maybe several times, if you can pull websites out of your backside. Sooner or later, one of these tall tales comes apart. You’re left with a serious problem going back to that journalist, or anyone else they’ve talked to. You get blackballed. This industry is still small enough for reputations to matter.’
‘You’re telling me this, why?’
‘As a word to the unwise.’
Delia looked at the idyllic scene around them. Why was she being lied to all the time? Why had she got herself into the position of telling so many? She felt so … soiled by it all. Delia couldn’t trust anyone.
She looked at Adam levelly.
‘You turn up being snotty with me in Balthazar, you steal a file and hold me to ransom over it. Today it’s walks in the park and ice creams and advice. How come?’
Adam West didn’t have a ready reply, for once. He shrugged.
‘I expected to meet someone with the soul of a crow but I increasingly get the feeling you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into. You may turn into a crow yet. For now, I’m prepared to issue a friendly warning.’
‘That’s generous of you. What I’d like more is for you to release me from this arrangement so I don’t get sacked.’
‘No can do, I’m afraid.’
‘Then you can shove your friendly warnings.’
Adam shrugged and smiled. His phone started to buzz and, fishing it out of his pocket, he answered it, mouthed ‘bye’ and sauntered off, chatting.
Delia watched him go, trying to decide what she thought of him in return. She felt exploited but not truly angry any more. Adam had joshed her too much for that. But she remained worried at what they were building towards, and felt the need to get ahead of it.
As she walked back to the Tube, Delia had a glimmer of a hopeful thought. Adam West was equally in the position of forewarning her on his angle of attack.
Perhaps she could use him? Delia Moss: triple agent. She wasn’t helpless. She was enjoying working with Steph too, she’d not had a friend at the office in years. Peshwari Naan was a solid constant as well, given his ubiquity online.
Back at Emma’s, she picked up her pen and sketchpad, grinning to herself as the characters emerged from the canvas.
This was the magic of The Fox – it helped her focus and gather herself, it told an inspirational story. It showed her what to aim for.
When it came to overtime, if you had to do it, you might as well pull it by dining in the latest hot restaurant with its ‘reservations currently on lockdown’.
The menu at Apricity was astonishingly expensive in more than one way: thick leaves of cotton-soft paper with gold embossed curly writing.
It began with the enigmatic:
Apricity (n.) obsolete
From the Latin aprīcitās, ‘warmed by the sun’
Glad that’s clear, Delia thought.
There seemed much more of the menu than was necessary, too. To get to the food, you had to get past Our Ethos and How To Eat and Sources & Inspiration. It quoted ‘let food be thy medicine’ and stated a mission to ‘heal as well as nourish’ that Delia thought was taking on responsibilities beyond its jurisdiction.
Kurt squinted at it through his glasses.
‘I thought I was coming out for dinner, not joining a cult.’
Once they found the selection of dishes, the menu suddenly became economical with words, as economical as the unadorned straight-edged steel-and-wood dining room.
So you had ‘Duck Eggs: Three Ways’.
That was it.
‘Boiled, scrambled and fried?’ Delia suggested and Kurt guffawed.
‘Were you and your fella big on eating out? Foodies?’ He sipped his mineral water.
‘We liked eating out, I’m not sure I’d say we were foodies. We had a rule of thumb that if a restaurant didn’t have a dried flower arrangement in the window, we’d give it a whirl.’
Kurt laughed again.
‘You split up because he’d been sleeping with someone else?’
Delia was shocked and wondered if Steph had told Kurt. He registered her surprise and added: ‘It was likely going to be you or him playing away, and it wasn’t you, because you’re here.’
Delia nodded into her own water glass and scanned the menu again.
‘You know what you should do? Sleep with someone else.’
Delia suddenly found the details of where Apricity ‘hand foraged’ its marsh samphire fascinating. ‘Mmm?’
‘Seriously, Red. It’s the only way you put things back on an even keel. Revenge. An eye for an eye. I’m a big Old Testament man. People have lost sight of how much sense it makes.’
‘Maybe because everyone has taken each others’ eyes.’
‘Haha! Droll. You’re a dry one, aren’t you?’ There was that wolfish look again. ‘You’re only young. Plenty of grass to flatten yet, girl.’
Delia was deeply relieved when the sommelier arrived with the wine. After pouring, swirling, sipping, nodding, th
ey re-tasked themselves to choosing the food.
‘Emu meatballs.’ Kurt shook his head. ‘I’ve come halfway round the world to avoid that stringy bollocks. Emus have got long thin legs and run a lot. If you were a cannibal, would you kill Usain Bolt?’
Delia grinned. Kurt’s dander was up now. He got the attention of one of the waiting staff, all twenty-something and looking like they’d walked off a runway. Dressed in crisp white shirts, they were wreathed in the sort of beatific smiles people usually wear before asking you if you’re aware that He Is Risen.
A honey-haired beauty floated over and politely inclined her head as Kurt tapped the parchment page in front of him.
‘It says here “cockerel yoghurt”. Help a bitch. How exactly do you milk a cockerel?’
‘You massage its coxcomb until it emits liquid, which is then added to our homemade hung yoghurt. It’s like a very unusual tangy cheese.’
Kurt’s face was a picture.
Delia had to press the menu against her mouth to stop herself from laughing.
‘Do you not think in all the many years of humans roaming this earth and feeding themselves, there’s a reason why they never thought, “I know, I’ll rub a rooster until some shit squirts out?”’
Delia was shaking now. The waitress smiled the smile of someone who knows that the son of God walks among us and all will be light.
‘Apricity is a completely unique experience.’
‘So was the Vietnam War.’
Kurt glowered over the menu, and he and Delia made their choices by pure guesswork.
‘And my wife and I would like another bottle of water,’ Kurt winked, and Delia felt mildly alarmed. He’d insisted Delia accompany as ‘more age-appropriate’ for him than Steph.
A ripple went round the room and one Gideon Coombes stalked into the dining room as casually as if it was his own lounge, taking a table with a rotund male friend in the window. Gideon and his companion were trussed up like Wodehousian dandies: pocket squares and waistcoats.
Staff appeared round them like a swarm of bees and Gideon issued instructions with a flick of his wrist, snapping the menu shut.
‘How many people are in on this?’ Delia hissed, under her breath.
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