It's Not Me, It's You

by Mhairi McFarlane

  As she walked into the coffee shop, she could clearly hear Lionel’s voice: ‘What an absolutely stupendous pair of natties your secretary has on her. I’d like to see the launch of those torpedoes on my HMS Dreadnought.’

  Delia’s face flared and she shuddered, glad that Kurt’s response was lost to traffic noise.

  Lionel Blunt was a bon viveur and raconteur – and other euphemisms for ‘functioning alcoholic’. He was also a ‘social diarist’ and columnist; his weekly ‘Blunt Speaking’ in the Telegraph was what could politely be termed divisive.

  He had now turned MP for The Albion Party, hoping to soon win a by-election in Eastleigh Central. Pro-hunting, anti-smoking ban, anti-Europe, anti-immigration, pro-saturated fats, the military and cricket, Lionel was a libertarian.

  Except, it seemed, when it came to ‘These shameless hordes of wrong ’uns and botters, mincing around as bold as brass,’ as he described two men with mohawks in fluoro fishnet t-shirts across the street, muttering: ‘Thank God there are some real men left in this country to fight our wars.’

  Delia liked the idea that our shores would be better protected by asthmatic old roué Lionel.

  The forty-five minutes that Delia spent in his company made her feel as though she’d met a relic of the past, and like outdoor toilets and potted tongue, a bit of the past you’d be happy to leave there.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Lionel said, swirling his second brandy with the stem of the glass between forefingers, ‘the bloody commies in their coloured strides and cheap shoes over at Broadcasting House love to stir up a fuss over nothing. I was at a fête in Amersham last weekend and did a speech. Absolutely roaring reception. Yet the media picks up on one bloody joke and the puritans started shrieking about my plain speaking …’

  ‘Which joke …?’ said Delia.

  Lionel ground his fag out, and lit another.

  ‘I said I’d be more in favour of female MPs if there weren’t so many heavy-calved matrons of the shire who remind me of my Nanny Bootle. Believe me, if you’d met Nanny Bootle you’d understand why. The woman’s face could sour milk. And the less said of the rest of her, the better. Let’s just say painting a face on her arse and teaching her to walk backwards would’ve been a fool’s errand.’

  Delia’s eyes widened. This man was running for political office?

  ‘Don’t worry, my darling,’ Lionel said, seeing she was disconcerted, patting her knee, cigarette clamped between his teeth. ‘You’re an irresistible bouncy castle party for any red-blooded gent.’

  His eyes slithered south to Delia’s chest. ‘Don’t count on his vote though.’ He nodded towards a man in cycling shorts and a crop top bearing the words Put A Donk On It.

  Delia sat in mute shock. The idea was, to use Kurt language, to ‘throw some glitter’ and ‘valourise’ Lionel Blunt’s image.

  Whatever spectacle Kurt was cooking up to make Lionel more cuddly – Delia thought it was as much use as putting deely-boppers on a crocodile and calling it Miriam – the circle of trust was being kept very small indeed. Even around Delia, they were circumspect about the particulars. Lionel and Kurt discussed timings and location for some future meeting, but no specifics whatsoever.

  After the manly handshakes, and Delia enduring a frog-like wet kiss on the back of her hand, she tried to probe her boss to find out precisely what the plans were.

  ‘Wait and see,’ Kurt said. ‘It might be my best yet.’

  For best, Delia read worst, and swallowed a sense of foreboding.

  The unseasonal summer rain continued all week. Delia rather liked the combination of steamy heat, forbidding skies, atmospheric gloom and rainforest downpour. Although it was best admired with a drink, through a window, admittedly.

  A text from Adam said it was time to meet, and he wanted to discuss Lionel Blunt. Delia thought, well, good luck – I know barely more than nothing about The Blunt Plan. She just hoped it didn’t involve him speaking.

  They met in an independent cinema in Borough at seven, Delia accepting Adam’s reasoning that that was where one traditionally met to covertly swap information. Despite herself, Delia quite liked the idea of sliding into an empty matinee of Dial M for Murder, holding a paper bag.

  The Roxy Bar & Screen only delivered on lighting levels, otherwise it was well populated. Delia had invested in a bright yellow raincoat, today thrown over her white cotton sundress she got for a fiver from Oxfam, and felt like a luminescent traffic cop in the middle of the dark room.

  Its tables were low lit with lamps, speakeasy-style, and crimson swags of curtain, like the dancing midget set in Twin Peaks. A screen at the back played Scarface while people knocked back cocktails and ate leaking burgers the size of their heads. Delia made a note to come back here for a better reason. It was one of those pockets of London that made her feel part of things.

  She ordered a beer, found a seat in the bar area and pulled her hair to one side, wringing it out like a twisted bedsheet.

  Adam appeared on the other side of the murky room.

  It seemed he’d been holding a newspaper over his head as a makeshift umbrella, and now threw it down and put both hands to his own wet hair. He shrugged himself out of his coat, and pulled the damp shirt underneath away from himself, leaning forward. Delia found herself oddly transfixed by this scene, set to muted movie dialogue. She held her bottle of beer up to indicate ‘Got one’ and he nodded.

  Adam finished at the bar, crossed the room and sat down with his own bottle, slinging the sodden coat onto a spare chair.

  ‘You need towelling off like a dog,’ Delia said, without thinking, at low volume.

  ‘“Towelling off like a dog” is on the menu at a sauna near my office,’ Adam said, equally quietly. He shot her a grin.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he added.

  He said this so simply and sincerely that Delia could only safely reply: ‘Hmmm.’

  And then continued: ‘It’s obligatory to see you.’

  OK, he might be being more emollient but Adam hadn’t played fair from the start. She was here because he’d forced her.

  Adam laughed, stifling the sound with a swig of beer.

  This was it, this was the problem. Every time she tried to insult Adam and remind them both they were implacable adversaries, he found her amusing. It was him giggling in Hyde Park over useless Scottish magicians, all over again and it totally undermined her. It spoke, Delia decided primly, of a fundamental lack of respect.

  ‘If it’s a punishment I best get to the point. Lionel Blunt, then. Go.’

  ‘How do you know we’re working with him?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ Adam said. ‘A girl’s got to have some mystery. Blunt’s as wholesome as churned farmhouse butter, isn’t he?’

  Delia screwed up her face. In a raised whisper, she told Adam about some of Lionel’s more prehistoric opinions, with vague allusion to his approval of Delia as a Twist & Shout ‘asset’.

  ‘Y’see, I know it’s no secret I’m not a fan of your boss, but even so, how shit is it that he’s letting you be spoken to like that by a male client? Condoning workplace harassment, or what.’

  There was a pause. Adam twitched at the label on his beer bottle. ‘Has Kurt made any more attempts on your honour?’

  Delia shook her head.

  ‘That’s something, I guess.’

  ‘We’re dating,’ Delia said, poker-faced.

  Adam’s jaw dropped. ‘Please to God tell me you’re kidding.’

  ‘Haha!’ Delia giggled, beer hissing in her gut.

  ‘I know you hate me, I didn’t think you hated yourself.’

  They both hush-laughed now, Delia checking that no one seemed to mind them potentially interfering with Al Pacino.

  She was in danger of liking Adam West, if she didn’t keep a close eye on herself. Obviously some sort of Stockholm Syndrome was going on, given that she shouldn’t even be here.

  Delia remonstrated with herself: he knows he’s charming and plausible! This is
what Men Who Sleep With Everyone do! She might’ve been long out of the game, yet she could remember the basic rules of engagement. Your Shakespearean archetypes. These men pay a particular interest, slyly start to make you feel special. You’re enchanted into taking your clothes off, like some kind of masculine hypnotism. Then the next morning they’re whistling ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ while fastening their cufflinks and promising to add you on their Facebook fan page.

  Not that she thought for a second that Adam wanted to sleep with her, but whatever it is Sex Men are pursuing, the methods remain the same.

  Turning it back to business, Delia outlined the little she knew about Lionel. Adam noted down a date, time and a location, before clicking his pen and pocketing his notebook.

  ‘If you happen to appear there, it’s going to look very dodgy,’ Delia said, nerves returning. ‘If it’s only me, Kurt and Lionel who know, it’s not going to take long to work it out. Are you going to intervene?’

  ‘Trust me to be discreet. I got you out of the Cock & Tail corner, didn’t I? He won’t know it was you.’

  ‘Sounds like a risk.’

  ‘It does carry a risk, but I think you’ll be OK. You’re going to have to trust me.’

  ‘Why do you have it in for Kurt? It feels quite personal.’

  ‘You’re ready for the full unexpurgated Kurt?’

  Delia prickled. She wasn’t, really.

  ‘So Maryvn Le Roux, the world’s most useless magician who couldn’t pull a rabbit out of a rabbit hutch …’

  Delia’s eyebrows shot up. Of all Twist & Shout’s clients, she thought of him as the most harmless.

  ‘His very wealthy Caledonian family, the McGraws, made their fortune in biscuits. They have a number of additional interests – one of them is a company called Lively Later Life. Retirement complexes. There’s a few in Scotland, now looking to expand into England.’

  Delia nodded.

  ‘Lively Later Life is bidding to take over the running of two care homes from the local authority in Lionel Blunt’s constituency. Surprisingly enough, Lionel Blunt has been busy extolling the virtues of efficient private ownership to local media. If this follows the pattern of escapades Kurt has been involved in previously on the other side of the world, I think I know why. Kurt is acting as go-between and giving bungs to Blunt from the McGraws to help wave their application through. Kurt will also be rewarded himself, obviously. Lively Later Life aren’t considered the height of luxury, to put it mildly. Look them up, lots of gory stories about prison conditions. “The McGrawshank Redemption” is one nickname doing the rounds in Fife. Poor Stan and Betty are the losers while everyone else greases their palms with gold. I guess at least they’ll never be short of biscuits.’

  ‘Can’t you report the conflict of interests, that Lionel Blunt and Marvyn have the same PR?’

  Adam shrugged. ‘Marvyn has nothing to do with his family’s firm. It’s mere coincidence, unless you can prove money’s changed hands. Which I can’t, at the present time. The outcome of the bids is decided next month, so it’s on a clock.’

  Delia thought about elderly people trapped in grimy cells, and her small part in it, and her innards gave a lurch. ‘How do you know what Kurt was doing in Australia?’

  Adam sipped some more beer. She had an odd sense of seeing him properly for the first time. Adam’s manner was devil-may-care flippant, but the image didn’t match up with the interior. She realised he was quite angry, and yes, principled.

  ‘In my youth, I got a trainee job on the business desk at the Sydney Morning Herald. I took an interest in Kurt, poked around in a few things he was involved with. Next thing I know, I’m in the deputy editor’s office being told I haven’t fitted in. I was halfway to the airport when the penny dropped that it was Kurt. Not least because he sent me a farewell message, crowing about it. Presumably he had something on someone at the paper … I was so proud of getting that job, too. My visa depended on it, so that was that. It was a real tail-between-legs moment, coming home so soon. I’d been a bit of a tearaway, my mum thought it was a turning point.’ Adam paused, to shake off his seriousness. ‘Anyway. Imagine my delight when he resurfaced here, Debra.’

  Delia felt for him. She hadn’t thought of Adam as someone with parents and obligations and real proper feelings until now.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me about this at the start? You said you were interested in consumer clients. Then you said you weren’t fussed about Marvyn.’

  ‘Ah, well …’ Adam did one of his boyish grins. ‘Excuse my cynicism. I had a suspicion you might turn triple agent on me and tell Kurt what I was inquiring after.’

  Delia recalled the Hyde Park meet. Yes, she might’ve done that.

  Adam moved his chair so some people could move on to the table next to them. Their proximity necessitated a shift in the conversation away from sensitive topics.

  ‘Why did you leave journalism?’ Delia asked.

  ‘Oh, ouch.’

  ‘Newspapers, I mean!’

  ‘One morning I found myself writing a feature about food exports with the opening line: The California-led craze for kale isn’t dying down anytime soon. And I thought: enough. This wasn’t the kind of crusading reportage I imagined I’d be doing back when I was in my kipper tie and bell bottoms on the Scunthorpe Target, sexually harassing secretaries and smoking B&H at my desk.’

  ‘Haha. You were never on the Scunthorpe Target …?’

  ‘… And that’s the only part that doesn’t ring true?’ Adam tipped the bottle neck to his mouth. ‘You’re such a bitch.’

  Delia smiled.

  ‘Can you really make enough money from online journalism?’

  ‘For now, it’s enough.’ Adam shrugged. ‘Early days for the site, small staff.’

  ‘At first I thought you were a shouty kind of blog, but Unspun is more thorough and professional than that?’

  ‘Yes, it isn’t just me banging a drum, on WordPress. Thanks for noticing,’ Adam said, rolling his eyes, smiling. ‘I think of it as the News in Depth bit of a paper. We’re not always strictly topical. We can follow our own interests and leads. Hence the name.’

  Delia nodded.

  ‘You’re all with the questions, suddenly,’ Adam said, leaning back and regarding her before taking another swig from his bottle.

  ‘Making conversation, as you say. Who runs it? Who’s your boss?’

  ‘He prefers not to be named. He’s your stereotypical reclusive billionaire benefactor.’ Adam smiled. ‘What are your long-term plans, then? Back to Newcastle?’

  Delia gulped and shook her head.

  ‘Things definitely over with the ex?’ Adam’s expression showed he’d spoken his thoughts aloud and he looked momentarily embarrassed. ‘Sorry, don’t mean to pry.’

  Delia gave him a tight smile.

  ‘I had a blinder of a weekend up north where I bumped into my ex’s bit on the side. Right after my dog had to be put down.’

  For a split second, Delia thought it was safe to mention Parsnip. It took one second more to discover it wasn’t. Her eyes brimmed and she was desperately grateful for the low lighting.

  ‘Oh. Shit. Sorry.’ Adam put a hand on her arm and then moved it away again immediately.

  Delia had to do deep breathing and rapid swallowing to move past the tears and Adam said, in a moment of authentic charm and consideration, ‘Should I talk nonsense for a short while? Erm … is it safe to show you a cat photo?’

  Delia smiled gratefully and nodded vigorously. She watched him scroll through photos, head bent, iPhone in palm, old-fashioned watch with a brown leather strap. Nice hands. He was attractive, she supposed. If you liked that kind of thing.

  ‘So here’s my secret love,’ Adam said. He turned the phone screen to display an obese tortoiseshell cat being held under its front legs, an acreage of white stomach on show above dangling back legs. ‘Stuart.’

  Delia was nearing being able to talk again.

  ‘He’s a fat knacker m
y twin sister adopted from a rescue centre. He stole poppadoms from my hand last time we got takeaway curry. Moments later he runs back in from the kitchen with bright orange whiskers and we realise he’s been motorboating the tandoori chicken.’

  Delia laughed.

  ‘Another beer?’ Adam said politely, when their bottles only had foamy dregs.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to get off. And this is our last meeting, by the way,’ she said, with a smile. ‘You’ve got what you wanted.’

  Delia was glad she’d resolved to say this, in advance. She could feel herself getting a little too comfortable with this smooth frenemy. Time to show Adam she wasn’t his toy. He was still, however much for a good cause, putting her job at risk.

  ‘Oh,’ said Adam frowning, briefly lost for words. ‘… I thought I called time on this?’

  ‘I’m calling time.’ Or rather, your bluff.

  Adam made a hmmm face.

  ‘What if I call Kurt and tell him about the folder?’

  ‘You won’t,’ Delia said, confident she had this one; she’d done her sums, and Emma had said the same. It had a time limit. ‘If you’ll save me from his advances, you won’t get him to sack me.’

  ‘Remember, I think being employed by him is only marginally more acceptable than being scuttled by him.’

  Delia shook her head: ‘This is a fair trade, I’ve done what you asked. Also, I know your secret,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’ Adam was wary.

  ‘You’re kind.’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘A compliment from Delia Moss. There’s a first. Nice working with you.’ He put out a hand for Delia to shake.

  She shook it, and couldn’t think of anything better to say than: ‘Enjoy the rest of your life.’

  Adam looked slightly unsettled, and she got the impression he didn’t like Delia calling the shots. Typical male ego.

  As she walked to the Tube, spattered with mizzle as the rain made up its mind, an Evening Standard bill on a street corner almost stopped Delia in her tracks. It mentioned drug mules. Her mouth dropped open.