by Fiona Walker
‘You’re in love with someone else?’
‘Mine is a lost cause.’ Kizzy nodded miserably. ‘In secret we met, in silence I grieve.’ Quoting Byron, she hiccupped and excused herself to go to the loo again.
Byron the namesake terrier was still snoring loudly on the sofa, emitting contented puttering noises from his dewlaps one end and occasional gentle parping Stilton farts from the other.
Yawning, Legs thought how much simpler it would be to share her life with a dog. She and Francis had talked often of their dream puppy, a blue-eyed Husky. They had even thought up pretentious literary names: Virginia Woolf if it was a girl, von Goethe for a boy. The nursery slope to raising a family together; childish make-believe befitting of their childhood romance, now lost in growing up and growing apart.
There’s had been a Peter Pan love, she reflected wretchedly. She’d once imagined it would never change, never grow old, but the truth was that it remained trapped in childhood. Then Wendy had run away with Captain Hook, which had been a terrible mistake. And now Tinkerbell was locked in her bathroom here.
Heading through to her little kitchen to put on the kettle, she picked up her phone from the surface and scrolled messages, more friends checking her whereabouts and wellbeing.
Francis 21.54.
There was his name. She felt cold and sweaty with remorse just at the sight of it, glancing towards the bathroom door to check Kizzy was still inside. Then she touched his name on the screen with a shaking thumb.
Bloody Jamie-go causing mutiny. Can you call him off? He likes you. If not, I will feed him nuts. Need you back so badly. Please say the word. ILY xxx
As she reread it, three things leaped out at her. But it wasn’t the kisses, nor the ILY. It was those three words ‘He likes you’. Byrne liked her. She felt as though wings had sprouted to lift her three feet off the floor. Oh, what a mess.
‘That’s such a cool phone.’
She jumped in shock, dropping it back on the counter as Kizzy came out of the bathroom, yawning widely. She looked so pretty and young, a long red plait trailing from her bandana and snaking over one shoulder. She’d make a wonderful classic heroine, Legs decided, perhaps in a Thomas Hardy or a George Eliot.
‘Would you mind terribly if I slept on your sofa?’ Kizzy asked sheepishly. ‘I can’t face the night bus back to Docklands, and I promise I’ll be gone first thing.’
‘Sure,’ Legs looked at Byron warily. ‘Shouldn’t we take him out to a lamp-post?’
‘Oh, he’ll be fine,’ Kizzy was already snuggling into the cushions, pulling a fake fur throw over herself. ‘He has the bladder of a camel.’
Legs was too distracted by Francis’s text message to argue, bolting into her bedroom and cranking the window up as far as it would go in the wake of Ros’s many security locks so that she could gulp a little fresh air. It was hotter and closer than ever.
Picking up her bedside reading to fan herself, she remembered Byrne saying the Ptolemy Finch books were formulaic.
He likes you.
She fanned her face faster.
Having known Francis since he was a boy, she had always found it difficult to see the man. Meeting Byrne, it was equally hard for her to imagine the little boy Poppy had abandoned. He seemed so evolved and adult, layer upon layer of depth and cleverness marking out his unique character.
He likes you.
‘Friendship is love without wings,’ she breathed, book held aloft like a flying bird.
Gordon Lapis had an extraordinary ability to write about friendship. Ptolemy and Purple were symbiotic, fiercely loyal and the closest of allies. They had been through scrapes and escapades, survived almost certain death many times, showing incredible allegiance and trust. Sometimes they argued – Ptolemy was an opinionated sort and Purple’s recklessness bordered on lunacy at times – but friendship always won through.
Suddenly Legs slammed the book shut in recognition.
She had a word to tell Francis. If her phone was to hand she would text him it right now. Purple.
She sat up excitedly. She had been agonising so much over her feelings for him, but the way forward was in fact incredibly simple.
Friendship. Legs and Francis had the makings of the very best of friendships. She couldn’t wait to make it work. She just hoped she could keep Tolly the car.
Chapter 27
Despite setting three alarms, Legs overslept again the next day. Her head pounded more than ever as she stumbled around getting dressed, although she’d hardly touched a drop of wine last night. The empty bottle lined up on the kitchen surface was entirely down to the redheaded guest sleeping on her sofa. That guest now woke with a start as Legs trod in something wet and let out a shriek.
The dog with the bladder of a camel had, it seemed, created several wet oases of wee on the basement flat’s seagrass carpeting overnight and deposited a small and very smelly poo on the doormat.
‘Oh, hell.’ Still bleary-eyed, Kizzy started flapping about ineffectually underfoot with a roll of kitchen towel and a bottle of Cif. In the end, Legs was forced to abandon her in the flat, telling her to let herself out. She hoped Ros didn’t find her there. She also hoped Kizzy didn’t snoop in the tea chest in the bedroom which contained all the photo albums of her Francis years, along with his love letters, her diaries and more personal keepsakes.
‘I’ll buy you lunch to say sorry!’ Kizzy called after her as she made her escape, carrying the doormat, poo and all.
Depositing it stealthily in the council’s dog waste container at the end of the road, Legs headed for the bus stop. She then had to wait so long for her bus that she had ample opportunity to watch two local dog walkers stop by the bin and point furiously at the Welcome mat poking out.
‘Did you see anybody fly-tipping in the poop scoop bin?’ one asked Legs as she sat fiddling with her phone, red-faced.
‘Gosh, how dreadful,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t see a thing.’
You’ll get struck down for your lies, she thought as she reread Francis’s text from the previous night. In hindsight, she was glad that she hadn’t had her phone to hand during her friendship epiphany. She doubted he would have quite grasped the ‘Purple!’ moment as she had. He’d probably have thought she was going on about cars again.
Instead, she now lamely texted What has Byrne done?, and stared at the words ‘he likes you’ until her bus finally arrived.
Staring out of the window as sun-baked west London slid by, she tried to envisage Byrne causing mutiny. Perhaps he was stoking discontent among the estate workers? There was something heroically Tolpuddle Martyr about him. But she could hardly imagine the assorted band of Farcombe retainers rioting.
The bus brakes hissed to a halt at traffic lights just as Francis’s name lit up her phone screen. Outside the window, a pneumatic drill drowned out the ‘Teenage Kicks’ ringtone.
‘Hello?’ she yelled as she took the call.
‘… Poppy to the pub … Dad there … pissed … ended up … huge fight …’
This time, Legs was the one unable to hear the conversation. She covered her free ear to blot out the hammering kanga. ‘Are you saying your father and Poppy have had a fight?’
‘Jamie … started out … war of words … got nasty … gun … threatened to shoot the little bastard.’
‘Your father threatened to kill Byrne?’ At last the bus moved on and Legs could hear him. Her fellow passengers were agog.
Francis quickly recapped a confrontation at the Book Inn involving a drunken Hector propping up the bar as Byrne tried to coax agoraphobic Poppy inside for a disastrous lunch outing. ‘Jamie-go insists she can get over her agoraphobia,’ he snorted with derision. ‘And she’d been fine on a few walks around the grounds and so forth, but lunch in a public place was pushing it too far, particularly when she saw my father there. Poppy had a dreadful panic attack and locked herself in the loo; Guy had to break in with a crow bar to get her out. That’s when there was a huge public ar
gument between Dad and Jamie-go, each blaming the other. In the end, the prodigal son more or less threw Hector out of the pub, shouting that the only thing wrong with Poppy was her marriage.
‘Dad was spitting mad. He turned up at the hall later and told Jamie-go there’s no money left so he must fuck off his property and leave Poppy alone.’
‘And he had a gun at this point?’
‘I believe so; I was upstairs discussing the Freud painting with Vin Keiller-Myles, but I gather Jamie-go told Poppy she must choose between him and Dad, and she told the Prodigal to leave.’
‘She threw Byrne out?’ Legs’ fellow passengers leaned closer.
‘She threw them both out. I think she expected the two of them to cool off and make up their differences before apologising, but Jamie-go’s disappeared like smoke, and of course Dad rushed back to your mother’s comforting arms.’
‘Let’s not bring my mother’s arms into this.’
‘Poppy clearly thought Dad was going to move back to Farcombe after a proprietorial display like that, but it seems he just wanted to show Jamie-go he’s still lord of the manor, even if he hasn’t got the manners return to his wife. Now she’s going spare. She’s changed all the locks. You must tell your prodigal friend to pacify her. He’ll listen to you.’
‘I barely know him.’ She closed her eyes, realising that was a lie. She felt as though she’d seen into his heart, however briefly; she was a confidante who knew that his life was about to end. ‘I haven’t got his number.’
‘Then you must come back here,’ his voice deepened. ‘I need you to take control, Legs.’ He sounded worryingly like a gimp talking to a dominatrix.
‘I can’t get away from work. You know Gordon needs delicate handling if he’s going to reveal all.’
Francis let out an irritable sigh. ‘I suppose I can get Imee to slip more valium into Poppy’s cocoa. Whatever it takes to flog the Freud without her noticing. Let’s speak later. Say the word. I’m waiting.’
‘Hang on, did you say you’re flogging the little nude?’ She gasped, but he had already rung off. She smiled politely at her fellow passengers who all abruptly turned away and feigned fascination with the safety notices.
She wanted to call Francis right back and demand to know why exactly Farcombe’s financial crisis had got so bad that he was selling the Lucian Freud to Vin Keiller-Myles, but self-preservation stopped her. If he thought she was going to say the word, it was kinder to stay quiet until the words queuing up in her head had fewer question marks and explanation marks punctuating them.
Besides, she reminded herself firmly, Farcombe Festival was strictly out of bounds now that Gordon had fired her. She no longer felt quite so hurt, although she still didn’t understand why. Reading the first Ptolemy book had drawn her back into Gordon’s incredible imaginary world, and she felt increasing sympathy for him, the clever old eccentric with his love of privacy. She was surprised how much she missed his messages, especially now that she was back in London. She hoped they were still friends.
She picked up her phone again and emailed, How are Julie Ocean and Jimmy Jimee getting on?
He didn’t reply.
Legs closed her eyes and tried not to imagine the restraining order landing on her desk.
When she finally made it to the office, Conrad was glowering more than ever from behind his glass wall. He was trapped with the head of foreign rights for another hour, but managed to tap into his computer keyboard without looking at it, like a newsreader, during the meeting to send her an internal email that read. Hotel lunch?
It was his shorthand for a quickie in their usual suite.
I’m meeting a friend, she typed back with relief. Then she sighed, knowing that she had to be grown up and tackle the situation by telling some tough truths, adding. Tonight?
I’m committed.
Legs knew his diary was empty. She watched at him through the glass partition, but he was still utterly focused on his colleague, that clever mind thinking three lines ahead in the conversation to stay two steps in front of the competition. Conrad could run intellectual and physical rings around men half his age. He could still run intellectual and physical rings around lovely, rock solid Francis. That had been so much of the attraction in the first place.
It’s over, she realised with a jolt as painful as a kosh in the ribs. I don’t love him any more. It’s over.
A colleague beamed at her over her monitor. ‘Are you devil or angel today?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m popping to Starbucks; caramel macchiato or skinny latte?’
‘You know me! Devil all the way.’ She laughed dementedly and her colleague melted swiftly away. She put her head in her hands. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over. It was as simple as that. It wasn’t even very painful. As revelations went, it was effortless.
Fingers shaking, Legs picked up the phone and called her father’s Kew antique shop, inviting herself around to her childhood home that evening. ‘I’ll bring supper.’
‘Marvellous. I want to hear all about your romantic rapprochement with young Francis.’ He rolled his ‘r’s theatrically.
‘There is no romantic rapprochement, Dad,’ she muttered, eyeing Conrad through the glass, adding determinedly, ‘but I am hoping for a Purple patch.’
Ringing off, she rubbed her searing temples and wearily began to wade through Eric Jones’ many communications. He was now reading a book about product placement, he reported. Could Fellows Howlett amend the contract to enable Olga to mentioned favoured cat food brands in the Cuthbert books for which he could seek remuneration?
No, she replied deftly and returned to her inbox, scrolling past eight more messages from Eric. She noticed that Delia Meare the redhead-massacring author of The Girl Who Checked Out had managed to get past IT with a new Gmail address; she thanked Legs profusely for her letter, promising to help her and ‘the esteemed’ Conrad Knight ‘live and feel’ the book in every way she could. I will be happy to lay you and Mr Knight a trail …
Hoping this didn’t mean Delia was going to flood the server with messages again, Legs read through other messages. A lot of the Team GL stuff was still filtering through. Then she spotted something amongst her cced emails that made her baulk.
She emailed Conrad immediately, forwarding the message in question. Does Gordon know he’s expected to sign copies in the warehouse before launch?
He was as brusque as ever: NYP.
Too late, Legs realised she had accidentally cc-ed all the message’s original recipients when forwarding it, including Gordon’s PA Kelly who now replied brusquely: Gordon asks me to remind you that you are fired.
‘Old cow,’ Legs fumed.
As soon as the head of foreign rights came out of Conrad’s office, she stepped in. ‘Isn’t a warehouse signing a potential publicity leak? It would only take one photo sent from a mobile phone to a tabloid to ruin the festival unveiling.’
He didn’t look up from typing something into his computer. ‘All security staff will be vetted twice. You got my message – Not Your Problem. This is no longer your responsibility, Legs.’
It’s over, it’s over, it’s over her head chanted.
She tried to stay focused on Gordon.
‘He’d be guaranteed privacy at home. He’s always turned around signed copies there before.’
Conrad finally stopped typing and looked up at her. For the first time, she realised how haggard he looked, as though he hadn’t slept all week.
‘It hardly matters. Gordon isn’t at home, Legs. He’s AWOL. Nobody knows where he is.’
‘Since when?’
‘Last week some time.’
‘But we – I mean you’ve had contact with him since then. We’ve had emails.’
‘Emails can be exchanged anywhere with a phone signal these days. I’ve not heard from him since the argument about television coverage yesterday. He was very, very jumpy. Now he’s not returning calls.’
She sat down heavily on th
e chair opposite him. ‘Do you think he’s disappeared because he can’t face the idea of revealing his true identity?’
‘He could be pot-holing in the Lake District for all I care; the end result is the same,’ Conrad rubbed his deeply furrowed forehead with his fingertips. ‘Let’s keep a lid on this in the hope he’ll turn up. Team GL will go into a tailspin panic if they think Farcombe’s in the balance. We must keep them focused on the new book. Christ knows, that’s going to be controversial enough when it comes out.’
‘In what way?’ she asked vaguely, still trying to work out where Gordon might be.
‘You know I can’t divulge that information,’ he blocked tersely. ‘Let’s just say we need to make sure he has maximum security around him, and that means knowing where he is.’
Legs was too distracted by Gordon’s disappearance to take in what he was saying. Fellows Howlett’s star author disappearing a week before launch was potentially catastrophic. He might be having a complete breakdown.
‘Oh poor Gordon,’ she said shakily, imagining her Mad Hatter on the run. That long, impassioned email he’d written to her should have rung alarm bells, but she’d just used it like self help.
‘Don’t waste your sympathy on him!’ Conrad fumed. ‘This is my neck on the line here too. I have spent all bloody week getting Piers Morgan’s people ready to sign on seven zeros for an exclusive interview straight after Farcombe, and Gordon’s gone fucking walkabouts.’
‘What does Kelly have to say?’
Conrad looked at her curiously. ‘Surely you know? Kelly is Gordon. She’s his alter ego.’
‘Gordon’s Kelly?’
‘One and the same.’
Her first thought was that the Mad Hatter was even more eccentric than she imagined. ‘He’s a cross-dresser?’
‘I doubt he dresses up, although I wouldn’t put anything past Gordon. But he uses the fictional PA to back people off, and to flush out the real fakes. It’s a clever tactic.’