by Anna Maxted
I felt bad for my parents, but not as bad as I thought I’d feel.
The phone shrilled.
‘Hello?’
‘Hol? Yeah, sorry, it’s Manjit.’
‘Hello! How are yooo?’
You know you’re pleased to hear from someone when you find yourself elongating all your ‘o’s.
‘Yeah, fine, fine. Listen. I was thinking about joining the club. As a paying member. What with me being single and that. That bird, girl, sorry, woman, Verity, she’s not left or anything has she?’
‘Manjit,’ I said. ‘Would you like to go on a date with Verity?’
Manjit did a what-an-outlandish-suggestion laugh.
‘Tell you what. Why don’t I give Verity your mobile, and if she wants to call you, which I’m sure she does, she will. Then the two hundred quid you save on membership, you can spend on a posh dinner and a pussy, cock, ass, tit, beaver shirt.’
‘Yeah?’ Manjit sounded overwhelmed. ‘That shirt of Nick’s was the business. Do you reckon they still sell ’em? If you’re sure. I don’t wanna do you out of any wedge.’
‘Pah. Don’t insult me.’
‘What? Right, yeah then, that’d be sweet. Thanks, Hol. Thanks very much.’
‘Don’t mention it, sweediepea. Your wish is my command.’
I plunked down the receiver, feeling fairy godmotherish. It felt good to do good again.
Issy stamped out of the office, banging the door. I presumed she’d overheard our conversation. I knew that money mattered to her but surely, after all he’d endured with Bo, she couldn’t begrudge Manjit this tiny favour? I followed the noise of slamming doors and traced her to the toilet.
‘Iz, are you okay?’
‘NO.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh nothing, except Frank and I are probably getting DIVORCED.’
‘What?’
‘Yet again, my husband rings our house – when he knows I am at this office – to leave a message that he’ll be working late tonight, and I am sick to bloody death of it, I will not be taken for a fool, I am not a woman to be cheated on, and when my solicitors have finished with him and he’s living in a basement bedsit in, in, in Basildon’ – Issy burst from the toilet, shaking with all the emotion that the image of one’s unfaithful spouse rueing the day in a Basildon basement bedsit can prompt – ‘the bastard will realise that!’
She glared at me.
Rachel.
I’d had enough. And today, I was the all powerful Oz.
‘Issy. Go home. Take the day off. Just don’t do anything rash like listen to The Smiths and—’
‘The who?’
‘Never mind. Just take the day off and enjoy it. You’ve been working very hard, and you were fantastic with the Mortimers. So have a break and, for the moment, hold off the litigators. You never know. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but until you catch him with his trousers down, there is always the possibility you could be mistaken. Tonight I am going to find Rachel and have a word.’
I wasn’t kidding. The shards of my life were slowly beginning to piece themselves together and I raged at Rachel’s destructive influence. Not, of course, that she was wholly to blame. She was single. Morally speaking, she was free to seduce any man she pleased. The burden of guilt lay with Frank, a husband and a father who should have known better.
At five past five, I rang Rachel’s PA, a spectacularly dim gel named Abigail. Every time I saw her I was intrigued, that a woman in her early twenties could dress like a fifty-year-old. Pearls. Alice bands. Twinsets. Tweed. She hung out in Chelsea (although she lived in the rougher part of Earl’s Court) and got notoriously drunk at least four times a week. Despite this, she was a person who took life – and a lot of antiquated society rules about positions of forks on tables, etc. – extremely seriously. While this made her a good PA, it also made her gullible.
I explained that I was meeting up with an old pal of Rachel’s (who, I’d decided was named Horace and trained officers at Sandhurst) and that we wanted to surprise her.
‘What an absolutely jolly idea!’ cried Abigail. ‘Hang on a mo, I’ll check the diary.’
It emerged that Rachel had a ‘business meeting’ in a hotel bar on Monmouth Street in Covent Garden at seven.
I was wondering if Abigail would suspect if I pressed for an identity, when she volunteered that the client’s name was Frank Ellis-Willis.
I clapped my hand over my mouth. It was true!
‘Thanks ever so, Abi,’ I trilled, attempting to ingratiate by speaking her native tongue. ‘Now don’t breathe a word to Rach about Horace – it’ll be a super surprise!’
At a quarter to seven, I slipped on a pair of pink sunglasses, wiggled my toes in their white boots (having taken the necessity for disguise as an opportunity to shop) and marched into the bar area of the chosen hotel. The decor was spartan, stained wood floors and furniture, a vase of white lilies, and little else. I slid into a dark corner, hid behind a menu and, because it seemed appropriate, ordered a double Scotch. It was disgusting, cost nine quid and made me choke. I rubbed my throat in a pointless attempt to ease the burning sensation, wondered what the hell I thought I was doing.
And then she walked in.
She shrugged off her red shawl and I felt a low growl at the back of my throat. That was not business meeting attire. It was ‘rip this off and ravish me’ wear. It was a spit for the dress Monroe wore to be photographed above the air vent, except black. And I’d bet my family’s life on it, those weren’t tights, they were stockings.
When Frank sauntered in, I could hardly bear to look. He lifted her hand as if to say, stand up and give me a twirl, which she did. They laughed and he kissed her cheek. Boiling with rage, I drained the rest of my Scotch and turned purple as I attempted to choke silently. It then occurred that at this point, my plan stopped dead. They were chatting over bar snacks. I could hardly march up to them when I had no more evidence than a bowl of peanuts, and shout ‘ho!’
I ordered another nine-quid Scotch, and suddenly my brain had a power surge. What I’d said to Issy was true. Until Frank was caught with his trousers down, she, we could be mistaken. But whoa there, Sherlock, this was a hotel. They must have rented a room! My lip curled. Lilies and shawls notwithstanding, this was nothing less than seedy. Well, fine. I’d show them seedy. I necked my third and fourth Scotch and slammed down a crisp twenty.
As I crept out of the bar, they were intent in conversation, and Rach had out her Events Planner, a big red tome in which she detailed all her bookings. What, pray, was she doing? Scheduling their next tryst? I hoped Frank realised she saw him and his dick as a business proposition. I snuck round the corner, and sized up the reception staff. Then I waited until the officious looking blonde was busy on a call, the fifty-year-old Basil Fawlty clone had trundled out of sight and the green teenager from the Scilly Isles (or so I guessed) was free.
Then I rang the hotel from outside the main door of the lobby, imperious and irate, because I was meeting a hotel guest, Rachel, in her room, had been given the wrong number and had consequently burst in on an elderly Swiss couple in flagrante, how dare you!
‘Madam, I am terribly sorry, it’s room number fifteen, I do apologise.’
‘Thank you,’ I purred, ‘hic! You’re very kind.’
Oh ho. Oh no.
Issy would be devastated. In her way, she loved him. My mind boggled that he could do this to her. To me, cheating on your partner is like scrambling an egg. There is no going back. Even if they never find out, you know what you’ve done and the sanctity of your relationship is violated for ever. I decided that Frank was not going to do this to her. He was not a man who wanted to live in a basement bedsit in Basildon, and so he’d be, I reckoned, easy to persuade.
I staggered down the road to find a disposable camera. My plan was, snap ’em at it, then – on pain of showing Issy the pictures – force Frank never to see Rachel again and have him deny everything. As for Rachel herself
, I’d threaten to send the pictures to the Telegraph. She didn’t care about her own reputation, but I knew she’d hate to embarrass her family. I was impressed with myself. What a brilliant plan! (In my defence, by this point I could hardly stand which might have had some bearing on my judgment.)
It took me a full hour to find a place that disposed distolable cameras. I mean, that sold disposable cameras. Dishgraceful. Thish ish a capital shitty. I deshided to have a quick drink in a pub – ‘double Shcotch, no rocksh’ – before returning to the hotel. They’d drink, they’d eat, they’d get to the room at, what, ten? He wouldn’t shtay out too late, he washn’t that kind of guy.
I loitered outside the hotel until reception was unattended, then wobbled into a lift. Room fifteen was on the second floor. Ping! said the lift. I hastily unwrapped the camera, and tiptoed along the white-walled corridor. Room fifteen was at the end. I held my breath as I put my ear to the cool wood. Groaning. Horrible! I could do without hearing the noise Rachel made at the point of orgasm. It was just the thing my brain would replay to creep me out.
I braced myself. Damn. What if the door was locked? I’d have to knock. The photo wouldn’t be as incriminating but it would do. Slowly, I twisted the handle. Then I raised the camera to eye level, hurled open the door, and pressed the trigger.
Rachel screamed.
The flash didn’t go off.
I tripped over a shoe.
Nige covered his erection with the sheet, peered over the edge of the bed at me sprawled on the floor, and said, ‘Holly Appleton, you foul pervert!’
Chapter 46
AS MY NOSE swelled to twice its size, Rachel lit a cigarette and explained. Nige, who seemed alarmingly free and easy about me seeing him naked, sat cross-legged and ordered roast chicken on room service. I no longer felt drunk, the alcohol seemed to desert my body with the speed of a family fleeing a house on fire. Nige passed me a chill can of Coke from the minibar to hold to my face to numb the pain. I felt stupid enough so I drank it.
‘Babes, you really have shown yourself up. I told you there was nothing going on with Frank. Give me some credit. He’s married to your sister! I wouldn’t touch him if he begged me which, incidentally, he hasn’t and wouldn’t. What were you planning, a spot of blackmail?’
I glared at her. She still managed to look composed, despite being a victim of coitus interruptus and unbrushed hair.
‘You’re still not in the clear, lovey,’ I said in a screech. ‘Earlier tonight you were canoodling with Frank in the hotel bar. And you’ve had a succession of secret meetings and phone calls with him. Issy is going out of her mind. She’s distraught. She’s considering divorce. What do you say to that? And does Nige know about this? What are you running here, a brothel?’
Rachel tugged her white hotel bathrobe around her chunky body and laughed.
‘You’re a very silly girl,’ she said. ‘You won’t give up, will you? For the last time, Frank and I are not having an affair. I am sworn to secrecy, so if I’m struck down, you are to blame. Frank and I are organising a surprise tenth anniversary party for Issy, to take place two weeks next Saturday. A stiffy – first class, bien sûr – is scheduled to drop through your letter box tomorrow morning. There are two hundred and fifty guests, he is holding it at the Ritz, and he is the most . . . particular client, so it has required a mountain of organisation. He has wanted to oversee every detail, he has specified an exact shade of pink for the sugar roses on the chocolate cake, he has requested a certain band and listed, in order, every song he wishes them to play – and considering what they charge, should he require it, they’ll sing “Humpty Dumpty Sat on a Wall”.’
Rachel paused to suck the remains of life from her cigarette.
‘Babes. Never in the history of party planning have I ever seen a man so ridiculously in love with his wife. Certainly not after a decade of imprisonment, a slip, forgive me, wedded bliss. Alas, he’s tediously insisted on keeping it a secret, while having no aptitude for deception whatsoever. Well, frankly – ha ha – I’ve had enough. I suggest you trot home and spill the beans to big sis, otherwise the party will be ruined anyhow. Issy will be so deeply entrenched in months of envy and suspicion she’ll be unable to make the mental transition to beloved wife. And if she does – although men never understand this – she’ll be so deeply peeved at being denied the chance to look twenty by spending thousands on dresses, lipo, detox, botox and so on, for the benefit of her audience, that she’ll spend the entire night feeling fat and sulking.’
There was a loud rap on the door.
‘Enter!’ called Nige.
A penguin suited waiter wheeled in a trolley on which gleamed a bosom of silver domes, and started to fussily arrange knives, forks and plates on a table by the window. Oh don’t worry, I wanted to say, just leave it, we’ll sort it, thank you so much, fumble, blush, have a fiver, urk, lady muck, a fellow human being in a servant situation, implies I’m better than you, who do you think you are, no, no, can’t deal with it . . .
‘Babes,’ said Rachel, addressing Nige. ‘There’s some shrapnel in my bag. Tip the man. Please’ – raising her voice as if the waiter was an idiot and deaf to boot – ‘return in half an hour to clear the table. Nothing like a chicken carcass to stink out a room. Thank you.’
I shrank in my seat and attempted an apologetic glance at the guy. He pocketed the change and leered at me in – at the risk of sounding as bad as Rachel – an impertinent manner. Ah, he thought we’d had a threesome. I stopped feeling embarrassed for him and started feeling embarrassed for me. The second he’d gone, I took it out on Rachel.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I spluttered. ‘Well, thank God. But you didn’t exactly help the situation, you kept dropping clangers about Frank buying a new car or doing this or that. If the party was a secret, what was Issy meant to think? You can deny it, but I think you’ve enjoyed making mischief.’
‘Babes, I am a friendly, tactile person who likes my clients to feel at ease. That’s all there is to it, it’s hardly a crime. If Issy insists on suspecting her husband of foul play when he clearly worships the ground she walks on, I am not responsible.’
Rachel stopped talking. Not, I felt, because she’d said all she wanted, but because she was busy hacking into the roast chicken.
‘Want some?’ said Nige, opening his mouth for Rach to drop a strand of chicken into it.
If I hadn’t been hunched on a chair keeping as still as possible in an effort to keep the throbbing in my nose under control, I would have stamped my foot. Instead I squeaked, ‘And how dare you make out you’re so innocent – you too, Nigel – when you’ve been sneaking around behind everyone’s back for months and months, pretending to hate each other when all the time you were conducting an illicit affai—’
‘We did hate each other,’ said Nige in a hurt voice.
‘I disliked him intensely,’ added Rach, fondling his thigh. ‘For years I thought he was a common little thing with no taste or class, didn’t I, babes?’
Nige nodded, and curled a lock of Rach’s hair round his chicken-greasy fingers. ‘Absolutely. And I thought she was too posh and grubby to be believed.’
‘She is too posh and grubby to be believed!’ I roared.
Nige and Rach smiled gooily.
‘So when did you change your minds?’
‘We had a huge row at the Girl Meets Boy party at Nige’s club over whether Tom Cruise was gay or straight and ended up kissing.’
‘Oh well,’ I said. ‘Now it all makes sense.’
‘Darling, don’t be miffed,’ said Nige. ‘Rachey was such a saucy little minx that—’
‘Please. Spare me. I already know far more than I want to about your sex life.’
‘For which you only have yourself to blame,’ said Rach.
‘You told me you were dating a married man, Rachel! You misled me on purpose.’
‘Babes, I said marriedish. Which describes Nigely-Widgely perfectly.’
I looked accusingly at Nige.
He smiled his best media smile – a pity, because it was wasted on me and he had lettuce in his teeth.
‘Darling angel, Holly, Marylou is trouble and if she knew I was head over heels with Rachey, she’d never agree to a divorce. Since Cat on a Hot Tin Roof she has shown alarming signs of wanting to hang on to me. So you see, our need for secrecy.’
‘Secrecy, balls!’ I yelled. ‘You’re just a shameless pair of drama queens who get a thrill out of . . . room service! Oh God, you’re rotten, I can’t believe it, you’ve caused no end of trouble, you . . .’
Against my better judgment, I started to smile. Then laugh. Which hurt my nose.
‘So how’s your love life?’ said Nige. Instantly, he looked embarrassed. I flinched. I’d had enough of being handled with care, I was ready to be normal again. I wanted my friends to be able to pose that great conversational nonentity without fear of the terrible chain reaction they might be sparking in my head. Even though my love life was, for the record, shit.
Nige must have read my thoughts. ‘No, no,’ he gasped, ‘I didn’t mean it like that, what I meant was, I can’t believe I asked you, anyone, such an elderly aunt of a question. Please tell me that finding Rachey won’t turn me into a bore, it’s the duty of an actor to live life as deeply as possible. More to the point, I need to be quirky and interesting, the papers don’t quote you otherwise.’
Reassured, I beamed at him. ‘It’s not great. But I’m fine. I’m still reeling from getting unengaged twice to the same man. I think I could do with a break.’
Nige flapped his arms. ‘Someone, pull the plug, I’m drowning in bullshit. Holly, sweetheart. I know you and I know when you’re lying. Confess all to Uncle Nige.’ He adopted a thick French accent. ‘Yeu steel leuve heem!’