by Simon Brooke
“Well. There was one where, let me remember this right, oh yes, he’d employ out-of-work actors to come round and cook dinner for you and then stay and eat it with you and make witty conversation. An instant dining companion. You could even order two or three of them and have your own dinner party if you had the money.”
“And no friends. That sounds quite aboveboard.”
“Well, apparently the most popular part of the service was where a girl came round, cooked you a delicious dinner with wine, made charming conversation—and then had sex with you.”
“Very nice.”
“The vice squad put a stop to that one.”
“Spoilsports.”
Sir James Huntsman welcomes us with bored, superficial charm as we move along a sort of receiving line.
“Hello, good evening. How nice of you to come,” he drawls. White haired and florid but tall and slim, he has no trace of a Polish accent. I’m about to thank him for inviting me and explain that I’m a friend of his children’s friend Anna, when he turns to the person behind me and says, “Hello, good evening. How nice of you to come.”
“Hello, Pamela Huntsman. Lovely to meet you,” says Lady Huntsman. She is a tall, thin woman with great cheekbones. She reminds me of someone called Diana at my agency who has cornered the mature women’s market and does a brisk trade in smart, older travellers and elegant grandmothers. The only difference is that Lady Huntsman’s hair seems to be back-combed to within an inch of its life, so she looks like she’s just been electrocuted. “We’re relying on you young ones to get the party going,” she says.
“Oh, Charlie’ll get it swinging, he’s known for it,” says Nora, giving her a huge wink. I’m so fazed by this comment that I just stare at Lady Huntsman.
“Super,” she says, and turns to the next person.
“What the hell did you say that for?” I ask her when we’ve moved away from Lady H sufficiently.
“So she’ll remember you.”
“She certainly will. Right, where’s your friend, then?”
“Can’t see her.”
“What does she look like?”
“Sort of short with dark hair.”
“Okay, keep an eye out for her. Do you want a drink?”
“Gasping. Oh, look here’s a tray and some nibbles. Grab ’em.”
Knowing Nora’s relationship with waiters and trays I hold her back for a moment.
“Now, what do you want?” I ask her.
“Champagne, please,” she says, looking surprised.
Carefully I pick up a glass of champagne and hand it to her. Before I can stop her she reaches for a smoked salmon thing. My heart stands still for a moment but she seems to manage to pick it up without sending the rest flying.
I take a glass of bubbly too and ask her, “How do we introduce the subject of Piers, and what if someone recognises me or knows your name? And why would they tell us, anyway?”
She tuts. “Well, they’re not going to say, ‘Actually, since you ask, he’s gone to Acapulco’ or ‘Oh, of course, he’s hiding in my attic’ are they?”
“No, so what are they going to say?”
She rolls her eyes. Why do I always feel like a dumbo with Nora even though I’m usually the one making sense?
“I need another one of these to think.”
She drains her glass and reaches over to another tray. I close my eyes ready for the inevitable but when I look back she is holding a full glass and looking thoughtful.
“The point is, Charlie, that people like to gossip, like to show off their knowledge. You find it all the time as a journalist. You think ‘Why would anyone want to tell me that?’ But they do. We’ll just chat and pick up some clues, get to know something more. As I say, you’d be amazed how much people are willing to gossip even when they know they shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.”
“Knowledge is power and people like to feel powerful,” she says, looking up at me with wide eyes. “They love reading something in the papers the next day and knowing that they contributed to it, that they’re part of the story.”
“Mmm, I suppose so.”
She looks around us and then says, “Did you know that the cocktail party was invented in 1924 by Alec Waugh, brother of Evelyn?”
“No. Was it?”
“One of the great inventions.”
“Up there with the steam engine and television.”
“Far more useful, though. Thought you could work it into the conversation somewhere. Break the ice a bit.”
She takes another large mouthful of champagne. I’ve hardly touched my glass.
“Do you always drink this much?”
“Only when I’m nervous,” she explains.
“Now you’re making me nervous.”
“Don’t be! Big boy like you, look at the talent around here. You’re bound to score.”
“Ha, ha! I’m not single, you know that,” I say pointedly.
“I know, that’s what makes you extra attractive—to these It-girls I mean. Anyway, let’s split up and get snooping.”
“Yes, Velma. Scooby Doo, you know—”
“Yeah, I get it. Now, let’s mingle, mingle.”
I push my way gently through the crowds. There are some faces I half-recognise: politicians, business people, a bloke who pops up on the teatime news to talk about whether interest rates will go up or down. There is even a TV presenter who does Newsnight sometimes, discussing something with a serious-looking young guy, but also looking around to see who else he should be talking to.
Near the stairs I pass an immaculately dressed man who is talking through pursed lips to a rather harassed-looking woman.
“Now darling, remember what we’re going to say?” he hisses. “That’s right. ‘Thanks but I think I’ve had enough.’ Yes? ‘Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough.’ Got it?”
“Thanks but I think I’ve had enough. Thanks but I think I’ve had enough,” says the woman, concentrating hard. “Thanks but I think I’ve had enough.” She takes a deep breath. “Yes, don’t worry darling.”
At that moment a waiter bearing a tray passes them and she grabs two glasses of champagne from him as though her life depends on it and knocks them back, one after another. The man rolls his eyes.
Other people are double-kissing each other and making unfunny jokes or talking money in loud, braying voices. Most of the women look like they’ve been very carefully put together from kits, every piece painstakingly assembled and polished up before being sent out. I try to work out who is my mum’s age. I’m just thinking this when I bump into my dad. Unlike everyone else he is not in black tie. Instead he’s wearing a black Nehru jacket, and Mari, or whatever the hell her name was, is on his arm.
“Charlie,” he says, looking very surprised, almost shocked. “What are you doing here? You don’t know James, do you?”
“No, I’m with a friend. How do you know him?”
“Well, why shouldn’t I? I mean, some of his companies are clients of ours.” He smiles suddenly and pats my shoulder. “Hey, looking good. You remember Mari, don’t you?”
“Yes, nice to meet you again,” I say, trying to eradicate thoughts of my mum who is probably at home watching The Bill.
“So, where is Lauren?” He waves at someone and double-kisses a gorgeous blonde woman, asking her “How you doing?” as she moves past us.
“Catch you later,” she purrs, squeezing his arm, so obviously an ex-fuck. Mari looks on benignly—or ignorantly.
“So, yeah, where’s Lauren?” says my dad, coming back to me.
“She’s at home.” At least I hope she is, not out with PBC again. Suddenly I feel a bit lonely without her by my side. You never have to worry about not having someone to talk to at a party with Lauren. People sort of gravitate towards her and she’s always got something to say.
“Everything all right between you two?”
“Not too good. I’m just here with a work friend though.”
�
��From 2cool?” he says, sounding slightly concerned.
“Not exactly. Just someone who’s helping me.”
“That journalist?” How did he know?
“Well, yeah.”
He looks anxious again, nervous even.
“Charlie, just be careful. She’s a journalist. She’s got loyalty to no one but herself. This thing is pretty big by all accounts—there’s been a lot of money invested in it. People really wanted it to work, for it to make investing in the consumer side of the net sexy and fun again. Have you had a chance to look at the accounts yet?”
“What accounts? It’s just chaos. Bills, final demands—I can’t even find where they’ve filed all the bank statements.” I decide not to worry him about the police visit now. Anyway, I’m not sure that there is anything about that visit to worry about: they seemed quite happy with it all.
“Fucking hell.” He thinks for a moment. “Well, I think you should just resign. Hand in your notice tomorrow. Get the fuck out of there.”
“Mmm,” I tell him thoughtfully.
“Charlie, did you hear what I said?”
Suddenly I’m transported back to being a teenager with the old man having a go at me again.
“Yeah, I did, Dad, but the thing is…the thing is, it’s like when I was a kid, well fifteen, sixteen or something. What were you doing then?”
He looks, mystified, irritated. “How do mean?”
“You were working all hours with the other two in a tiny attic in Brewer Street across the landing from a girl who charged twenty quid a go. Remember? We had no money. You had to go to Grandpa for a loan. No, I know you did, I heard you on the phone to him. And remember what Mum said, remember what your ex-boss told you? Everyone said you’d fail but you stuck at it, even when it seemed hopeless.”
“This is different,” says Dad, frowning sadly. “Charlie, you’ve got to get out of this. Look, get yourself a solicitor and charge it to the company; you’re quite entitled to under the law.”
“I don’t think we can afford it.”
“I’ll pay for it. I know a great guy. I’ll give you his number.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He is about to say something else when a big bloke with a buzz cut and another young, blonde girl on his arm appears and says, “Jared, mate, how are you?”
“Grey. Good, thanks. How are you? How’s the movie business? This is my son Charlie.”
We shake hands and then, relieved, I say “Excuse me,” and slip away to find Nora.
I end up talking to someone called Annabelle who works in management consultancy, specialising in the personal finance sector, read politics at Durham although she doesn’t use her degree now, lives in Fulham where her flat has doubled in value over the past five years, likes to go skiing but was in Bali earlier this year where she spent the whole day lying on the beach and relaxing.
Yep, it’s one of those conversations, so when another girl joins us I excuse myself and continue my quest for Nora.
I pass a woman with huge blue/grey hair and a ball dress with massive puffed sleeves, talking on her mobile.
“He wants Gonk. No, Gonk. The thing with the bug eyes and the blue hair above the bed…What’s the matter? He said what to you? Well, I don’t know where he picked up that kind of language. Look, I’m sorry but just give him his Gonk. Okay, let me have a word. Hello darling, it’s Mummy. Maria will get it for you if you say sorry…no, I know, but you mustn’t call her that…have you got it? Jolly good. Listen I can’t say hallo to Gonk now because I’m a bit busy but…Oh hallo, Gonk…how are you?”
Some people are dancing by now. A middle-aged couple are going for it with great seriousness. She looks like she is trying to stamp on armies of ants and he seems to be having a series of minor heart attacks in slow motion.
Finally I find Nora talking to a middle-aged woman and a young guy.
“Hi, Charlie,” she says. “Lady Philips, Alex, this is my friend Charlie.”
Alex is a hearty-looking rugger-bugger City type in his early twenties and Lady Philips looks like she sits on a lot of committees. I say hallo to them both and realise that the woman thinks “friend” means “boyfriend.” So does Alex. Perhaps he thought he was in with a chance.
I’m just thinking I might slip away and ring Lauren, not to check she’s in, really, but just to say hallo, having a crap time, when Lady Philips and Alex bugger off and Nora asks me, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Have you found out anything?”
“No, not really, have you?”
“No, nothing much. Except that apparently Piers and Lady H might have, you know, at one point.”
“What? Piers?”
“And Lady H.”
“She’s old enough to be his mother. Actually, I did learn something: apparently Sir James might have invested in 2cool.”
“That’s interesting. But I can’t even begin to imagine how we’re going to find out where Piers is. Unless Lady H knows something.”
“Oh, come on, even if they were having it off—and I find that very hard to believe—she’s hardly likely to know where he is now, is she?”
“How do you know? Look, she’s just over there. Let’s go and talk to her.”
Before I can object, Nora has steered me over to our hostess.
“Lady Huntsman, we were just saying what a lovely party this is,” beams Nora.
I nod dumbly, fear having removed my ability to speak. The woman Lady Huntsman is talking to smiles at us both, again, no doubt assuming we’re an item.
“Thank you,” says Lady Huntsman graciously. “I was a little nervous because they’re new caterers but everything seems perfectly satisfactory.”
“New caterers? Oh, such an anxiety,” says the woman she has been talking to, shaking her head knowingly.
“I was just telling Charlie that you do so much for badgers, don’t you?” says Nora to our hostess. “I mean protecting them.”
“Well, I play a small part; fundraising, flagging up the issue.”
“Charlie’s been wanting to get into badger conservation for a long time, haven’t you Charlie?”
What?
“Oh, we’re always looking for fresh blood for our badger meetings,” says Lady Huntsman.
“There you go,” says Nora. “I told you they’d be interested.”
“Yes,” I say robotically.
“What do you do for work?” asks Lady Huntsman. I tell her I work for a website called 2cool2btrue.com. “Oh, the one that all the young people are going on about. I’m sure that’s the one my daughter Anastasia is logged on to all the time. And I think James has got something to do with it too. Oh, well, if you had any time outside work to devote to our little group that would be absolutely super.”
“I’d love to,” I say. Oh, what the hell!
There is an embarrassing silence and then Nora says, “We don’t have them in America.”
“No, you have muskrats instead,” says Lady H authoritatively.
“Oh, look, let’s have another drink,” says Nora. She reaches across me to the waiter who has approached us and this time it happens: she manages to bring with her half a dozen glasses along with the one she’s picked up. Every single one of them falls onto me, it seems.
“Oh, Charlie, what happened?” she says.
I’m about to tell her exactly what the bloody hell happened, Lady H or no Lady H, when our hostess says, “Oh, dear. So easily done. Come upstairs and we’ll get you changed. Don’t worry. Why don’t you have one of James’s shirts? He must be about the same size as you.”
I don’t want one of James’s bloody shirts, I really just want to go home and see Lauren. By this time the party is actually beginning to thin out.
“Listen, Lady Huntsman, it’s very kind of you but I think perhaps I’d better be going, anyway.”
“Nonsense, it’s only, what is it?” She tries to focus on her watch. “Well, it’s early, anyway.”
Fortunately we’
re quite near the stairs so my embarrassment at being led, dripping wet, by the arm like a seven-year-old who has disgraced himself on a school trip, is intense but short lived.
She opens the door of a large bedroom and I follow her in.
“Now, quick, take that wet shirt off and I’ll have someone put it in to soak.”
“Really, Lady Huntsman, it’s drying already.”
“Nonsense, it’s soaked through. You’ll catch your death.”
“Well, have you got a hairdryer or something?” I suggest. “That would probably do it.”
“A hairdryer? Don’t be ridiculous. Take it off. Quick, quick. I’ll go and find one of James’s shirts. Be right back.” She disappears through another door.
It is getting quite uncomfortable—cold and sticky—so I undo my tie and take off my cuff links. I put them on a nearby table, slip off my shirt and make a gesture towards folding it. I lay it on the bed but then decide that it might soak through and so I put it on a chair. Bloody Nora! Bloody, buggering Nora.
Lady Huntsman shouts something from the other room.
“Er, sorry?” I call after her.
“I said I’d do anything for badgers, absolutely anything, wouldn’t you?”
“Erm, well, it depends on what circumstances…”
She pops her head round the door. “Mind you, I am a woman of extreme views,” she declares.
“Mmm, I’m sure,” I say. “I can appreciate that.”
She looks at me for a moment and then disappears again.
Feeling slightly exposed, I fold my arms. Then unfold them. Then I swing them by my sides and then fold them again. Aren’t arms a nuisance sometimes? I wait around a bit more and then call out, “Lady Huntsman?”
No answer.
What the hell is she doing? I potter around the room a bit. Absentmindedly I look into the half-open door of a wardrobe as if Piers might be lurking in there. I suddenly sense Lady Huntsman standing behind me so I turn round quickly.
“Oh, hallo,” I say unnecessarily.
She’s there all right but where’s the shirt?
“You obviously play a lot of sport,” she says, eyeing me up.
“Um, well, sometimes, er, you know, used to.”
“You certainly keep fit.”