I, Spy?

by Kate Johnson

  “No, I can figure it out. I’m quite capable.”

  There was a little silence, as if both of us were working out what was wrong with that statement.

  “I’ll figure it out,” I repeated. “Look, I have to find a ballgown by tonight—what time does this thing start, by the way? And how do I get there?”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  “Where is it?”

  “South Kensington. Gray’s Hotel. Just by the tube station—”

  “Great! Then I’ll get the tube.”

  There was another pause. “You’re going to travel on the London Underground in a ballgown?”

  “Sure,” I said defensively, “why not?”

  Luke sighed. Then he laughed. “Okay, fine, I’ll see you there. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t,” I said, offended, and as I put the phone down wondered why I had turned down his offer of a lift.

  Then I remembered making out with him in the car and thought about how good he’d look in a DJ, and decided I’d made the right choice.

  I spent the rest of the day cleansing and exfoliating, and dying my hair—it wouldn’t do to let Wright recognise me from Rome—and trying to think of what to wear. The only designer piece I had was my Gucci frock, and that was a short, cocktail kind of thing. Not a ballgown by any measure.

  I’d almost given up and was just getting my Monsoon dress out when I got a text from Ella. Wht u doin 2nte?

  Going somewhere I shouldn’t with someone I shouldn’t, I replied miserably (see, I have predictive text). You got a designer ballgown I can borrow?

  She rang me immediately.

  “Designer ballgown, someone you shouldn’t be going out with?” she cried as soon as I picked up. “Honey, what are you not telling me?”

  “He’s married,” I said (no point in making up a lot of lies). “He invited me to some ball thing tonight, it’s really posh and I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “Blow him off! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this!”

  Ella is a nanny and lives vicariously through me and her other friends. She spends her days changing nappies and driving around in a pointlessly large Land Rover, picking her charges up from poncy schools and ballet lessons.

  “I—well, it’s all kind of sudden,” I said, truthfully.

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “Not as such.”

  “Oh, come on. What’s the point of seeing a married man if you’re not getting sex? Jesus, Soph, did I teach you nothing? Anyway, can’t you sting him for a ballgown?”

  “He’s sort of unavailable,” I improvised. “I’m meeting him there.”

  Ella sighed. “Okay,” she said. “How much time do you have?”

  “I have to leave here at eight, very latest.”

  “Come over at three. Her Ladyboat’s going to the spa. We can raid her wardrobe.”

  Ella’s employer is a very nouveau bitch called Crystal who used to be a stripper but is now the wife of an equally nouveau shipping magnate who got knighted recently. They have two young children who rarely see their parents. Normally I’d say this wasn’t good for the children, but I’d met Sir and Lady Tasteless and now believed that the very best thing for these kids was if they never met their parents.

  Besides, their father probably wasn’t Sir Darren anyway.

  So I got in Ted and rolled up the zen-raked gravel of Sir Darren’s awful mansion just after three. He was out of the country on business (trans, shagging his secretary in Mauritius) and she was at the spa (getting botoxed). Ella had just picked the kids up from school and set them to doing homework (the cruelty! I never had homework ’til I was at secondary school, and I never did it then). She pulled me upstairs to her Ladyboat’s dressing room and I stared in wonder.

  “Look at all the pretty colours!”

  Ella grinned. “Half of ’em never worn. She still hasn’t cottoned on to the fact that real celebs don’t actually buy their clothes, they just borrow them. Anyway. Where’s this ball thing, then?”

  “Kensington.”

  “Oh, very nice.” She paused, pulling the cover off a blue beaded thing. “Not the Buckman Ball?”

  “Erm, yes. Why?”

  “Jesus! Her Ladyboat’s been trying to get invites to that for years. She donates bloody billions to the charity—”

  “What is the charity?”

  “I dunno. Some children’s disease, or an AIDS foundation or something fashionable. No one gives a damn about the charity, Soph, it’s all about profiling.”

  She kept badgering me about my married man, and I kept saying I couldn’t say. “It’s really complicated,” I said about a hundred times. “I’m trying to break it off…”

  “But he keeps inviting you to posh things. Hmm.”

  Eventually, terrified I’d get caught, I grabbed a luscious Donna Karan dress and scarpered.

  “What will you say if she notices it’s missing?” I asked through Ted’s window.

  Ella shrugged. “It’s at the cleaners.”

  “She ever worn it?”

  “Don’t think so. I’ll tell her one of the dogs got in there and peed on it. I’ll think of something. I’m still mad at you for not telling me about this bloke before,” she added. “At least tell me his name?”

  “Luke,” I said, without thinking, and Ella beamed.

  “Good name. Biblical.” She waggled her eyebrows at me. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

  I nodded and drove away gratefully. Ella had also outfitted me with shoes and a gorgeous gossamer wrap. I figured I was good to go.

  The hair dye hadn’t taken well, so I redid it when I got home. I figure my blondeness is too ingrained to be covered by one shot of Clairol. When I washed it out, my barnet was deep, deep brown. Jesus. I looked like a total goth with my pale skin. Time for some bronzer.

  By the time I was finished, I felt like I should have been sprayed with fixative. I taped the fully charged transmitter to my garter (yes, I own a suspender belt) so it was hidden by the petticoats of the skirt and fixed the microphone to the underwiring of the dress.

  It’s worth paying for designer things, I guess, for how good they make you look and how confident they make you feel. I was mad a few years ago when backless tops came out because I simply couldn’t wear them without a bra. Even those clear-strap ones never look right, and they don’t do them in big enough sizes, which makes me really mad, because girls who can wear the sizes they do make them in don’t bloody need to! But this dress had full underwiring, and needed it, because it was so low at the back it nearly gave me butt cleavage. I wriggled into my best La Senza (funds not stretching as far as La Perla) and doused myself in perfume.

  Then Angel, God bless her, turned up with some serious rocks in a velvet case.

  “Jesus—” I looked at the light refracting a million ways, “—Angel, this could buy you a small island!”

  She smiled. “It’s an heirloom.”

  “I couldn’t wear it.”

  “’Course you can. It’ll look good with that frock. Is it Donna Karan?”

  I blinked. See, that’s what I don’t understand. Members of the rockistocracy like Angel can tell a designer at fifty paces. I have to have someone show me the label, then translate it for me.

  I put the necklace on, feeling my shoulders start to buckle under the weight. God only knows how Angel manages to wear something so heavy. She handed me matching earrings and a bracelet.

  “No watch,” she said.

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “I know, just checking.”

  She let me keep my little diamond ring, the one my parents bought me when I was twenty-one, but nothing else. She checked over my hair, exclaiming in delight over the colour, and stood back and smiled.

  “You’ll do,” she said quietly, and that’s great praise from Angel.

  I waited until she’d gone to put brown contacts in, wedge the earpiece in my lughole and finish arming myself. Since bloody Luke
wouldn’t let me have a gun and stupid Joe Smith wouldn’t either (maybe I could ramraid it? No, the owner of a gun shop would probably have good security. Sirens, dogs, a shotgun or two…and Ted would never forgive me), all I had was my defence spray and stun gun. The defence spray I left behind because I didn’t want to accidentally spray myself, or the dress, with green gunk or set off the shrill alarm that accompanied it. I didn’t want to electrocute myself so I left the stun gun at home too. That left handcuffs, which were not exactly good for defence and far too kinky, should they be discovered in my handbag; and the Kevlar, for which I had not yet found a subtle use.

  I slung my old rape alarm in my bag, added some gum, a credit card, lip gloss, keys and my Nokia, and left the house.

  I’d put on my wool trenchcoat over the dress, but you could still see the red skirts peeping out like Mammy’s petticoat in Gone with the Wind. The dress, for all its bum cleavage, had a flattering boat neck that skimmed my collarbones, and an A-line skirt held out by petticoats that rustled as I walked. I’d thought about taking different shoes to walk in, because one doesn’t let delicate Manolos like these touch the pavement, darling, but I’d nowhere to put them when I arrived.

  To my astonishment, I arrived at South Ken on time, without missing a train, going in the wrong direction, getting lost or tripped over, tearing my dress or splashing through a puddle. I looked up at Gray’s Hotel, squared my shoulders and walked anonymously through the paparazzi to the door marked “Ballroom”.

  “Name?” asked the big scary black man on the door. I wondered if he was related to Macbeth.

  “Antonia Porter,” I said, and he looked down the list. My heart was pounding.

  “Go on in,” he said eventually, and I nearly cried with relief.

  “Is James Bannerman here yet?” I asked.

  “He’s waiting for you.” The bouncer looked at a note by Luke’s alias. “In the lobby. You can check your coat in there.”

  I nodded nervously and stepped past him into one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of my life.

  Chapter Eleven

  There should be a moment in every woman’s life when she walks into a fabulous setting, looking like a movie star, people turning and staring at her as she glides past them to the man she’s interested in, and has the fantastic experience of having his eyes glued to her.

  “Jesus,” Luke said, looking me over.

  “Jesus never looked this good,” I said, so pleased with myself it was all I could do to keep from skipping.

  “You look…wow.”

  I grinned. “Wow” was pretty good.

  “Where’d you get the dress?”

  “I broke into Donna Karan and half-inched it.”

  Luke looked like he believed me.

  “I borrowed it.” I nudged him.

  “And the ice?” He reached out to touch the diamonds.

  “Real. Also borrowed.”

  “You have some generous friends.”

  He was still staring at me and I raised a proud eyebrow.

  “Had your eyeful?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You scrub up well.”

  “Thanks.” Then, feeling something else was needed, “You too.”

  “Are you wearing the wire?”

  “Subtle, Luke, really subtle. Yes, I am. Give me a sec, I’ll go and switch it on.”

  I made my way to the ladies, which was as terrifying and grand as the rest of the ballroom, and shut myself in the cubicle to switch the wire on.

  “Can you hear me?” I whispered to Alexa.

  “Loud and clear. Good luck!”

  I had a feeling I was going to need it. Luke was looking at me like I was dessert.

  He was waiting for me when we came out. “Have you seen Wright yet?”

  It was weird, I could hear him right down in my ear as well as in regular surround. I checked the grommet. “I’ve only just got here!”

  “You should be looking out.” He put a hand to the small of my back to lead me into the ballroom. His hand was warm and my skin was bare. I had to concentrate on breathing.

  This is business, this is business, this is business.

  This is acting.

  “You can dance, right?” he said.

  “Well, sort of.”

  “Can you manage a waltz?”

  I nodded, not quite trusting myself to speak too much. It wasn’t just the wire. Luke looked really good in evening dress. His hair was a good deal lighter than the brown I was used to—in fact it was almost blond. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with myself when I walked in I might have noticed that. His eyes were their natural blue… I think.

  “What?” Luke said when I peered at him.

  “Are you wearing contacts?”

  “No. This is me.”

  Jesus. He was tall, blond, blue-eyed and built.

  This is business, this is business, this is business.

  God, he’s hot.

  “We’ll do a quick circuit,” Luke said. “Keep your eyes open.”

  I did, but I’m afraid I wasn’t looking at what I was supposed to be looking at. Luke’s eyes were all over the room, constantly searching for Wright, but my eyes were on him. It felt so wonderful to be dancing in his arms.

  I wanted to touch his cheekbones. I wanted to stroke them. Was that weird?

  “Okay, I see him,” Luke said. “One o’clock.”

  Which wasn’t very helpful as we kept waltzing round in circles.

  “Where?”

  I wanted to lick his cheekbones. Someone help me.

  “Over by the windows. He’s alone.” Luke let go of me and I stumbled slightly. “Go.”

  “Go?”

  “Flirt with him. Draw him out.”

  I gave Luke an incredulous look but he was already gone.

  Flirt with him. Flirt with a chubby, balding fifty-year-old who’d asked me to scrub his back in a Roman hotel room?

  Bleurgh.

  I was halfway across the room when I walked into someone and I was shaking so much I recoiled and nearly fell over.

  “Careful! Are you okay?”

  I looked up at the man who had caught me. Dashing and handsome, clean-cut, shiny hair… Oh, shit, it was Harvey!

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him at the same time he asked me, and we stared at each other.

  “I have a business invite,” Harvey said eventually.

  “Right, your mobile company.”

  He frowned, looking distracted. “Mobile?”

  Jesus, his company was in trouble if he didn’t know what we called a cell phone. “Yeah, mobile—cell phones,” I said, trying to see past him to Wright. But he was all shoulder, Harvey was, all shoulder and jaw. It was like trying to see past a huge wall.

  “Are you here alone? I didn’t know stewardesses moved in such grand circles.”

  “No, I, er, I’m here with my, erm, my brother.”

  “The guy you were dancing with?”

  “Uh, yes. He’s, er, he’s quite grand. Knows Madonna. Small country and all that. My brother.”

  “Yeah, you look like him,” Harvey was nodding.

  I stopped and stared. “I do?”

  “Yeah. Except your hair is different…” He peered at me. “Did you change it?”

  No, my hair routinely changes from blonde to dark brown overnight. Men. “Yeah,” I said. “Fancied a change.”

  “It looks good. So.”

  I looked up nervously, suddenly remembering that I’d walked out on him in Rome. “So?”

  “Where did you go? I came out and you were gone.”

  “Oh, I, er, I had an early flight, so I had to go. Sorry about that.”

  “You didn’t even leave a phone number.”

  Fancy that.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I really, really have to go. To the, erm, ladies.” I picked up my skirts and ran away, and because Harvey was calling after me and watching me, I had to go to the ladies again.

  The uniformed wom
an by the sinks gave me a curious look.

  “Champagne,” I said with a smile. “Goes straight through me.”

  I locked myself in a cubicle and lifted up my skirts to check the phone holster on my other thigh, but I didn’t need to. Something whistled in my ear and I dropped the phone on the floor. It skidded under the partition into the next cubicle. Rats.

  “Who was that?” Luke wanted to know, his voice sharp in my ear.

  “He’s just someone I met in Rome,” I said distractedly, trying to reach under the cubicle partition for my phone and hoping it hadn’t landed in anything unsavoury.

  “Someone like the guy you spent the night with?”

  “I did not spend the night with anyone!” I hissed, aware that not only could everyone else in the ladies hear me, but Alexa and One could, too.

  “Yeah, well, stop socialising.”

  “Hey, he cornered me. I’m going back out there in a minute.” I reached out, and the phone suddenly came skidding towards me. I grabbed it and holstered it gratefully.

  “Do that. Ask him about his business. Try and get some names.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you could get a room and seduce it out of him.”

  “Maybe I will.” I flushed the toilet for appearance’s sake and stalked out of there.

  This time I made a beeline for David Wright, detouring only for a waiter and grabbing two glasses of champagne. I hadn’t had my drink for tonight and I needed some Dutch.

  Right. Sophisticated. Urbane. Suave. I could do this. I was trained for this.

  Crap, I wish they’d trained me.

  “Mr. Wright.” I handed him a glass of champagne. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Antonia Porter and I work for Ace Airlines. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”

  He looked me over and appeared to like what he saw, because he smiled a greasy smile and said, “Have you, my dear? And why is that?”

  “There’s a rumour in my company that you’re going to buy a majority in shares,” I said, hoping I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. “If I can speak frankly, I’d like to see it happen sooner, rather than later.”

  He looked surprised. “You want to be owned by Wrightbank?”

  I’d rather be owned by Saddam Hussein. “I think it’s what Ace needs,” I said. “Since we went public there’s been a lack of direction, and I’m sure you can see that’s a bad thing for an airline.” I gave him a cut-glass smile, and he beamed back, looking dazed. “What Ace needs is a good, firm hand—” I looked him in the eye and knew I was getting to him, “—in charge. We need someone who’s going to be more than a sleeping partner.”