by Lynn Watson
***
When she arrived home later in the afternoon, Lily was there on the front wall, still wearing her school uniform and holding a bunch of printed leaflets. Fran could tell she had been crying.
‘Hey, Lily, what’s up? Why are you upset? And what’s that you’ve got in your hand?’
She was unlatching the gate and getting out her door keys as she spoke. Lily followed her into the house and Fran handed her a tissue.
‘I’m upset because Marmalade, she’s the cat living across from us, has gone missing and the horrible people next door were nasty to me. They told me they don’t get involved with anyone and I had no right to ring their doorbell, and if I do it once more they’ll report me. And they don’t like cats. I hate them.’
It was Eric and Delia again, saying they didn’t get involved with anyone. That was a joke. They were always looking for an opportunity to get involved, as long as they could do it with maximum self-righteousness and distress to others.
Lily handed her one of the leaflets, which had a large headline, Missing, and a photo and description of Marmalade. Fran immediately recognised the moggy with the distinctive markings who followed her to the corner, and tried to think of the last time she had seen her; a week ago, maybe. Lily said she always came to meet her when she got home from school, but she had been missing for five days. Lily was going round to ask if anyone had seen her and if they would put up a poster in their window.
‘Sometimes cats just go off, Lily, and reappear as if nothing has happened, or they decide to go and live with another family who’ve started to feed them titbits, or else they’ve got through the cat flap and stolen the other cat’s food, so they move in and the other cat moves out.’
‘Or she might have been run over by a car. She might be squashed at the side of the road and nobody can recognise her,’ replied Lily, unwilling to be lulled by Fran’s bright suggestions. ‘Or a fox has got her and torn off her head and left her all bloody on the ground, like that Siamese cat where we lived before.’
As they were putting the Missing poster up in the front window, Lily’s mother, Petra, drove slowly past the house looking for a vacant parking space.
‘Hey, there’s your mum coming home now. Why don’t you run and ask if she wants to come in for a quick cup of tea?’
Lily ran out to the street and Petra met her with a quick cuddle. Fran waved from her front door and they walked towards her, Petra with her arm hung loosely around Lily’s shoulder.
‘Hello again, and thank you for looking after Lily—’
‘Fran’s my friend. She’s not looking after me.’
‘I know, sweetie. You love talking to Fran.’
Lily ran into the front room to finish the job of displaying the poster and the two women moved into the kitchen.
‘Thank you, white with no sugar. Lily prefers adults, doesn’t feel comfortable with kids, except her brother Ferdi. He is staying with his dad for now, not with us. I hope she isn’t coming round too often and causing a nuisance. She can be a little strange.’
‘She is different from a lot of other children, but I don’t think she’s strange,’ replied Fran. ‘She has a passion for the things she’s interested in and she wants to explore and find things out. She must be clever at school, is she?’
‘Yes, although they don’t understand the way her mind works. I am a teacher myself and I can appreciate how different she is. One of her more perceptive teachers suggested she might be neuro-diverse and I tend to agree with that.’
Fran hadn’t heard the term ‘neuro-diverse’ before, but she understood what it might mean in relation to Lily. Making links to Junoco, she realised that the striking thing about Lily was her intact early curiosity and her refusal to be lured or distracted by eleven-year-old fashions and obsessions. She wondered if Petra, as a teacher, knew anything about Bright Minds, the schools research project that Marcus had mentioned. She had to tread cautiously, as she had promised to be discreet.
‘Do they do anything special? I mean, if they recognise she’s different, and to my mind she’s exceptionally curious and perhaps creative…’
‘Well, she loves to play the piano at home, but she prefers to improvise and she was no good with formal music lessons after the first two or three years. As for school, the education authorities say they want to encourage curiosity and creativity, that’s the trend, but do they really? I mean, it can make things harder for the teacher if the kids are questioning everything all the time. I have experienced it myself and it’s the opposite of how I was taught, growing up in East Germany. You were told what to think, which isn’t good either.’
Lily wandered into the kitchen at that moment and the conversation turned to Eric and Delia, who had lived in the street for over twenty years, longer than all the close neighbours, and had managed to insult, hound or offend every one of them. The stories about their behaviour were so absurd that even Lily ended up laughing.
Chapter 8
She pulled her heavy wheelie bin out of the side gate and yanked it down the path to the pavement. It was early October and there was a distinct chill in the air. She was thinking about Lily and why she, Fran, was content and even keen to spend time with her. Okay, she was missing Max and Chaddy more than she liked to admit, but they were in their twenties now and it wasn’t to do with that, she was sure.
‘Hi, have you seen Marcus today? Do you know if he’s at home?’
It was Kirsty, who had crept up from nowhere. Frosty was the best attitude, as the main thing was to get rid of her as fast as possible.
‘Marcus? No, I don’t. I haven’t seen him and I don’t follow his movements.’
‘Okay, I was only asking. I’m his girlfriend you see, and I’ve got something for him but he’s not answering the door.’
‘Well, he must be out then, or asleep, don’t you think? It’s getting late.’
The young woman looked tired and anxious, unsure what to do next. Fran felt a pang of sympathy. If she was obsessed with Marcus and couldn’t let go, it had to be stopped, but at the same time it must be awful for her.
‘Look, it’s cold out tonight and you haven’t got a jacket or anything. Don’t you think you should go home?’
This touched a nerve, and not in the positive way that she intended.
‘What do you fucking know about it? Don’t you patronise me. I’m not cold, and maybe I don’t have a home to go to, for all you fucking know about it. You can tell Marcus I hope he likes his present.’
With that parting shot, she began to walk away and then, apparently changing her mind, she crossed the road and took up position against the big tree. Fran didn’t want anything more to do with her or the evolving situation, but decided she would have to text Marcus to warn him of Kirsty’s presence.
She had just closed the front door behind her and entered the living room when there was a loud crash of breaking glass. She shut her eyes and put her hand up to her chest. Feeling vulnerable, although the blinds and curtains were fully closed, she ran into the kitchen, knowing she had to call Marcus but anxious where it might lead. In the event, the decision was made for her, as he had leapt over the garden fence and was knocking quietly but insistently on her back door. She opened it and ushered him in, then turned the key sharply to lock it.
‘Did you hear that, Fran? A bloody great brick just came through my front window. Excuse my language. It was such a shock; it landed on the floor quite close to my feet. It’s Kirsty returned with a vengeance, it has to be.’
‘Yes, I saw her out there; she spoke to me. You have to confront her, Marcus, either confront her or call the police, one or the other. It’s getting dangerous and she needs help.’
‘She’ll have scarpered by now. She wouldn’t hang around after that and I don’t know where she’s staying. I can’t call the police either. It will have to get worse before I resort to that. They’d probably arrest me, for a start, instead of seeing me as the victim. I’ll call in sick tomorrow morning and ge
t a couple of guys in to replace the window. It’s turning into a bloody nightmare, this. Maybe I deserve it, but that doesn’t make it any better.’
Fran got out two squat glasses and poured generous shots of neat whisky to help them get over the shock. Eric and Delia would either be lying quaking in their beds or waiting for the police to respond to their emergency call. Whichever it was, they were sure to have a field day with this one.
***
The Junoco launch date was set for a Thursday in early November and Daniela was planning an evening drinks party to mark the event. It would be a select group of about sixty, she told Fran and Vicky, taken from the priority list of corporate clients she was aiming to attract to the business. Since first talking to Ned, she had fully embraced the aim of going for the ‘high-end’ market from the start, in addition to individual customers who would find out about Junoco through chat on other websites or on social media generally. Although Ned wasn’t willing to talk to Fran about his involvement in the launch event as he was sworn to secrecy, she assumed he had been instrumental in drawing up the invitation list.
She had confided in Vicky about her relationship with Ned, trusting that she wouldn’t find anything strange about it. She and Vicky now frequented the café and the Green Duck pub quite regularly on the days that Vicky came to work in the office.
‘We are lovers, Vicky, and yet I know hardly anything about him. It’s not what I would have dreamt of doing before coming to London, but we met through a dating site and it seemed so natural, no need for discussion. He’s gorgeous, you’ll see. I feel genuinely fond of him, but somehow I don’t think I’d ever get jealous over him, I’m fairly sure about that.’
‘Sounds perfect to me; I’m looking forward to meeting him. And returning to the subject of parties, there’s one happening next weekend near Covent Garden. It’s a singles party that they hold once a month in different venues, always private flats that are well furnished but don’t appear to be lived in. I’ve been to one or two of them before and met the couple who run them, and they’re aiming at our age group, forty-and fifty-somethings, although a few older and younger ones slip in. It’ll be great fun, going with you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Vicky. I’m not sure…’
‘Just give it a try, please, it’ll be good. We can wander around Leicester Square first and have a drink and something to eat and then go on to the party. If we’re not enjoying it, or when we’ve had enough, we’ll leave and go on to a jazz club in Soho. I know one you’ll like. It’ll be a great night out, whatever happens.’
Fran knew she was caught. She couldn’t possibly refuse the offer of an evening out with Vicky, even if she felt intimidated by the suggestion of a singles party.
‘Okay, you’ve got me. I’ll give it a go. But we must have a pact that we’ll leave as soon as one of us wants to.’
‘Agreed; it’ll be a quick tap on the shoulder and time for one final snog.’
***
Leicester Square was teeming on the Saturday evening and there was clearly an important film premiere at one of the cinemas, with photographers setting up their equipment around a cordoned-off section with a red-carpet entrance. Fran had been a bundle of nerves all day, reminding her of how she had felt in the run-up to parties when she was fourteen or fifteen and, more often than not, had her eye on a special boy who might or might not be showing interest in her. It must have been Vicky’s jokey reference to snogging that brought all that back. Now they were here, she was swept up in the buzz of anticipation as Vicky took her by the hand and they pushed forward towards the metal barriers edging the pavement, where the film stars, the celebrities and the well heeled and well connected would emerge from their purring cars.
As the guests began to arrive, cameras flashed all round and a swirling mass of mobile phones rose above the heads of the jostling crowd. Many of the frocks were sensational and Fran automatically took note of all the dress styles and accessories, so she could suggest new items and ranges for the shop, at rather lower prices obviously. Vicky was clasping her arm now and looking fantastic, her olive skin glowing, her lips a perfect caramel colour and her eyes as beautiful as those of any of the women stepping delicately out of the cars.
Then Fran glimpsed Ned. Of course, it wasn’t actually Ned but a man who looked uncannily like him. All the major stars and famous people had already arrived, so he would probably be a wealthy supporter or somebody’s friend or relation. He was positioned at the side of a car with his hand held out to the woman who was climbing out and rearranging her dress as discreetly as was possible, with so many eyes and cameras focused on her arrival. They made a striking couple and Fran watched with special interest as they drew level with her on the red carpet.
The man’s face was in profile and she peered between the heads of the people in front, who were pushed right up against the barrier. It was Ned, it absolutely was him. His chin, his nose and then his hairline above the sharp white collar were all unmistakable.
‘It’s Ned, Vicky, that man who just went past! I’m convinced of it.’
Vicky swung round to grasp both Fran’s arms, responding to her amazement. ‘Where’s Ned? Which one is he? Show me!’
‘He’s gone in now. He got out of one of the cars with a woman. I didn’t believe it was him at first, but it was. I knew he mixed with some swish types but I never thought to see him at an event like this, swanning in as if he did it every day of the week.’
‘Come on, let’s go. It’s too busy here. We need to find a quiet place to talk.’
They slipped out of the crowd and started to walk towards the residential side street where the party was being held. After a couple of failed attempts, they managed to grab seats in a pub as people got up to leave, although it was still far from being a quiet place. Fran was astounded, but also keen to talk about Ned.
‘He’s a mystery man, that’s one of the things I like about him. A spy, I thought, when we first met. He has so many hats, literally, a long row of them up on his shelf. It seems obvious now: a hat for each persona.’
‘Well, that can be theory number one: an agent or private bodyguard.’
‘Or maybe she’s his girlfriend, wife even. Maybe he keeps the flat for spending time with me… or with women he meets online…’
‘Eek, don’t say that! What else, let’s think. It could be his double or an identical twin. Or the woman in the car is his sister, his friend maybe, or his friend’s sister’s friend. I don’t know – they’re all possibilities.’
While Vicky was casting around for answers, it came to Fran in a flash.
‘He’s an escort, Vicky, that’s what! He’s talked about it with me. We discussed it the first time we shared the Junoco truffles. He came up with the crazy idea of setting up a male escort agency together and I said at the time that he seemed to know a lot about it. This is why. He knows all about it because he is one.’
‘Well, that’s a turn-up for the books. It’s the best theory yet. Are you upset?’
‘Upset? I don’t think so. More shocked, in the sense of surprised. It all fits and… I don’t know what I feel, to be honest. I need time to think about it.’
Then she stood up and, in a sweeping gesture, presented Vicky with her hand. ‘Tell you what, we’ll think about it later. Because now, Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.’
‘Me, go to the ball, in these rags? What chance two handsome princes, one for each of us?’
The party venue turned out to be a basement apartment reached by narrow steps spiralling down from the street. The door was on the latch, so they let themselves in when no one responded to their knocking. The small kitchen was full of guests, while the catering staff were refilling silver trays with finger food and rinsing wine glasses.
They wound their way through the crowd, saying ‘hi’ or ‘hello’ to everyone as they passed. There was a row of coat hooks in the hall but they were overloaded, so they folded their coats on their arms and followed the music into the main
room, which was larger than Fran was expecting and had a long table on one side and a few scattered chairs in each corner. She noted that there were similar numbers of men and women and most were the right kind of age, as Vicky had promised. They helped themselves to a glass of wine from the table and picked up a handful of nibbles. Vicky indicated towards a cluster of four women surrounding a tall, good-looking man, all making an effort to catch his attention.
‘It’s invariably like that, in my experience. And now, you won’t have done it yet, look around the edges of the room. This is the pattern.’
Fran looked all round, trying to be discreet about it, and saw a number of men standing on their own, not in pairs or groups, either resigned to watching from the sidelines or lying in the undergrowth, waiting to pounce.
Vicky put up her fist, ready to charge. ‘Come on then, deep breath and dive in.’
‘Yeah, just hope I don’t hit my head on the bottom.’
She followed Vicky to join a mixed group and get in on the conversation. She was disturbed by the unexpected sighting of Ned and warned herself not to react by having too much to drink. Vicky was immediately attracting attention and a couple of the women looked her up and down and drifted away from the group, leaving her talking exclusively with a bearded guy in a black sweater.
Fran became aware that she was being watched by one of the men at the edge of the room and, in a bold bid not to seem a wallflower, she beckoned to him with her eyes and a slight movement of her head. It was, she presumed, the only way to enjoy this sort of party. The man cocked his head in return and dutifully came across, much to her relief. He turned out to be an army officer and they had an easy and flirtatious conversation, although afterwards she couldn’t remember a single word of it.
After a while, Vicky signalled to her that she was going to the ladies’ and Fran excused herself, in time-honoured style, to join her friend for a quick debriefing. After checking that they were both still having a good time, they went back in and Fran found her army officer was deep in conversation with someone else. Feeling confident now and getting the measure of the event, she started to work the room in a way she felt Judi would have admired, introducing herself as Fran, Frankie or Francesca as the whim took her and moving on before she found herself stuck with anyone. Vicky was also moving, and within an hour was having an animated conversation with the tall man who had been the centre of female attention when they first entered the room. There was still one other woman hanging in there, but she finally gave up when Vicky put her arm around the man’s neck and gave him a cheeky kiss.