by Kiki Archer
Honey looked over her shoulder at the crowd. “How many points do I get for one foot on the tarmac?”
“I am so sorry,” said Margaret, finally picking up some pace. “This is all my fault. What a ridiculous idea. I should have known better. Of course you can’t just get out and wander around the services.”
Honey shrugged. “That’s my life.”
“I know.” Margaret was shaking her head as they sped onto the slip road. “I’ve no clue what I was trying to prove. I have a very, very poor portal.”
The smile was wide. “The first time’s always the hardest.” The eyes glinted. “We could always change it up and try something new?”
Chapter Eleven
“Where the hell have you been?” Jo was in the doorway of the two-bedroomed flat, arms flailing, voice shaking, ready to regurgitate the rant that had been churning and smouldering inside her for the past few hours. “I’ve lost a day’s pay. I’ve been traumatised, victimised, almost frickin sodomised in my own frickin flat. And all for you.” She snorted air through her nostrils. “And what the hell do you look like? Where are your glasses? You have absolutely no idea! The drama I’ve been through! And here you are, turning up with a makeover. A makeover that I was meant to give you. Bloody hell, Meg. Ten years I’ve been going on about this.” She raised her voice. “Who did it?”
Meg edged past the shouting banshee and into the flat. “My dash of mascara’s traumatised you?”
“No! Well, yes!” Slamming the front door she followed Meg in. “And where the hell have you been? Your phone was turned off. Your phone’s never turned off. Obvious now though. You were getting styled up by someone you trust more than me.”
“I was working.”
“On your sass, clearly!” She screamed in annoyance. “Oh damn you, Meg. Why do you look so good?”
“That’s a bad thing?”
Jo was pacing around the coffee table. “Yes! I’m angry!”
“I had a trim yesterday. I put my contacts in today, and I finally opened that make-up set you bought me two Christmases ago. No one’s done me.”
“That makes it even worse! You’re a natural. Crikey, with my makeover you’d blow the roof off.”
Meg sat on the sofa, patting the cushion next to her. “What’s happened? Why’s the place still a mess? I thought Pia was here today? Oh god, Jo, is that bottle yours?”
Jo continued to pace, ignoring the almost empty bottle of chardonnay. “I fired her.”
“You did what?”
“She was useless.”
“At polishing?”
“At saving me from the sodomisers who strolled in, strutted around, searched through our stuff before serving up their snotty-nosed papers.”
“Whoa, back up a minute.”
Reaching down to the coffee table, Jo shoved the documents towards her flatmate. “Head on a platter. Baying for blood. The Diamonds have got you for dinner.”
Chapter Twelve
“I’ve invited her for dinner.” Honey was smiling into her coffee cup as she sat opposite her godmother on one of the tall stools at the kitchen’s breakfast bar. The day had been so full of surprises. The interview she’d been dreading turned out to be the most natural meeting of minds. That feeling of knowing someone a lifetime. Somehow you connect. You click. You get on. You relax in their company. You experience their energy. There’s that buzz. That knowing. Honey smiled to herself. It was the knowing that meant the most. Knowing they felt it too. That invisible pull. That draw of desire bringing you together time and time again. Desire to know more. Desire to grow. Desire to see where things went. And she hadn’t paused; Margaret, when she’d asked her, hadn’t paused. “Yes, I’d love to come back for dinner,” she’d said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like two old friends extending their day, not wanting the experience to end. She was awkward, incredibly awkward, but that had only endeared her further. She was special. Miss Margaret Rutherton had something special.
“Shouldn’t you check with Liza first?” said Sofia, pulling Honey’s focus back into the room. “Skeletons in the closet and all that.” Her eyebrows wrinkled into a wince. “And I feel bad saying this because you seem so excited, but Liza described her as a bit of an old hand.” She shrugged. “And I don’t want you getting hurt, dear.”
“It’s only dinner, and Liza’s description of women is always way off.”
“She called her a dusty old dyke.”
“Exactly! She’s far from it. She’s interesting and intriguing.” Honey’s smile was wicked. “Plus Liza’s holed up in some top-of-the-range holistic therapy room at Velvet Villa, so she’s best kept out of it.”
Sofia laughed. “Your mother was thrilled when she fainted, a chance to finally use some of her staff.” She shook her head. “Did you know she has a special vehicle for medical emergencies?”
“I did not.”
“It’s a cross between the A-Team van and a high-end SUV, complete with red medical stripe down the side.”
“Oh dear me.”
“She called it up, dragged Liza inside, kicking and screaming, claiming that a night in her therapy room would cure all her ailments.”
“Is she okay?”
“She was. I doubt she will be after a night with your mother.” Sofia reached out and rubbed Honey’s hand. “It will be nice to have you all to myself, dear.”
“I’ve got a meeting at the studio this afternoon.”
“I know. I’m coming with you. I promised I’d keep you on schedule. Tammara’s coming at four. Alan or Andy or whichever of them is on duty today have said they’ll be there.”
“Fine, as long as we can make a menu on the way and stop for ingredients on the way back. I’ll ask Tam to run in.”
“You’re cooking for her?”
“I’d like to try.”
Sofia’s smile was wide. “Oh Honey, dear, tell me once more what she’s like.”
****
Sitting at home, back in her world, Margaret stared at her screen. The cursor key was ready to go, but the words just weren’t coming. The day was too much to process. Was it shock? Infatuation? Adoration? Worry? Something was stopping the writing. Some block was halting the words. The piece was easy. Honey was a hero. A heavyweight role model in the way to do fame. She hadn’t played the press or, equally, hidden the truth. She’d lived her life as best she could, rising to the occasion when called. And here she was now, standing tall, a beacon of pride and acknowledgment. Some people were gay and got on with it. It didn’t need a big announcement, a big discussion about what that now meant. It was an insignificant aside, just like the colour of her kitchen, or the fact she didn’t drive. Things of slight interest that should be noted and left. None had any bearing on her skill, her talent, her vocation, her life’s work. Margaret smiled. Her voice.
A soft soothing voice with a hint of intrigue. A voice that spoke like a smile. A secret smile. A smile that had been directed at her. Margaret slammed the laptop closed. This was no good; she knew what had to be done.
Chapter Thirteen
Rushing back to the smoking pan, Honey waved her tea towel over the spices. Toast the spices, it had said in the Indian cook book. On a hob. In a pan. That’s what she’d done. She flicked back to the first page of the recipe. Nowhere did it mention the plume of black smoke that would rise up and fill the kitchen, choking anyone who dared try and breathe. She darted back as another cloud of stench rose up, like one of those fireworks gently puffing every couple of seconds but without the pretty colours and wows of awe. Nothing impressive about this display. Turning off the heat, she removed the pan from the hob and crouched, squat-walking towards the door, vaguely remembering something about staying low during a fire to avoid the smoke. The top of her head suddenly felt warm. Brilliant, she groaned, quickening her pace as best she could with burning thighs and an outstretched arm. Her hair would be stinking of spices; what a lovely start to the night.
Reaching the front door, Honey d
umped the pan on the step, relieved as the fresh air hit her hard. Gosh, what a disaster. At least her guest wasn’t due anytime soon.
“Honey, hi,” said the voice from above.
Honey looked up from her squat position. Margaret, or a more angelic version of Margaret, was standing on her doorstep next to her burnt offering.
“Are you okay down there?”
Honey continued to stare. The glow of the driveway lights behind her guest was having a halo effect with the winter breeze moving Margaret’s hair like a carefully placed wind machine on a modelling shoot. Honey used the door handle to pull herself up in as ladylike a fashion as she could muster. “Wow, you look incredible,” she managed, leaning forward in greeting and immediately noticing the way Margaret’s nose jolted out of the way. “My hair stinks. I’m so sorry. It’s these spices. I’m cooking you a curry. Apparently you toast the spices to coax out their flavour. The dry heat transforms them into…” she looked down at the smoking black pan, eyes drawn instead to the flash of bare skin at the ankle, “…into charcoal it seems.” She coughed as her eyes rose back to her guest. “Maybe I should bury it in the back garden? And you haven’t smelled the kitchen yet. I really am sorry, and I can’t believe it’s that time already. Damn it, here’s me thinking I can cope without being managed but, no, it’s all gone to pot, or soot, or whatever. Sorry. Come in, come in. Look at me leaving you on the doorstep again.”
“I might be better off out here.”
“Don’t you dare, I’ve been working on this all evening.” She smiled at her guest who was clearly holding her breath. “You really do look sensational, Margaret. Ignore the smell, relax and come in.” Honey shut the front door before fumbling with the knot at the front of her apron, the messy bun on top of her head suddenly falling forward.
Margaret’s voice was shy. “You look lovely too.”
“Liar,” laughed Honey, swiping her auburn fringe to the side and watching her guest’s surveying eyes. Honey followed the searching stare. “You’re not relaxed, are you?” She shook her head. “You’re still not relaxed. You have stiff shoulders. I can see them under your coat.”
The pause was anxious. “You really want me here?”
“Of course I want you here.”
“This isn’t a set up? Hidden cameras?”
“Of course not! What’s changed? You seemed so eager to come this afternoon. You said yes instantly – really instantly. I thought you were thrilled. I thought you were happy.” Honey stopped. “Have I got this wrong?”
The eyes darted around one final time before coming to rest on their host. “You haven’t. It’s me.” Margaret sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. Sitting at home, trying to write this story, realising how,” she signalled to the space between them, “how extraordinary this is.” Shaking her head she continued. “Ignore me. It’s the smell making me dizzy.”
Honey flicked her apron against Margaret’s shoulder. “It’s not that bad! Come on, just relax and give me your coat.” She reached out to help slide the duffel from Margaret's arms, gasping as the beautiful dress was revealed, her fingers dancing on the delicate silk. “Wow.”
“What?”
Taking a step backwards, Honey appraised the vision in front of her. The dress was in the kimono style, blue and white, unlined with short sleeves, a matching belt accentuating the waist to create an effortless chic and fashionable look. “Where did you come from?”
“Clapham.”
Honey laughed. “Go and make yourself comfortable in the lounge.” She tapped the apron and coat. “I’ll get rid of these.”
“Can I give you a hand in the kitchen?”
“It’s fine. The curry’s in the slow cooker. Those spices were meant to be the final finishing touch.” Pointing her guest towards the music, she nodded. “Go and relax. You know why you’re here.”
Margaret lifted her eyes. “Do I?”
“Yes.” Honey kept the connection. “I like you, and I think you like me too.”
A silence filled the room.
“Right,” said Honey, breaking the hush with a nod. “There’s Champagne in the bucket. I’ll be there in a tick.” She walked to the kitchen. There in a tick? What was she? Some kind of 1950s housewife welcoming her husband home? And what was with the early declaration of emotions? She cringed at herself before heaving as the smell hit her once more. She knew Margaret felt something too, but she didn’t need to force it to the forefront the moment her guest set foot in the door. She was clearly a nervous creature herself.
Act calm, act casual, she chanted silently, swapping the coat and apron for a tea towel and wafting the smell away with vigour. She thought back to her other option. She could have waited for the interview to go live before trying to decipher if there were any nuggets of code suggesting Margaret had liked her too. But then there’d be to-ing and fro-ing about who should call whom. No, Honey threw the tea towel on the table, this was the best move. A nice meal. Some more chat. Some possible contact. She held on to the back of the stool and quivered. Female contact. The soft touch of skin on skin. The tingle of anticipation.
The cough and clink of glasses was staged. “Sorry, I thought I’d bring the Champagne in here. You’re wobbling. Are you okay? Is it the fumes?”
Honey spun around, holding harder on to the stool with one hand, trying to look as casual as possible. “Just taking a moment.”
“You were shaking.”
“Was I?”
“Yes, and it looked like a full body shake.”
Honey shifted into another equally awkward position. “Someone walked over my grave.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Not nearly enough,” she said, forcing a smile. “Please, go back and relax.”
“I can’t sit in Honey Diamond’s lounge while Honey Diamond slaves over a hot stove for me. I’m just a journalist. I feel unworthy.”
“Stop saying that. You’re more than just a journalist. You’re my friend.”
“Your friend?”
Honey took a deep breath. “Well probably not in the dictionary definition of the word, but we’ve connected. We’ve bonded. We’ve made that conscious decision to take this past work and into this new, albeit slightly awkward, place.” She sighed. “You know my life’s crazy. I have to grab moments otherwise I morph from one event to another without actually having the time to experience what life has to offer… and I understand this may sound full-on to you, but I rarely get chances like this, chances to meet someone genuine.” She smiled. “Could we blame the smell for making things strained?”
Margaret smiled back towards the lounge. “Let’s get out of this cesspit.”
“Deal. We’ll eat in there.”
“On our knees?”
Honey paused as a flurry of rude innuendos raced through her mind. She studied her guest, imagining what she’d look like on her knees. “Perfect,” she finally managed.
****
“We’ve got ’em!” said Diana, flapping the paperwork in the air as she pushed her way into Velvet Villa’s holistic medical suite. “Turn down the chiming, Svetty.”
Liza lifted her head from where she lay prostrate on the trolley only to have it pushed back down by the heavy handed Russian woman wearing white slacks, white bandana and medical face mask. An outfit devised by Diana, no doubt. “Got who?” she managed before looking at the woman. “And I thought you were called Sokolova?”
“Sokolova be last name, boss allowed to be using the first name, Svetlana. Boss call me Svetty.”
Diana flapped her papers once more. “The gossips at SlebSecrets. We’ve got them. My men delivered the cease and desist letter. I’ve got their names. More details coming tomorrow. They have forty-eight hours to remove the site or we’ll commence legal proceedings.”
Liza tried to lift her head once more, forcing the allegedly well-qualified holistic healthcare practitioner to strap it into position with a Velcro tie. “Is this really necessary?” she asked. “And no one wants a
holistic therapist called Svetty.”
“Yes, it is necessary.” Diana retorted. “And Svetty, you’re doing a great job. Try that new colonic irrigation machine we bought last week and then do the ear candling. We’ll get you right in no time.”
“Diana really, there’s no need.” Liza strained against the Velcro. “I could get up and help you with that. We could Google the names. See what else we can find.”
Diana lifted the papers. “No. My men are ex-army. No stone unturned. They’ll get me photos, work history, life story. Honey’s asked me to help. I’d never usually get so involved, but this is the perfect opportunity to show her what good staff can do.” Diana nodded. “She needs more staff. Maybe this will convince her. You lie back and heal. You’re Velvet Villa’s first official in-patient.”
“I’d rather not be.”
Diana walked right up to the trolley where her daughter’s PA was reluctantly horizontal. “You encouraged Honey’s freedom, so now you have to accept Honey’s freedom.” Lightening her tone, she danced away. “Relax and recuperate.”
Svetty Sokolova cracked her own knuckles before rolling her shoulders and kneading a selection of her own joints in what looked like a more vigorous version of the haka. “Svetty heff permissions to start, ma’am?”
“Looks like I should leave you to it,” said Diana as the holistic chiming rang out once more.
“What about Honey? What about—”
“Honey’s fine, Sofia’s in charge. Enjoy the treatments. Let Svetty work her magic.”
Liza’s eyes widened at the sound of the large colonic irrigation machine coming to life. “Fine, you win,” she said, reaching up to remove the Velcro head strap. “I’ll stay the night.” She rubbed her face. “I’ll relax. I’ll have the massages and the acupuncture. Maybe even the cupping. But the colonic and the ear candling, no.”
Diana Diamond smiled. “And you’ll always support me in future?”