Pretty Little Packages

by Andrew Crofts

  ‘Okay.’ He vanished for a moment and then his voice was back on the line. ‘Have you bought a mobile then?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll have it with me all the time. So you can call me whenever you want.’

  ‘Cool. I thought you were broke.’

  ‘It’s a pay as you go thing.’

  ‘Oh. What’s the number then?’

  ‘Have you got some paper?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you going to write it on then?’

  ‘My knee. I haven’t got any trousers on because Nanny Harris has put everything in the wash.’

  After he had hung up Joe sat looking at the phone for a few minutes, as if trying to will himself down the airwaves and into the house where his son was being prepared for one of the biggest days of his life. He wanted to be there, but at the same time he knew he had to allow Fliss and Paolo, the polo man, to get on with their lives without him. It would not be healthy for Hugo always to have his father hanging around the place like a spare part. It would be better for him to know that his father had his own, separate life. He hoped Hugo saw him as a romantic, exciting figure, enjoying endless heady adventures. It was how he wanted to see himself.

  There was a tap on his bedroom door and Annie let herself in before he had time to say anything.

  ‘I need to borrow a jacket,’ she announced. ‘It’s for an audition.’ She pulled back the curtain on the makeshift wardrobe that Angus had built a few years before and started sorting through Joe’s clothes. She was wearing nothing except her underwear and Joe stared for a few moments at her figure before putting the phone down and getting up off the bed.

  ‘You’ve got a mobile!’ Annie shrieked. ‘Brilliant. That’ll be really useful.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s a hotline to Hugo – and my work.’

  ‘I’ll pay for any calls,’ she said, indignantly.

  ‘Just choose a jacket, Annie. There aren’t that many.’

  ‘I’ve got to look like I’ve just had it off with the boss at the office party, and I’ve pulled his jacket on over my undies.’

  ‘What are they advertising?’

  ‘Underwear that you would not be ashamed to show to your boss.’

  ‘Good God!’ Joe grimaced.

  Annie looked a little crestfallen. ‘Don’t be like that. It’s a good job. The campaign is going in all the glossies. They’re even planning to use it on posters. It’s good money for one day’s work.’

  ‘Hey, listen, I’m not knocking it. If someone offered to pay me to be photographed in a G-string I would be at the studio before they had even hung up the phone.’

  He liked Annie, although he didn’t know much about her. He had tried questioning her about her background one evening in the kitchen when they had both been a little drunk, but she had been evasive, keener to talk about her dreams of fame, fortune and future social ascendancy than her past. He had discovered that her family lived in a suburb of west London somewhere, but they never phoned her or came to visit. As far as he knew, Annie made no attempt to keep in touch with them either. He could fully sympathise with that. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken to his parents. He had a nagging suspicion he should have written to tell them about the divorce. He kidded himself that he was trying to spare them from pain for as long as he could, but he knew that wasn’t true. He just didn’t want to admit to them he had failed. He didn’t want to have to discuss any part of his life with them, let alone something as painful as that.

  Annie seemed equally comfortable to be free of her family. She was inventing a life for herself and her past didn’t fit into the picture she was painting. She spent most of her nights at the sort of clubs where she hoped she would meet rich and influential men who would be able to help her with her ambitions. On the nights when she didn’t come home, Joe assumed she was test-driving them. None of them seemed to have passed the test yet, but she wasn’t allowing that to dim her optimism.

  Annie pulled the jacket off a pinstriped suit which he had bought when he married Fliss and only ever used for official functions like weddings and going to see his solicitor.

  ‘This will be great!’ she said. ‘Just the sort of old-fashioned thing a boss would wear. What’s that?’ She spotted a magazine lying on the bed and picked it up, slipping into the jacket as she flicked through it. ‘The Lady? Are you developing new and strange interests, Joe?’

  ‘It’s research, for a story I’m thinking of writing.’

  ‘On what, knitting patterns?’

  ‘White slavery.’

  Annie gave him a puzzled look and stared back at the sedate pages of the magazine. ‘It looks like there is more about cookery and flower arranging here.’

  ‘Look in the small ads.’

  She flicked to the back of the magazine. ‘Nannies and housekeepers,’ she read. ‘Butlers and au pairs. Well, I suppose it’s a sort of slavery.’

  Joe laughed. ‘Apparently, according the newsagent, it’s where all the grand people hire their staff from. But I think the magazine staff may be unaware of just what some of their advertisers are actually selling.’

  ‘Working for the tabloids now, are you?’

  ‘It might come to that.’

  ‘Thanks for the jacket.’ She kissed his lips. He raised his hands to hold her shoulders but she had already pulled back. Annie couldn’t afford to waste her best assets on a man who had to live in a bedsit, however attractive she might find him.

  Once she had disappeared with the jacket Joe climbed back onto the bed and thumbed through the classified pages of the magazine more carefully, studying each ad in turn.

  ‘Yeah!’ he hissed a few minutes later, feeling his heart missing a beat. The ad was a little larger than those surrounding it on the page, but still discreet enough not to appear out of place. Maisie’s Amazing Maids, it read, internationally trained household staff – a full employment service provided. There followed a telephone number. He had remembered the names ‘Mike and Maisie’ from his conversation with Len and his friends. There couldn’t be that many ‘Maisies’ in the business. The connection was strong enough to be worth following up.

  Joe stared at the ad for at least ten minutes, preparing himself to dial, almost like an actor girding himself to make an entrance onto the stage. When he was finally ready he lifted the phone and punched in the number.

  The line connected and rang six or seven times. He was about to hang up when someone lifted it. There was a pause and then an oriental woman’s voice said: ‘Maisie speaking, how may I help you?’

  ‘Hi. My name’s John Weston. I’m answering your advertisement in The Lady magazine.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Weston. How can I help you?’ Her voice was without character or inflection, like a computer.

  ‘I’ve just arrived from New York. I’m planning to set up a home in London and I need a housekeeper.’

  ‘Thank you for calling us, Mr Weston,’ Maisie said. ‘We have many good women on our books.’

  ‘I’m a bachelor, so I’m kinda irregular in my habits.’ Joe was beginning to enjoy himself, getting into his stride. ‘I’m looking for someone who’d be able to provide a broad range of services, if you understand what I mean.’

  ‘All our girls are internationally trained to give good service to their employers,’ Maisie replied without missing a beat.

  ‘Could I have a word, old boy?’ Angus’ tousled head had appeared round the door.

  Suddenly thrown at having to think of two things at once, Joe gestured frantically at the phone to indicate he was busy.

  ‘Ah,’ Angus raised a finger to his lips to indicate he understood, and then tiptoed into the room, closing the door behind him.

  Joe tried to think what he was going to say next but failed. ‘Excuse me,’ he said into the phone, and pressed the mute button. ‘I’m just in the middle of something here, Angus. Can I come down to your room in a few minutes?’

  ‘Of course, of course, sorry. Stupid of me.’ Ang
us beat a retreat, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Hi.’ Joe went back to the phone. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘I have a very nice lady. Very well trained. She would like to meet you,’ Maisie said, having had a few seconds to prepare her sales patter. ‘Please give me your address.’

  ‘The house is not quite ready yet, the builders are in. Can I arrange to interview her at a hotel around the corner?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Weston. Which hotel do you want to meet in?’

  ‘Do you know the Lanesborough? It’s on Hyde Park Corner, just at the end of Knightsbridge.’ Joe thought that would be the sort of hotel that would seem suitable to Maisie. If she thought it was ‘around the corner’ from his house he would have put himself in the right area for someone who could afford to pay for staff. He was right.

  ‘Yes, I know the Lanesborough, Mr Weston,’ she purred. ‘When would you like me introduce you to the lady?’

  Joe made an arrangement to meet them in the hotel bar that evening and hung up. His hand was shaking from the nervous strain of giving a performance. He sat, thinking about the situation for a few moments and then remembered Angus’ visit. He sighed. Did that mean the cheque had bounced already? He had expected to get at least a few more days grace before he had to deal with that one.

  He decided to make one more phone call before going to face the music. He dialled the Brighton number, preparing himself to hang up if anything went wrong.

  ‘Yes?’ It was a woman’s voice, but it didn’t sound like a Filipino accent.

  ‘Hi. Is this the right number for Doris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she there?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  He could feel his heart beating in his chest as the woman dropped the phone and he heard her shouting around the house. Please God Max didn’t pick it up and ask who he was. He doubted if Doris received many phone calls.

  ‘Hello?’ a small, shy voice said.

  ‘Doris?’

  ‘Yes. Who is this speaking please?’

  ‘It’s Joe, the American guy who talked to you in the supermarket.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said nervously. ‘I remember you.’

  ‘Do you have a pen and paper?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you get one?’

  ‘Just a minute.’ She disappeared for what seemed like an age and then returned. ‘I have a pen and paper.’

  ‘I would like you to write down my mobile phone number,’ he said. ‘Even if you don’t want to do the book, if you ever need help or a friend to talk to, I want you to call me. I’ll have the phone with me all the time. It doesn’t matter what time it is. It could be the middle of the night if you want.’

  ‘You want me to call you?’ She was clearly puzzled. He decided he needed to make his motivations appear less mysterious. She seemed determined not to remember that she had written to him about a possible book.

  ‘I like you,’ he said. ‘I think you are very beautiful. I would like to see more of you.’ She giggled at this, and he could tell that she was convinced by his words. She now understood what he was after. ‘If you ever decide you would like to see me or talk to me, just call. I would like to be your friend and help you.’

  ‘It is difficult,’ she said, suddenly serious again. ‘He make me work all the time. He don’t like me to have friends.’

  ‘Will you write down my number and ring me if I can ever do anything for you?’ he coaxed. ‘Please.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He dictated the number and then she seemed in a hurry to hang up, as if someone had come into the room.

  Joe then made his way along the corridor and tapped on Angus’ door. It opened under the pressure of his knuckles. Angus was wearing a rather grubby quilted dressing gown and a cravat, but the Noel Coward image stopped with his bare, hairy calves and black socks. One toe poked out, luminously white against the worn nylon, the nail jagged and uncut.

  ‘Ah, dear boy,’ Angus boomed. ‘Sorry about barging in like that. Most thoughtless.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Needed to ask you for a reference.’

  ‘Of course I’ll give you a reference.’ Joe heaved a sigh of relief that it wasn’t about the cheque. ‘But are you sure I’m the right person? Wouldn’t it be better if it was your bank manager or your doctor or someone?’

  ‘No, no,’ Angus let out a bellow of laughter and put his bony arm around Joe’s shoulders, steering him into one of the worn leather armchairs. ‘Not a reference for me. A reference for someone who wants to take a room here. She says she’s a friend of yours. Pretty little thing.’

  ‘A friend of mine?’

  ‘Cordelia Jones. Name ring a bell?’

  ‘Cordelia wants to rent a room here?’

  ‘Apparently. Would that be a problem for you?’

  ‘Um,’ Joe’s mind was racing. Why would Cordelia want to move into a flat in Earls Court? And what’s more, wouldn’t Len object to his daughter moving out?

  ‘She seems a little young,’ Angus said. ‘I wondered if you knew anything about her financial situation?’

  ‘No. I know her father. He’s pretty well off. At least I think he is.’

  ‘What line of business is he in?’ Angus enquired, putting on his most clubbable voice.

  ‘Well, crime mainly. Although I think he has a few straight businesses as well.’

  ‘Ah,’ Angus stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Then she probably is all right for money. She offered me the deposit in cash.’ He produced a thick wad of notes from his dressing-gown pocket. ‘I thought it a bit strange. A little girl like that carrying so much money.’

  ‘Yes.’ Joe was puzzled. ‘So, you accepted her deposit then?’

  ‘I could always give it back if you thought it wiser. You know my views on women tenants. They nearly always cause trouble, but they do at least clean the bathroom.’

  ‘There is always that,’ Joe agreed. He knew that by ‘cause trouble’, Angus meant they were usually the ones who complained about the dirt that had been building up in the communal areas for a good few years. ‘Have you got a spare room then?’

  ‘The drummer is moving out, thank God. He’s going on tour with some girl group. It’s the last time I’ll ever have a musician in the flat, I can tell you.’

  ‘Cordelia would certainly be quieter than him,’ Joe agreed.

  ‘But you think she’d be all right? For the rent I mean?’

  Joe felt a twinge of guilt at the man’s trust in him when Joe’s own rent cheque was about to bounce straight out of Angus’ account. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think she would be all right for the rent.’

  ‘And it won’t cause any problems for you, her moving in?’

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘Of a personal nature,’ Angus averted his eyes. ‘You know…’

  ‘Oh, a personal nature,’ Joe laughed. ‘No, I think I can handle it. She’s a good kid.’

  That evening Joe dressed in his best Ralph Lauren outfit, the one he never wore normally, just so that he would have something in the wardrobe that wasn’t frayed or worn when he needed to impress someone. He wanted to look the part of a wealthy American setting up home in Belgravia. He intended to give Maisie the idea that he might be a good target for whatever scam she was involved in with these girls. It felt good to be dressed in clean, expensive clothes for a change. He felt a twinge of regret that he couldn’t afford to buy himself anything new, but banished it quickly from his mind.

  The Lanesborough looked like an English stately home, as imagined by a Hollywood set designer. There were marble floors and Persian rugs, mighty pillars and painted ceilings, gigantic flower arrangements and clusters of impossibly comfortable sofas everywhere. Uniformed flunkies moved discreetly from guest to guest, ensuring that their every need was instantly catered for.

  The bar had the air of a grand gentleman’s club in St James’s, but was actually far too polished and perfect to be the real thing. There wou
ld be no elderly generals snoozing behind their newspapers here, Joe thought, as he looked around, just eager young businessmen and newly wealthy women coming in from shopping.

  There was no one there who looked as if they might be waiting for him, so he settled himself into a corner and asked for a mineral water from one of the waiters. The man vanished and reappeared a few minutes later with a large cut glass tumbler clinking with ice and a small bowl of lemon slices. The bubbles were still jumping from the surface of the drink as he placed it in front of Joe, alongside a plate of dainty canapés.

  Maisie arrived exactly two minutes after the designated time. She looked completely relaxed in the surroundings, as if she spent most of her time in five-star hotels. Joe knew just enough about fashion to tell that everything she was wearing was expensive. Her shiny dress was patterned with Roman busts, the silk clinging to her pencil thin body like a sheath. She carried a small brown bag decorated with some designer’s initials, and her very high heels appeared equally costly.

  Her face looked Thai, with high, sloping cheekbones below tiny, almond-shaped eyes. Her hair was pulled back from her face into a tight ponytail. It was as if some invisible hand was trying to lift her from the floor by her hair as she walked across to him, her perfect mouth unsmiling, her hand held out for him to shake, the fingers tipped with scarlet talons so huge they must have been false.

  Joe stood up politely and found himself towering above her. His hand enveloped hers and he immediately loosened his grip for fear of crushing the fragile bones.

  Another girl walked behind Maisie. She was probably twenty years younger and a complete world away from the confidence of her mentor.

  ‘Mister Weston,’ Maisie said as she folded herself neatly into a winged leather armchair and indicated for the girl to sit next to him on the sofa. ‘I am Maisie and this is Doris.’

  This was Doris? It certainly wasn’t the Doris he had met in Brighton. Was this the Doris who had contacted him from Eaton Square? If so, that would explain why the one in Brighton had seemed not to have any idea what he was talking about.

  Joe held his hand out for Doris as he sat back down beside her and she did not raise her eyes from the floor as she shook it. Her hand was also small, but not as delicate as Maisie’s, and a stronger grip. It was a hand that he could imagine doing physical work. Doris said nothing, although her lips moved as if there were words she wanted to say.