by Nick Louth
They had made up, after a fashion. Diane had been right. Mira was so glad she had managed to get through from the pub phone to her agent in New York. Even from the sidelines of some glitzy Manhattan soirée, Diane Glassman had all the answers: keep calm. Do not get the police involved. Consider your image. Don’t blow it, not now. There will be better moments to ease yourself gracefully away from this animal. Wait until he’s sober. Ring him. Pout, play vulnerable but whatever you do do not attempt to rehash the row. You can get even later, I promise. We’ll figure it out.
Mira had rung Lawrence at eight in the morning from the pub. On the third attempt he’d woken to take the call. She used her ‘little girl lost’ voice, and he immediately apologised. Didn’t know what came over him. It was the booze. And he had said he loved her. It was the first time he’d ever said that. If that’s love, she thought, I don’t want to see hate. But she’d agreed to let him drive over and get her, reluctantly, if only because everything she needed – money, phone, flat keys – were all there with him at Lowe Mill Barn. She was dog-tired, and so had agreed to stay for a few hours. If only sleep had been possible next to a man of whom she was now terrified.
She had been an idiot. Fooled from the first by his energy and zest. Initially it was attractive, sexy, irresistible, a flame of spontaneity. Flying to Barcelona for the afternoon, Monaco just for lunch. Lawrence buying her a soft-top Porsche because she had casually admired one. Pleading for her to cancel a shoot to come see him in an FA Cup tie. Even unzipping himself and demanding her mouth while they were stuck in a traffic jam on the M25. Passion, energy, impatience. She had convinced herself that this heady cocktail was only a manifestation of a mayfly soccer career. Catapulted to stardom at sixteen and peaking within a decade. No time to lose, ever. As he described it ninety minutes was often enough for an affair, with a fifteen minute break before swapping ends. If so, she now realised, seven and a bit weeks was nearly a marriage.
Later she had begun to see him for the monstrous child he was, indulged by riches and fortified by impunity; physical, financial and even legal. Every photograph of him, jaw set, dripping with sweat and saliva, bellowing, pointing, demanding. A huge arm enforced the singular physicality of him. A hard man. An alpha male on steroids. A man infamous for his massive tackle. A man who believed in God but not foreplay. A man who always got his way, who chopped down opponents on their way to his penalty box. Lawrence Wall didn’t just believe rules were made to be broken. Rules were made to be annihilated.
Ten hours ago Lawrence had punched her in the face because she foolishly revealed a secret she had long kept. The enormity of that secret passed him by, but not the fact that it was about another man. A man whom she had adored. Lawrence, once married and even then a serial adulterer, could tolerate no other male in his women’s lives, not even in their past. Lawrence was a man jealous even of memories.
From what she had seen last night, Lawrence Wall was easily capable of killing. He’d told her so. He had picked up the entire sofa on which she was sitting. She only just jumped off in time before he hurled it through Lowe Mill Barn’s bay window. ‘I come from a mad family,’ he had shouted through the bathroom door. ‘Fucking mental. Did you know that? So don’t you ever cross Lawrence Wall. Or you’ll end up dead.’
Then this morning, in a torrent of apologies, he had begged her to promise she would never leave him. And for the sake of peace, she had made the promise. Now, cleverly, and with all her considerable guile, she had to break that promise. She had to break off their stormy relationship and live to tell the tale. And she had to hope against hope that he would never realise the danger in that terrible secret she had revealed. Silently, she slipped out of bed, dressed quietly, gathered up keys, purse and phone. Then fled to her car.
Chapter Two
Sunday
Thad Cobalt, chief talent architect at Stardust Brands, took the call from Mira’s agent Diane Glassman at breakfast time on Sunday. As director of Mira’s brand, Thad orchestrated her product endorsements, personal couture and style signifiers, and most importantly, tried to protect her from reputational damage.
Lawrence Wall looked like being some serious reputational damage.
By lunchtime he had convened an emergency meeting of Team Mira in the breakfast room of his Pimlico home, with Portia Casals, senior creative and curator of Mira’s online presence, and Jonesy Tolling, PR consultant.
‘I spoke with Mira this morning about the attack,’ Thad said in his soft transatlantic drawl. ‘She is really upset and now completely terrified of Lawrence Wall. He really knocked her about.’
‘Oh poor thing!’ said Portia. A former JWT advertising copywriter, Portia wrote Mira’s fashion, fitness and lifestyle blogs, authored her tweets and directed the external agency which ran her various websites and fanzines. ‘Is she injured?’
‘It’s serious enough: a big black eye, facial and neck bruises and lots of scratches from running barefoot through fields to get away from him,’ said Thad.
‘That’s Monday’s effing Dolce & Gabbana shoot in Milan kiboshed,’ said Jonesy, swigging the remains of his gin and tonic. ‘Four weeks graft down the khazi. Diane will not be happy.’ Jonesy was an ex-Sunday Mirror celeb journalist, a no-nonsense down-to-earth south Londoner with a gift for PR, and a retro taste in big boozy lunches which showed in his expanding waistline and grotesque expenses bill.
‘Where is Mira now?’ Portia asked.
‘In a private medical clinic in Manchester,’ Thad said. ‘After treatment, I’ve arranged her a private flight to a spa retreat in Ireland with orders not to go out in public for a few days, at least until the bruises can be covered by make-up and sunglasses. From there she’ll fly off for ten days at Paulsen Edelweiss’s private Caribbean island.’
‘Always nice to have a spare billionaire knocking about when you need one,’ murmured Portia.
‘More important is that she will be out of reach of the paparazzi,’ Thad said. ‘Edelweiss won’t be there, he’s in Vegas apparently, but his people say he is happy to let her have the run of the place. He’s offered to reserve all the mainland helicopters so the photographers can’t go snooping overhead.’
‘That’s very thoughtful,’ Jonesy said, with an expression that conveyed other motives.
‘Now, I have already explained to Mira that we have to strategise this from a branding and PR point of view,’ Thad said. ‘She mustn’t answer any calls or do anything vis-à-vis Lawrence Wall without discussing it with us.’
‘But what about the police?’ Portia said. ‘News is bound to get out.’
‘They haven’t been told,’ Thad said. ‘Diane told Mira to hold off, and I agree…’
‘What? Are you mad?’ exclaimed Portia.
‘The publicity would be a disaster, of course, given the delicate stage of talks with Suressence.’ They all knew that a tie-up with the French skincare group, under negotiation now for months, was vital. Potentially worth ten million over five years, it would treble the value of all Mira’s deals to date, and finally bring her into the endorsement big league, within sight of Gisele Bündchen, Beyoncé and Maria Sharapova.
‘Portia,’ said Jonesy, ‘it’s my job to assess the PR. If we go public, I guarantee you our beautiful green-eyed brand asset would be left lying in the gutter like a piece of effing roadkill.’ His job was not only to place Mira in the public eye, but to do so in a way that burnished her brand, adding value to her endorsement deals and the products of the firms which underwrote them. Rumour had it that he was unbearably bad-tempered when sober, a rumour that few ever had the chance to test. No one meeting him for the first time would guess that his real name was Lionel Jones-Tolling, that his father was an Appeal Court judge and that he’d been to prep school, Winchester and Oxford. Jonesy’s most audacious piece of PR reinvention was himself, as the working class kid made good.
‘But people will really, really sympathise with her,’ Portia insisted. ‘It could help.’
‘They s
ympathised with Nigella Lawson too,’ Thad said gently. ‘She was the victim of a public attack by her partner, but then someone dug up details of her drug habit. You know, once things go public, everyone gets damaged. Nigella’s celebrity chef brand is robust and well-established. Domestic goddesses may get second chances, Mira may not. So we can’t risk it. Especially not right now.’
‘It was a criminal assault,’ Portia shrilled, her bangles jangling as she smacked the table for emphasis. ‘We can’t let this animal get away with it,’ she said.
‘Oh, but he will,’ Jonesy said, shaking his head at the inevitability of it. ‘Lawrence Wall is an irreplaceable footballing asset with a global following, worth thirty million in the transfer market, and at least ten million a year in endorsements. The club can’t afford to let him go to jail. Ergo, top barrister, bottomless funds. Even if he was convicted, his lawyers would dig up enough dirt to make Mira look like a spoiled gold digger with the morals of a skunk.’
‘Your approach is morally wrong.’ Portia’s fleshy face was burning with righteous indignation as she stared at her male colleagues.
‘That’s a relief. Principle always gets in the way of profit,’ Jonesy chuckled, turning his pen over and over between his fat fingers. ‘Going public on this now is a classic Preventable Fuck-Up, and I have said time and again, our main job as brand managers is to head off all PFUs.’
‘This is more important than her bloody brand, it’s about her dignity,’ Portia insisted.
‘Listen. In 2011, Lawrence Wall stood trial for running down and killing a cyclist in Manchester, remember that?’ Jonesy said.
‘I think so, yes. Didn’t he reverse over the chap?’ Portia said.
‘Very good. Yes, “allegedly”,’ Jonesy said, rabbit-earing his fingers. ‘He was originally charged with voluntary manslaughter for driving while texting. But his legal team not only got the judge to defer the case for six weeks so he could train for England’s match against Brazil, they then destroyed the character and reliability of the only witness. In the end Wall pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of driving without due care and attention. Six points on his licence and sixty hours community service. A nothing sentence, and even that was cut to twenty hours on appeal.’
‘That’s disgusting!’
Jonesy shrugged. ‘Portia, I deal in the world as it is. Money talks.’
Thad raise his hands. ‘Look, Portia, we’ll take better care of Mira by preserving her career than by playing Russian roulette in the courts. We’ve got to play a cool game. Diane suggested a four-stage strategy. First, no police complaint. Second, we keep her hidden from the press for a while. Third, we take control of the narrative if the story of the assault does emerge into the public domain. Fourth, she works with us to distance herself from Lawrence Wall gracefully over the longer term. Does everyone agree?’
Portia’s shoulders slumped as she assented.
‘So, onto points two and three of our strategy. What are the chances of this assault on her getting into the tabloids, Jonesy?’ Thad asked.
‘Depends if someone snapped a pic of her with bruises,’ Jonesy said. ‘If they did, we’re stuffed. Without it, the story’s deniable. The signs are pretty good. I’ve already spoken to the couple at the pub, who are the only sources who could back it up,’ Jonesy said. ‘We’re offering them five grand for their help and hospitality to Mira, so long as they sign the non-disclosure form. If anything appears in the press our lawyers will eviscerate them.’
‘Okay,’ Thad said, steepling his hands. ‘Portia, get Kelly to scour social media for any hint of this news, and let Jonesy know straightaway. Jonesy, I want our version of events ready for publication if needed. Mira’s vulnerability, her innocence. Christ, I mean on this occasion the truth should actually do the job. We don’t need to make anything up.’
‘On point four, what about a bodyguard?’ Portia said.
‘That’s already in hand,’ Thad said. ‘This time we’re getting someone good and experienced, who’ll be up to the job. He made a name for himself fighting the Taliban. Should be good enough to handle even Lawrence Wall.’
Chapter Three
‘Incoming. Get down you idiot.’ The first giant bang woke Virgil Bliss immediately, his hand scrabbling for his Glock 17 even before his eyes had opened. He could not find it, and as his panic rose the dream receded to the grind and clang of a Southwark Council bin lorry twelve floors below. A huge exhalation. He turned over and felt the springs of his mum’s worn-out couch jab his ribs with the reminder: here there is no Glock, no Helmand, no grots, no boot polishing, no rig-cleaning. No IEDs neither. No fear, no pain. No-one to call him a fucking wog. Yeah, no Sergeant Davies. Just good old south east London on a damp January morning. The clock showed a quarter to seven. O-six forty-five hours, as he used to know it. He yawned extravagantly, listening to the huge communal bins still undergoing their square bashing. He’d been settee surfing for months now, wearing out his welcome in the spare bedrooms of mates, and finally ending up back here on the Walworth Road, in Mum’s two-bed flat on the Castlemead Estate. Virgil’s caramel-coloured feet poked out over one worn Paisley-pattern arm, his nut-brown shaven head propped by a lumpy pillow on the other. It ain’t Helmand, this life, but it ain’t perfect. No job, no woman, no money and another twelve days till the benefit payment.
Virgil got up and made a brew in the pokey kitchen, with its lemon yellow walls and 1960s glass-fronted cupboards. On them were cling film wrapped postcards from extended family in Lagos and Abuja, Mum’s little fragments of girlhood heat and colour that still inspired her soul, but left his cold. London was his home, both real and imagined. This flat was even smaller than the grots in Helmand, but his long-suffering mum had managed fine in it for thirty years. Without a reliable man, with hardly any money, she had brought up both of them, while getting up at silly-o’clock every morning to clean endless washbasins and khazis at King’s College Hospital. His younger brother, Troy, had done well. A trainee ophthalmologist. At least he had work and his own flat.
Virgil rubbed his aching neck. At twenty-eight years old what did he have to show for his life? Nine GCSEs, four A levels and one term at Leeds University, to study psychology of all things. Dropped out, joined up. Royal Green Jackets, F Coy, 2 Rifles. Two tours of Helmand, and lucky with it. Only one minor injury, completed four years. Still, the things he’d seen. Terrible. Then back in Blighty. Couldn’t stand the dull routine back in Catterick. Resigned to take up a bit of close protection work for a South African businessman in Nigeria. That’s where the smattering of Yoruba and Hausa he’d learned from his grandmother gave him a leg up. That was only for a month. But while he was in Lagos, he hooked up with a Paris-based outfit doing close protection work for diplomats and NGOs across West Africa. While still on probation, he’d been given a junior role for a hush-hush UNHCR diplomatic fact-finding mission to Chad. He and a dozen others, half of them ex Foreign Legion weirdos with wolfish eyes and bad breath, spent two days boiling their arses off at a dusty airport in Njadamena waiting for the big cheese who would lead the mission. It was fifty degrees of short-temper, taunted by the shimmering mirage of Lake Chad in the northerly distance. The rumour was that it would be Tony Blair, or Hillary Clinton. But when the private jet arrived, there was a tiny little old guy, a former president of Botswana who nobody had heard of. This guy only stayed half an hour while the jet refuelled, politely shook each of their hands, then headed off to Cairo. This was much to the irritation of the legionnaires, who muttered to each other about some petit noir bâtard wasting their time, until Virgil verballed that he himself was a grande black bastard, who also spoke French. That shut them up, but he never got any more work from them. The Paris outfit allegedly folded for some reason a month later and he never got his full pay.
The final job was the weirdest. A skincare entrepreneur had been threatened by UK-based animal rights extremists. Based in LA, he was well protected himself, but was worried about his London-based ex-wife and t
heir seven-year-old daughter. For the first week Virgil’s job seemed to involve being an overpaid childminder, until one cold November day when he arrived to pick up the girl from her private school, he found her emerging from the gates struggling to remove a wrapper from a Magnum ice cream. She was defensive about where she’d got it, but eventually said the mother of a new girl at the school had just given it to her. Virgil helped take the wrapper off, but noticed a tiny hole in the chocolate coating. He rushed the girl home, with the ice cream sealed in a bag of frozen peas to stop it melting. Chemical analysis confirmed that the ice cream had been injected with strychnine. The ex and her daughter were whisked abroad the next day. Virgil got huge thanks and a hefty payoff, most of it deferred for a year on condition he didn’t speak to the press. There was ten months still to run, and he no longer had the job.
Today’s dilemma was simpler. He was torn between going to the Job Centre to embroider a story of looking for work to please the Benefits Agency, or a quick bacon sandwich down at the greasy spoon to please himself. The sizzle at Tucker’s Tuckstop was definitely ahead. Virgil took a quick glance at the leaden skies and the damp pavements, then pulled on his red hoodie, jogging trousers and a pair of trainers.
It was then his phone rang. Not a number on his contact list, so he answered it cautiously. Probably his payday lender again, pound to a penny, just like their rate of interest.
‘Lance Corporal Virgil Bliss, Royal Green Jackets,’ came a crisp authoritative Scottish burr. It wasn’t phrased as a question, more a command.
‘Yes,’ he replied sibilantly, a reflex ‘Sir’ shaped on his lips, unvoiced at the last moment.
‘Glad I’ve caught you, Bliss. Colonel Alasdair Forsyth, retired. I oversaw your MI interviews at Chicksands.’
‘I remember.’ Virgil had thought it would be worth getting into military intelligence, and had been put through his paces at the unit’s Bedfordshire HQ. He recalled the colonel as a stick thin sandy-haired type, so crisply attired it looked like he’d ironed everything bar his bushy eyebrows.