The minute Maria’s Gucci–clad backside touched the velvet banquette, the bar manager arrived by her side as if from nowhere.
“Compliments of the house, Ms. Rigoni,” he said, placing a Negroni in front of her.
“Molto gentile,” she said, meeting the bar manager’s eye for a split second before turning back to me. “I mean, it’s a disaster—who’s going to want to spend all that money to stay on the eighth floor after that!”
Maria could drink almost as fast as she could talk, and in a matter of minutes she was banging her empty glass back down on the table.
The bar manager retreated toward the bar, gesturing as he went for another round.
“I know. It’s all a bit of a nightmare,” I said, thankful of the chance to get a word in edgeways. “What am I going to do, Maria?” I said, resenting the note of self-pity in my voice. “I have nothing. I’ve got no money in the bank, no job, and a flat that costs me a fortune every month.”
It was true; the salary the hotel had paid me was modest, and although there were plenty of people in London who survived on less, they probably didn’t live in the heart of Notting Hill or do their weekly food shop at Harrods. My monthly paycheck just about covered the rent, but my champagne dreams and caviar wishes were granted by other, infinitely more scurrilous means. And now that income stream had dried up. By now the alcohol was worming its way through my veins, and I could feel the tension in my shoulders gradually ebb away.
“Anyway, what’s all this about someone you know needing a butler?” I said.
“Did you know that Madame Szabo has a daughter?”
“I vaguely knew she had one, but I don’t know anything about her, why?”
“Have you heard of Lady Elizabeth Shanderson?”
“Of course. She’s all over the press like a rash: Tatler, Harper’s; in fact wasn’t there some feature in World of Interiors a few months ago about her new apartment in New York?”
“Well, they are one and the same person!” Maria said with a flourish, as if she had revealed the murderer in an Agatha Christie novel. “One minute she’s plain old Erzsebet Szabo, and the next thing you know she gets hitched to the lord of the manor and is Lady Elizabeth Shanderson.” Maria sniffed.
“Her mother tells everyone her daughter had an arranged marriage. The only difference is that Elizabeth arranged it herself !” Maria threw her head back and laughed loudly at her own joke.
“So she’s reinvented herself as the lady of the manor, so what?” I asked.
“Darling, you wouldn’t believe it. The voice is the best bit. When she speaks, she makes Camilla sound positively common!”
“I see, and I take it Lady Elizabeth is looking for a butler?”
“As ever, mia caro, you are only half right,” Maria said smugly.
As we talked, Maria shifted slightly in her chair, and her glossy painted lips pursed ever so slightly as I felt her foot brush mine. A few moments later our second round of drinks arrived, but, as the hot Mediterranean waiter bent down to carefully place them on the table, I felt the pointed toe of her shoe jab me sharply in the shin. I stifled a laugh for fear the waiter would think he was the source of my amusement, but was distracted when Maria leaned forward so that her mouth was near his ear.
“My friend wants your number,” she said without bothering to whisper.
“Maria!” I hissed. “I never said that.” I looked up at him, hoping to see a shrug of the shoulders or a conspiratorial roll of the eyes, but he was staring straight at Maria.
“In that case you had better tell him to look under his drink.” And with that he turned and made his way back through the crowded bar. Maria and I both suddenly looked down at the martini glass placed in front of me, and there, clearly visible through the base, was a name and number scribbled onto the napkin upon which the glass sat.
“Ha!” Maria exclaimed before snatching the napkin for closer inspection. “I knew he liked you. And who could blame him?”
I groaned, knowing exactly what was coming next.
“You are so handsome, Anthony,” she said, pinching my cheek like an Italian nonna.
“Oh, Christ! Maria, please, not this again,” I wailed.
“Darling, I mean it; just look at you! With your movie star looks. Dark hair . . . blue eyes . . . and that body! You could be a model—have you thought about that?”
“Seriously, you need to shut up now,” I said, reaching over and grabbing the napkin from her hand.
“His name is Marcello, which makes him Italian, so be careful, mia caro,” she said, changing the subject.
“Why’s that then?” I asked.
“Because Italian men are all beasts!” she exclaimed. “And I should know.”
“Beasts?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I certainly hope so, Maria. I certainly hope so.”
With my late evening entertainment all taken care of, I turned my mind back to Maria’s cryptic little guessing game.
“So, if it isn’t Lady Elizabeth looking for a butler, who is it?” I asked.
“Her husband, Lord Shanderson,” Maria said.
I thought about it for a second and realized that, in all the photographs I had seen of Lady Elizabeth Shanderson, I had never seen one of her with her husband. Plenty of her draped around Elton and David and quite a few of her sandwiched between Anna Wintour and Suzy Menkes in the front row at Chanel, but to the untrained eye she appeared to be a single woman.
“I have to confess, Maria, that I didn’t even know there was a Lord Shanderson.”
“Madame Szabo tells me he is something of a country bumpkin; never leaves the countryside without a packed lunch and his passport!” Maria laughed.
The picture Maria was painting was not a rosy one. I had visions of bowing and scraping to some tweed-clad old fart and spending my days chipping horseshit off riding boots. I could practically smell wet dogs just thinking about it. The thought of being miles from London and all its earthly pleasures was bringing me out in hives. I mean, not only would I have to wave good-bye to all my friends, where was I going to find a gym in the middle of the countryside? I had been working on my body four times a week for years, and I wasn’t prepared for my hard-earned six-pack to turn into a keg for the sake of a job. I could wave good-bye to finding a boyfriend too. The very idea made me feel quite ill.
“Hardly ever leaves the estate,” continued Maria, oblivious to the dark cloud crossing my face. “Apparently it’s magnificent, like a fairy-tale castle in leafy East Sussex.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds like it’s in the middle of nowhere, and I’m not sure I’m ready to retire from public life completely just yet.... And anyway, I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
She gave me a look I had seen a thousand times. It was a look that said she realized she was going to have to work that little bit harder to get what she wanted. Pinching the bridge of her nose and inhaling deeply, she pressed on.
“Anthony, listen to me. You are thirty-two years old with no job, an overpriced apartment, and no means of paying for it. Unless, that is, your landlord suddenly decides to accept cashmere sweaters and Prada shoes as payment.”
She was right—for years I had spent everything I earned on designer clothes and other luxuries I couldn’t really afford. As my mother was fond of reminding me, I had a rich man’s taste with a poor man’s pocket.
“What happened last week was far too close for comfort if you ask me. Are you absolutely sure that Martyn didn’t tell anyone else what you and he were up to?”
“Maria! I wasn’t up to anything,” I said rather indignantly.
“Bullshit, Anthony—you were in it up to your neck and you know it. You may not have been the one doing all the work, as it were, but you were the Heidi Fleiss of the whole operation, and look what happened to her! And, darling, let’s face it; you are never going to earn enough money to live in the style to which you have become accustomed just by working in hotels.” Maria sat back in her chair, loo
king rather pleased with herself.
I had to admit she had a point. If anyone else knew about the level of my involvement in Martyn’s business, I would be royally fucked. And not in a good way.
“And the Shandersons pay way better than anyone else,” Maria continued without pausing for breath. “In fact, with your CV you could just about name your price.” She knew damn well that would get my attention; money always does.
I grew up with a mother so fiscally irresponsible that for most of my childhood we were on the run from one angry landlord or another. My mother let money either fall through her fingers or straight into the till of the nearest pub. Come to think of it, she was no better these days; it’s just that I didn’t have to live with her anymore, thank God. That kind of upbringing scars you; it really does. Having no money means losing control, and I don’t like losing control. I had to get a job and fast.
“And, if it’s lack of men that’s putting you off leaving London, then don’t let that worry you,” she said, reading my mind.
“Maria!” I protested, hand clutching an imaginary string of pearls in mock horror. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Brighton is only thirty minutes away from the estate, and there are more available men in that town than even you could handle—you could fuck to your heart’s content on your day off.” This she delivered as her coup de grace, knowing that I would not be able to resist the heady cocktail of money and the promise of regular sex.
“Okay, now you’ve got my attention,” I said, softening to her powers of persuasion. “Not that it’s any of my business, but it seems like an unlikely coupling between Lord and Lady Shanderson. It doesn’t look like they have all that much in common.”
Maria rolled her eyes as if speaking to a slightly dim-witted child. “Darling, they have more in common than you could ever know.” She leaned toward me in the way she did when her story was about to get interesting.
“As you know the Szabos are one of the wealthiest families on the planet,” she whispered.
“Yes, of course.”
“Believe it or not they started off as simple Jewish Hungarian peasants, but when old man Szabo fled the homeland before the war he stuck a pin in a map and guess where it landed?” she asked.
“New York?” I guessed.
“Wrong! That came later. His pin landed smack bang in the oil fields of 1930s Texas. Within two years he’d struck black gold, and within ten he was one of the richest men in America.” She thumped her well-manicured fist down on the table like a full stop.
“That’s all fascinating, but what’s that got to do with why Elizabeth or Erzsebet or whatever her name is wound up married to Lord Shanderson?”
“Because, my sweet, the Szabos can buy and sell most small countries ten times over, but the one thing they have always failed to achieve is respectability. They have a reputation for being rather gauche Hungarian peasants, so Elizabeth made it her mission to snare an English gent and silence the critics by becoming a fully paid-up member of the British aristocracy. All she had to do was find someone with the right pedigree who needed her money as much as she needed a title, and it was guaranteed to be a marriage made in heaven. It’s a tried and tested formula that’s been working for centuries.”
“It can’t just be about the money; surely he has plenty of that of his own,” I said.
“Well, like so many of your aristocracy, he was as poor as a church mouse before old money bags came along. The family fortune was all but swallowed up in death duties after World War II. That house was practically derelict before she financed the renovations, and according to Madame Szabo he loves that house more than anything else in the world. Been in the Shanderson family for centuries, and through lack of funds he was forced to watch as it crumbled before his very eyes. It took millions upon millions of Szabo money to get that house back on its feet—way more than he could ever stump up.” Maria paused for dramatic effect before adding, “Now do you think they’ve got nothing in common?”
“Okay, I get it, but I have a question. What happened to his last butler?”
“Madame Szabo didn’t say—probably just moved on; you know how it is,” Maria said dismissively.
“I’m still not sure,” I said. “I hear Lady Shanderson is terribly difficult to work for. There are always stories appearing in the press about how demanding she is. It seems like not a week goes by that some disgruntled employee isn’t suing for wrongful dismissal. Just the other day I read that one of her chefs was taking her to court after getting the boot. Her grounds for sacking him were that she didn’t like the way he cut her strawberries at breakfast—and that doesn’t sound like the behavior of a sane woman.”
“I keep telling you, it’s as a personal butler to Lord Shanderson, not Lady, and anyway, I don’t think she is as bad as the press makes out. You know what the papers are like; they love a pantomime villain. And anyway, she has her own butler, so you probably would hardly see her. Madame Szabo tells me her son-in-law is a sweetheart, a real English gentleman.”
I didn’t say as much, but I knew exactly why Maria was giving me the hard sell on this job. If she managed to find a suitable candidate, Madame Szabo would be so grateful she was sure to demonstrate her gratitude with a Chanel handbag or maybe even a little blue box from Tiffany. It was well known that Madame Szabo would stop at nothing to give her little princess what she wanted, and in this case Maria had clearly been given the task of making it happen.
“I promise I’ll give it some thought, but for now let’s drink up and go have some supper.”
“Good, I’m starving, but give me a minute. I need to pop to the ladies.”
As soon as Maria left the table I took my iPhone and the napkin out of my jacket pocket and keyed in Marcello’s number. I texted him:
What time do you finish tonight?—Anthony x
I watched from across the room as he felt his phone vibrate and discreetly read the text under the bar. In two seconds flat I received a reply:
Very late but can take a break in 5 meet me at the goods entrance if you fancy it.—Marcello
Maria arrived back, but didn’t bother to sit. “Avanti! Come on; I’m starving,” she said impatiently.
“Babe, meet me at the restaurant and order me another cocktail. I’ll be there in ten minutes; there’s something I need to do first.” Maria just shrugged her shoulders in that way Italians do, before adding, “Ten minutes, no more.”
I quickly walked her to the door, but, when she turned right to walk to Scott’s of Mayfair, I turned left toward Grosvenor Square. Just a few yards past the main entrance to the hotel was an alley that I guessed would lead me to the goods entrance. I walked down a short way past industrial bins and piles of empty crates, and sure enough there was Marcello. He was huddled in a fire escape doorway, hugging himself to ward off the cold night air. It was dark, but his exquisite features were highlighted by the yellow glow of a streetlamp. As soon as he saw me, his face broke into a grin.
“Buonasera,” he whispered in a low, sexy voice.
“I’m not here for pleasantries,” I replied, pushing him back into the darkness of the fire escape. He gasped as he fell against the door, but before he had a chance to speak I clamped my mouth onto his. His breath tasted of cigarettes and hastily swallowed mints. As my tongue feverishly searched the inside of his mouth, I pushed one hand deep into his thick curly hair and grabbed a handful; my other hand pushed hard on his chest so that he couldn’t move. Through the flimsy fabric of his work shirt I felt nipples as hard as football studs. I pulled at the buttons until a couple gave way, allowing me to slip a hand inside. As I explored the contours of his gym-hard pecs, I began to detect a trace of stubble and instantly felt my attraction to him falter. Call me fickle, but if there’s one thing guaranteed to turn me off a guy, it’s excessive grooming. It might be a cliché, but I like men to feel and smell like real men. I quickly slid my hand out of his shirt and moved it south to his crotch, where sure enough something ha
rd strained against the front of his pants.
“Wow! You are so handsome,” he said, stroking my face. But the tenderness of his touch was so unexpected that I recoiled from him before I could stop myself, instantly feeling a stab of regret. In fact the whole thing was starting to feel like a dreadful mistake. What on earth was I doing here fumbling in the darkness with a total stranger? It was as if someone had turned on all the lights, and what had started in my head as an erotic tryst was exposed for what it really was: a seedy grope in a stinking goods entrance with a total stranger who cared no more for me than I for him.
“Sorry, mate,” I said, suddenly pushing him away from me. “Not tonight.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, looking genuinely shocked. “Why did you bring me out here if this is not what you want?” His voice now had an edge to it, and he wasn’t bothering to whisper anymore.
I just shook my head, unable to explain myself.
“Oh! I get it. You have a boyfriend. Is no problem—me too. Don’t worry; nobody has to know,” he said, moving toward me again.
“No, seriously, I have to go.” I felt terrible. I was embarrassed, and I could tell he was too, as neither of us could bear to look at one another. As he set about tidying himself up, I turned my collar up against the chill winter air and began to walk back up the alley.
“If you change your mind call me, sì?” he shouted after me.
“Yes, of course,” I replied. “I’m sorry, Marcello.”
As soon as I was in the glare of the streetlamps on Mount Street I stopped and reached into the pocket of my jacket. Scrolling through the numbers in my phone I arrived at Marcello’s and pressed Delete. I walked briskly toward the restaurant, propelled by a sudden and ravenous hunger.
When I arrived at Scott’s I half expected Maria to be sitting at one of the outdoor tables. Even though it was bitterly cold, huge gas-fired heaters blasted hot air into the canopy, making it possible for diners to sit in shirtsleeves whilst they chain-smoked between courses. But as she was nowhere to be seen I headed inside. I was greeted by a maître d’ sent straight from central casting.
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