'Very stylish,' says Rachel, her teacup poised mid-air.
'Your catalogue's really polished,' I add, 'although it would be great to see some actual products.'
Dannie drums the table with her fingers.
'We'll get a box of samples sent over to you. Anything else?'
'Your existing press material would be helpful,' says Rachel.
Dannie turns to her assistant. 'Can I leave all that with you?'
Mary Anne, cheeks bulging, nods enthusiastically but says nothing.
Another sip of water and Dannie drops the spoon back into her bowl, the contents barely touched, and dabs the sides of her mouth with her napkin.
Mary Anne continues to gobble her food hungrily and then sits back, replete, watching Rachel and I finish the last of our toast. Her mousy hair falls forward as she bends to see her watch.
'OK guys, shall we sign the contract tomorrow afternoon at the hotel so that we can get motoring on the PR programme?'`
Rachel and I nod in agreement.
'How about four o'clock at The Berkeley?'
'Fine by us,' I hear myself say.
'Wonderful,' smiles Dannie. 'It's been a pleasure meeting you both.'
'Likewise,' Rachel chips in.
Breakfast is over. Dannie sweeps up the voluminous pelt and swings it over her shoulder so that its hem almost kisses the floor. Lumbering behind her like a clumsy bridesmaid, Mary Anne fretfully attempts to hoist it up as if it were a gossamer train. Rachel and I watch them depart. I narrow my eyes at her.
'Trust me. We're in for a rocky ride.'
12.15 p.m., Starbucks, Marylebone High Street
Ed, my hypochondriac friend with a penchant for Internet babes – girls he can date online – jazz and all things calorific, is meeting me for a quick lunch at Starbucks. This suits him perfectly because the Marylebone branch is situated just a few doors from the BBC building in which he works as a producer. Moving to an area renowned for its private medical practitioners has been, literally, a lifesaver for Ed. The fact is that the common cold, sore throats, coughs, wheezes and sneezes, bugs, bruises and burns, lesions and abrasions, rashes, infections and viruses of a contagious nature persistently plague Ed in a manner rarely experienced by the rest of humankind. In the course of one week, Ed can have experienced anything from suspected heart failure, beriberi, thrombosis, Lassa fever and hepatitis, to malaria, pneumonia and salmonella. One night he called in panic to report a stiffening of the joints and asked shakily whether rigor mortis could be setting in. I explained that one normally had to have died first but that he shouldn't rule it out. Rather like a disgruntled vampire, Ed pounds the streets of Marylebone in search of new blood; a physician who will take him seriously. Within the labyrinthine streets of Wigmore, Wimpole, Harley and Devonshire he has visited every mews, close, place, square and street – both upper and lower – and is on first-name terms with most of the resident medical fraternity. Despite numerous examinations, indulgent diagnoses and panaceas, his symptoms, puzzlingly, persist. Consequently, Ed feels justified in mistrusting medical evaluation, illustrating the point with an anecdote about a Swiss respiratory specialist who once branded him a hypochondriac.
'A what?' Ed had exclaimed in outrage.
'Do I have to spell it out, young man?'
'You most certainly do.'
'H-Y-P-O-C-H-O-N-D-R-I-A-C.'
Ed had left the surgery in a state of apoplexy and indignation, deciding from that day forth to equip himself with his own trusty medical emergency kit (known as MEK) wherever he went. It has never left his side since.
Reaching Starbucks some time before Ed and I are due to meet, I decide to have a leisurely espresso. It's still raining and clusters of grey thunder clouds, like aimless teenagers, hang sulkily above the London skyline. At the counter, the man ahead of me is gesticulating animatedly to a barista. She looks mystified, as do the rest of the counter staff.
'Anyone here speak Italian?' she asks no one in particular.
'Español!' the man says in a wounded voice.
Without thinking, I greet him warmly in Spanish. He looks relieved, saying that he wants to eat something freshly prepared, not pre-packed. I explain that it's not that kind of cafe. With some distaste he settles for a cellophane wrapped tuna sandwich and a coffee and follows me to my table.
'Can you help me?' he asks plaintively, settling his tray down and opening a map. I offer him a seat.
'I'm looking for Buckingham Palace.'
He takes off his wet jacket, revealing a T-shirt emblazoned with a Catalan logo.
'Where are you from?'
He shrugs. 'Mallorca. Have you been there?'
Have I been there? When I mention that I live in Sóller, he is palpitating with excitement.
'But you must know my mother?' he yelps, giving me detailed directions of how to reach her finca, a death rattle away from the town's cemetery. I nod uncertainly but promise to keep a beady eye out for her when next strolling around the graves. Jordi, for that is his name, tells me that he is having five days sightseeing in London, staying at a small hotel in Pimlico, before heading off for Paris. His travel agent in Alcúdia, on the north side of Mallorca, had fixed up the trip and aside from a few language hurdles he insists there have been no problems.
'What do you think of London?' I ask.
'It's wonderful,' he replies, 'but Mallorca is the most beautiful place in the world, as you will know.'
I find it endearing that Mallorcans on the move demonstrate such loyalty and fervour for their island. By contrast, ask a Briton holidaying in Mallorca for his thoughts on the UK, and a stream of invective will be unleashed on subjects ranging from the cost of living and crime to education and the weather.
Some time later, Ed crashes through the front doors, gripping his MEK in one hand and his dripping telescopic umbrella in the other. Then, with head tilted, he begins sniffing the air like a wary deer, scrutinising each table from behind large brown frames until his eyes rest on mine. He waves enthusiastically with his umbrella before depositing it in a small bin at the entrance. Jordi rises from his chair and kisses me on both cheeks.
'It's been good to meet a British Mallorquina in London. Thanks for your company. Hasta luego.'
He saunters off while Ed follows his departure with some curiosity. As soon as Jordi has left the cafe, Ed makes his way over to my table.
'Who on earth was that chap?'
'A Mallorcan I just met.'
'But you looked like bosom pals.'
'We are now. I'm going to meet his mother.'
'You never change.'
He shakes his head sorrowfully and offers to buy me a sandwich, returning some minutes later with a mound of food and chocolate cake.
'It's been so long, Scatters. I wish you came back more often. Don't you miss running the firm?'
'Nope. It suits me perfectly and Rachel loves being the boss.'
'That girl will be running the country one day,' he says grumpily.
'We live in hope.'
I ask him about his latest romantic disaster.
'Splitting up with Julia has been painful not least because she could get me any medication on the market,' he says mournfully. 'She gave me some beta blockers for my last birthday, which was thoughtful.'
It must have been a blow to lose Julia. A nurse doesn't fall into a hypochondriac's lap every day, not even a tipsy one.
'Can't you make it up with her?'
He chokes on a breadcrumb. 'Good God, no! Too late for that. She's got another bloke, a saxophonist from Muswell Hill.'
'You'll find someone else.'
He takes a deep breath. 'Actually, I've met a New Yorker called Charlene.'
'Met? Where?'
He frowns and says nothing.
'Oh, not another Internet babe?'
'This one is different. She's normal.'
'How do you know?'
He whips out a photo. 'Isn't she great?'
In fairness, she has a nic
e smile and a full set of teeth.
'Hmm. What does she do?'
'She works in the travel industry and can get me cheap flights to New York.'
'But you won't fly.'
'I visited you,' he huffs.
'Only because Julia gave you Valium and forced you on the plane.'
'Well, it's early days.'
He gulps at his coffee and looks lovingly at his chocolate cake.
'So, what's Alan up to?'
'Our friend Pep has just bought a holiday flat in the port which he's going to rent and has asked Alan to manage the bookings. No doubt it will end in tears.'
'Why Alan?' Ed anxiously stuffs a piece of cake in his mouth.
'He trusts him and besides, Pep says he's got other fish to fry. Actually, I'd rather not know about his other ventures. It's safer.'
Ed swallows hard. 'He's always sounded like a shady chap to me. Do watch Alan.'
I laugh. 'Pep's far less dodgy than Greedy George.'
'Any news on that front?'
'He's just over from the Big Apple so we're meeting up later. He's now designing leather wear for cats.'
His large eyes freeze. 'You are joking?'
'Sadly not.'
'I'm highly allergic to cats.'
'Lucky he's not employing you then.'
He guffaws. 'Odd you and I both having a connection in New York now.'
I groan. 'Actually, Rachel's about to take on another New York client. A loopy interior designer we met this morning.'
His face brightens. 'Just think, we could all meet up in Manhattan. Wouldn't that be a hoot?'
3 p.m., the office, Berkeley Street
Rachel is weaving a pen through her locks and leaning back in a black leather office chair, heels skimming the edge of the desk. A half-eaten sandwich sits on a plate next to a long abandoned mug of tea. She greets me with a weary expression as I pop my head round the door.
'I might as well give up trying to have any lunch. The phones never stop.'
'You should get out of the office more.'
'Easier said than done.'
I pull out a chair and survey her as she grabs at the ringing phone like a snappy croc. 'Who? Tell them I'm in a meeting.'
I wait till she drops the phone back on its cradle and her legs to the floor. She sits upright.
'So, what's up?'
'I've just had an intriguing call.'
'Mmm?'
'Do you remember John Harris, the lawyer we met at that Asprey's party in Bond Street last year?'
'No.'
'He had red socks.'
Rachel fixes me with impatient eyes. 'I try to avoid men with red socks.'
'OK, well this chap just called to see whether we'd like to pitch for an amazing project.'
'Which is?'
'The definitive book of the Crown jewels. A prestigious tome that's taken more than forty years to research and write.'
'Blimey.'
'We'd have to do market research, and handle the media and launch party at the Tower of London. It would be incredible.'
A smile plays on her lips as she fiddles with a biro on the desk. 'Well, well, it seems that the old PR glint is back in your eye.'
'Not at all, I just love books.'
'Give me a break. You like to win, simple as that. It's just the old killer instinct coming back.'
I ignore her. 'It's being produced by The Stationery Office and will set the punter back a thousand quid.'
Alarm is stamped on her face. 'Are you deranged? Who the hell is going to cough up that sort of dosh for a book?'
'You'd be amazed. Anyway, this isn't just any book. It will be a one off.'
'So do we have to pitch?'
'Apparently. Mr Red Socks is coming back to me with a brief tomorrow.'
Rachel nods slowly. 'Let's just hope he delivers and you'll have your chance to be sent to the Tower.'
6.30 p.m., Soho Hotel, the West End
Greedy George and I have agreed to meet at the Soho Hotel, one of the new breed of chic boutique hotels sprouting up all over London. I enter the lobby and am momentarily distracted by a gigantic bronze cat guarding the entrance. At least George will feel at home. As I clip-clop across the oak floorboards I see him ensconced in an armchair by an elegant French fireplace, reading a magazine. He looks up and gives me a smirk.
'Not wearing your beach bum wear then?'
'Not today.'
He heaves himself off the chair and gives me a bear hug.
'Fancy a drink?'
'What do you think?'
We cross the lobby into the spacious restaurant at the side of which a vast pewter bar yawns across one wall. Running behind it, a long, wild mural in bright colours depicts some kind of frantic traffic scene. George squints at it.
'They erected that in memory of the multi-storey car park that used to be here.'
The barman smiles and nods. 'He's right, you know. So what can I get you?'
We order glasses of champagne and sit on one of the velvety sofas. George beams and gives me a hearty slap on the thigh.
'Well then, how's tricks?'
'Good, especially now I'm not back here so much.'
'Come on guv, you love the buzz. Imagine being stuck in Mallorca all the time. You'd be bored stiff.'
'Maybe.'
'As sure as huevos are huevos,' he says idiotically. 'Anyway, you're over that flying phobia nonsense, aren't you?'
'Just about.'
'Course you are. Now, more importantly, did you get my stuff in the post?'
'If you mean the cat fetishist range, then yes.'
'And?' He rubs his big paws together and eyes me keenly.
'To be frank, squeezing into the cat suit was a bit of a challenge, but the cape just about fitted.'
'Ha ha. Very funny, guv. Glad all that cava hasn't addled your brain.'
'So what's with the cats and how's New York?'
He takes a slurp of champagne. 'It's been surreal. You wouldn't believe some of the people I've met.'
'Met or upset?'
He gives me a shove. 'Both, now you come to mention it. There are a load of arseholes, but some good eggs too. Anyway, a few months back I banged into this hot chick at one of Bryan's cocktail do's and she asked me if I did bondage gear for dogs. Got me thinking.'
'I'm sure. How is Bryan?'
'Same old woofter. Tootsie, his rabbit, is still going strong. Daft bugger asked me to design it a leather jacket, can you believe?'
I sip my champagne and stretch back on the sofa, wondering how I've managed to keep sane all these years.
George is still chortling. 'That's when the pet gear idea came to me. I mean, everyone's soppy as hell about cats and dogs in Manhattan. I'm starting production next week.'
He rustles in a bag at his side. 'I've brought you some dog wear samples.'
'You're all heart.'
He spills the contents of the bag out onto the small square table and ferrets through it.
'Ah, here we go. This is the dog's bollocks. A croc collar inlaid with emeralds. I'll retail that at around three thousand dollars.'
'You're kidding?'
'Course not. This stuff will walk out the door.'
'I suppose you'll have a fashion preview for the press? Some little pooches and Persians mincing up a catwalk?'
He ignores the irony in my voice. 'Not a bad idea, guv. I like that.'
'So how soon would we be able to launch this pet wear range?'
'I'm aiming for November to catch pre-Christmas sales.'
'Perfect. That gives us bags of lead-in time.'
He orders more champagne and for the next few hours we set about a marketing strategy for his new range. The PR team he has hired in Manhattan are predictably 'awestruck' at his brilliance, but given that they're being paid $20,000 a month, they jolly well ought to be.
I scan my watch and realise that I have to leave. James and Sophie, some old friends of ours, have invited me to a dinner party at their home
in Pimlico. Greedy George is off to the launch of a new jewellery store on Bond Street and promises to email me product information and images soon.
'The sky's the limit, guv,' he yells coarsely as he strides through the lobby, stopping to stroke the bronze cat on the way out. 'I'll be the cat's whiskers of Manhattan, just wait and see.'
And with that, he disappears into the night.
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