'Sorry, I didn't see you there.'
'That's all right, my lovey. Look at you now in that nice suit! Where are you going today?'
'I'm doing a hotel pitch.'
'And what in heavens name is that when it's at home?'
For a crazy moment I imagine whisking Bernadette with her feather duster into a taxi and bringing her with me to Leatherhead. I could just picture her bustling into the doubtless staid and airless boardroom where we will be doing our pitch, and telling the directors exactly what she thought of their dreary concept for a country house hotel while munching on a pungent tuna sandwich.
'There's no such thing as a six star hotel, you bunch of wallies, and in Leatherhead? Are you off your heads?' she would cackle.
Bernadette is eyeing me curiously. I snap out of my reverie.
'A pitch? Well we have to go and sell ourselves to a potential new client and hope we win the account.'
She sniffs into her hankie. 'Is this in London?'
'Unfortunately not. We have to go to Leatherhead.'
'Nice bit of country air, though,' she sings. 'Do you the world of good. I must be off to clean the old ladies' rooms now. Ta-ra, darling!'
She pops into the lift I've just vacated while I drop my key with its round leather fob on the reception desk and head out into the windy street. An anaemic sun is peeping from behind a sheet of grey cloud as I jump into a taxi. South Audley Street is fairly deserted but I know that within half an hour it will be choked with traffic and clouds of exhaust fumes will fill the air. Lazily, I glimpse the dossier of notes Rachel prepared and left for me at reception the night before. Today we will be meeting the executive management team of The Glade, a new golf and country club which they claim in their brief will be a six star venue, attracting the likes of Tom Cruise, Tiger Woods, Michael Douglas and a whole list of golf-loving, celebrity A-listers. I re-read the client brief and snigger. Hollywood comes to Leatherhead. It's not that I have anything against the place but in truth this stretch of leafy suburbia is hardly a likely hang out for Hollywood divas. Someone at The Glade must have a good sense of humour. We have arrived at Waterloo Station. I fight my way across the concourse which is teeming with early commuters and head for the Leatherhead platform where I am supposed to meet Rachel and Sarah, one of our young account executives. In some bewilderment I listen to the deafening tannoy announcements, the brief snatches of loud conversations, music blaring from a cafe, the urgent tooting of a passing rubbish cart, and imagine by contrast the sounds of the Sóller Valley at this hour of the morning. I close my eyes and hear Rafael's cockerel, the plaintive meowing of the cats, the bird call and the sound of a distant tractor. Someone rudely shakes my arm.
'Well, hello. What on earth are you doing?'
Rachel is staring into my face and laughing. 'I told you to meet us on the platform, not by the flower stall. You're hopeless!'
'I was on my way.'
'Yes, well, let's get going. We can discuss the brief on the train and do a mini-rehearsal.'
She leads the way, the powerful, determined heels clip-clopping ahead of me and the long hair swinging like a pendulum behind her back. Standing pale-faced and anxious at the platform gate is Sarah. She's wearing a tailored black trouser suit which accentuates her slight frame, and is gripping a thin leather briefcase. She looks relieved to see us.
'I've got our tickets. We'd better get on.'
Rachel gives her a cheery smile. 'OK, all present and correct. Now, let's get down to work.'
10.15 a.m., The Glade, Leatherhead, Surrey
We are sitting in a makeshift boardroom within a grey, prefab workmen's hut plum in the middle of a drab and barren expanse of terrain which will one day house The Glade Golf and Country Club. For more than an hour an earnest group of men and women in suits have been pounding us with questions and the pitch isn't going well. Despite Rachel and Sarah's best efforts I have been unable to feign even the slightest enthusiasm and have an overpowering dislike of the man leading the questions, a beefy red Irishman named Frank O'Connor who will be The Glade's general manager. I listen to Rachel eloquently highlighting our spa credentials and excellent knowledge of the travel and health press, and have a terrible desire to yawn. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a mouse running the length of one wall, scurrying into a tiny crevice near the door. A moment later, it pops out and stands on its hind legs, eyes bulging and ears twitching as if listening in disbelief to the droning going on at the table. There's a cough. Frank O'Connor, like a squat toad in a shiny grey suit, is glaring at me.
'Sorry?'
He exhales impatiently. 'Why do you think celebrities will choose to stay at The Glade?'
Masochism? Inherent insanity?
'That's a good question,' I hear myself reply.
'I thought so, too,' he says with an ugly leer.
Under the table Rachel scrapes a heel against my leg and glowers at me.
'A good question,' she says airily, 'because it's obvious to us that the first class facilities of the club will be an absolute draw. We believe that there'll be nothing quite like The Glade anywhere in the world.'
At least we're agreed on that point.
Sarah gives a nervous little cough. 'And of course the proximity to Heathrow and Gatwick, not to mention having your own private helipad, will be a huge attraction.'
Frank O'Connor allows the slightest nod of the head but his expression remains sour. I sit sulkily twirling my pen and watching the expressionless faces of the other directors. How do people end up like this? Just years of sitting around cheap mahogany tables bleating the same old claptrap with only the odd mouse for diversion. Sarah sits erect, a neat folder of background sheets and information in front of her, politely chipping in when Rachel gives her the eye. Minutes pass.
'Well,' the bearded American sales director says, 'I think that just about wraps it up.'
'One last question,' says my burly nemesis. 'Before you came here today, did you bother to visit this site to see the building in progress?'
Rachel shifts uncomfortably in her seat and turns to me.
I find myself on my feet, smiling at him. 'Yes, indeed, Mr O'Connor.'
'No one here ever saw you,' he snaps.
'We came in disguise.'
There's a general flurry on the other side of the table.
'Disguise?' he snarls.
'Yes, I came as Groucho Marx and Rachel was wearing a beanie hat and a false nose.'
Suddenly the people in suits are giggling and nudging each other. Frank O'Connor doesn't appear to like my tone.
'Are you being funny?'
'Well, moderately, I hope.'
It's over. I can't quite remember how it all ends, but the Irishman lets out a roar of rage and strides from the room on a wave of hysterical laughter from his colleagues. In the corridor the sales director shakes my hand.
'He's an arrogant jerk so I can't really blame you for what you did. Shame though. It would have been fun to work with you guys.'
Rachel, icily professional and monosyllabic, ushers Sarah and me from the hut. We head back towards the station. She is wearing a stony expression and Sarah, puffing frantically on a Silk Cut, buries her face in her collar. A bright cafe catches my eye en route. I stop.
'Look, I'm sorry. I know what I did was completely immature and pathetic.'
Rachel and Sarah grind to a halt but say nothing.
'I ruined the pitch and I let you both down.'
'Yes, you did,' says Rachel sternly.
'I just decided we could never work for that… '
'He was a complete cretin,' Sarah blurts out, betraying a thin smile. 'And the club's going to be so naff.'
'Maybe, but what you did in there was unbelievable. I want to win new business. In all the time I've known you…' Rachel runs a weary hand over her face and begins to shake. At first I think she's crying, but no, she's laughing. Laughing hysterically. 'Groucho Marx? I mean, for crying out loud, what made you say that?'
&
nbsp; 'God knows. I just can't take this stuff too seriously any more. I promise I'll try. Look, let me buy you both a coffee and a bun.'
As I pull the cafe door towards me, Rachel stabs me in the back with her long tapered fingernail.
'I'll forgive you this time, but never pull a stunt like that again. If you do, Manuel Ramirez and his gold Kalashnikov will be the least of your problems.'
5.30 p.m., Regent Street
I'm in a rush. Daniella Popescu-Miller and Greedy George are both back from New York and I have arranged for us all to meet for a drink in Jermyn Street. Before I do that I need to buy a few things to take back to Mallorca. I've rifled Nike Town and stocked up on Dri-FIT running wear, but now must do battle with Hamleys for Ollie and, horror of horrors, buy Barbie Alice bands at the behest of Sabine Ricard, the mother of Véronique, a ballet-obsessed French child in Ollie's class. God willing, I may just make Hatchards to stock up on books before my meeting.
6.30 p.m., The Cavendish Hotel, Jermyn Street
I race up the stairs to the first-floor lounge where Greedy George is already ensconced in a huge beige armchair drinking a glass of champagne and munching on a bowl of nuts. The Daily Telegraph is stretched across his lap and on the glass coffee table lies an open copy of Private Eye.
'There you are,' he puffs, crackling the pages of the newspaper and dumping it in a heap at his side. 'When's Miss Romania turning up?'
'If you're referring to Dannie, she'll be here shortly. Anyway, how did you know she was Romanian?'
He emits a cackle. 'Popescu was a bit of a giveaway. Believe it or not, I had a Romanian mate at school called Popescu. He used to wear a garlic clove round his neck to ward off Count Dracula and he ate dog biscuits for lunch.'
The waitress brings me over a glass of champagne. I raise it in his direction.
'Good to see you anyway.'
'You too, guv. I haven't clapped eyes on you for weeks.'
'That's why I'm managing to remain sane.'
'Less of the sarcasm, Missus. Listen, what's the deal tonight?'
'I simply mentioned to Dannie that you'd be in London this week and she insisted on meeting you for a drink even though she wasn't due here until next weekend. She got Tetley to change her plane ticket.'
He juts his chin towards me. 'I'm flattered. Who's Tetley?'
I pop a peanut in my mouth. 'Her psychic tea leaf reader. She's called something strange, but I've nicknamed her Tetley for obvious reasons.'
He slaps his leg and wheezes with laughter. 'I love it! So does Tetley double up as her secretary too?'
I take a sip of champagne. 'No. Tetley merely informs Dannie's secretary which dates are propitious for her to travel on. Tetley also decides the airline, row and seat number for each business trip.'
He shakes his head in genuine wonder. 'It's unbelievable.'
'That's not all. If she can't get the exact row and seat on the plane, the trip's cancelled, so you're lucky to be seeing her at all.'
There's a kerfuffle at the top of the staircase and there in a tight, white silk suit is Dannie together with two hotel staff and what looks like a liveried chauffeur. She catches a glimpse of us and throws me a piercing smile.
'Here she comes,' I whisper.
Greedy George gives a deep cough and, straightening his suit, rises to greet her. The hotel staff and chauffeur evaporate in her wake as she glides towards us.
'Darling, how marvellous to see you again.'
She leans forward to air kiss me.
'Oh and George! I've been dying to have a proper chat ever since the Forbes bash.'
He seems slightly awestruck by the mirage before him. 'Let me get you a glass of champagne.'
She controls a little yelp. 'No! I'd prefer a vodka and mineral water. Thank you so much.'
The waitress hastens to Dannie's side. 'So it's a vodka and still mineral water, madam?'
'Yes, and I want a straw, and three green olives on a cocktail stake, I mean stick, placed vertically in the glass. OK?'
George manages to stifle a guffaw as he leans down and fiddles with his newspaper.
'So,' he says ridiculously. 'Ever met a vampire, Dannie?'
She exhibits a set of ice white teeth. 'Are you referring to my lineage, George?'
'Well, wasn't old Dracula supposed to hang out in Romania? Thought you might have run into one of his descendants at some stage.'
She gives a deep, mirthless chuckle. 'You're very perceptive. Actually I am a direct descendant of Vlad the Impaler, the Dracula of fiction. I was born in Sighisoara, his birth place.'
Greedy George narrows his eyes, uncertain whether he is being mercilessly ribbed, but her blank face shows little humour.
'Damn, and I forgot to pack my crucifix and garlic,' he gurgles.
Dannie smiles in her glacial way. I'm relieved to see the waitress hurrying back with her drink. Fascinated, I watch as Dannie fiddles constantly with the cocktail stick, but leaves the olives untouched.
'So, George, everyone's been talking about your new pet wear range. I hear Vanity Fair might be doing a spread.'
He gives her a smirk. 'Well, they get enough advertising out of me. I've suggested we kit out some A-lister dogs and cats, you know like Paris Hilton's flea on a lead, and photograph them with their owners.'
She listens politely, the enormous diamonds in her lobes glinting as they catch the light.
'Ingenious,' she simpers.
George blushes slightly and then launches into a spiel about his future aspirations for Havana Leather in the States. Dannie sits perfectly still, one well-honed bronzed leg draped over the other, her hands clasped in her lap.
'And how's Mallorca?' she says sweetly, suddenly turning to me. 'Michael says the North West is beautiful.'
'Michael who?' blurts out George.
'Douglas, of course.'
'Sure,' says George, crunching hard on some peanuts and not daring to look at me.
'You should visit sometime, Dannie. I think you'd like the village of Deià.'
'Where the British writer Robert Graves lived, right?'
George's eyes open wide. 'Played a lot of Trivial Pursuits as a kid, Dannie?'
'No, but I've read his works. Is it true he has a simple gravestone with the words: Robert Graves. Poeta?'
I'm slightly thrown by Dannie's knowledge of my home turf.
'Spot on.'
George is chortling. 'I know what they'd put on mine: George Myers. Bastard.'
I give him a kick but Dannie rolls her head back and laughs. 'That's very funny, George. You're such a tonic.'
Suddenly Dannie's mobile trills. She holds it to her ear, mouthing an apology to us.
'Obviously, I didn't make myself clear,' she breathes frostily. 'I want Suite 319 or we change hotels. Forget the little people and call the general manager.'
She scowls at a distant wall in the lounge, tapping a shiny Manolo heel against the table leg as she listens to her caller. 'Mary Anne, stop mewling and get it sorted. Call me when it's done.'
She slams the lid of the tiny mobile phone shut and tosses it into her butterscotch Gucci handbag.
'Everything all right?' quizzes George.
'Perfect,' she beams manically. 'I just have a few minor staff issues.'
'Sorry to hear that,' says George, glugging down the remains of his glass.
Dannie sucks up the last drops of vodka with her straw, leaving the speared olives naked and intact. With a quick flick of the wrist she scrutinises her watch face and begins to rise. Her eyes lock on to mine.
'You know staff should be handled like wayward dogs. It's simply a case of bringing them to heel.'
And with that she air kisses us, agrees the time I shall be meeting her in the morning, and glides down the stairs to her awaiting car.
Greedy George shakes his head and whistles. 'I hope for your sake, guv, that you haven't bitten off more than you can chew.'
9 p.m., Pimlico
The taxi driver deposits me outside the
home of Sophie and James, a smart three-storey Edwardian house whose terracotta window boxes overflow with narcissi and hyacinths. The narrow street is already dark save for the twinkling street lights. I skip up the small flight of stairs to the front door and ring the bell. A light shines in the hallway and there's a sound of laughter and clinking glasses. The door flies open and candles in the elegant hallway emit a honey warm glow. James, workaholic lawyer and King of Cordon Bleu, is wearing a white butcher's apron and wafting a glass of champagne in the air. He kisses me lightly on my left cheek.
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