Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof

by Anna Nicholas

  'Darling, you're late.'

  'Didn't you say eight o'clock?'

  He proffers his watch. 'In England when we say eight it's customary not to arrive at nine. Keep your mañanas for Spain.'

  I give him a hug. 'Sorry, I got held up in the office. Where's Sophie?'

  'Entertaining the troops. Fraser's waxing lyrical about the NHS and Mike's in depression about his latest book review so it promises to be a fun night.'

  He raises his eyebrows a notch and en route to the drawing room makes a detour to the stylish Shaker-inspired kitchen to pour me a glass of bubbly. I take a sip and enter the elegantly proportioned front room with its high ceiling and subtle coving. Rich, ruby red drapes fall luxuriously from brass rails above the windows and soft amber light radiates from crystal candelabras on either side of the roaring hearth. Sophie, brilliant barrister and 'hostess with the mostest', sees me first and scurries over to peck me on the cheek. I notice she's wearing a stylish black dress while I'm in attire more suitable for an Ibiza beach party given that my wardrobe is geared to the sun and has subsequently become far more casual and colourful. Grabbing my hand, she leads me over to the sofa where Mike Harding, novelist and journalist and perhaps the scruffiest man in London, sits broodingly in an old hacking jacket and frayed green chords. I discover that he is in heated discussion with Seth Golding, an obscenely rich investment banker, who at thirty-four, is already thinking of retirement. He is also dangerously handsome, a reasonable wit and finds those of us in the poor seats an endless source of mirth.

  'So, what if the book bombs, Mikey?'

  The hapless author flinches in displeasure at the chummy mutation of his name.

  'Then we go and live in a foreign shack like marathon girl here.'

  He jerks his head in my direction and gives Seth a sulky look.

  Seth straightens his costly, woven silk tie and gets up to greet me. Mike follows suit, sneaking an envious glance at the banker's immaculate navy ensemble as he bends down to kiss my cheek.

  'Mikey and I were just discussing his latest book,' Seth says in his Eton schoolboy crisp manner. 'It's been scorched by the reviews and I was just saying how very precarious it is being a writer. Better maybe to have a proper day job. You know, back on the payroll with The Telegraph or...'

  'It was The Guardian, actually,' fumes Mike.

  'Is it still in business?' quizzes Seth airily.

  'Actually, it did a huge feature on Havana Leather this week,' I cut in.

  'I suppose they've got to fill the pages somehow,' counters Seth, an evil glint in his eye. I give Mike a reassuring smile and say that I'd love to read his latest thriller. He dashes over to his rucksack by the door, retrieves a copy and shuffles back to us.

  'Didn't offer me one,' huffs Seth theatrically.

  'I didn't know bankers could read,' he mumbles petulantly as he opens the book and scribbles a message inside.

  'So what's old Alan up to in Spanish Utopia?' Seth asks breezily, ignoring Mike and lighting up a slim cigar.

  'He's been talent spotted for a banking advert and is about to start managing a friend's holiday flat.'

  'It's all right for some,' Mike grunts. 'So what happened to his whisky shop idea?'

  'Oh, died the death.'

  'And the landscape gardening business?' he persists.

  'On hold.'

  Seth blows small circles of smoke above my head. 'Must be tough for him being out of the corporate world now.'

  'On the contrary, he looks ten years younger.'

  He frowns. 'So no regrets then about swanning off?'

  Mike gives a bitter laugh. 'Why should they have? We're the poor sods left behind.'

  Making my excuses, I take the signed paperback and wander over to Fraser, a weary, hard-working GP who is languishing in a brocade armchair. Patiently, he is explaining the cut backs in public health spending to Vanessa, Seth's thirty-something, well-heeled and glamorous wife. She is wearing a black Armani number, Ferragamo mules and has the physical profile of a wafer biscuit. Vanessa doesn't work and like most of her friends she is ALOSIK (always lunching or shopping in Knightsbridge). Sitting on a straight-backed fireside chair opposite him, with legs neatly crossed in front of her, she clasps a glass of water daintily in her right hand.

  'We should just get rid of the NHS,' she opines loudly in a rich, cut-glass accent. 'It's a drain on the State and, quite frankly, redundant. Do you know anyone who doesn't have BUPA these days?'

  Fraser looks at her in some confusion, hoping that she is being ironic.

  'Darling,' she says, touching my arm. 'I love the turquoise top, so Mallorca chic. How are things in Spain?'

  'So far, so good,' I say.

  'But what about education?'

  Vanessa and Seth have a two-year-old dumpling called William who is already down for Eton. I assure her that we have discovered a very good British school and that Ollie is well on the way to being tri-lingual.

  'But what for, when everyone speaks English? I hope you've got him down for Eton.'

  'Good God, no. Look what it did to Seth.'

  Fraser laughs. 'Exactly.'

  'Actually, we may move him into the Spanish system in a year or so.'

  Her eyes widen in horror. 'Isn't that a little irresponsible?'

  I savour the cool champagne. 'Not if he wants to become a flamenco dancer or a matador.'

  'Don't be inane,' she snaps.

  'They say it's the tri-lingual foreign kids who are cleaning up in the City now. Forget your old boy connections.' Fraser gives me a surreptitious wink.

  'And what about health care?' she persists with mild irritation.

  'My local Mallorcan doctor sees me immediately, charges me nothing and kisses my hand when I leave the surgery.'

  She wrinkles her perfect, aquiline nose. 'How bizarre.'

  'Does he need an assistant?' Fraser rejoins.

  'Things that good in the NHS?'

  'Pretty bleak. We're two doctors short and the surgery's at bursting point, but we just can't fill the vacancies.'

  'That's because they're all leaving the profession in droves,' says Diana curtly. Until now she has been standing by the window talking intently to Sophie, but quietly comes over and sits down on the arm of Fraser's chair. She is wearing vintage Laura Ashley and has her shoulder-length greying hair scraped back behind a black velvet Alice band. She's a freelance radio journalist who never made it back on the BBC ladder after raising her three children. Now she divides her time between doing voice-overs, chauffeuring the kids to and from their exorbitantly expensive private school and massaging Mike's constantly battered ego. I decide that it can't be easy being married to Mike.

  'Oh well,' says Vanessa with a horsey laugh, 'Maybe all our doctors are off to Mallorca where the grass is apparently greener.'

  Diana gives her a grim smile at which point James bustles into the room, wiping his hands on a teacloth and lightening the atmosphere.

  'Cheer up everybody,' he says with a smile, 'Dinner is served.'

  Wednesday 10.30 a.m., Claridges

  The doorman ushers us politely out onto the street. Rachel strides regally ahead of me along Brook Street while I manage to drop several files and sheets of notes on the pavement. A few indulgent passing swains stop to help me retrieve them. Rachel turns back and sees me grovelling in an ungainly fashion on the floor.

  'What are you doing?'

  'Throwing my toys about.'

  She waits until I'm at her side. 'Have you got time for a coffee?'

  'No. I'm meeting Dannie at eleven o'clock.'

  We hover on the pavement.

  'So, how do you think it went?'

  'Difficult to say. I think it went marginally better than The Glade pitch.'

  Rachel gives a grunt. 'Well, that's a surprise! Seriously, I think they liked us and you made it abundantly clear you wanted the job.'

  I shrug. Having set my heart on winning the Crown jewels project, I would be bitterly disappointed if we were to
fail, especially having put in so much spade work. I feel I need to redeem myself in Rachel's eyes after my bad behaviour at The Glade. The only problem is that we'll be up against several other PR companies itching for the project. She shakes my arm.

  'Chin up. We did our best and you were on top form. I've got a good feeling about it.'

  'Really?'

  'As far as I'm concerned we did a near perfect pitch and you can't do better than that.'

  Her mobile trills and, whipping it out from her voluminous bag, she puts it to her ear and saunters off in the direction of Berkeley Street.

  Wednesday 12.45 p.m., Vogue House, Hanover Square

  Dannie stands by the open door of the spotless charcoal limo clutching a half-consumed bottle of Evian, her enormous shades glinting in the sun. At a discreet distance a chauffeur dawdles on the pavement.

  'I think we pitched it perfectly, honey.' Her tone is mellow and husky. 'I mean those girls were riveted.'

  My eyes stray to the revolving door of Vogue House, home to Condé Nast's glossy lifestyle publications. One of the editors we visited briefly on this whirlwind tour of Tatler, Vogue and World of Interiors is still watching us from the glass lobby, mesmerised by Dannie and her entourage. Mary Anne pats my hand.

  'We can't thank you enough, sugar. They recognised a star in Dannie, and you helped them to see that.'

  'Actually, I can't take any credit for…'

  'No,' says Dannie dramatically, holding up a perfectly manicured hand. 'You have opened doors here beyond my dreams.'

  I feel a stab of panic. I may have opened editorial doors but so far not one publication has shown the remotest interest in writing as much as a one-liner about Dannie or her products. Flanking Mary Anne is Dannie's make-up artist, Earl, an emaciated New Yorker with a peroxide quiff, and her hair stylist, Rocky, a muscle-bound Californian with bouffant blonde hair and a gold crucifix in both ears. There's no garlic in evidence. They both crowd me with ultra-white, toothy smiles.

  'Great, well, I mustn't keep you all.'

  'Remember we love you, Cupcake.'

  'Thanks, Mary Anne. That's very kind,' I say absurdly.

  We say our farewells and I am showered with air kisses. Politely, the chauffeur strolls over and when all are finally seated within, closes the limo doors. I stand alone on the pavement waving at the tinted glass windows as Dannie and her entourage soar off in the direction of Knightsbridge.

  1.10 p.m., Le Caprice, Arlington Street

  Panting for breath, I arrive at Le Caprice and hurl myself through the revolving doors. Manuel Ramirez is already sitting at a table, immaculately groomed and wearing a tailored linen suit. Jesus, the restaurant's Bolivian manager, glides towards me and whispers, 'I've fixed him a Bloody Mary. Don't worry, he's fine.'

  I thank him and put on my cheeriest smile.

  'You've beaten me to it, Manuel.'

  He rises from his chair and, kissing me fiercely on both cheeks, clutches my right arm in a vice-like grip.

  'Remember, life is not a race.'

  'No, indeed,' I say, prising my arm free.

  'Here, take a seat.'

  He clicks his fingers and lets off a torrent of Spanish at a passing waiter who returns with a glass of champagne which he places in front of me. I'm longing for a glass of water, but must bide my time.

  'Please, we must drink to health and success.'

  I raise my glass and take a small sip.

  'You know I feel as if I am back in Panama. Everyone speaks Spanish here.'

  He scans the room for a few seconds and then leans towards me conspiratorially.

  'Don't look now, but there is a strange man by the window watching us.'

  'Manuel, I wouldn't be concerned. It's probably just a curious guest.'

  Before he can stop me I flick my eyes over the assembled throng of diners and see a diarist contact in the corner who gives me a cheery wave. I smile back.

  'It's Adam Helliker. He's a journalist.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Positive.'

  He relaxes and we order lunch. An hour later we sit drinking coffees, having agreed launch plans for the next three H Hotels in the States and Cuba.

  'By the way,' he says casually, 'travel agents are promoting our hotels brilliantly after that sales document we developed for them. Their clients are, how you say, lapping it up.'

  'Fantastic. I'd love to see it.'

  His face drops. 'Why?'

  'Well, it's obviously been a great selling tool. Might be helpful for us in promoting H Hotels to the UK press.'

  He gives a dark chuckle and waggles a finger at me. 'Maybe you want this document so you can help our rivals, si?'

  It takes a second for his words to sink in. 'What?'

  'Don't look innocent. You are clever. Maybe you want to sell the document to other hotel groups so they know our secrets.'

  I almost want to laugh, but he has a wild look in his eye.

  'Manuel, I'd make a lousy Mata Hari. Have you forgotten that I'm actually working for you?'

  He settles the bill and runs a large tanned hand over his perspiring brow. 'Everyone has a price.'

  'Look, forget it,' I say with some frustration. 'I was just trying to help.'

  He softens and touches my arm. 'Maybe I believe you, but there are enemies everywhere. Think of all the hoteliers who would kill to get their hands on this document. It is the secret weapon of H Hotels.'

  I fleetingly wonder whether he OD'd on James Bond as a child. The man needs a good shrink.

  'You too must be on your guard,' he says in a hushed tone. 'Let's go.'

  He leads me briskly out of the restaurant and into the bright street.

  'Trust will come. Be patient.'

  He gives me a suffocating bear hug and, dashing across the road, his eyes darting in all directions, disappears into a passing cab.

  4 p.m., Mayfair.

  Rachel is still wiping her eyes. 'I don't think I've laughed so much in years.'

  'Yes, well next time you go to lunch with him.'

  She struts across to her desk and shuffles some papers together.

  'I'm sorry, but Manuel loves you. I mean, you make him laugh. Paranoiacs find you reassuring.'

  Sarah pops her head round the door. 'Your cab's here.'

  'Thanks, Sarah.'

  'Oh come on, don't look so morose.'

  'I don't know, Rachel. I'm not sure I can do this PR thing anymore. It's all so pointless and ephemeral.'

  Like a strict headmistress, she raps a knuckle on her desk.

  'Listen, it's a job. It pays the rent. I don't like you being wet like this. It doesn't suit you.'

  She's right. I'm damned lucky to have a job with so much freedom and it does pay the bills.

  'OK, point taken.'

  'You're just fretting about the Crown jewels pitch. We have to accept there will be competition. As you always say, if it's meant, it's meant.'

  'You're right. Anyway, we'll know soon enough.'

  The managing director of The Stationery Office has promised to let us know if our company is successful in a few weeks' time. Fingers crossed.

  'By the way, Frankie Symonds rang earlier. She thinks The Telegraph might do a piece on Dannie. Can you call her?'

  My ears prick up. Frankie is one of my oldest journalist chums and has been tirelessly trying to get a feature placed about Dannie. I owe her big time if this Telegraph article comes off.

  'Thank God for Frankie! I'll call her from the taxi.'

  Rachel pushes her long hair behind her ears and shoves a file under my arm. 'Take a look at all this on the plane, will you? Some potential clients I'm unsure about.'

  'I was contemplating a vodka and tonic and a quiet read.'

  'Too bad. Listen, don't worry about Manuel. He's just a bit insecure. You'll sort him out. Besides, just think of the big fee.'

  At this precise moment I'd quite happily throw Manuel's fee to the wind. Rachel gives me a peck on the cheek.

  'Hav
e a safe flight and don't speak to any strangers on the plane.'

  9.30 p.m., Palma airport

  The warm air engulfs us as we speed away in a taxi from the airport in the direction of Sóller. I am sitting next to Victoria Duvall, erstwhile Hollywood film director and one of my long-time fellow commuters, and now a good friend. By happy coincidence we live a mere fifteen minutes' drive from each other and found ourselves on the same flight back to Mallorca.