‘Righto,’ responded Dylan. He unsnapped his camera bag and took out the camera. ‘Where do you want me first, then, madam?’
‘Society shots, please.’
‘Coming right up,’ said Dylan, rolling up his sleeves. He strode to the roped-off area at the entrance, giving a (probably ironic) little whistle.
Sarah headed over to the cloakroom to deposit the coats and as she walked back across the room to the kitchens she was intercepted by the Baroness and Lady Muff to have a gold-edged printed card thrust into her right hand.
‘Right, darling, here is your speech. Just read and go – simple!’
‘Thank you, Baroness.’ Sarah looked at the card with its printed writing.
‘You’re doing the speech?’
Felicity had turned up, immaculate-looking in a navy shift dress and matching heels, with an officious-looking handbag dangling from her left arm. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the window of Selfridges: Work Wear.
‘Yes,’ said Sarah, smoothing down the back of her hair with her left hand. She felt all vampy in comparison to Miss Corporate. She’d sexed it up too much again, hadn’t she? ‘Baroness Trott’s woman couldn’t make it.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, I can do it, if you like. If you’re nervous and not up to it?’
Sarah took her hand away from her hair. ‘No, I’m not nervous,’ she lied. ‘I’m fine.’
‘OK.’ Felicity looked quite disappointed. ‘What else do you need me to do?’ she asked, looking around her.
‘Stand and greet people as they come in, please?’
‘OK,’ said Felicity, keen as mustard, and she clipped briskly off.
Sarah went into the kitchens to double-check the number of bottles of pink fizz and make sure the amuse-bouches were on course for their one o’clock sharp serve time. When she came out, most of the guests had already trickled in, and before long the room was assembled and everyone was seated with a glass of fizz in their hand and a smile on their face. Sarah lightly paced around the room, checking everyone was happy. The Baroness, now sitting at what she had insisted was the top table, like at a wedding, nodded at Sarah and motioned towards the podium.
‘Sarah?’
‘Yes?’ A man in black trousers and T-shirt appeared next to her. ‘I’m Julian. I just need to mic you up?’
‘Oh right, yes of course.’
Julian attached a tiny mic to the right hand ‘V’ of her dress and a battery pack to the back of her belt. ‘I’ll switch you on when you get up to the podium,’ he said. ‘You’re remote.’
‘OK,’ said Sarah again. She walked over to the podium and looked at the expectant crowd; Julian, at a table, clicked something on a laptop before giving her the thumbs-up.
‘Welcome, everyone, to Baroness Trott’s Movie Funding Luncheon,’ Sarah read waveringly from the card. ‘I hope you will all dig deep this afternoon and donate as much money as possible. Remember, you’ll all receive a mention on the credits.’ There was an ‘ooh’ which rippled round the room. A very small mention, thought Sarah, knowing the Baroness.
‘Baroness Trott has had a life that should be immortalized on celluloid,’ she continued, forcing her voice to calm a little. She could see Dylan, over by the auction table, and he gave her an encouraging nod. ‘Her early years, scraping for food in the gutters of the East End of London …’ Sarah had to suppress a giggle; she didn’t believe it for a minute. ‘Her destitute childhood, her escape to the bright lights of the West End … her renowned stint as the Darling of London …’ Sarah could see the Baroness beaming away at the top table; Felicity, standing guard to the side, nodding but looking ready to spring into action if required.
‘And then, of course,’ said Sarah, ‘the Baroness’s six marriages to the most eligible men in the country, including two film stars, a gangster and a politician, and her current reign as London’s top society queen.’ She caught Dylan’s eye. He quickly lifted up his camera and pointed it at a group of ladies on the table opposite him. ‘There is drama, there is romance, there is passion, danger, and excitement, ladies and gentlemen. Producers are standing by.’ (It said ‘dramatic pause’ so Sarah gave it one.) ‘This movie needs to be made. Please dig deep.’
There was a smattering of applause and a couple of mild cheers. Julian clicked on something and nodded at her that her mic was off. Sarah had done it.
On cue, a flurry of silver service waitresses breezed in from the kitchens, bearing tiny plates of amuse-bouches up their arms, and lunch was underway. The room was full of chatter and tinkling laughter. Baroness Trott was pontificating at her table, fellow guests hanging off her every word. And Dylan was pacing the room with his camera, taking those reportage shots he was so good at. The ones from the baby shower had been excellent – he’d captured some fantastic moments, particularly those of the children blowing bubbles in the garden.
The starter arrived. While everyone was eating, Sarah would check off the auction inventory. She had a list on her phone and moved to the left-hand side of the room and the console table.
One hamper of London’s finest cheeses? Check. A giant basket of beauty products from Flora’s Yard? Check. A silver and slate necklace from up-and-coming London designer Fred McTain.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. A text flashed up. From Connor.
Can you call me when you get a moment please?
What was this all about? Was he at work? She had no idea, as his shifts varied from week to week. If he was, she hoped he hadn’t hurt himself – what sort of accident could befall a person on a sandwich packing production line? she wondered. A rogue price sticker to the back of a hand? A hairnet falling on the conveyer belt? The mangling of a hand in some terrible, mangling machine … Oh god, it could be something horrific! But she couldn’t call him now. She made herself take a deep breath. Relax, she told herself. Knowing Connor, it was something like ‘where’s the remote control?’ And Meg was there, surely?
She carried on going through her inventory.
A signed photo of Anthea Turner, in frame.
A bouquet of flowers delivered to the recipient of your choice, from the Queen’s favourite florist. She bet they all said that.
Her phone sat silent and motionless on the table. Thank god.
‘How are you doing? Drowned in a sea of excess wealth yet?’ It was Dylan, camera slung over his shoulder.
‘No, not yet? Been knocked out by all the perfume?’
‘Nope, though I did come over all faint in the tailwind of some industrial-strength hairspray.’
‘Ha.’
‘It’s not a bad gig,’ he added. ‘As gigs go. Right, I’m off again. I spy a lady in a very silly hat.’
Tickets for two to see Oh Flip, I Lost my Knickers! at the Lyceum Theatre, London.
Her phone vibrated again. It jiggled across the table and she snatched it up.
Mum, can you call me please! It’s urgent!
Sarah bashed out a quick text.
What’s the problem?
Call me!!!!
Sarah didn’t know what to do. She looked around the room – everyone was occupied, Felicity was talking to the sound guy, Julian, over by his laptop. She’d checked off the last item on her list. The phone started ringing now. She held it to her ear and risked a small ‘Hello?’
‘Mum! Thank god!’
He sounded stricken. ‘What’s the matter, Connor?’ she hissed. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s Monty.’ Her heart stopped; oh god, had Monty been discovered run over by a combine harvester? Had he ingested something deadly? Was he dead?
‘What?’ She said it too loudly, she knew.
Felicity, like a bloody apparition, was suddenly by her side. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes, it’s just my son … a problem … with something …’ Monty was dead, she knew it. ‘I can’t talk to him now though.’ She held her phone away from her, like it was a grenade.
‘A mother’s always on duty.’ Felicity smiled. ‘Talk to
him, I can cover here. Everything’s under control, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Sarah, looking round the room as frantic calls of ‘Mum, Mum!’ spat into the air from her phone.
‘It must be hard for your children, you not being around for them,’ murmured Felicity soothingly. ‘They need their mum. Talk to him,’ she urged. ‘I’ll take charge.’
Sarah, consumed with guilt over her idiotic son and grief for her beloved cat, nodded. ‘OK. I’ll be one minute, OK. One minute.’ She dashed to the back of the room and headed towards the ladies’ loos where she darted into a cubicle, locking the door behind her. ‘What is it, Connor?’ she hissed into the phone, her heart pounding. ‘Is Monty dead?’
‘No, of course he’s not dead!’ said Connor and Sarah breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘But since he turned up back at the house this morning he hasn’t stopped crying.’
‘What? Is that all?’
‘Yeah. It’s doing my head in.’
Sarah now sighed in exasperation. ‘Well, have you fed him?’
‘Of course I’ve fed him, but he won’t stop! He wants you! Can you just talk to him for a second?’
‘Connor, I’m working. I’m at a very important charity lunch.’
‘Just for a second. Listen to him.’ And he must have put the phone closer to Monty as Sarah could now hear the cat crying piteously.
‘OK, just for a second.’ No one would hear her; the loos were currently empty. She’d talk to him quickly and then she’d go back to the lunch. Felicity was covering, after all.
‘Hold on, I’ll put the phone up to his ear.’
‘Hello, Monty?’ said Sarah. Monty immediately stopped crying. ‘You OK, my darling?’ There was silence, then an almighty meowing ‘You’re such a good boy, yes, you are, yes you are. That’s my boy. Aw, my big, big boy. My monster boy.’
She still couldn’t hear anything; had he wandered off? ‘Is he still there?’
‘Yes,’ came Connor’s voice, from a slight distance. ‘Keep going.’
‘There’s a good boy,’ she repeated. ‘Good boy … such a good boy, my darling. Oh, my best boy … ’ She could hear Monty purring so she returned to her normal, non-pathetic voice. ‘He’s purring, can I go now?’
‘Yeah.’ Connor sounded distracted now the crisis was over; he was clearly over it. ‘I’ve got to go now, too – I’ve got a beef Bourguinon in the oven.’
‘Have you?’
‘Yeah, well Auntie Meg can’t cook and Olivia and I were worried we’d get scurvy or something so I followed a recipe off the internet.’
‘Oh right, well, good. Have some greens with it. Look, Connor, I’ve got to go, speak to you soon. Bye.’ She hurriedly ended the call, switched off her phone and jogged back into the function room, where she was startled to see that everyone – and that was everyone – was looking in her direction.
‘What’s going on,’ Sarah asked Dylan, who was standing in the doorway, his eyebrows raised in a strange manner. And why was her voice being amplified round the room? With hideous feedback?
‘Monster boy?’ he queried.
‘What?’ Her voice reverberated horrifically round the cavernous space. She may as well have been in Cheddar Gorge standing on a stepladder and shouting into a loud speaker.
‘Your mic’s on. The whole room just heard you talking on the phone. Lucky Monty, eh?’ He grinned.
She mouthed another ‘What?’, not daring to speak out loud, and reached behind her to try to fiddle with her battery pack. What on earth? She looked over to where Felicity was standing behind Julian’s desk. Julian wasn’t there, but he dashed back from wherever he’d been and tapped frantically at something on the laptop, whilst Felicity shrugged and gave an innocent smile.
‘Sorry!’ called Julian. ‘Unexpected technical hitch. So sorry!’
‘Am I off now?’ Sarah asked Dylan. Her voice had gone back to normal. ‘Or do I have to do “testing testing” in reverse, or something?’
‘You’re off,’ said Dylan.
There was a sudden, loud round of applause. Shiny faces clapping her, people laughing. Baroness Trott shook her head and then pealed with laughter too. Oh god, how bloody embarrassing! Sarah was utterly mortified. The Baroness and all her rich friends had heard the organizer of the lunch – the supposed calm, collected and totally grown-up organizer – serenading a bloody cat.
All she could do was give an ironic little bow.
‘Don’t worry.’ Dylan smiled. ‘One more hour and the luxury auction to go, and then we can get out of here.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And then I’m going to take you to a little place I know and we’re going to drown your sorrows in coffee for the rest of the afternoon.’
*
They were at the tiniest coffee place Sarah had ever seen. It had a minuscule shopfront about three people wide. A high table was either side of the closed front door, with two tall bar stools, but Dylan had walked her straight inside, to the back.
‘This OK?’ he said. ‘I’m a bit of a vampire – I’m not sure I can sit in the sun. I might dissolve into a black puddle of malcontent, and disappear.’
‘Here is fine.’ It was. The gloom wonderfully matched her mood. But what did he have to be discontented and vampiric about? It was she who had just made a colossal fool of herself, in front of a hundred and twenty people. They sat down on too-low stools, their knees bumping against the table, and a fierce-looking lady with apron strings tied round her middle several times came over with a notepad and a grunt.
‘What’s your poison?’ Dylan asked Sarah.
‘Cyanide, so I can finish myself off? Black coffee, no sugar,’ she added. Usually she would have a frothy cappuccino, but not today. She felt far from frothy. ‘What are you having?’
‘Espresso. Do you want to get a cake or something?’ he asked. ‘My treat.’
‘No, thank you.’ It was nice of him to ask, but she really didn’t think she could stomach anything. Ever again.
‘It wasn’t that bad, you know,’ said Dylan, before ordering their coffees and a slice of Black Forest gateau. The waitress grunted she may have understood and sloped off. ‘As far as the Baroness is concerned, it was a huge success, wasn’t it?’
The auction had been fantastic and had raised over two million pounds. Sarah wasn’t required to run that – thank goodness – that role fell to a female stand-up comedian known for her vagina jokes. And boy, did she keep cracking them. Luckily, the assembled crowd had all had more than a glass or two of bubbly by then and found her absolutely hilarious. By the time the last item – the signed photo of Anthea Turner in a frilly housekeeper’s apron – had been put up for auction, the Baroness’s vanity project had made its target. The lady would go to Hollywood.
‘Yes, it was,’ Sarah admitted.
‘There you are then. All thoughts of your little audio blip are probably long forgotten,’ said Dylan. ‘And the Baroness didn’t look remotely perturbed by your cat whispering. Far from it. With the life that old bird’s had I think she takes such things in her stride. Truly, it doesn’t matter. Not in the great scheme of things.’ Sarah looked at him oddly. That was always Harry’s line. What did it matter, in the great scheme of things? Although Dylan said it kindly whilst looking at her face … not laconically, and staring into the middle distance whilst dreaming of a patch of grass that was infinitely greener.
‘Thank you, Dylan, but it matters to me,’ sighed Sarah. ‘My reputation. Unless anyone remembers me from before, I’m new to this business – I have to make a name for myself all over again.’
‘Most people would have found it funny,’ insisted Dylan. ‘I’m sure of it. Thank you.’ The surly waitress placed a steaming cup of black coffee and a tiny espresso in a brown cup in front of them. Dylan picked his up and sipped at it. ‘People like others’ infallibilities. I do, definitely.’ He placed his coffee down and looked straight at Sarah. ‘You know, having you back is a distinct improvement on working with Verity.’
; ‘Is it?’ The waitress came back to the table with Dylan’s Black Forest gateau.
‘Yeah. She was efficient, but dull. You’re much more fun. Especially these days.’ He was looking at her so intently she had to look away. ‘Anyway, so, what do you think actually happened?’ he asked, spooning a forkful of cake into his mouth. ‘With the mic?’
‘A technical error, a malfunctioning pack – though it hadn’t slipped or anything – a slip of a finger …’
‘A Felicity who decided to sabotage you?’
Sarah remembered Felicity’s innocent smile, behind the IT desk; how keen she was for Sarah to go off to the loos. Sarah hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself at the time. ‘I think you might be right,’ she said.
‘I’d really keep an eye on her from now on if I were you,’ said Dylan. ‘I’m beginning to sense a craving for power and world domination from our young Felicity – at any cost.’
Sarah sighed again. A big one. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘It seems I have an official rival. So, not only do I have the pressure of restarting my career, after all these years, leaving my kids with my flighty sister, but I have to cope with some ambitious youngster trying to undermine me before I’ve even got going! Please don’t say anything sarcastic,’ she begged Dylan.
‘I won’t,’ said Dylan. ‘I promise.’ He stirred his coffee. ‘You’ve left your children with your sister? I’m confused. She lives in London, doesn’t she?’
‘Not at the moment,’ replied Sarah. She sipped at her coffee; it had cooled sufficiently not to take the roof of her mouth off. ‘We’re doing a temporary house swap. She’s staying in my cottage as she needed a break from London, and I’m living in her flat for two months.’
‘A sister swap? How literary.’
‘You said you wouldn’t be sarcastic.’
‘Sorry, I can’t help it. It is like something you’d read in a book.’
The Sister Swap Page 15