‘You clumsy oaf!’ Shelagh shouted. ‘I was up at seven mixing that paint.’
‘Shelagh, do you have any idea where we’d find Minty?’ a reporter called out.
Shelagh put on her ‘thinking’ face. It was one she used when a client proposed something preposterous, like a staircase that led nowhere, which Shelagh had to pretend to be giving serious consideration to.
She turned her golden face to the television camera. Tilted her chin. ‘I seem to remember…doesn’t she work at that shop – what’s it called? Oh, I know. Yahboo. It’s in the King’s Road. Last time I was in there all the girls were half-naked…’
It was enough. The hacks hared off to Chelsea. All except one.
Becca Simon went in the opposite direction, to talk again to her old boss, the landlord of Crocodile. He was just opening up the pub.
‘You again?’ he snapped at Becca. ‘I told you last time, my pub is not a rough-house, my clientele are from very good homes.’
‘I know,’ Becca followed him into the pub. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Araminta Charles.’ And she laid on the Crocodile counter two five pound notes. Becca had come a long way since her days emptying Crocodile’s ashtrays.
Eugenie rang her the following day at the Mail. ‘You didn’t have to make Aramina sound such a complete tart. All that business about her short skirt and no knickers. It was quite unnecessary.’
‘Eug, if I hadn’t run it, someone else would.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be the Royal Correspondent.’
‘I just do what I’m told. You know how it is.’
The Mail story prompted a few caring columnists to spout forth on ‘Minty – Did She Ask for It?’ But the public wasn’t having any of that. What the public wanted was news of their hero. They wanted Art, Art and more Art.
The Press obliged, fuelled by a daily bulletin from Andrew Millard which transformed into urgent headlines:
ART – THE BANDAGES ARE OFF
ART – HE CAN SEE!
ART SPEAKS – Statement to Police
ART EATS! – Porridge
ART WALKS!
For a short time, Art Carter was more famous than the Beatles. And the Beatles, as John Lennon had ironically remarked, were more famous than Jesus Christ.
At last came the day when Norman Carter was televised outside the Middlesex, flanked by Andrew Millard. The disposable razors hadn’t been much cop, Eugenie realised. Norman Carter had obviously nicked himself shaving and had staunched the blood with a fragment of blue toilet paper.
The Press pack fell silent as a sweating Mr Carter began,
‘I’m very pleased to tell you that my son, Art, has been released –‘
Andrew was tapping him on the shoulder, whispering.
Mr Carter went on, ‘What? Oh, right. My son has been discharged –‘
He turned helplessly to Andrew.’You do it. I’m no good at this.’
Andrew faced the cameras. ‘As you’ve just heard, Art Carter left hospital today. The fact that he could walk from the hospital, that he could see to do so, that he hadn’t been blinded when he was so senselessly attacked, is entirely due to the dedicated team of doctors and nurses here at the Middlesex. Mr Carter would like to extend his heartfelt thanks to that dedicated team, for saving his son’s life, and his sight.’
At this, the hardbitten hacks, as one, burst into spontaneous applause.
Andrew went on,
‘My client would also like to thank everyone who has sent flowers and messages of sympathy and support. The reaction of the public has been overwhelming, and absolutely heartwarming.’
One of the Press pack yelled, ‘Andy, where exactly is Art now?’
Andrew said levelly, ‘As you will appreciate, Art Carter is convalescing. He is in a place of safety, where he will be looked after, and loved. I am not at liberty to tell you where that is.’
Behind Andrew, the man in the iron-grey overall slipped past, smiling slightly. The Press ignored him.
The man made his way along Goodge Street which contained the premises of his ironmongery shop. His name was George Carter and he had offered his nephew Art the flat above the shop.
Stupples Road, once again, was sticking together.
Chapter Ten
After his swim at the Albany Club in Piccadilly, Jack Tuggle emerged from the shower and came body-to-body with a man he’d hoped never to see again.
‘Do I feel,’ said Andrew Millard, ‘a distinct sense of déjà vu?’
Both men laughed tensely and made their way into the locker room to get dressed. They saw no reason to hide the fact that they were appraising one another, searching for a spreading waistline, a gut that spoke of beer or a hefty expense account. They found nothing. These men were a similar height, a similar age and they were both in excellent shape.
Jack, however, did wonder if Andrew would think it cissy of him if he gave himself a splash of the Trumpers cedar aftershave which the Albany provided. Both men were now dressed, ready.
At this stage, most women would have remembered urgent appointments elsewhere. ‘Bye darling! We must get together soon. Kiss, kiss! Byeee!’
But because Jack and Andrew were men, and because of what had happened between them, they arranged to have a beer together. As they strolled to the Albany bar, Jack recalled their last conversation, at Nice airport. Jack had driven Andrew who was in good time for his flight. Outside Departures, the two men had ruggedly shaken hands.
‘All the best, Andrew.’
‘All the best, Jack. And you know, I think the best man won.’
Jack stood seething, watching the man in the white linen jacket walk away.
Smooth bastard, he thought. And you could have got my girl, my Pixie, if I hadn’t volunteered to do what I did. Christ. And even then, after I’d dished it out to you, you managed to have the last fucking word.
In the mahogany-rich Albany Club’s bar, Andrew said, ‘So what brings you to London, Jack?’
Jack knew what he meant was, How can you afford to be a member of the Albany?
‘I can meet clients here, if they don’t want to be seen with me in Cannes. And let’s face it, I can hardly take them back to my folks in Dagenham.’
‘Clients?’ queried Andrew.
‘Got my own outfit now. Azur Alert, that’s us. Team of seven. We do household security, bodyguarding and of course, the south of France is heaving with married couples cheating on one another. So I got a girl ‘tec who does the honeytrap stuff. Bloody good she is, too. And there’s a Romeo, too, to trap the women on the job.’
Andrew laughed. ‘And how’s the family?’
Here we go, thought Jack. Better get straight in there.
‘Pixie’s great. Expecting our second. We got a son, Daniel.’
‘Congratulations. And – see anything of the villa crowd? Didn’t Ilona get married?’
‘Yeah, in L.A to a guy called Jay. They have a daughter. Put young Freddie’s nose right out of joint, apparently. And of course, you know Mrs Ryan’s had a son.’
‘That’s right. Leon. His name’s Leon. I’m his godfather.’
In this game of Happy Families, Jack sensed his old rival skirting round the Liz and Kit issue. Tricky territory, that, after that business with Ilona’s tiara. Tricky, too, that Liz and Kit were Jack’s son’s godparents. How would it be if his kid found out that his godparents gave him presents that were, well, dodgy?
‘What about you, Andrew. You married?’
He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything. Though, actually, wearing his signet wedding ring meant a lot to Jack.
Liz had, er, got it for him. Jack had never asked where it was from, but Kit had tipped him the wink that Liz was very adept at nicking rings.
‘Married?’ Andrew said. ‘No. But I have got my eye on someone.’
Insisting it was his shout, Andrew went to the bar for the ‘other half.’
Jack just couldn’t believe this guy. ‘I
have got my eye on someone.’ Like she was some exotic form of cuckoo clock he was debating whether to invest in.
The moment Jack had fallen in love with Pixie he remembered as being absolutely earth-shattering. When he looked at her, when he gave her that all-important second look, he could have sworn he felt the earth move. His cock certainly moved. And from that moment on, Jack, who had always been a fuck ‘em and forget ‘em man, had never wavered.
Jack considered that his wedding day had been the best of his life. He’d taken her home, to Dagenham, to show her off. They were married in the local church. Pixie, the beautiful bride, carrying pink roses, the same as the roses on her dress that day, on the Mediterranean island, when he’d gone down on one knee and asked her to marry him.
Every week, Jack made a special trip to their local market near Cannes and bought Pixie roses. The market flower-girl bought them specially for him. And Pixie had a crystal vase, a present from Kit and Liz, into which she’d place a single bloom and put it by their wedding photo, which stood, framed in gold, on the mantelpiece.
It was the one where they’d signed the church register. Jack bursting with pride. Pixie shyly radiant. His Nan, moist-eyed, in a fancy hat. She’d been so overcome, she was scarcely able to sign the register to witness the ceremony. Pixie had guided her trembling hand.
As Andrew came back with the beers, Jack lit a cigarette. He was expecting the lawyer to tell him more about the girl he’d got his eye on.
Instead, Andrew asked, ‘With your security firm, have you employed the Villa Fleurie poolboy?’
‘Sure. Mr Ryan put his name forward.’
Andrew repressed a smile at this. The old Jack, the Eastender ex-cop rough-diamond wouldn’t have had in his vocabulary a phrase like ‘put his name forward.’
Jack went on, ‘We –Azur Alert - my company – were invited to handle security for Mr Ryan’s villa. And, did you know – well you wouldn’t know – the poolboy is a crack shot. You’d never believe it, would you?’
Andrew did believe it. But he didn’t want to dwell on the frank exchange between Ryan and himself when the poolboy’s skills had been revealed.
Jack filled the silence. ‘This girl you’ve got your eye on. What’s she called?’
‘Eugenie. Met her through work. Matter of fact, I’m seeing her this evening. Little place in Soho. Why don’t you come along?’
Jack had no plans for that Saturday night that couldn’t be postponed. His dinner engagement could be moved to a breakfast meeting. At the Savoy. Jack had heard this was what real Macoy tycoons did, host breakfast meetings at the Savoy.
So curiosity, that night, propelled him to Chez Victor in Soho. He had never seen Andrew Millard going full out with a bird. Usually, his style was dead cool. But with this Eugenie, would he go all lovey-dovey?
Jack couldn’t wait to see. On the other hand, did he, Jack, want to be the gooseberry in the group? Better make sure he had an escape plan. Urgent call home to Pixie. That was it.
In the meantime, play it by ear.
Eugenie kept the men waiting an hour.
‘It’s not like her, Andrew said. ‘She’s not one of those forever late, so sorry, so sorree, everyone, types. But she has this job on some jumped-up magazine. So sometimes she has to work weekends, and sometimes she has to work late.’
Jack smoked. The patron hovered patiently. Andrew tore French bread into shreds.
Jack had seen Andrew like this before, when they were both waiting for Ilona to get herself out of the hairdresser’s in the Rue d’Antibes in Cannes. Jack, with his police training, had waited patiently, thinking about Pixie. Andrew had paced up and down the road, furious with American, Dutch, English tourists who were alert but lost or had breakfasted so late they were still tired and bumping into anything that wasn’t nailed down.
In London, waiting for Eugenie, the men agreed that even for February, the weather was atrocious, raw and everyone was falling down with That Flu.
They talked cars. ‘You ever get that Bugatti, Andrew?’
‘Nope. Don’t need a car in London.’
Jack noticed that every time the restaurant door opened, Andrew looked up, expectantly.
‘I got the Jag,’ Jack said. ‘Always wanted one. Pixie says Jags are common, but I love it and so does my kid.’
Andrew was standing up, as a girl with hair the colour of ripe corn handed her fur wrap to the patron. She came hurrying across to them.
‘Andrew, I had a rush job. There wasn’t time to phone you. I barely had time to phone my boss.’
Her smile, as she shook hands with Jack, was dazzling. So was her dress. Black silk with a silver hoop fixing a zip that ran from her throat all the way down her front. Nice front, he thought. Nice legs. Sexy black high-heels.
‘You’ll never guess, I had to go and interview Cass Collier.’
Jack was impressed. ‘The film star?’
‘That’s right. He’s always Wolf, isn’t he. No Christian name, just Wolf. And he does this thing, there’s a close-up of the famous blue eyes, and he looks tortured, as if he has come far and suffered much.’
Jack laughed. She’d got Cass Collier’s er, casual acting style to a T.
‘I always have the same, don’t I, Andrew. Steak and a green salad. My boss’s girlfriend – Rhoda, she sounds ghastly – anyway she’s dotty about Cass Collier and drags my boss off to every single thing he’s in.’
They all ordered the steak and Andrew chose a bottle of Saint-Emilion. As they were finishing dinner, Andrew said, ‘Where did you go to interview Cass Collier?’
‘The Dorchester. His suite.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘Well eventually, when he’d sent some greeter girl away. She was called Twoomy. For heaven’s sake. Twoomy! And then there was the massage girl. She was in his room when I arrived.’
‘So what did you do?’ asked Andrew.
‘Sat and looked at a bowl of fruit that was sweating under some cellophane.’
‘So the massage girl left…’
‘Mmm. Not sure whether to put in my piece, actually, that she was looking pretty damn pleased with herself. Might put it in, just to annoy the boss’s girlfriend.’
‘And what was Mr Collier wearing for this interview?’
‘Just a towel. They’re white at the Dorchester, with a big red D embroidered on.’
‘Really?’ Andrew said drily. ‘A big red – D. How very, very interesting.’
Jack didn’t like the way this was going.
Andrew went on, ‘So you had a close-up view of Mr Collier’s celebrated chest.’
‘Well he’d had a massage, and he smelt quite nice. Sort of eucalyptus and juniper.’
‘Quite. One would hardly expect Otto of Roses.’
Jack said, ‘Your story about Cass Collier. When’s it got to be finished?’
‘Tomorrow. My boss expects it first thing Monday. So I’ve got to write it tomorrow.’
‘I thought,’ Andrew said, ‘we were supposed to be going out to lunch. That place at Richmond you like.’
‘I know, but I can’t and anyway it’s not really sitting by the river weather. Anyway, getting back to Cass Collier, you’ll never guess what happened next!’
Andrew leaped up, and stood over her. ‘I don’t need to guess. I know exactly what happened next. This is what he did, didn’t he?’
Andrew had hold of the silver hoop on her dress. He pulled the zip down all the way and seized hold of her left breast.
Jack stared. He couldn’t help it. Under the dress, Eugenie was completely naked, apart from some black stockings.
Andrew had let go of her, and was shouting. ‘Is this how you go to work? With no underwear on. Is it? Is it?’
The other diners, taking their lead from the patron, assumed the same blasé expression as him. Girl gets her breast mauled, gets bawled out by boyfriend for showing all she’s got, well, in London, happens all the time, doesn’t it?
Eugenie zipped up her
dress. ‘I didn’t know till the last minute about the Cass Collier interview. And I didn’t know Jack would be here.’
‘When you knew you had to do the interview, how long does it take to slip on some knickers? How long, exactly?’
‘Don’t you interrogate me!’ Eugenie flared. ‘I’m not some terrified witness.’
‘You’re a fucking slut, that’s what you are. Now get up!’
She had no time to argue. He had her on her spiky high heels and was dragging her towards the door, where the patron, obviously something of a mind-reader, was already waiting with Eugenie’s fur wrap.
‘Let go of me!’
‘No. And another thing. You are never again, do you hear, to refer to that creep you work for as your boss. I’m sick to death of it. There’s only one boss in this outfit, and that’s me!’
‘Let go, you fucking oaf!’
Andrew arm-wrestled her outside. Immediately, a taxi screeched to a halt. Andrew flung her in, got in himself, and slammed the door.
Jack ordered another coffee and a brandy. Bloody hell. ‘There’s only one boss in this outfit, and that’s me!’
He would never, never in a million years, get away with that sort of thing with his Pixie. He could still searingly remember, not long after they were married, he’d been out on a bender with Kit. They’d got back to Jack’s house, and Kit held him up while he fumbled drunkenly for his key. It had all seemed hilarious at the time.
Suddenly, the door was wrenched open and a tornado hit. Pixie kicked Kit down the path, then turned and dragged her errant husband inside. She was tiny and Jack had a boxer’s body, but even so, with the strength of the grimly determined, she managed to haul him upstairs. The unwelcome activity went straight to Jack’s stomach and on the landing he fell over and threw up all over the newly-laid carpet.
That was it. He was gated for a month, Kit was banished and it was Kit’s wife Liz who patched things up between them all.
He paid the bill at Chez Victor. Thank God he was getting out of this town tomorrow. Be home by lunchtime. Kit would meet him at Nice airport. Pixie, being eight months pregnant, wasn’t allowed to drive the car.
In Bed with Mr. Plantagenet Page 17