by Carmen Reid
'No, no, no.' The maid shook her head.
Agitated now, Harry speed-dialled Svetlana by pressing '1' on his phone. It rang and rang, with an infuriatingly long pause between the rings. There was no voicemail because Svetlana didn't do messages. Harry looked at his phone in frustration. He'd have to send a text. He was going to be 56 in two weeks' time and texts were not exactly his forte.
He fumbled for the buttons and began the agonizing process.
'Bows.'
No.
'Cows'
NO! Goddam the stupid bloody predictive text setting, but he had no idea how to turn it off.
'Boys hone.'
DRAT!!
'Boys gone ball me.'
Well that was going to give her entirely the wrong message.
'Boys snatched,' he managed at last.
That was enough, that would do.
He pressed send. Then waited, out there on the pavement with Maria still standing at the front door looking at him in confusion, for Svetlana to reply.
What if she didn't? What if Igor was busy sneaking the boys out of the country while Svetlana was being wined and dined by . . . another suitor? Already? But he didn't doubt it, women like Svetlana were never left alone for any length of time. That was a plain and simple fact.
Once children were out of the country, Harry knew just how hard it was to get them back. It was a lengthy, expensive legal process and Igor had enough funds to keep it going for years.
He began to pace the pavement.
'Where is she?' he asked Maria. 'Do you know which restaurant?'
The maid shrugged. 'Come in,' she urged.
But then Harry's phone began to ring.
'Harry? What is this?!' Svetlana sounded angry. 'Why are you joking with me? I'm busy.'
There were many niceties to be sorted out between them – Sorry I walked out on you, do you want me back? I'm desperate to have you back. Who the hell are you lunching with?
– but there was no time.
'I've just seen the boys leave in Igor's car,' Harry fired out. 'They said he was taking them on holiday, skiing. Is this right?'
'Vat?' came the stunned response.
'Could Petrov have been joking?' Harry asked, 'Could he have misunderstood something?'
'No! He's very smart boy. Oh Harry!'
There was unmistakable fear in Svetlana's voice. 'He's going to take them away to get my house! HARRY!'
'Phone him, right now, then phone me back,' Harry instructed her then ended the call abruptly because he now had urgent phone calls of his own to make.
Mobile clamped to his ear, he headed into the house, and into Svetlana's downstairs sitting room because he would need a table, papers, pens. He had to do everything he possibly could to help her.
Anyone listening in to the round of calls he began now would have heard terse, clipped instructions as Harry Roscoff, barrister, got down to serious business.
'Ronald, hello, how are you old chap, yes . . . 'fraid I need a favour . . . mmm . . . and on a Saturday too . . .'
'Hello, yes, I have an emergency protection order. Fax it to Gatwick, fax it to Heathrow . . .'
'Good afternoon, can you tell me which airports in Greater London are used by private jets? Who clears them for take-off?'
'So it's BAA head office I need . . . that is so incredibly helpful of you.'
Only briefly did he talk to Svetlana. She confirmed that Igor was already in St Petersburg and gave Harry as many details as she could remember about his private plane.
'Come back,' he'd urged her, 'where are you?'
'In France,' she'd wailed.
'France? What the devil . . . Just come home,' he'd instructed. There was no time for questions now.
'Hello, police please, this is a genuine emergency . . .'
'I'm waiting for the necessary legal papers. They'll be ready within fifteen minutes or so . . . but someone will have to serve them at Luton airport . . .'
Would they be in time, he wondered?
Chapter Thirty-eight
Connor returns:
Green and white polo shirt (Gant)
White jeans (Ralph Lauren)
Brown belt (same)
Tennis shoes (Dunlop)
Total est. cost: £280
'He will bend you till you scream.'
'There's no need to be jealous, Annie and I go way back.' With these words, Connor moved his hand onto Annie's left breast and squeezed.
Annie smacked him, but Ed just laughed. He was sitting on the sofa opposite the two of them and found it funny and more than a little bit sexy that his lover was draped across a famous TV star.
But as Connor had mentioned, he and Annie went way back, 'but not back to before I was gay', he had added pointedly, earlier in the evening.
Evening! Ha! Ed flicked a look at his watch. It was only 4.15 p.m. and he was already hammered. Thank God it was Saturday. This was the Connor effect.
Connor had returned in a triumphant blaze to London, demanding immediate partying and celebrating with lashings and lashings of booze. He had touched down in Gatwick at eleven yesterday morning, dumped his bags, had a shower, and rung round all his agents, producers and directors to arrange a series of meetings and lunches. Then he'd re-established contact with his personal trainers and masseuse, and finally, bearing two bags of duty free, turned up this afternoon at Annie and Ed's, where he'd installed himself in the kitchen.
Not to cook, but to busy himself with limes, crushed ice and a blender making sensational margaritas.
'I know, so nineties,' he'd told them, 'but just the thing for a wet Saturday afternoon.'
So they'd moved into the sitting room with an entire jugful of margarita and begun a great long chat session, punctuated only by the comings and goings of Owen and Milo, plus Dave's joyful yip-yapping if anyone so much as walked past the house.
'You have a dog!' Connor had gushed as soon as he'd set eyes on Dave, 'how come you've never even told me you have a dog?'
Annie had rolled her eyes before insisting, 'The dog is nothing to do with me.'
Meanwhile Connor had got down on his knees and started fussing over Dave with the whole tummy rubbing and 'hello boy', 'good boy', 'you like that doncha' routine which separated the dog people from the non-dog people.
The margarita afternoon was allowing them to catch up on all sorts of news. Hector was still in California, sorting out the handing over of the lease, the return of the gym equipment and the hire car. All the 'star management' stuff he seemed to enjoy doing for the man in his life.
'No little American baby come home with you then?' Annie asked, teasing but also curiously concerned to know what had happened to those plans.
'Don't think it was going to be quite as easy as we'd hoped. Turns out you can't just jet in and say "I'm a star" and snatch up a bambina,' Connor drawled, making light of it as he made light of every single thing in his life.
'Although that does seem to work in Cambodia,' Ed couldn't help observing.
'I think it's easier for the lady stars over there,' Connor pointed out. 'Not sure how keen they are on single-sex adopters. They'd probably chop our hands off . . . or worse.'
'So, are you back?' Annie asked, resting her head on Connor's large, comfortable chest, delighted to have him in close proximity once again. 'You're not going to live in LA any more? You're going to be a proper British movie and telly star . . . like . . .'
'. . . Dame Judi Dench,' he joked: 'you know, never say never. I'm back for now. There's something new in the pipeline . . .' he waggled an eyebrow at them.
'Tell!' Annie instructed.
'No way. This is secret. Top, top secret.' He put his hands over his lips.
'Pour him another drink, babes,' Annie instructed Ed, 'we'll get it out of him.'
'No!' Connor insisted. 'Over there, I barely had one glass of wine a week – for five months! I'm already schlosched,' he added, slightly for effect, but already seriously in danger of slurring.
<
br /> 'And to think you used to be AA,' Annie pointed out.
'Oh, that was just for the showbiz contacts,' Connor confessed, 'everyone who's anyone goes, you know.'
'That is so shallow,' Ed pointed out.
'I know, but shallow is my middle name,' Connor said with a lazy grin.
'At least you look good,' Annie told him.
And he did too. He was bronzed, but the real stuff, not the whiffy orangey glow from a bottle. And he was so buff, his teeny waist leading straight down to snaky dancer hips. And the buttocks! Well, Annie had spotted them and they were magnificent. Girls, this is such a shocking shame! was the thought which had popped straight into her head.
'Ed should go to the gym, maybe you could give him a few tips,' Annie volunteered, hopefully, as Ed snorted tequila from his nose.
'Hey, I run . . . a bit. I referee rugby,' Ed said in his own defence.
'You're all right,' Annie assured him with a smile.
'Ed, my place, Saturday mornings, 11 a.m. Just wait till you meet Ben. He will bend you till you scream.'
'We are talking about exercise here?' Annie just wanted to be sure.
'So, your career,' Connor began, putting an arm protectively around his girl, 'we need to talk about your career. I saw the DVD you sent me of the pilot episode. You were wasted! They threw you, the gem of the entire show, away. Your producer was a tit.'
'Aw sweet, you're just saying that cos you're my friend.'
'No. I'm saying that cos you're my rival. You've got the magical X factor, girl.'
'Oh yeah,' Ed agreed from his sofa.
'You got charisma.' Connor chucked her under the chin. 'Has Rafie been in touch?'
'Has he hell,' Annie couldn't help saying, 'I think he has slightly more important things to do, like making your next top-secret mega deal. You're not going to be the new James Bond or something, are you?' she asked excitedly.
'Oh please, I think Daniel Craig is wearing those Speedos very well . . . for the moment. Where's it all going for you?' Connor asked, focusing on Annie's career again, 'what doors have you knocked on? And what is that buzzing noise?'
Annie sat up and looked around the room. 'It might be my phone,' she said, spotting the mobile on one of the side tables. She picked it up: 'Three missed calls and a message.'
Usually, she might feel a flicker of worry at this . . . that it was something to do with the children. But right now she knew Owen was upstairs with Milo and an enormous bowl of salted popcorn watching Dr Who reruns, and Lana was at Greta's house. Greta's mother had even phoned to say she'd arrived.
'Talk amongst yourselves,' she instructed Ed and Connor, then dialled up her voicemail.
What she heard surprised her. To say the least.
'Hi Annie, Bob here, trying to get you urgently. Phone me. Been speaking to Tamsin Hinkley. She produces two great cookery shows for Channel 4. She's thinking about the makeover format, but is wondering how to make it fresh and modern. I mentioned you, she's interested in having a chat, so you should speak to her as soon as possible. Phone me.'
Annie's eyes widened in excitement. Channel 4? Channel 4! 'She's thinking about the makeover format . . . she's interested in having a chat!
'Oh boy,' Connor said to Ed, pointing in Annie's direction, 'looks as if she's just heard something . . .'
'Uh-huh,' Ed had to agree.
Annie wanted to call Bob back straight away, but Connor wasn't going to have that.
'Tell!' he instructed.
'It's just a thought . . . just an idea . . . but there's someone who wants me to give her a call . . .'
'Who?' Connor asked immediately.
'Tamsin Hinkley?' Annie said, not sure if she'd got the name right.
'Tamsin Hinkley . . .' Connor's brow creased, which made Annie think two things: Tamsin is bad news and Connor hasn't had Botox yet.
'I've not heard of her,' he said finally.
'Oh.'
Annie couldn't deny that this was disappointing. Tamsin was bound to be another Finn-type, scraping about for a slot on digital TV. Maybe she'd already heard that Annie would work for £1,000 a month.
'What kind of programme is it?' Connor asked.
'She's thinking of doing a makeover show, but apparently she wants to make it different.'
'It's got to be you,' Connor chipped in, 'Annie's Wardrobe on a Budget. Annie's Recession Chic.'
'Why Costco is cool,' Ed added.
'How to buy Prada on eBay,' Connor went on.
'How to make do with Mango when you really want Miu Miu,' Ed couldn't resist, then: 'Annie Valentine, the Nigella of budgeting,' he announced.
'Ooh, I like that!' Connor was grinning.
'Will you both shut up?' Annie was beginning to feel nervous, despite the four or – good grief – five margaritas she'd had.
'I'm going to phone Bob and talk to him about it. Then I'll . . . I'll try and get hold of Tamsin.'
Both Connor and Ed could hear the anxiety in her voice.
'Let me help,' Connor offered, 'I could speak to her first. I could introduce you.'
'No, babes,' she insisted, turning on her way out of the room, 'I think I have to do this for myself.'
'Doncha just love her?' Ed asked Dave, as he scratched the dog's head.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Svetlana rushes home:
White fur coat (boutique in Moscow)
Green, pink and white silk day dress (Celine)
Green ankle-strap sandals (Manolo)
Diamond jewellery (various ex-husbands)
Total est. cost: £140,300
'I have to phone!'
Harry took another exasperated look at his wristwatch: 4.26 p.m. His mobile was in his hand but he had to wait. There was no point calling anyone else right now, he had done everything he could. Now he just had to wait and see if he was going to be in time.
He walked up and down the drawing room, tugging at his cuffs and chewing his fingernails. Then lacing his fingers together, he cracked his knuckles. If Harry's secretary had been in the room, she'd have assumed he was waiting for the judge's verdict after a particularly long and difficult case.
There was the rumble of a black cab's engine in the street, and Harry hurried to the window. In the back of the cab he could see Svetlana, her beautiful face peering from a white fur collar. Even from here, he could see how pale and anxious she looked, her hands clasped tightly in front of her lips as if she was praying.
Maria must have heard the taxi too, because Harry could hear her rushing to open the front door. As soon as Svetlana approached the steps, Maria cried out, 'Oh Miss Wisneski, I not know! If I know anything, I tell you! I not let boys go with him! I never want to let boys go with him on Saturdays!'