by Wendy Holden
‘Bugger off, Caspar!’ Laura shoved him away. ‘Stop acting. You’re not in front of the cameras now.’
‘No, much more importantly, I’m in front of you!’
Caspar took a step forward and before Laura could say or do anything, she was in his arms and his tongue was in her mouth. She struggled to resist, but soon found herself submitting and then kissing him back with equal ardour. Feeling her pelvis start to melt, Laura realised this was leading in one direction only. A direction she had vowed never to go again, especially as she now had a boyfriend. Sort of.
She pulled her mouth away. ‘For fuck’s sake, Caspar!’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ His large eyes were narrow with lust and his breath was coming fast and short. ‘Oh God, Laura. Can’t we go somewhere. Like, now?’
He took her hand and placed it deep in the baggy folds of his trousers. What was within was as stiff as a baseball bat and more or less the same size. ‘I’ve got a room upstairs, not that I’ve been in it.’
Laura’s fingers closed around the baseball bat. She swallowed, seriously tempted.
Caspar’s sweating palms skimmed the breasts below her shirt. ‘Christ, Laura. Still not wearing a bra. Talk about chapel hat pegs...’
That broke the spell. ‘Sod off, Caspar. We’re entered in a quiz, or have you forgotten?’
‘I’d much rather enter something else,’ Caspar lamented, as she dragged him to the Golden Goose’s entrance. ‘Might you relent and see me later?’ he begged, as they approached the bar, from which whoops and shouts of a football-stadium level were issuing.
Things were clearly already going with a swing.
Laura eyed him. Harry shot across her mind, then out the other side. She hadn’t heard from him for weeks. And Caspar had form as a red-hot lover. And it had been a long time.
‘Maybe,’ she said, then led him into the fray.
*
Kiki, sitting at the end of the bar with a glass of champagne, was watching events unfold with the satisfied air of one who had done her utmost and was now reaping the reward.
There were a few flies in the ointment, even so. Lulu’s turning up to take part had been a nasty shock, especially given that her teammate was big-nosed Kearn from the Fishing Boat Inn who had so royally ripped her off over the mushy peas. Normally she would have thrown him out, not least because the sight of him might upset Kate Threadneedle. But he was with the unbudgeable Lulu, who would certainly not go without a fight. A scene was the last thing Kiki wanted.
Given that Lulu was there, it was just as well Lady Mandy and Savannah Bouche weren’t, but neither was the promised Hollywood superstar on Tim Lacey’s Development Hell team. Kiki didn’t recognise any of them.
Still, Peter had been an inspired choice as questionmaster. Apparently unruffled by the size and excitability of the crowd, he had explained clearly, calmly and with great care the rules of the quiz. There were to be two halves with ten rounds, each on a different subject. There would be five questions in each round. Answers were to be written on the sheets provided on the tables. At the end of each round, sheets were to be handed to the next table for marking. The sheets with the final scores on were to be given to Peter, who would maintain a running total. There was to be no, repeat no, use of smartphones.
Wackademicals, the Oxbridge dons and historians’ team, was already on a roll. The first round, Hit and Myth, had contained a lot of questions about gods and they had celebrity TV classicist Margaret Tache on their team. Her trademark long auburn plait swished excitedly about as she bent over the table in one of her trademark togas, whispering the right answer. No one would have understood if she had spoken aloud, as she was communicating in Latin.
The teams swapped sheets at the end of the round, as per Peter’s instructions. The answers to round one were read out, amid much groaning, apart from among the Wackademicals, where Margaret Tache was punching the air and shouting, ‘Victrix!’
Two latecomers now entered the bar. Kiki’s heart soared with the mixed hope and dread that it might be Savannah. But this lean girl with long dark hair cut in a fringe, dark jeans and a tight, dark-blue shirt, was much too tall. Savannah, as was well known, was a midget.
The man, who wore orange baggy trousers, looked much more familiar. Really, really familiar. Kiki gave a strangled yelp, and her glass wobbled dangerously in her hand.
‘Miss Cavendish?’ Pavel was leaning enquiringly over the bar. Kiki felt a wet sensation on her tummy. She had spilled her champagne. But she could not have cared less.
She had been quite wrong about the lack of Hollywood superstars. Making his way across the reclaimed Bahraini Yorkshire flagstones was one of the most recognisable actors in the world. Caspar Honeyman, the reigning Bond. The reason she had been made to buy all the 007 biscuits was now clear.
Slimey’s People, the security service team put together by MI6 boss Sir Philip Peaseblossom, might have been expected to greet the arrival of their fictional counterpart with derision. But they were staring more than anyone, Kiki saw.
‘Caspar! Dear boy, we were wondering where you’d got to!’ Feeling the eyes of the room upon his star guest, Tim Lacey rose to divert them to himself. ‘You’re just in time for the history round!’
‘How’s it going?’ whispered Laura, slipping in next to Kearn.
‘Not bad. Lulu turns out to be quite good at mythology. We didn’t get as many right as they did.’ Kearn nodded towards the Wackademicals, who included, Laura saw, the well-known TV historians Mary Horsley with her trademark side-parting and Guy Winter with his trademark smoulder. ‘But we’re keeping our head above water.’
Laura eyed the equipment on the table. Besides the sheets to be used for the answers, scrap paper had been provided to work out the various clues. Laura slid a couple of sheets towards herself. Between questions she would take notes for her article.
Questionmaster, dishy in a low-key way, she wrote. Could do with haircut though.
Peter smiled benignly around. ‘First question. A tricky one, this. What links Louis XV with the colour purple and Britain’s national dish?’
‘I know that!’ Laura was filled with excitement. She leant forward. ‘It’s pompadour! The Marquise de Pompadour’s real name was Jeanne Poisson – fish – fish and chips is the British national dish. Pompadour’s also the name of a purple flag.’ Mimi had been especially hot on the mistresses of the French kings.
Lulu’s eyes were round with amazement. Kearn wrote the answer down.
At the Wackademicals table, all was not well. ‘Actually, I don’t know absolutely everything about history,’ Guy Winter muttered defensively.
Mary Horsley was looking equally blank. She was famous for fronting her programmes wearing the clothes of the period under scrutiny, and to judge from her leg o’mutton sleeves and flower-heaped straw boater, the current project was Edwardian.
‘Our national dish is chicken tikka masala, surely!’ Jolyon Jackson was stage-whispering at the Politicos table. ‘And Louis XV was well known to be a massive fan of curries. Purple ones especially.’
Typical Jackson bullshit, thought Laura, rapidly taking notes. She knew from her monitoring of the papers that the minister routinely waffled about subjects of which he knew nothing. With an election looming, he had been waffling even more than usual.
‘Next history question.’ Peter smiled round. ‘Who was the little gentleman in black velvet?’
The Wackademicals continued to look at each other blankly. ‘Dudley Moore?’ ventured Mary Horsley. ‘Ronnie Corbett? Jamie Cullum?’
They don’t actually know anything, wrote Laura gleefully.
‘Look, the researchers do most of the work on the programmes, okay?’ Guy Winter huffed.
‘Don’t ask me how I know this,’ Laura hissed sotto voce to her teammates. ‘But it’s the mole that made the molehill that William III’s horse stumbled over.’
‘Amazingballs!’ exclaimed Lulu, while Kearn scribbled it down.
The next round was art, or You’ve Been Framed.
‘Yay!’ cheered the artists, most of whom were now so drunk they could hardly sit up.
Peter smiled at them serenely. ‘Question one. What was Giotto’s O?’
The artists stared back at him indignantly. ‘Who’s what?’
‘The O of Giotto. The famous Renaissance artist?’ Peter prompted, his eyebrow raised.
The famous contemporary artist looked at his colleagues. ‘What’s he fuckin’ talkin’ about?’
‘I know!’ whispered Laura. ‘The Pope in the thirteenth century wanted to find the best artist in Italy. Giotto would only draw an O on a piece of paper but it was a really perfect one and the Pope gave him the gig on the back of it.’
As her teammates stared at her, impressed, Peter cleared his throat.
‘Next art question. What was Picasso’s middle name?’
Zeb Spaw leant over his table. ‘Bert,’ he hissed. ‘Definitely.’
‘Is Ruiz!’ whispered Lulu. ‘My father have Picasso on second biggest yacht.’
The next round, Let’s Get Physical, was about science, although Jolyon Jackson, cuddling up to his fruity cuties, seemed to have another interpretation in mind. Kearn knew all the answers to this round, and to the subsequent Your Number’s Up maths one. Lulu was as good as her word in the geography round. She really had shopped all over the world.
‘Paramaribo, is in Surinam!’ she whispered to Laura, who was manning the pen. ‘Know well, have nice Chanel saleslady.’
The next round, News and Views, was current affairs.
The Politicos, eager to demonstrate their credentials, greeted each question with knowing laughter followed by much conspiratorial huddling.
Something caught Kiki’s eye towards the end of the round. Something rectangular and very bright, glowing in the darkness below Jolyon Jackson’s table. Recognising the landing page of a well-known search engine, Kiki realised that the Defence Minister of the government seeking re-election was using the internet to answer a question about his very own Prime Minister.
She gripped the base of the fresh champagne glass that Pavel had recently passed her. Should she say anything? But Jackson would be sure to deny it, shameless liar and perjurer as he was. He would bluster and face her down. It would be her word against his hundreds of words. And this was only a pub quiz anyway, not a matter of national importance. She would say nothing. No one else had noticed, anyway.
At the end of the quiz Peter brought the papers to Kiki. ‘We have a problem,’ he whispered.
Her heart sank. Had Peter seen Jolyon too?
‘The Dumb Blondes.’ Peter shook a piece of paper. Kiki frowned. They couldn’t possibly have won, could they? An airhead party girl, the boy from the Fishing Boat Inn and some anonymous brunette surely could not triumph over the cream of Great Hording.
Kiki took the paper and looked at it. But instead of the totals she was expecting, she saw scribbled notes. Snatches of conversation and incidents from the evening. Buffoonish minister... historians know bugger all... Kiki Cavendish, mutton dressed as lamb...
Kiki looked up angrily. ‘Who wrote this?’ Was it Kearn? But the handwriting looked feminine, loopy, almost French.
Peter met her gaze gravely. ‘We have a spy in the ranks,’ he said.
Chapter Fifteen
Laura’s head was spinning with the victory champagne Lulu had insisted on buying. Theoretically, the Politicos had taken the trophy. But Kearn had incontrovertible evidence that the Dumb Blondes had won. His mathematical brain had kept tabs on every table simultaneously and recalculated the relative scores after every round.
Laura, long used to losing quizzes she had actually won, was philosophical, especially with Caspar dragging impatiently at her hand.
Lulu had been indignant at first about the victory of the Jackson team. ‘Cannot believe arse.’
‘Ears, Lulu.’
But her sorrows were soon drowned in Dom Perignon and a long chat with Anna Goblemova about Dolce & Gabbana.
Kearn’s view was that such beastliness was to be expected of Britain’s corrupt political overlords. He was looking forward to updating Wyatt when she came back from her enforced perfume course. ‘I’ve spoken to her just now, she’s making one called Money,’ he told Laura.
‘Money?’
‘Yes, so people can literally stink of the stuff. She’s expecting it to go like hot cakes in Great Hording.’ With that, Kearn went off to find his bike and cycle back to the Fishing Boat Inn.
‘By the big silver dog in the garden,’ Laura told him, aware of an impatient Caspar at her elbow. He had just been nobbled by Wonky de Launay. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being critical,’ gushed the proprietor of Spirit of the Hedgerow, Chelsea’s most fashionable and expensive florist, ‘but I’ve noticed the flowers in Bond films are looking a bit tired. Those big eighties displays. I could come on set and update them. A few trailing field blossoms here and there...’
As Caspar looked bewildered, Laura hid a smile. Willow St George had joined in now, perfectly toned arms pushing back dark hair as long and straight as a waterfall. ‘And I could update some of the food refs. Bond needs to ditch the martinis, for a start. Right now it’s all about chilli and swamp moss shots, packed with toxin-blasting pond vitamins.’
Elsewhere, the bar-room was heaving with the great and the good and their post-mortem quiz chat.
‘You bastard, Jackson!’ Sir Jeremy Young punched the minister good-humouredly on the shoulder. ‘Might have known you’d get the one about the PM’s favourite crisp flavour. Pipped us at the bloody post.’
Kearn came up to Laura. ‘My bike’s on a plinth in the garden.’
Laura frowned. ‘Leaning against a plinth, you mean?’
‘No, on one. Like it’s a statue or something.’
Laura advised him to wrench the bike off and strode after Caspar, who had finally escaped Wonky and Willow.
‘Remember, buttercups and wild garlic!’ the former called after him.
‘Double-distilled orange-pip alcohol!’ yelled the latter.
*
Caspar’s room at the Golden Goose was every bit as luxurious as Laura had imagined. Walls painted a soothing sage were pierced with deep mullioned windows set with black-leaded diamond-pane glass. The polished wooden floor was scattered with toe-sinking sheepskin rugs. Deep armchairs in green tweed check had contrasting throws tossed over the back. The bed was big, four-postered and piled with white linen. There were lamps everywhere, silk-pleated shades on vintage bases, and the occasional rustic antique.
‘Ooh, biscuits!’ A Taking the Biscuit presentation box sat on the bed. Laura pounced. The half-time pie and mushy peas had been far from substantial. Three dots of green sauce – the peas, presumably – had been presented alongside an inch-square cube of pie. White plates the size of a hub cap had made it all look minuscule.
Laura carefully peeled off the Union flag sticker sealing the pink tissue paper and held up a man-shaped confection wearing an icing black tuxedo. ‘It’s you!’
Caspar looked indignant. ‘The legs are far too short!’
Laura suppressed a snort. The fact was, Caspar, while extremely handsome, was slightly lacking on the height front. Particularly compared to tall men like Harry.
But she could not think about Harry now. Especially as Caspar was pulling her down on the bed. Laura unbuttoned her shirt and prepared to relinquish all inhibition. Caspar was a daring, imaginative lover who liked novel positions. He was sure to have put the time since they last had sex to good use. This would be lovemaking Tinseltown style.
Her expectations were more than met. Caspar was eager to demonstrate a new range of moves called the Hollywood Kama Sutra.
‘This one’s called the Casting Couch,’ he was explaining, when something caught Laura’s ear. She twisted the right way round and disentangled herself. ‘What’s that noise?’
Something loud was approaching, thubba thubba thubba
. It sounded like a helicopter.
Caspar took no notice. He closed in on her again. ‘And this one’s called Basic Instinct. You sit there with your legs crossed...’
Laura pushed him aside. The sound of blades whipping the air was as unmistakable as it was deafening. ‘It sounds as if it’s landing in this room!’
‘Oh, the chopper.’ Caspar yawned. ‘Hear them so often these days I hardly notice.’
Laura was at the window. What looked like a vast, gleaming black insect was lowering itself into the sculpture garden, right on top of the giant silver Jeff Koons dog. Except that, as Laura watched, the dog was sinking into the earth, leaving behind it a large rubberised circle painted with a huge white ‘H’.
‘What’s going on?’ Caspar demanded from behind. As Laura explained, he yawned elaborately. ‘Integral helipad sculptures are so ten minutes ago in Malibu. Now it’s all about pools converting to parking for private jets.’
The helicopter landed and the whirring blades slowed, then stopped. The black-tinted door of the cockpit now opened and loud, yappy barks could be heard. Laura’s eyes widened. Was flying your pets about by helicopter a thing in Great Hording? But before she could identify the dog owner, or check whether the animals were in their own chopper with dedicated pilot, Caspar’s hand closed round her wrist and she found herself pulled back towards the bed. All desire for journalistic detail now left her, to be replaced by desire of another kind entirely.
Afterwards, they lay smoking amid the huge white pillows, tricking the smoke alarm by exhaling towards the open windows. ‘Wow,’ said Laura, not entirely satirically. ‘I’ve just been screwed by James Bond.’
Caspar groaned. ‘Must you?’
‘What?’
‘Mention Bond. I was just trying to forget him for five seconds.’
Laura propped herself on her elbow to face him. ‘The burden of fame?’